Glamour (50 page)

“Ssh,” Sally hissed, angrily.“You’re here now, make the best of it! You can sleep on the plane on the way home.”

“Two days’ rest before Boston and I’m spending them thirty thousand feet in the air.”

“And how many other royal weddings are you going to get invited to?” Sally whispered back.

He squeezed her arm. “True, but you’ll always be my princess.”

In front of them, Haya was bending over the scroll; she lowered her head and signed it.

Sally stared at her friend with something close to awe; she felt loss, too; envy; a touch of anger.With that signature, Haya, as she knew her, had gone, and not like the first time; she had vanished forever.

Vanished from the company. Vanished from their friendship. There she stood, robed head to toe in fluttering golden silks, a long caftanlike dress studded with seed pearls and embroidered with crystals; the headdress she wore made her look like a story-book princess from Sally’s childhood; it was square, with delicate chiffon scarves of pale gold floating behind it.What a dress! Haya did not look real to Sally. Her husband wore a traditional, embroidered coat; it was white satin, and appeared to be encrusted with diamonds.

He had signed first. The imam said something in Arabic. The assembled guards presented their guns in a salute, pointed them out at an angle and fired.

Chris instinctively moved to cover Sally with his body.

“It’s okay. It’s ceremonial.”

He grinned. “Jumped out of my skin.”

But she was already watching her friend.There were women in the same sort of robes, just less ornate—Sally guessed they were maids of honor—and they were coming forward; they removed the square headdress from Haya and the round white cap Jaber wore, and then they led the pair forward to two ornately carved chairs. As they passed the king, Jaber bowed, Haya curtsied; the king, too, said something to them; then they sat down in the chairs.

Two soldiers came forward bearing white silk cushions.

“What’s that?” Sally whispered.

Chris leaned forward, blinked, then put his mouth next to her ear.

“Crowns,” he said. “Little crowns.”

Openmouthed, Sally watched as they placed the glittering golden circlets first on Jaber’s head, then on Haya’s; her tiara, all gold and icy white diamonds, glittered in the sun.

There was a burst of trumpets from the assembled military guard; then Jaber and Haya stood, he offered her his arm, and they processed back down the red carpet, past the assembled Ghadan court; and Sally watched as everybody curtsied or bowed as Haya walked past them. Her parents’ faces were a picture of ecstatic joy; as her daughter walked past, Mrs. Al-Yanna sank into a curtsy so low her knees practically scraped the ground.

The royal couple were approaching them now. Chris stood up straight; he smiled appreciatively at Haya as she walked past; Sally, blushing scarlet, aware she was Haya’s only invited friend, dipped into an awkward bob.

It was amazing how much it stung. As she rose, looking now at Haya’s extended train, Chris stared at her, amazed.

“You’re a damn American,” he said. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“We’re the only Western guests without some kind of title. I wanted to show respect. Not let her down.”

He shrugged. “I don’t bend the knee to no man, baby.”

“Another reason why I love you,” Sally said, honestly. But nonetheless, she was jealous; it couldn’t be denied. What all-American little girl didn’t grow up wanting to be a princess? And Haya was a real one; nothing metaphorical about it.

The band struck up a Debussy waltz, and the ceremony was over. A uniformed officer from the palace approached them.

“Mr. Nelson, Miss Lassiter?”

“Guilty,” Chris said. Sally dug him in the ribs.

“Her Royal Highness, Princess Haya al-Jaber, asks me to conduct you to the top table; may I take you to the emira?”

“Why, certainly,” Sally said.

Damn! What a moment. If her mom could see her now. If her
dad
could see her . . .

It struck her that Haya would definitely, absolutely, not be coming back to GLAMOUR.What if she could take her shares? Then maybe she’d have a chance, for once, not to feel like this—inadequate, the dumbest of the three of them. Jane charged ahead, and never took or asked Sally’s advice. Haya had been out of touch for months.Yet she, Sally Lassiter, had been the driving force behind the store—who’d launched it, who inspired its fashion, who was on magazine covers the world over?

Haya had won the lottery here. Good for her. Sally wished her joy—and no doubt she was going to get it. GLAMOUR would be little more than a toy to her now. But the store had been Sally’s redemption.

“I would love to sit next to the princess,” she said, confidently.

Haya ran to the back door of the villa to check on Noor, and found Mrs.Wilkins waiting for her.

“She’s fine. Just went down for her nap,” the older woman said, then smiled and curtsied.“And congratulations to you,Your Royal Highness.”

Haya was horrified. “Don’t do that!”

“Oh, I have to. People are watching. You might as well get used to it, at least in public—
ma’am
.You can’t put Prince Jaber under the microscope. He chose an unconventional wife, don’t make him look bad!”

She twisted uncomfortably.

“You’re absolutely right. I just feel funny about it.”

“There’s gossip among the other nannies,” Mrs. Wilkins said, lowering her voice.“About your husband’s position.They say he’s in high favor right now. I wouldn’t ruin it. Don’t stop anybody from observing the protocol.”

“Okay.” Haya had heard some of that gossip herself. She blushed. “I’m not good at politics.”

“Just be a princess. Remember that you are one. Be as good at it as you were at business. All right—I’m done. And congratulations again, my dear.” The old woman kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll have a very happy life.”

On her way back to the marquee Haya did not run. She walked, slowly and elegantly; cooks and waitresses bowed, curtsied as she passed; soldiers saluted her.

She knew what her nanny meant. Of course she did. There was speculation that Jaber would be raised, made prime minister; second in Ghada only to the king. And if that happened, what an opportunity!

If her husband had the king’s ear, what could be done with the vast oil wealth of a country like this? Schools for the poor, cultural festivals, the start of democracy, improved relations with the West, promotion of arts and crafts on a global scale . . . she could actually make a difference, improve the lives of hundreds of thousands.

Jaber had rejected a royal cousin, one born to this, in her favor. She had to prove to the court that he had not made a mistake with the boorish American girl.

A uniformed servant held back the doors of the marquee; the entire crowd dipped down as she walked to the high table.

Haya lifted her head, feeling the coronet upon it, and smiled graciously. As she passed the gold thrones on which the old king and his wife were sitting, she herself sank into a profound curtsy, her wedding robes billowing about her. Jaber smiled at her, and extended a hand to lift her up.

“Your friends are here,” he said.“Mr. Nelson and Miss Lassiter.”

“Great,” Haya murmured. She walked round to Chris and Sally, suddenly feeling the eyes of the entire court, the queen in particular, boring down on her.

“Hello,” she said. “It’s so wonderful that you could come.”

Chris Nelson was wearing a lightweight suit, and looked ill at ease; he shook her hand briskly.“Hey, Haya, it’s great to be here,” he said.

She suppressed a wince. Haya? Couldn’t he suck it up and be just a little formal in public? They’d never once met before. And the guy didn’t even have a carnation on.

“Sally, you look beautiful.” She turned to her friend. Sally did bob a curtsy, her golden head down, but when she came up her face was flaming. Haya did a quick inventory; Sally was wearing a long evening gown, very pretty, in azure blue velvet, but it had shoulder straps, and was cut to display the tops of her impressive bosom. It would knock them out at any ball in California, but Ghada was a little more conservative. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said quickly and urgently.

“Am I next to you? I don’t know a soul,” Sally whispered.

“My dad’s on my other side, but you’re right opposite me, how’s that?”

“Fine,” Sally said, a little disappointed. But hey, it was Haya’s dad.

“You must be cold,” Haya said, she thought diplomatically. “I’ll have somebody bring you a shawl; it gets chilly in the desert at night.”

“Congratulations,” Sally replied, giving her an awkward hug.

Haya squeezed her friend’s hand. “I hope we’ll get to talk . . . the guard will show you to your seats.”

Sally nodded briefly as they were led away; Haya beckoned a serving woman.

“Get my friend a large shawl and arrange it around her shoulders. Quickly, please.”

“Yes, Highness,” the woman said, throwing a scandalized glance at Sally’s gown.

“So, Haya,” Sally said, as soon as they were seated. “You’re quitting the company?”

“Day to day, yes. I’ll be a silent partner. So, how are your own wedding preparations coming?” Haya tried to change the subject—she didn’t want all Jaber’s relatives listening to her talk business on the day of her nikkah. His mother, Princess Alia, was already looking her over with a narrowed glance of disapproval. Mentally she tried to signal to Sally. Damn! Why were
her
friends so tone-deaf when it came to culture?

She knew Jaber secretly considered Sally some sort of bimbo, riding on the success of his wife and Jane. Of course she knew better. But why did Sally pick that dress?

“Just fine.Y’all will enjoy it,” Sally promised, smiling broadly at Jaber. “It’s going to be a lot like this, but different food. Hope you don’t mind American!”

“Not in the least,” he said, with a broad smile.

“We’ll get you cooking on the barbecue,” Chris Nelson promised the prince. “I make my own marinade. It’s famous in the locker room.”

Haya died a thousand deaths.

“So, Haya.” Sally came right to the point. “If you’re going to do the princess thing full-time, you should let me buy you out.”

This was too much, really. On her wedding day. Haya nearly lost it.

“Funny, Jane asked me the same thing. And I’m not selling. Surprised she didn’t tell you that, Sally.”

Sally recoiled, shocked.
Jane
had asked to buy the shares? Jane Morgan? Didn’t she already have enough, with all her stock deals on the side and her billionaire date? GLAMOUR was Sally’s baby, it was all she had.

And—Jane hadn’t told her.Was she trying to force Sally out? Take the whole thing?

“But why? You know you don’t need that company now.”

“Because it’s mine,” Haya said, shortly.

Sally’s eyes flashed. She was being a damn dog in the manger about it. Didn’t she
see
that pretty gold crown sitting on top of her head?

“And we won’t talk business on my wedding day, if you don’t mind.” Haya decided hinting was no good. “That’s not the custom here.”

“Madam . . .”

The servant woman came forward, holding out the shawl, and a little officiously tried to tie it around Sally’s shoulders.

Sally was now properly angry; she’d moved heaven and earth to be there, taken Chris away on his two days’ rest in the middle of the biggest event of his damn life, the World Series. And Haya—with her fancy title—had suddenly turned into some kind of impersonal megasnob.

Sally untied the shawl and firmly handed it back.

“No. Sorry,” she said. “I’m not cold. I don’t think I will, thanks.”

The woman muttered something inArabic and nodded at Haya; Sally caught the word “emira”—that one she knew—princess.

“It’s all right,” Haya said, in both Arabic and English. But her face had flushed red with embarrassment.

Haya hadn’t been ashamed of Sally back when Sal was protecting her from the playground bullies. Chris squeezed her hand, sensing her anger; slow to spark, but deadly once it had ignited.

“Wanna split?” he whispered.

She shook her head, biting her lip. Haya, with a frown, had turned aside to speak to her father.

“I need Ghada for the company,” she whispered back.

There would be no scene. Sally made small talk with Chris, and sat through the first course of tabbouleh and the second of spiced beef. After that she gave her fiancé the smallest look; he cleared his throat.

“Haya, it’s been great. But Sally and I are feeling kind of beat, and we have to get back to the airport—I can’t skip practice tomorrow, facing the top of the Red Sox rotation Monday. Jaber—many congratulations.We wish you guys all the best.”

He offered his arm to Sally, and she took it, thankful that she had a man who wasn’t going to be fased by anyone or anything.

“Haya, congratulations to you both. Hope to see you in the States before too long. It was a wonderful wedding,” Sally said, drawing on her reserves of politeness. “Enjoy the rest of your special day.”

Haya blinked—they were actually walking out of her wedding, leaving two empty places at the top table, where the whole of the royal family were sitting.

“Have a safe flight,” she said, icy cold.

Sally nodded, gave her a brisk smile, and left.

Tears of embarrassment and anger were prickling in the eyes of both women.

Jaber leaned over, kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Not your fault,” he said. He turned aside and beckoned sharply, murmuring softly to one of his bodyguards; the man nodded, and within moments a sharif from the protocol office, and his wife, overjoyed at the honor, had been shown to the empty seats.

Chris waited while Sally packed her case—in her current mood, she threw everything in there, and was done in five minutes—and arranged with the hotel for a limo to take them to the airport. He took charge, as Sally fumed; pulled out his credit card, and had them safely ensconced in their first-class seats on Royal Ghadan, winging their way to New York.