Glamour (6 page)

Helen Yanna stood in the kitchen of her house and carefully watched her mother fixing tea; she made it fresh, the Moroccan way, with mint leaves and lots of sugar, served in small, decorated glasses on an ornate silver tray. A slice of home, this was an afternoon ritual with them, and one that always made her feel comforted.

“Do you want some?” her mother said, speaking carefully in English. Baba insisted they use it, even at home.

“Thank you,” Helen replied, politely. She accepted the glass and sipped carefully, wondering how to broach the subject.

“I found some beautiful peaches at Farmers Market today,” her mother said, starting to chatter. Helen glanced around the kitchen; it was modern and stylish, but relatively small. Baba loved to move, wanting to be in the best areas the family could afford. This was her third house in six years. It wasn’t yet Bel Air, or even Beverly Hills at all, but it was not far, on Third Street, near the Writers Guild building, and inside a prestigious gated complex. She knew her mother and sister loved the security; the manicured lawns, the little houses in the development all the same size, the community leisure center with its pool and gym. Everything was neat and clean here. Baba had bought them one of the smaller properties, and was spending the rest on school fees for Helen and her sister, Jasmine.That, and a really big Mercedes, a fancy TV, a home computer, and the right kinds of suits and watches.

With Baba, appearance was everything. Helen calculated; could she use that to her advantage now?

It was a strange way to grow up, living between two worlds. With loving parents, but hypocritical ones.Yes, Baba and Mama desperately wanted to fit in. And Helen knew all about that longing. She felt it, every day, at school. But they were also Muslims . . . not very devout, hardly practicing, but still, it was one rule for them, another for her. To this day, she had not dared to bring Sally or Jane home.
Especially
not Sally. She was too Western, too determined. If Baba ever caught sight of Sally’s deliberately shortened skirts he’d order Helen never to see her again.

Was it likely he’d let her go to a party?

Helen twisted her fingers around the glass. She didn’t think so. And yet she wanted to go, oh, so, so badly. It wasn’t like she’d do anything, she thought resentfully. She wouldn’t drink alcohol or kiss some boy. She just wanted the chance to go, to be with her friends.To be at the heart of things.To get her own back on the bullies.

To see what it was like to be like Sally—just one time, one night.

“You know, Mama, there’s a big party at my friend Sally’s house in two weeks.” Helen strove to sound casual. “She’s very rich; her father owns an oil company.”

“Your friend is too young for that sort of thing.” Mama sniffed.

“Well . . . there won’t be any alcohol,” Helen lied.“And Sally’s parents will be there . . . you know, as chaperones.”

Mama turned to her daughter, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

“Absolutely not, Helen. It sounds forbidden, with boys and mixing. That sort of decadence is not for a good girl like you. Your father will say no. Put it out of your mind.”

“But—”

“No,” her mother said, then lapsed into Arabic, for emphasis.
“La-a.”

Helen shrugged as if she didn’t care and finished the rest of her tea. The direct approach hadn’t worked. A year ago, before Sally and Jane, she would have accepted that quietly, resignedly, as she always had.

Tonight, she refused to give up.

The answer would come to her. Helen was determined.

Her father came home, kissed his wife, and started telling her about his day. Average . . . not too many orders. Possibly a deal importing cosmetics. Mama started gabbling in Arabic, which Helen was already starting to forget, as her memories of her old life in Jordan slipped through her fingers....

She suddenly had a brain wave. She got up and went into the kitchen as though unconcerned, getting the cutlery out for dinner.

“Helen.” Baba’s voice was stern. “What is this your mother is telling me? About some party? You should know better than to even ask.”

“Oh,” she said lightly, taking water glasses out of the cupboard. “It’s nothing, Baba. Just a grand affair at Sally’s estate in Beverly Hills. Mama didn’t understand—I would never be invited anyway.”

“What?” He blinked.

“Well, you know.” Helen shrugged. “Sally is nice to me in school, but of course she and Jane move in different social circles.”

“Explain that,” Baba said, darkly.

“Well, you know, Jane’s father is an ambassador. And an ‘honorable’—it’s an English title; he is aristocratic. And Sally is one of the wealthiest heiresses in America. I mean, come on—
our
family can hardly hope to be seen in public in that company. Sally’s party is very exclusive, strictly for the top girls in school. I don’t mind.”

Her father’s cheeks had gone a nice shade of puce.

“You mean she is supposed to be your friend, but she didn’t invite you?”

Helen shrugged. “Yes, she invited me—after I told her you would never allow it.That way she gets to say she invited me but she knows I won’t show up to mix with the important girls. All
their
fathers are major movie producers at the very least.” Helen flashed a smile. “That’s life, Baba. You know what this town is like. . . .”

“No. No way.” Her father shook his head. “We are as good as any of them.”

“The party will be chaperoned,” Mama broke in. “Maybe the ambassador will be there. It would be good for our daughter to know such people.”

“I have made my decision.” Baba’s voice was stern. “You will attend.Tell her I said you may go.Your brother will pick you up at half past ten. Of course you will be modestly dressed. And you will stay with your friends from school. All the girls.”

“But Sally doesn’t think—”

“She can hardly take back her invitation. No!
My
daughter is as good as any of them. As is our family.We are related by marriage to the Hashemites.” He sniffed.“You will go, Helen. Do not argue with me.”

His daughter turned aside so he could not see her triumphant smile.

“Of course not, Baba,” she said meekly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Green Gables. Named after the L. M. Montgomery novel. Mrs. Mona Lassiter was a big fan.

Green Gables. The biggest and most fabulous estate in Bel Air.

Paulie Lassiter loved it. It was his home, his castle, and the definition of his status.

L.A. ran on star power, the electricity that truly supplied the city grid. And Paulie had none of it—nothing but the thick black ooze that poured out of his desert wells in the Lone Star State. He’d grown up poor, and he wanted only the best for his little girl. In America, Hollywood was the best, and Paulie Lassiter, despite his lack of connections, was determined to be a big fish.

That meant one thing. Conspicuous consumption.The buzz-word of the eighties.

So what if his name was never mentioned in
Variety
? Mona, his wife, would be at all the right parties.

So what if he had nothing breaking out at the box office? He would have the biggest pad in L.A.

Sally was doing fine at Miss Milton’s. And Paulie kept a fleet of six luxury cars. Ferrari Testarossa, Porsche, Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin . . .

Even the garage wing that housed them was specially made. Yeah, Green Gables was the greatest thing since sliced bread. A canny purchase of some sloping, dusty land in a good part of Bel Air, and unashamed bribery—make that “campaign contributions”—had gotten Paulie Lassiter, from Belmont,Texas, all the planning permission he needed.

And boy, had he gone to town.

Spielberg—in your face!

Lucas—fuggedaboutit!

The main house had twenty-two bedrooms—some he’d never gone into. There was an enormous heated pool complex, two kitchens, ten en suite bathrooms, eight dressing rooms, stables, an apple and pear orchard, and a goddamn maze. On top of that, the “guest wing” of the estate had tennis and squash courts, three guest bungalows—modeled after the famous Beverly Hills Hotel—a formal Italian garden planted with lavender, rosemary, and olive trees and dotted with fountains and statuary, and a vast enclosed private gym with full-time trainers on staff. And all that was before you counted the staff accommodation for his ’n’ hers chauffeurs, the maids, the cooks, and the private barman....

Green Gables had its own private golf course. Eighteen manicured holes.

Green Gables had a fully stocked poolside bar.

Green Gables had a helipad, a landing strip, and an aircraft hangar for Paulie’s private jet.

No wonder he was delighted to show it off!

“Daddy.” Sally put on her best little-girl voice. It was Saturday, and she was sitting in the enormous eat-in kitchen eating buttermilk pancakes with syrup and watching the fire blazing in the grate. Even in L.A. it occasionally got chilly in winter, and the Lassiters knew how to make the best of it. “Can I have a party?”

“What kind of a party, honey?”

Her father moved to the refrigerator to grab a glass of fresh-squeezed juice. It made him feel healthy, even if Momma was fixing him a pile of bacon and sausage for breakfast. Just chuck some fruit on top, get those vitamins. Right?

“A biiiig party,” Sally wheedled. “For my best friends . . . Helen and Jane.”

“I love Jane!” her mother said vaguely. An English diplomat’s daughter was pure class, and wasn’t that why they paid Miss Milton’s the big bucks? “Who’s Helen?”

“A new girl.” Sally wasn’t certain Daddy would love the whole Arab thing, so she kept it to herself. “She’s real nice. But some of the others have been acting up, you know how uppity they get, the actors’ daughters and all that. I thought it’d be cool to have a nice party . . . you know, all the works.”

“The works, huh?” Paulie grunted. “Sounds expensive.”

“I bet all the papers would write it up,” Sally said winsomely. She knew marketing. “Party of the year! At Green Gables!”

“That’d be nice,” Mona Lassiter mused. She’d missed making the society pages for the last four weeks in a row. It was hard for “civilians” to be anywhere in this town. What Paulie had was cash—and cash was made to be spent!

“I don’t see why we can’t live a little,” Mona wheedled. She walked over to her husband and trailed her long nails through his thinning hair, scratching his skull and making him purr with pleasure.“You can’t take it with you, Paulie. . . . It’d be nice to see all the young people enjoying themselves. . . .”

“Ah . . .my two best girls,”Paulie said expansively.He shrugged in a hopeless gesture. “Guess I’m outnumbered!”

“Yay!” Sally squealed. Paulie looked at her fondly. He’d have liked a son, but really, Sally was pitch-perfect, his little honey, and he adored her. Since Mona wasn’t able to have a second, he’d given everything to his baby.

And let’s face it, he
liked
to spend money. Mona was one hundred percent right. Money was there to have fun with. First him, then his baby. Ever since they’d struck that black gold he’d had more of it than he knew what to do with.

“We’ll definitely get the works.” He grinned. “Mona, take care of it, will ya? A carousel . . .”

“A carousel!” Sally rolled her beautiful eyes. “Dad, I’m not
eight
. We need one of those flight simulators! You know, from the fairground, you strap in and take a rocket to Mars . . . and we need fireworks . . . a
huge
display. And candles all round the pool.”

“Fairy lights . . . lanterns . . . a marquee, tented silk . . . we should get Chasen’s to do the catering . . . or Zanzibar. . . .”

“Not Moroccan,” Sally said hastily. Didn’t want Helen to get upset. She was touchy sometimes. She ran over, kissed her mother and father exuberantly on the cheek. “Thanks, you guys! You’re the best!”

They hugged her back.Yes, her parents were the absolute best, Sally thought happily. And so was her life. She was Queen Bee, and she was taking her friends with her!

Helen gulped down the tea her mother, Aisha, had prepared, and it was delicious, floating with fresh mint.

It scalded her throat a little, she was so fast. But nerves were twisting in her gut. Helen could tell her parents had bad news.

And she had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to like what came next.

“Haya. I’m having second thoughts about you going to that party,” Baba said sternly. He glanced at his wife. “And there’s something else.”

“You tell her,” Baba said to her mother.

“We found a nice man for you.” Aisha stirred a sauce on the stove, not looking at her daughter. Deliberately, Helen suspected. “He’s family. . . .”

“Distant family,” Baba interjected.

“My cousin Firyal—her son. Ahmed is his name. He’s twenty-four. . . .”

Ugh. An old man.
Helen’s skin prickled with an urgent warning. She had a horrible feeling about where this conversation was going....

Little Jasmine looked round at her big sister, then lost interest.
Fraggle Rock
on the TV held much more fascination for her than Helen’s love life.

“He’s a merchant, in Cairo. Has a very nice house—a large garden, like our old house in Amman. You’ll like it. You’ll like him.” Aisha’s back stiffened. “Baba and I are all agreed.”

There it was. Her parents, her English-speaking, alcohol-drinking parents, wanted to push Helen into an arranged marriage. Tie herself for the rest of her life to a guy she’d never met, and tear her out of America as part of the bargain.

Helen burned with resentment. Her father was such a hypocrite! He wore Western clothes, gave his children anglicized names, and drank like a fish. She hardly ever saw him attend to prayers or go to the mosque. Baba made his friends call him “Al,” because that sounded less foreign than Ali. She strongly suspected their family had settled in L.A. instead of NewYork because, with year-round tans on everyone, their Levantine skin stood out that much less.

“Well, isn’t that nice.” Helen was surprised to hear the bitterness in her own voice; rebellion wasn’t her thing. But she was saying it, all the same. The words tumbled out of her. “But you forgot to ask me. I’m not agreed.”