Glamour (30 page)

By her low-slung designer bed Jane kept a couple of books: one on architecture and a business biography or two.

She smiled as she picked up a tome on David Geffen, the legendary record business man.Yeah—she was addicted. Her life, her home, even her leisure activities. All about the bottom line.

This was nice, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Next month was her review. If Shop Smart didn’t transfer her, she was gone. She glanced around her flat, mentally saying good-bye to it, without regrets. In this life, Jane Morgan had learned to travel light.

There was better waiting for her, elsewhere. And her friends— she
would
find them. It would be so good to see Sally. No doubt Sal would need some help, too. Jane had a rush of guilt; she’d been so focused, she hadn’t tried hard enough to find Sally, and offer her a place to stay, or a good job. Well, she’d put that right; she’d hire a private investigator, if need be. Sal could be her assistant. And she’d be the one person in the world who wouldn’t have to come up to Jane’s exacting standards. She’d get a nice car, a great salary, and a fat pension just for showing up. And if Helen wanted to come back to the States, the same applied to her.

Jane grinned. She’d earned the right to one freebie. In any other circumstance, Jane Morgan would have shuddered at the idea of hiring a makeweight.

But Sally and Helen were special. They could have whatever the hell they wanted. Jane would see to that. Either in Shop Smart, or someplace else.

Jane Morgan needed her friends. But despite what Rhodri Evans said, she didn’t need anything else.

She absolutely was not interested in finding a man.

There was a knock on her office door.

“I’m busy,” Jane said, not looking up from her screen. It was Friday, and her reports from the Southwest were due in.

The door swung open and Rhodri Evans put his head around it.

“You’re always busy. Make some time.”

She smiled and clicked the spreadsheet shut.

“For you, sure.” Jane glanced at her diary. “I have a free lunch—would you like to go and get something?”

“I’ve always believed in miracles,” the Welshman said. “Come on, then, I want to have a chat with you.”

She took him to Le Cirque; if they were going to eat on the company’s dime, Jane figured it should be a good meal. They weren’t paying her well enough as it was. She ordered caviar, smoked oysters, and a rare steak to follow; Rhodri, not used to quite such luxurious surroundings, stuck with a salad and roast duck. Jane insisted he take a glass of champagne. It was a new decade, and sackcloth and ashes were all the fashion; the stores did a roaring trade in lumberjack shirts, as everybody wanted to be Kurt Cobain; the designers were into black and gray aesthetics, monklike chic.

But Jane rebelled. Even though she was twenty, she thought of herself as a true child of the eighties. Luxury, aspiration, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps; all that was in her blood, and it would never die. The movie
Wall Street
had been a huge smash, and it was meant to be negative, a morality tale. But when Jane sat in the cinema and watched Bud Fox walk into that giant office with the enormous glass walls, the camera following him lovingly, and all Manhattan stretching out beyond them, she was thrilled to her bones. That was what she wanted. That was what she worked for.

“And you?” Rhodri wanted to see her relaxing, too.

“Not for a couple of months.”

He raised a brow. “Surely you’re not telling me you’ve never had champagne.”

“Of course not. Just that I don’t want to be asked for I.D. in a restaurant I take business contacts to.” Jane smiled coolly. “I have some Krug chilling in my refrigerator. But I never fight a battle I can’t win.”

“We’ll toast you in here on your birthday.”

“That’s a deal.”

She sipped at her freshly squeezed pomegranate juice while her friend enjoyed his champagne.

“So how did it work out with Peter Ralston?”

The M&A specialist from Chase; newly divorced, older than her, considered handsome. Smooth, certainly.

“We had a couple of dates,” Jane said. “Went out for sushi . . . I just don’t think we clicked.”

“Why?” Rhodri was upset. “You never seem to get on with anybody. Are you really making an effort?”

“I’m an orphan. Shouldn’t I at least get a pass on nagging about my love life? What, are you going to complain you’ll never have grandchildren?”

Jane chuckled, and Rhodri smiled back. It was good to see her laugh. He worried about Jane; sometimes he wondered if he had done the right thing, giving her that first promotion. She was so unnaturally absorbed in business.

“But he was perfect for you.”

“Evidently not,” Jane said, wryly. In fact, Ralston had said first that he thought they should knock it on the head, and she’d been relieved. He was coming on too strong; obviously expected her to jump right into bed. And she hadn’t wanted to. He just didn’t excite her. She didn’t know what she wanted, exactly, just that Peter Ralston wasn’t it.

“Then I have somebody else you should meet.” Rhodri nodded, determinedly. “Somebody different from anyone you’ve seen before.”

“I’m not interested. Really, I’m so busy. And I’m young. . . .”

“But this guy . . .”

“Another damn banker or congressman or high-paid lawyer. I don’t think I can deal with that. Face it, Rhodri, I’m just not ready to date.”

“He’s none of those things. A little slice of home, I’m thinking. Maybe that’s what you need. He’s English. His name is Jude Ferrers.”

That brought Jane up short. “English?”

“Yes. From Sussex. His parents own a farm near the sea. Some place called Rye.”

“I know Rye,” Jane said. She took a large swig of pomegranate juice to cover her confusion. For some reason, she actually
did
want to meet this one. English, like her? Maybe it was fate. But her lack of interest in all men had just evaporated.

“He went to Eton. No title but lots of cash. He’s in town buying a place in the Hamptons. Just broke up with a girl, the daughter of some earl or something. I met him at a party last night. And he wants to meet you.”

Her response surprised him.

“Yes—that’d be great,” Jane said.“Give him my direct line. Do you know if he’s free tonight?”

“I don’t . . .”

“Because I am. And if not, tomorrow.” She beamed at her friend. “Thank you Rhodri, he sounds intruiging.”

Cheered, Rhodri tossed down the rest of his champagne. Finally, then, he
had
solved it, cracked the puzzle. What Jane needed was a guy from her own culture. He’d been born in the States, of Welsh parents, but never felt the need to go back to the motherland—Jane, on the other hand, had spent her childhood in the UK. And that’s what she was hankering after.

She seemed to come alive at lunch, animated, chatting, telling jokes. What a transformation, he thought. He could not believe it. As soon as she had paid and jumped into a taxi, Rhodri Evans telephoned his new acquaintance to give him the good news.

It put him in a good mood for the rest of the day. The young woman had fascinated him since the day he had met her, so brave and so tearful. He would love to see her find success in love, as well as a balance sheet. Because without that, what good was anything?

Jane enjoyed the rest of her day.

The call had been a good start.

“Miss Morgan?” The clipped tones reminded her of her father. It was a joy to hear somebody who sounded like she did. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but our mutual friend Rhodri suggested I call . . .”

Classy, Jane thought. A million miles away from the losers she’d been dating recently.

Jude was going to pick her up tonight at eight and take her to a concert. How romantic! Carnegie Hall . . . a candlelit dinner; his voice on the phone had sounded gentlemanly and urbane. It charged her; she was curious, impatient.

Unusually, she had rushed home at the end of the day, leaving her assistant openmouthed. They usually worked till at least half past six. But today Jane had better things to do.

She dressed with exquisite care: her favorite Azzedine Alaïa dress, black and tight, bands of brilliantly cut black silk tapering around her body, ending just over the knee; high Manolo Blahnik heels, with crystal-cut buckles; Wolford tights; Hermès 24, Faubourg as her scent. Jane went to the hairdressser’s first, and had her glossy brown mane blown out, smooth and beautiful, around her shoulders; she chose to make up with a daring plum lipstick and charcoal liner, emerald green shadow on her lids. Vamping it up. A bold look, but the mirror told her, without a doubt, she had pulled it off. Among all the drab little minimalists, Jane would look like a flashing butterfly, a glorious Purple Emperor.

She finished the look with a dress watch, a slim gold Cartier set with diamonds; a present to herself from her last bonus.

Jane paced up and down her apartment, trying to contain her excitement.
Come on,
she told herself.
He might be ugly . . . he might be short . . . he might be far too skinny, or fat as a house.

But it didn’t work. Jude had sounded so different, with his modulated voice and easygoing, unpressured tones. So cultured . . . not like the investment bankers, who always gave the impression of wanting to check their phone messages.

Whole parts of herself that had been submerged for years now were starting to wake up, Jane thought, and she liked it. At least she
wanted
to see him. And that made a change....

The doorbell rang and she raced to answer it.

He stood on the doorstep with a large, expensive-looking bunch of roses, dark red, set with berries and twigs and glossy foliage. He was a tall man, light brown hair, hazel eyes, a handsome enough face, and wearing a good suit that looked a bit rumpled.

Jane felt her heart flip over in her stomach as Jude casually gave her the once-over; she suddenly, ardently, wanted to be found pleasing.

“My goodness,” he said. “You might just be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“That . . . is the right answer,” Jane said, and they laughed.

He was absolutely smooth. He ticked every box. He held open car doors for her, walked on the outside of the pavement, offered her his arm as they climbed the stairs in Carnegie Hall to the box he had hired. Jane sat, fascinated, at dinner, almost unable to eat because of the butterflies in her stomach, while he told her all about himself, his parents’ interests in land and property, his own desire to do “something in art history.” Jude was “finding himself,” and didn’t want to work. He told her he had no desire to join the rat race. Jane envied him, and thought it amazing he could be so detached.

“But you’re buying a place in the Hamptons?”

They cost a fortune; several million bucks for a decent house. She certainly couldn’t afford one.

“I have a trust fund.” He shrugged.“You know, the idea we all absolutely have to spend our lives working our fingers down to the knuckle is very recent. Did you ever read any Jane Austen?”

“Of course; all of it.”

“Well, Darcy never went and toiled in an office, did he? And nor did Elizabeth. So why should I, when I don’t have to?”

“I think that’s wonderful,” Jane said, a little starry-eyed.

Gosh. Wasn’t he handsome—and urbane. So charismatic, so confident! He reminded her, she supposed, of her father—something of Thomas Morgan’s self-possession. But of course, this was a date. And unlike Thomas, Jude actually seemed interested in her.

Jane wanted to retain a modicum of detachment. She was enjoying Jude’s company. More than that, maybe. Being with him was like entering another world, a half-forgotten world. But her job was still there.

Jude wooed her with commendable patience. He took care to dazzle; they ate out three times a week at the best restaurants, went to a couple of the classier nightclubs, a Broadway musical. Jude squired her to the opera, and dined with her in the city’s ultraexclusive Metropolitan Club.

He talked to her about his leisure pursuits, his fishing, his beagling, his holidays in Scotland shooting grouse.

“Do you
never
want to work?” Jane asked.

He shook his head. “I’ll leave that to you, babe.”

Jane wondered a little at that. But Jude was so charming, it was easy to overlook. Besides, he gave no indication of wanting to stifle her career.

Jude seemed to enjoy New York. Jane dressed up whenever he took her out. He clearly enjoyed showing her off to his friends. She knew they made a handsome couple. And day after day, Jane let herself go a little more. Her work was challenging, but pleasing Jude became very important to her. Every time he paid attention to her, she felt good about herself.

It was a whirlwind schedule of dates, and Jane enjoyed them all.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Jude reminded her. “Maybe you could come out to the Hamptons with me. I’m going round a few more places.You could see them, help me choose.”

She beamed back at him, and wondered if this was what love felt like; she basked in him, Jude Ferrers warmed her. Briefly she thought of Sally, who had disappeared, and never called her again. That’s what Jude made her feel—golden, just like Sally Lassiter.

The next day she went for smart-casual, as English as she could; tailored corduroy trousers, green Wellington boots, and a tight, cute cashmere T-shirt; loose hair, neutral makeup for day, and a necklace of seashells.

“You look delicious,” he said, kissing her boldly on the cheek. And then, when she responded, lightly on the lips.

Jane blushed and smiled; she wanted him to desire her. It had been building for a while now. And she’d hardly been able to sleep, waiting for him to turn up today. A completely new experience for the ice maiden.

They took a helicopter ride to the Hamptons, and Jude showed her around: a modern, glossy house on the seashore; a cute four-bedroom white clapboard cottage, old by American standards; a redbrick Victorian in the center of town. Jane loved each one; they were two million bucks apiece. She envied him such an effortless progress through life, and wanted that for herself. Jude bought her lunch at a clam shack, where they drank a delicious, rough Italian white and ate deep-fried soft-shell crabs, whole, and red currants with lemon sorbet for pudding, then a shot of espresso with a sour cherry dipped in bittersweet chocolate to finish it off.