Glamour (16 page)

“Yes, but they have a management program,” Jane said.“Good-bye, Josh. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

She strode away from him, toward the bus stop. Living in L.A., no car, no cash—still as confident as all hell.

“Maybe,” he muttered. But somehow, he doubted it.

That girl was made for bigger things than him.

Mrs.Watson saw Jane coming, and smiled despite herself.

“Good morning. I was wondering if any vacancies had opened up?”

The English girl was well dressed and groomed. Good accent, too—the customers would love her classy tone.

“Saw you on TV. You said nice things about Shop Smart. My boss said if you came back to give you a job.”

“That’s great!” Jane felt a wash of relief surge through her. “If you’ve got a uniform, I can get changed right away.”

“You need to fill out a form first.”

Jane opened her purse, took out the neatly completed form, and handed it to the recruiter. Disbelievingly, the woman scanned it.

“Damn, girl.You in a hurry?”

Jane didn’t reply.

“There are uniforms in back. Put one on and clock in.You’re going to be a greeter. Seven-day trial, be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. If you’re late, you’re fired. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jane said. She hurried away into the back, before her new boss could change her mind.

“Good morning! Welcome to Shop Smart. I hope you have a lovely day.”

Janice Esposito, junior manager, sourly watched the new girl at the front door. She was standing behind a video rack—Jane Morgan couldn’t see her.Ticking off performance stats. Looking for a fault.

Because Janice couldn’t believe the new girl really
wanted
a shitty job like this. She’d read the papers—an ambassador’s daughter? celebrity orphan? Right, like she was really poor.Why the hell would she want a minimum-wage job that was strictly for the unqualified? The hours were easier at McDonald’s.

Janice instantly disliked Jane Morgan. But she had a job to do, as well. And it involved ticking off little boxes. Plus, sometimes they checked up on their own human resource people, so you couldn’t fake it—not to mention there were cameras at the entrances.

Jane Morgan had learned something. Sell the sizzle, not the steak.

Bosses already loved her. She’d brought them free PR. They wanted her to succeed—the new citizen, the American dream.

Friendliness—check.

Neatness—check—not a hair out of place; looked like she’d been wearing that uniform for years.

Smile—check. Crocodiles had smaller smiles than this chick.

Enthusiasm—check.

Janice’s pen hovered as she watched Jane Morgan quickly glance at her watch. Finally, a no-no—she was
supposed
to be looking out for new customers, one hundred percent of the time.

“Good
afternoon
!” Jane Morgan beamed. “Welcome to Shop Smart!”

“Well, would ya look at that, Dick,” the portly matron said to her husband as they waddled in past Janice and her clipboard. “Bang on twelve noon and she switches to ‘afternoon.’ Ain’t that a kick!”

“Yeah, real impressive,” her husband said. He glanced behind him at the check-in girl’s
impressive
figure.

Janice sighed. Unfortunately, in a job where there was no such thing as taking the initiative, this girl had just found a way to do it.

There was a box at the base of her form. “Consider for promotion?”

Reluctantly, she ticked it.

Eileen Watson looked at Janice Esposito.

“So, the management program.” They were both nursing giant cups of coffee. Janice, despite this chemical assistance, was looking lethargic and depressed. “We’re supposed to hunt talent from the shop floor.”

“Mick Martin’s ready. He does a lot of good work in layout.”

“Okay.” Eileen ticked another box. “Any more this month?”

The question hung in the air. They both knew. Neither wanted to say.

“Not really.” Janice was defiant.

“Jane Morgan?” Eileen asked, gently.

“I think she’s a little smug.” Janice had scoured her sheets for something more substantial on Jane, but had come up empty. She was blocking this promotion on sheer personal dislike. “I recommend you wait another month. And if she’s absolutely clean then, promote her.”

Eileen didn’t hate Jane like Janice did, but she also was not too keen on seeing chirpy young foreign girls advancing.

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Let Jane keep it clean for one more month.”

Jane didn’t do a lot of crying. Mostly, she was too tired. The check at the end of the week was unbelievably tiny; man, she resented those taxes and social security payments—yet she still had to save from it. She needed a deposit on a car. Never mind how much of a wreck—she had to have
something
.

The minutiae of grown-up life was unbelievable. So much to do—forms to fill out, stuff to organize. Now that her citizenship had come through, she had to get herself a social security number . . . a driver’s license . . . a checking account. Credit was the worst; America trapped you—if you didn’t have any, it was hard to get any.

She managed it somehow: a starter card at an exorbitant rate. Yet your score only rose if you used it. Daylight robbery, but Jane started an account, and used it whenever she could—but carefully—and always made her payments on time.

All through Jane Morgan’s childhood, she’d been living large. Now she was living lean. It was amazing what you could get for free if you were persistent. Most every day, Jane ate in the staff cafeteria, where food was plentiful and cheap. It was hard to keep healthy—with the disgusting, calorie-laden stodge they served the workers—but she managed it, always opting for the fresh fruit and salad, taking just a little of the protein-based dish and leaving the glutinous baked desserts. There was no private gym in her life—but she still had her clothes, and they included a pair of Nikes and a comfortable jogging suit. Jane ran daily, every morning at six a.m.; a golden hour, when the junkies had finally crawled home to bed and the regular joes hadn’t yet surfaced. She ran up and down the Sunset Strip, ignoring the detritus of needles and beer bottles, keeping her eyes fixed on the sun rising over the horizon.

And when she got back to the apartment, Jane forced herself to do forty push-ups before her stretch routine.

Punishing. But energetic.When she got in to work there were free bagels and orange juice—a daily shot of C—and she had the energy she needed to push her through the day.

Because on minimum wage, you needed all the hours they’d give you.

When she finished greeting, smile never wavering, there was lunch—ten minutes flat—and a bathroom break. Next, Jane swapped uniforms and went to the checkout till, where she worked two shifts. She got home nights at nine p.m., showered, and tumbled into bed.

It was a disciplined routine. After a while, it became automatic. And with the free stuff she got from the store—spoiled items, unwanted bottles of shampoo, frayed T-shirts you could sleep in—Jane spent next to nothing. Rent and utilities—that was it. She worked seven days, and actually watched her savings start to mount.

One day blended into another. It was mindless. And that suited her fine. One day soon, according to all Shop Smart’s procedures and guidelines, she would be recommended for the management program—and all this drudgery would be over.

Jane Morgan didn’t want to do too much thinking. She was ready to go with the flow.

“Let’s go see her.” Julie Manners stretched out on her air mattress in the pool.

“What do you mean? She’s gone.” Emma Lightfoot laughed meanly. “Ain’t that a bitch?”

The girls extended their legs and applied a little oil. Got to love those private beaches! There were some fine-looking preppy boys across the way checking them out.

“Did I tell you guys? My parents got me a birthday present,” said Maureen Smith, tossing her silky black hair.

“We know. A yellow Maserati. You told us already,” Emma complained.

“Not that one, another one. Season tickets to the Dodgers. A
box
.”

“Oooh,” Julie said, instantly seeing the possibilities.“Great for invites; let’s have a party there.”

What guy could resist tickets to the Dodgers?

“There are some UCLA guys coming. . . . I heard the governor’s son was going to be there.”

“Boooring.”

“And Pete Easterman, you know, from the new Arnold flick?”

“That’s more like it!” Julie patted her acolyte’s arm. “Definitely a little party. I could like baseball.”

“Get the guys to teach it to you,” Emma said, seeing herself playing dumb—men
loved
the pouty, little-girl-lost look.

“Right. And we’ll drive some of them in your Maserati. And my Jeep. It’ll be way cool.”

Not exactly Sally Lassiter-style cool, but what the hell? Sally was gone. All three witches were gone.

Julie returned to her theme.

“It’ll be even cooler if we go to Shop Smart to pick up the party gear . . . invitations and stuff.”

“Shop Smart?” Emma looked at Julie like she was mad. “My mom knows this great woman on La Cienega who will do invites, like, with calligraphy and pressed flowers and shit like that.”

“Yes, but
Jane Morgan
doesn’t work for her.” Julie gave her friends a silky smile.“You girls heard the news, right? Hoity-toity Miss Jane is a
greeter
on minimum wage! Right on Sunset!” Julie snickered at the delicious thought. “We should go see her,” she repeated, cruelly. “It’ll be fun, let’s have her wrap our purchases! Call us ‘ma’am’ . . . bow and scrape like a little shopgirl. Which she is. And if she acts up, we can report her to her bosses. The customer is always right, you know,” Julie cackled.

“Oooh.” Maureen’s eyes widened. “You are
evil
.”

“Come on, you know she deserves it. Don’t you remember how
mean
she was to all of us? She stopped you getting invited to that damn party.”

“Yeah, it’s true,” Melissa said angrily. That still burned. “Let’s go there and show her who’s boss!”

The girls laughed.

“I have the new car parked outside,” Maureen said, eager to curry favor.

Julie rewarded her with a smile. “I like it—let’s have her walk our groceries to your Maserati, and if she does a
real
good job, maybe she’ll get a tip.”

“Yeah—like two dollars!” Emma said, and laughed.

Jane was exhausted. The night before, Will Fox, the student, had canceled his checkout shift and her boss had asked her to stay—till eleven. She made it a practice never to say no, but she couldn’t cope with only six hours’ sleep. Not on her schedule.

But she’d done her running, just like always, and here she was—trying to smile, trying to be effusive.

One thing about Shop Smart—they
always
watched you.

It was why she’d chosen them.

But Jane couldn’t afford an off day.

Rhodri Evans looked over his store carefully. Hollywood—an important location. They were expanding from the Midwest, moving into the cities. He wanted to keep the prices rock-bottom, but soften the image, away from vast concrete warehouses in the middle of nowhere.

This store had been open for two years, and he wanted it to succeed.

Good—so far it seemed busy.

He walked through the front doors.

“Good morning, welcome to Shop Smart.” A young African-American college kid shook his hand with a perfunctory smile.

Evans was not impressed, but it was a perennial problem.They didn’t pay enough to attract the best staff.

“Good morning! Welcome to Shop Smart. Great to see you!”

He turned his head, distracted. A young woman with a foreign accent, beautiful enough to be a model, was standing at the opposite door. She was smiling as if she’d just won the lottery, and her uniform looked like it had come from the dry cleaner’s.

“Who
is
that?” he asked the greeter.

“Jane. Y’all can’t have her number, though,” the kid said wearily.

“Do lots of people ask?”

“Lots of
men,
” he said with contempt. “She’s all about work, though. Wants to get noticed. What the hell she’s doing here I don’t know. She could have got work lots of places.”

“Okay.Thanks.”

Morgan walked into the store and pretended to browse. He never began an evaluation without actually doing some shopping. You could read all the management consultant reports in the world, and it wouldn’t help you.

Jane . . . Jane who?

He stood in front of a rack of VHS players, looking confused, rubbing his chin. Nobody came to help him. One black mark.

The beautiful girl was still there, smiling and shaking hands as though the customers were long-lost relatives.

Evans was fascinated. He edged back to the front of the store and pretended to be interested in a pile of discount khaki pants, made in Taiwan from one hundred percent polyester.

“Good morning! Welcome.”

“It’s great to have you at Shop Smart today!”

“Welcome, what a beautiful day for shopping!”

Wow! She was always beaming, always performing. He was impressed.

“Well, well, well, look who it is.”

There was a pause. He looked up from the polyester pants to see a small knot of beautifully dressed teenagers—girls who were far too rich to be shopping in
this
store. A slim girl wearing Prada, another in a Chanel jacket twinned with designer jeans . . .

“Good morning, Jane,” said the lead girl cattily. The others sniggered. “Hey, great place. Nice to see you’ve landed on your feet.”

Abandoning his pretense, Rhodri Evans stepped back from the table and folded his arms, watching.

“Good morning, Julie,” Jane said stiffly. “Do you need help with something?”

“Actually yes,” said Maureen Smith, smirking.“We’re having a little party. My mom and dad bought me box seats at Dodger Stadium. Some of the boys from Fulbrook High are coming along.”