Glamour (32 page)

“I was right,” he kept saying on the drive back from the airport. “You see darling? I was right.We did know best.”

Haya wanted to explode, but Ahmed, in the backseat with her, kept pressing her hand, his eyes lit up with amusement. And then he switched to tracing an
A
with his fingers, slowly, in the small of her back.
A
for Ahmed.Telling Haya she was his. It turned her on, and she found her rage was defused.

Ahmed, this time not wary of his arranged bride, looked at L.A. with open eyes.With Haya’s eyes.Yes, it was brash, and Western, and vulgar in lots of ways, but it was also exciting, big, and rich. His wife’s enthusiasm was infectious. He loved that about her—she made life an adventure.

And his father-in-law had kept his word. There was a meeting at Neiman Marcus, at Saks, and at the Beverly Hills Hotel. And all three places agreed to buy a carpet or two; Ahmed had brought some of his finest examples. Before the month was out, he had a small, interested client base.

“We could be more,” Haya suggested. “Sell in department stores, regularly. Of course, such things take time. . . .” She looked up at Ahmed under her lashes. “And also presence.”

“You mean move here?” he said slowly.

“Talal could run the Egyptian store.We could buy a place . . . import some of the stock . . . just for a year or so. See how we like it.” Haya grinned. “I’m a U.S. citizen, remember? No problems there.”

“I don’t know. It’s a big step.” Ahmed looked down at her, sternly. He had already decided he wanted to do just that, but he enjoyed playing games with his willing, eager little wife.

“We should do it,” she said, “Please . . .”

He ran a finger down her cheek. “Persuade me.”

In the end it was seamless. Haya trained Talal, his manager, on the computer; they organized insurance, and wages for his staff; a cousin from Aswân came with his wife to stay in the house and pay a peppercorn rent. And Haya took her dowry, paid to Ahmed, and some of the profits from their last year’s trading, and purchased a house; Ahmed approved of the third place she showed him, a comfortable, modern villa in mock Spanish style at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, on a quiet street away from the tourist hot spots.The garden was small, but verdant, and they were in the thick of everything; and Ahmed enjoyed the large television, the power showers with multiple jets, the soft mattresses, the air-conditioning....

They moved in, storing a pile of their best carpets in a guest room. Haya helped set up the new American company, and Ahmed made the sales and closed the deals. As easy as the move had been, business was not quite so simple.The famous stores had their suppliers already, and while he moved a carpet a month, the larger orders were slow in coming.

But America was an adventure for Ahmed. He enjoyed going to the beach every day, swimming in the ocean, trying the different foods, and taking trips; San Francisco, with the tall, prehistoric cedars of Muir Woods, the fortress of Alcatraz, and the disturbing cable cars; and Haya blossomed even more, at home, where she was confident.They nestled in the modern house and made love daily, and they flew back to Egypt four times a year, as he pushed and pushed to establish himself.

Slow going, but the orders rose, and rose, and they moved toward prosperity.

Yet he was disturbed by one thing: the months came and went, and still the wife of his heart was not pregnant.

Haya leaned on the balcony of the kitchen window; it was low-slung and looked out into their little garden, one of her favorite spots. The sun beamed down on the terrace; she might lounge out there later, under an umbrella, sipping a chilled grapefruit juice with selzer, her latest favorite drink. But despite making lazy plans, her heart was full.

She couldn’t find her friends. At first there had been a rush of activity; calling the school, checking the newspaper reports in the public library . . . but nothing, no answers for her. Just a grainy picture of Jane with some young lawyer, outside a courtroom, and Sally Lassiter, her head up, her hand in front of a camera, refusing to talk.

They were gone. And when she’d looked in the phone book, she found there were 407 people with the name Jane Morgan in Los Angeles County alone.

She wanted to hire an investigator. But that took money, and it was slow going, the business here. Ahmed was happy, and so was she, but they had not spread their wings the way Haya had hoped.

She wanted more.When her husband came back that night—he’d made five thousand on the placement of a beautiful Afghan in the beach house of a famous actor—Haya asked him if she could come along.

“Your meeting tomorrow.With Richard Drayson.”

The sales director of Broderick Stores. Ahmed was going to try, yet again, to get a department store to place a major ongoing order.

It would be the sixth such pitch meeting he’d had this year. Something was going wrong—they were failing, somehow. Haya wanted to see why.

“If you’d like to,” Ahmed said. “Sure.Why not?”

“We think you have good pieces, Mr. Al-Amin.” The buyer’s eyes were flat. “And we’ll happily take two rugs.”

“We were hoping for a proper order,”Ahmed said.“The small sales do not cover overhead.We are a reliable supplier and cannot be beaten on price.”

Drayson shook his head.

“Your goods are certainly superior, but I can’t take the risk.”

“What do you mean by that?” Haya protested.

“Our traders deal with thousands of rugs per year.They have shipping systems and a constant supply of product.They get exclusive, or nearly so, presence in the stores because we rely on them. I can’t offend them in order to take a chance with somebody who, frankly, is small potatoes.You have good carpets, Mr. Al-Amin, but you’re strictly nickel-and-dime.”

Ahmed’s eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Haya laid a gentle hand softly on his shoulder.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Drayson,” she said. He was only being honest.

“So you’ll sell us the two carpets. Good.”

“No,” Ahmed said, suddenly, looking at Haya. “I’m afraid not. We’re going to go into business for ourselves, and from now on the line will be exclusive.”

She beamed back. Her thought exactly. She was so proud of Ahmed—they were hand in glove.
Mash’Allah,
Haya prayed silently, thank God for my husband.

That very afternoon, they got to work: found the site—ironically, an old carpet warehouse at a dusty road intersection; applied for planning permission; and sought out an architect. Baba knew builders—Ahmed was going to make his own gallery.

Haya suggested the name: Sekhmet. The ancient Egyptian goddess of vengeance and war, lioness-headed, beautiful and fierce. How they were going to deal with the competition. She designed the statue that stood outside: striking, playing up their heritage, and of course colossal, like everything in L.A. Ahmed worked with the architect for huge windows, lots of light, UV protection built in.

No more fussy, dusty rooms.

It was their vision, and they worked to make it happen. In the gallery, the carpets were stretched out, displayed like paintings. Each as individual as a jewel. To keep costs low, they went for good light, clean walls, and little else. Baba contacted his network; Ahmed his sales prospects; on opening weekend they sold ten carpets.

Not brilliant, but respectable. Solid.

Haya brought in flowers and Moroccan mint tea. Ahmed placed a small advertisement in the
L.A.Times
.The second week, they sold another twelve carpets.

The gallery was profitable.They were on their way. It was hard work, but Haya enjoyed it, and they continued staying up late together, making love in the bathroom, at home, on the backseat of their car, like teenagers, in a secluded spot. They increased the trips back home, and she got used to dealing with suppliers, visiting the tribal weavers, talking to customs men. Haya’s Arabic became perfect, and she was happy; she loved her husband, loved her job, loved her life. They were crafting a future; they became comfortable, and she wanted more. And Ahmed, so dominant in the bedroom, outside of it was her partner and ally. Haya had everything, except her friends. And,
insh’Allah,
a child.

“It’s so good to meet you.” Marcus Hardie, the sales director, looked at Haya and gave her a perfunctory smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So often in our business we never get to see the family.Your husband has quite the business model; you must be very proud.”

Ahmed’s eyes danced as Haya’s flashed with annoyance.

“Actually, my wife had a good deal to do with this.”

“Of course. We all need the support at home. Couldn’t get it done without that.”

Support! This whole thing had been
her
idea. Haya stiffened with anger. Now everybody—well, not Ahmed, but everybody else—was trying to take the credit away from her.

Baba insisted it was because of
his
contacts.The press ran stories about the little carpet-seller turned gallery owner. Now the Fayelle Galleria marketing man was ignoring her, too. Even when Ahmed specifically introduced her as his wife
and partner
.

It drove her crazy.

“We think the first consignment should be no more than fifty carpets,” she said firmly.

“Per store? We’ll want more than that.”

“Not per store. For the United States.” His chain of luxury goods stores was important, but not vital. “You should have no more than one or two per store, but in Manhattan and Beverly Hills we could go for five.”

“That’s not going to happen, little lady,” Marcus said. He switched his attention back to Ahmed. “What numbers did you have in mind?”

“You heard my wife.”

“Our customers want product.”

“And they’ll get it,” Haya said, “eventually. After the carpets become impossible to obtain.When there’s a waiting list—like a Kelly bag from Hermès.”

“A what?”

“We like to create excitement. These items are works of art. It is an approach that has worked here in the Sekhmet Gallery,” Ahmed pointed out.

“Always leave them wanting more. When you have orders in hand for fifty, we ship another ten. It will create a feeding frenzy,” Haya said.

Marcus parried. “You can’t run a business on hype.”

“Actually, you can. But in this case it isn’t hype. Our actual goods are exquisite. We merely add to the joy of the purchase.” Haya warmed to her theme. “Shopping is like a love affair, Mr. Hardie, if it’s done correctly. Prolonging the courtship is no bad thing.”

He barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

“I’ll think about it.” He got to his feet.“Tell you what,Ahmed, come and see me in the office, okay? And you, little lady, nice to meet you. See you again sometime.”

Haya exploded once he was out the door.

“Did you hear that? He wants to do business with
you
.”

“You can’t let it get to you.” Ahmed stood up and walked across to her, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders, tracing a line down them to her rib cage, possessively.

“Not here,” Haya whispered, with a smile.

“Why not?” He nuzzled her neck, biting it lightly, and ran his hands across her breasts and belly. “Nobody will come in. Not without knocking. And you’re tense.” His thumb traced a line at the base of her spine, and Haya gasped.

“We’ll go home,” she said. “Let’s go home, darling.”

“You go,” he said. “Wait for me. I have to finish up here with Anita; some tax stuff.”

“Don’t be long.” She was trying to get control of her breathing.

“Did you see the doctor?”

That broke the spell; reluctantly Haya calmed down.

“Results this afternoon.”

That was it, the one cloud in their happiness. A great business, houses in Egypt and the Hollywood Hills, a foot in both worlds. But no children.

She had not wanted to make the appointment.What she and Ahmed had was so precious, so intense.To lay her womb open to medicine seemed clinical, intrusive. Like slapping nature in the face for the gift they had received: burning love, and a passion as hot now as it was the first night he had taken her. Surely such a love could not be barren.Wouldn’t children come in time?

But Ahmed, on this one thing, had insisted. And she had obeyed him. Children mattered so much to him. It was why he’d agreed to marry her, before he fell in love with her.

Haya had submitted herself to Dr. Felicia Nevins, one of Bel Air’s leading ob-gyns. The woman had prodded and poked her briskly, drawn blood, and taken tests. Haya felt like a laboratory animal.

At least there wasn’t long to wait now.The results were due at five. And she was nervous about them.What if there
was
something wrong? If, God forbid, she was infertile? Ahmed was hers forever—of that Haya had no doubt. But that would mean the end of this long period of perfect happiness. Their lives would never again be free of sorrow.

“Then hurry home and I’ll help you pass the time,” Ahmed said. She ran to his arms, and he kissed her, pressing his palms against the soft swell of her breasts.

“
You
hurry,” Haya said.

She paced in their bedroom. Damn it.Where the hell was he? Outside, their little garden was fragrant with bougainvillea and roses. She’d thought about scattering petals across the black silk sheets Ahmed preferred, but then decided against it—too much of a cliché. Haya was still aroused, her body holding the memory of his touch, not wanting to let it go.

This was not like him. Ahmed didn’t blow her off for the sake of work meetings. If he said was coming home, he came.

Haya picked up the phone and called their assistant.

“Claire? Haya.”

“Hi.What time are you guys getting back in? I have a ton of messages. Marcus Hardie . . .”

Stuff Marcus Hardie.

“Getting back in? Did Ahmed leave already?”

“Of course—an hour ago.” Claire was confused. “I thought he was going back home for lunch with you, sorry.”