Glamour (38 page)

She could hear his grin over the phone. “I certainly do not. On the contrary, I promise to hit on you hard. Come see me—at your own risk, baby.”

He hung up. Jane immediately started the car and pulled into traffic.What choice did she have? She had to go.

No matter that she wanted to.

“Good afternoon. Miss Morgan?”

“Yes,” Jane said, dry-mouthed.

The butler smiled at her. “Please follow me, miss.”

Jane’s father had taken her into quite a few grand mansions. But never in her life had she seen anything like this.

The house was huge. Even the entrance hall; clad in marble, and full of pillars. Interior designed, with modern art and old masters jostling side by side; internal fountains; and lush greenery. As she followed the servant, Jane was led through peristyles and garden squares, caught a glimpse of a vast library, a home cinema, an internal swimming pool complex. It was a staggering, vulgar display of wealth. Nothing understated; Levin, she saw, was from the Sally Lassiter school of style. He made Sally’s dad’s estate look like a cottage in Virginia.

“He’s sitting in the walled garden, miss.”

“Like there are more,” Jane joked.

“The house has six separate gardens,” said the butler, unsmilingly. “Would you come this way?”

Meekly, she followed him.

“Jane.” He was sitting on a lounger by an Olympic-sized pool carved out of the hillside; smooth and glassy, it perched on the edge of the estate, so that you appeared to be swimming into the sky. There were Bali-style carved daybeds, hung with silk, a full poolside bar, and topiary hedges interspersed with frangipani flowers.“Good to see you.” He got up and came over, kissing her on both cheeks, as his butler melted away. “I took the liberty of fixing you a Bellini—fresh peach juice.”

Jane took the cocktail. It seemed the safest thing to do. That way she could concentrate on sipping the chilled champagne and not have to stare at his body. Levin was working on his tan, in oversized shorts, casual flip-flops, shades—and nothing else. His chest was thickly muscled—this was a guy who lifted weights—and oiled with sunscreen.

She had a visceral reaction to that kind of strength. It did not help that she was here, now, as a suppliant; effectively flinging herself before him to ask for help. It charged the whole thing erotically.

And she was, she realized, already turned on.

“Thank you for seeing me . . .”

“If you say ‘Mr. Levin’ I’ll throw you out.”

“Craig.” She surrendered.

“You want finance, and the banks won’t help.”

Jane blinked. “How the hell do you know that?”

“If that weren’t the case, you would not be here.” He grinned, lazily. “It would have taken you two or three more months to come find me. You wanted to start a discount chain; no commercial lender’s gonna fund you. And you could have taken a few more weeks, exhausted all the bankers and venture houses. But I know you.You’re impatient.You want the world, yesterday.” His eyes fixed upon her, and Jane felt her knees weaken.“So you came to me, because I can give it to you. Correct?”

Her throat was dry.“Correct.” She took a sip of her Bellini. It was delicious, the scent of an Italian peach orchard.

“I told you I would not do business with you.”

Jane’s confusion deepened. “I see.” She tried to gather the shreds of her dignity. Maybe this had been crazy.Why would the guy sanction a multimillion-dollar deal on the strength of one plane ride? “Well, thank you for seeing me.”

“But I’ll give you the money,” he said. “A gift. No strings. A million dollars.”

She didn’t ask if he meant it; that much was obvious.

“You know I can’t accept that.”

“You’re an adult, like you told me.You can do whatever you want.”

“I can’t—can’t be dependent on a man. If you give me a million dollars, I’ll be like Marie Antoinette playing at shepherdess.” She gripped the stem of her champagne flute. “Mr. Levin—Craig. Give me the million not as a gift—as a commercial loan. You won’t be doing business with
me
. You’ll be doing it with GLAMOUR—and that’s a company. Not just me. There’s Sally Lassiter. She’s our fashion buyer.”

“I know her.” He nodded. “Big spread in the
Citizen,
hot shop on Melrose. I was considering making her a finance offer in exchange for a stake.”

“And Haya al-Yanna. My friend from school. She married an Egyptian. She has an eye, I’ve seen her stock. Haya brings us the physical building with a great lot, and some glorious Islamic arts and antique rugs. And she will source other stuff for us too, exclusive cosmetics you can’t get in the United States.” Jane wanted to be the evangelist; he would give her the money anyway; now she wanted to convince him.

She desperately wanted to impress him. And she didn’t examine her motivations too closely.

“Haya wants something special for GLAMOUR. She wants us to be at the forefront of ethical business—and I want to do it because it sells. Like the Body Shop. Like Anita Roddick. Haya will set up a worldwide operation for us sourcing handmade goods from women in Jordan, where she has contacts—Egypt, too—everywhere in the Middle East. Later on, in Africa and Asia, too, once we have the money for scouts.” Jane rushed on, aware she was gabbling.“Women will like it; the press will cover it. And Haya is determined. It’s the way she is—if you could meet her, you’d know.”

“Perhaps I would.”

“So. Consider us as an investor.You know something of my track record with staff and costs. You said you might have approached Sally anyway.” Jane was passionate. “And as for Haya, okay, that is my say-so. But you can’t deny that she brings us the store and the parking. So our company has physical assets.”

Levin inclined his head. “Good pitch. Done.”

“No.” Jane stood strong.“I want two million. For this store to work we need the best. Staff, uniforms, valet parking, stock. I’m ahead of the game because I have the real estate. But I need it to be
rich,
Craig.We’re selling the all-American dream, with a little exotic flavor thrown in. And that has to be good.”

“Three million,” he said. “And I take ten percent of the company.”

“Then four million,” she countered.

Levin grinned.“Three, sugar, or I’ll walk away, and believe me, I know just how to do that.”

“I have to run it by my partners.” Jane smiled in the flush of victory. “But I’m pretty sure they’ll be okay with it.”

“Good.” He walked up to her, towering over her, his face above hers, his mouth close, too close. “That’s done. Can we move on?”

She struggled; fought with herself; the heat was spreading through her; Jane longed for him to kiss her, so much it made her weak.

“I’m not for sale,” she whispered.

Levin’s eyes bore down on her; his mouth inched closer to hers; Jane’s lips moistened, parted; just before the kiss, he pulled back; she was left aching and frustrated.

“I don’t want a girl I can buy.” His eyes flickered across her face, assessingly. “I’m going to have those papers signed and the money in your corporate account by tomorrow. Once my lawyers have reviewed the share agreement. After that, you have what you needed from me, and I won’t be able to take it back.” He reached out and ran a fingertip down the side of her face; unable to stop herself now, Jane shivered at his touch.

“After that . . . I guess we’ll see what happens.”

She forced herself to take a step back.

“My lawyers will be in touch.” She had to add, “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “See you, Jane Morgan.”

She turned on her heel and fled.

“I don’t wanna go,” Mona whined.

“You have to.” Sally was firm.“Mom—you have to. Here, here are your sneakers.You want me to lace them up for you?”

“I can dress myself,” Mona snapped.

Sally was glad to hear it; lately, she’d been wondering. Mona’s room did not smell too pretty. Sally had stripped the sweaty sheets from the bed but the stale odor of too much sleep, of dissipation, still permeated the room.

No more. She wasn’t going to give up on her momma. The company was formed, they had financing; for the first time in years, Sally believed good things,
really
good things, were about to happen.

“Here. I got you a new tracksuit. Nike—the best. Mine matches.” She showed her, a pretty thing in pale pink. “We’ll jog along Venice, next to the beach.” Because none of Mona’s old friends would be there. “After that I’m giving you a makeover, and you can come and see our new store.”

“What store?”

“GLAMOUR,” Sally said. “You’ll love it.”

If she could change style in L.A., she could change her mom. Couldn’t she?

Mona was an addict. Sally had faced that, as calmly as she could.You couldn’t get an addict to just stop the addiction. It had to be replaced by something else. A positive addiction.

Sally decided on fitness. Mom would become a fitness freak. If that meant Sal had to jog an unnecessary three miles a day then so be it. She was going to make her mother wash her hair, get a manicure and a wax, put makeup on daily, and run to the beach. Mona had lost all pride, all self-esteem, but she still had a pretty face, for an older woman. It shouldn’t be this way. Crawling into a bottle or a box of pills.

“Good. You ready?” Mona was sitting sullenly in her oversized pink tracksuit, and Sal, her long blonde hair swept back in a neat ponytail, was wearing the same, only half the size. She was painfully aware how pretty she looked and how wrecked her mother was, Mona’s once thin thighs and bright complexion dulled by alcohol, ruining her skin and fattening her up.

But Mona could change. Everybody could. Sal had—she was a company director now.

She
believed
in the GLAMOUR philosophy. Beauty was more than skin deep—it was a matter of pride. Not everybody could fit the golden girl ideal like she could, but everybody could look their best. And Momma’s best was better than this.

“Come on.” She forcibly grabbed her mother by the elbow; she smelled bad, of stale sweat, but Sally stuck with it. “Let’s go, Momma. Come with me.”

Every morning and evening, for a week, Sally forced Mona to jog. At first it was little more than walking pace, and her mother could only manage a mile. The second day, Mona occasionally broke into a trot before slipping back to walking. Sally didn’t care. It was progress.

She tried to make her mom feel proud. Day one was the best—forcing her into a long shower, making her shave her legs, wax her lips, and get her hair washed and styled. Sally cleaned all the bed linen and filled her room with lavender and roses. On day two, after the postjog shower, Sally took time off work to give Mona a makeover. On day three, she took her to the shell of GLAMOUR and helped her pick out a couple of dresses—forgiving, beautifully worked Arab gowns from Ghada and Egypt, flown in the day before from one of Haya’s suppliers.

And it was working. Sally could see the glimmer of interest that came back to her mother’s face, the basic stirrings of self-esteem; Mona started showering, combing her hair, getting up without being nagged.

At the end of the first week, Sally came back from the store to find her mom had been shopping—all by herself. She’d bought some cushions and candleholders, and she had rearranged the décor in their little apartment.

At the end of the first month Mona fit back into her old jeans. She hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol—not even in mouthwash—for a month. She asked Sally if she could go to the dentist and get her teeth whitened. Mona even joined a gym—she added weights to the running, morning and evening. And Sally signed her up to a yoga class, where for the first time since Paulie died, Mona started to make friends.

Sally had tears in her eyes the first day she waved her mom off for coffee with a girlfriend. Fitness had done that—fitness, and self-esteem, and feeling good about life. Sometimes lipstick and a good dress really mattered. It wasn’t too much of an exaggeration to say that this had saved her mom.

While Jane did her wheeling and dealing, hiring staff, meeting accountants and bankers, inking deals with suppliers, and planning store layout and infrastructure, Haya took her pregnant body off on weekly flights to the Middle East, sourcing amazing, ethically produced lamps, rugs, mosaics, and jewelry, and Sally instructed her team of designers. She drew sketches, she placed factory orders, she did deals with other unknown talents. Anything to get GLAMOUR hung with the hottest new styles and the simplest classic pieces. Nothing cheap; nothing skimpy. Sally designed flaws away; she didn’t want clothes that required a perfect body. All skirts and dresses were made of heavy material, and lined. All tops had at least something on the sleeveline, however slim, so they could be worn with a bra. And she started out with color palettes that could be worn together.

There was a working woman’s corner, too.Why sacrifice your femininity at the office? Sally paid for rich fabrics, silks, satins, velvet, and heavy cotton—no linen, it wrinkled—and worked exclusively in black, white, sand, and navy; every piece went with every other piece. Classic cuts but with feminine tailoring. The blouses had cuffs and little shell buttons, but they were tapered at the waist and had a silky effect; the skirts swung to the bias and hovered on the knee, or fishtailed at the floor; the pantsuits had narrower waists but wider thighs, a little help where most women needed it. Add a pair of Sally’s own design for slightly stacked heels and you got height, comfort, style—immediate weight loss of five pounds.

But Sally knew GLAMOUR had to be more than that. It needed to be a destination, an experience. Great clothes and cool rugs and pretty mosaics were nice, but Sally understood why women shopped. It was for a sense of Aladdin’s Cave, of being surrounded by pretty, gorgeous things. She started work on the smaller stock: independent cosmetic houses, organic cruelty-free cosmetics, the ones that didn’t do business with the bigger stores. And she only went for gorgeous. Lipsticks with jewel-studded cases, faked-out rubies and diamonds. Soft makeup brushes, straight from the East, that used real hair. Perfume spritzers in dazzling cut glass. Little charm bracelets with pick-your-own gems to hang off them—you’d scoop them up with a mother-of-pearl spoon, like caviar, and pay per scoop. Delicate necklaces worked in Frisco by an artist she admired, glossy leaves sculpted from copper and gold, that jangled when you walked. Ankle bracelets, with bells on them. Little eyeshadows from a joint in Venice that packed them cleverly into seashells. Essential oils, in droppers, that could give fragrance to a whole room. Candles twisted into slogans—HOTSTuFF was her favorite, with a wick on each letter.