Glamour (37 page)

And when that was done—it was time to go clothes shopping. Jane had donated her New York wardrobe to charity. She hadn’t wanted to be held up at the airport with cases, and more importantly, the right look mattered. When she was raising finance with banks, she needed to look like she didn’t need their help—to suggest that she was already rolling in cash, and that she understood the hip, hot L.A. scene. Subliminally, Jane needed to project that she knew exactly what kind of goods would sell best.

Money—and style.

She had a plan. Mix high-end goods with a fresh Angeleno look. Designer jeans, an eye-poppingly expensive Chanel jacket, and a hot little T-shirt underneath it. Something that said rich
and
trendy. A million miles from New York Jane’s muted palette of creams and grays, a look to appeal to Wall Street. Here, she wanted to be something else: a maverick entrepreneur on a mission.

The rich-girl purses, jackets, and coats were easy to pick up. A quick trip to Rodeo and she was done. The stylish, newest T-shirts and jeans were harder.You couldn’t use the convenient shorthand that luxury offered.You needed to prove your sense of style. Jane planned her wardrobe like a military attack. It was a key selling tool. If she wanted to pitch herself as a buyer of goods, then she had to buy the right stuff now.

She asked around—not the snooty senior sales assistants in the expensive boutiques, but young girls, stylish Latinas and African-Americans or tanned Anglo surfer girls with tattoos that she saw waiting at the bus stops or on line for a rock gig.

One name kept coming up—Wave, on Melrose. It was the hot new place in town for low-end glamour. Even some celebrities shopped there, they told her, their drivers pulling up outside and waiting while they dashed in and bought tees by the armload.

Jane thanked them and got the address. Perfect. A Wave shirt under a Chanel jacket. That would impress her investors. And she’d also look good in it; something that was starting to matter, despite herself.

There it was. Jane parked across the street and slid her sunglasses down her nose, watching the place for a couple of minutes. Damn, it was packed. And she could see why.The storefront stood out in a row of dingy shops; painted bright white, with a pale blue wave design all over it—unmissable. It was brightly lit and the doors were flung open and covered in sea grass matting. A little slice of the beach, right here on the boulevard, a unique look.

And the girls—the women. They were everywhere—almost fighting to get inside. Blondes with bright red nails, curvy little brunettes—Jane noted shoppers from every price bracket, skinny girls and heavy ones. She hated to think what the changing rooms were like. Forget that—she was a size six. She’d just buy up some basics, pieces with the Wave brand easily visible, and get out of the scrum.

Jane wondered about the owners of the store. Definitely had their fingers on the moment. Could she make them an offer? Designers for her? Once she had the financing for a superstore . . . why not?

She locked the Porsche and crossed the street, clutching her new Prada handbag closely to her. It really was crowded in there.

The store was beautiful, though. It was just as bright inside, with mirrors on two walls to take pressure off the changing rooms, and a sand-and-sea motif. The signature T-shirts were brilliantly laid out—instead of racking by style, forcing the shoppers to riffle through them hunting for the right fit,Wave had laid out the racks by size—six through fourteen. Once you found your size, anything you liked on that rack you knew you could wear. Brilliant! Jane was impressed. Even she hadn’t thought of that.

She pushed her way up to the size six and took ten T-shirts up to the counter. It was a long line; Jane took a moment to observe the sales staff.They were smiling despite the crowd; mostly immigrant women, she thought, all dressed in a semiformal uniform—pale blue pants and sandy-colored tops of various kinds. They looked good; busy but exhilarated. It was how she wanted her staff to look.

The line moved up a little, giving Jane a sight of the counter. She gasped with shock.

Standing behind it, ringing up purchases, chatting and smiling, was Sally Lassiter.

CHAPTER 11

They met for dinner that night in Jane’s backyard. She picked up some dishes from the farmers’ market and laid out a spread: roast chicken, ham, strawberries, melons, French bread, wine and juices, a pitcher of sparkling water and crushed ice. It was an arid garden, but somebody had planted it cleverly: rosemary and lavender, palm trees and cacti; drought-resistant roses next to beds of Provençal herbs. Jane lit candles everywhere, soft light amid the gathering L.A. dusk; she remembered leaving this city, a house just like this one, stripped down to nothing, poor and lonely. Her friends gone, her so-called nanny off as fast as her car could take her.

She allowed herself to revel in the moment; she was back, and they were back together.

“Do you like it?” Jane asked. She’d finished giving them the tour; it didn’t last long, but she could be proud of the house. It was more than she’d ever had under her father.

“Fantastic. You did the best of any of us,” Sally said, with a touch of wistfulness.

“If you like, I’ll give you a carpet—a housewarming gift,” Haya suggested. “I have a silk Kashmiri rug that would go perfectly in your bedroom.”

“I couldn’t accept something like that.”

“I want you to have it. Ahmed would have hated to see his things gathering dust in some warehouse in Laguna Beach.”

“You should sell them. . . .”

“I can’t. I have no store,” Haya said.“And I won’t dump them wholesale to some dealer. They are precious and deserve better.” She shrugged.“Maybe sometime after the baby’s born, I can deal with it. I’d like to find all his things good homes—the way Ahmed wanted them sold.With respect.”

“My crowd is only into fashion,” Sally said.

“How is that going?” Jane asked, curious.

Sally smiled. “It’s wild. I’m hiring new seamstresses every day. Can’t keep up with the demand. And doing interviews . . . all the local press wants to talk to me, and I have to say yes to everyone. You know.” She blushed. “Give them a little razzmatazz. They love that all-American look. So what about you? Why did you quit that cushy number back East?”

Jane filled them in.

“So now I want to start a store. Tomorrow I’m going to the banks. I have thirteen appointments.” She shrugged. “It’ll be a tough sell, but I think I could follow the Wal-Mart / Shop Smart model and find some savings. At least I do have a record there. I’d need money to lease out the warehouse and buy the stock lines, computers, staff . . . it’s a major amount of cash.” She tried to look confident. “Somebody’ll spring for it, though.”

Haya carefully sliced into a ripe nectarine.

“Why don’t you
not
do that?”

“I told you—I’m not interested in taking a salary.”

“No—why don’t you do it another way? All of us have problems. Sally needs space for her stock and a manufacturer—she can’t rely on housewives sewing in back rooms forever. I don’t want to run a shop by myself—but I know about the business, and I have stock—beautiful stock. And you have trained in the mechanics of selling.”

Sally blinked. “You’re suggesting we form a company?”

“A store. Yes. Why not?” Haya warmed to her theme. She looked at her two friends and realized it was the first time in ages she’d gotten excited about a career. “Not just any store. A
great
store. Like Harrods or Saks.” She turned to Jane. “I know you were thinking of mass volume and deep discount, but that field is packed.Why not turn it on its head? Designer goods. Low volume, high price. Each one sold like a jewel. The way Ahmed wanted our rugs to be sold. Like art. We had the right idea with the gallery, I think; we just didn’t know the mechanics.”

Jane shivered with excitement. Man! Why not? Instead of trying to clamber up the mountainside all by herself, why not harness these two? Sally knew glitz like nobody else—she’d seen that. And from what she had seen of Haya, the woman had grown up, grown through her tragedy. She had that serene beauty, the depth, that Sally’s sizzle lacked. Why not start a store that sold treasures for the discerning . . . glorious Eastern carpets, objets d’art, hot fashion, the best makeup? There were so many rich women in L.A. And it had worked as a concept all over the world.

The superstore itself as star. In Los Angeles, as Jane well knew, the upmarket stores were just malls—big, soulless malls where you rode escalators and walked down corridors of luxury shops. Do it this way, and Jane could provide those women with a single destination.

She got into the spirit. “And beauty . . . we must have makeup.”

“I can design a range of cosmetics,” Sally said at once.

“And I can go home—back to Jordan. Source your moisturizers from the Dead Sea. Those muds have properties all the laboratories in Paris can’t replicate.”

“What about a location?”

“I have the gallery. It’s empty now, but it’s about ten thousand square feet. And it has a good-size parking lot.”

“We’ll need a lawyer.” Jane wanted to move, immediately; she couldn’t hear a perfect idea and sit still. “Form the company. What do you say, ladies, a third each way?”

“Sounds good . . .” Sally was nervous. “Look, you girls both got money. I’m just starting to sell, I don’t have any yet.”

“The company will loan you what you need.” Jane waved that aside. “Sal, you have style we’ll never get. That’s what we need from you—interior design, fashion purchasing. It has to be talked about. It has to be packed from the word go. Just like your little store on Melrose.”

“So that’s what we’ll call it?” Haya asked. “Wave?”

“No,” Sally said. “This is brand new. This is ours. We need a new name. Something that sells what the store is all about.”

She thought for a moment, then smiled.

“GLAMOUR,” she said.

“No.”

“I’m sorry—not for us.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You have to be kidding me—you chicks are barely legal.”

It was the same story wherever they went. Just with varying degrees of rudeness.

Managers shaking their heads. Laughing at them.
Leering
at them.

“I wish Ahmed was here.” Haya bit her lip.“He’d have smacked that guy in the face. Did you see how he looked at me?”

“It’s your boobs,” Sally said, insouciantly. “You have those big pregnancy boobs, Haya—some men go nuts for that, especially since your belly doesn’t show.”

“My dress isn’t low-cut. . . .”

“They can still see.”

It was true. Haya was wearing a modest, long cream dress with an empire waist that Sally had selected for her; Jane was in a Chanel suit—no need to go half-funky anymore, she had Sally for that—and Sally wore a signature Wave cutoff, a flippy short skirt, and beads of her own design.

“They wouldn’t treat men like this.” Haya glowered.

“Well—they wouldn’t ogle them, I guess,” Sally said wisely. “But they might kick them out. We have some experience, but it’s not a lot.”

Jane glowered.“You guys go on home—Sally, you get back to Wave, sell some shirts, we need the cash.”

“And what are you going to do?” Haya asked.

“I’m going to get us some capital.” Jane shrugged. “From . . . another source.”

“Hope you’re not gambling your house on the Dodgers,” Sally said.

“No.” Jane grimaced.“Regretfully, this is nothing that sensible.”

When the others had gone, Jane got back into her car and shut the door. Her feet ached; she was exhausted. But she was focused on what she had to do.

She took out her heavy cell phone and dialed.

“Levin corporation. Craig Levin’s office.”

All by herself, Jane blushed. Deeply.

“May I speak to Mr. Levin, please?”

“He’s not in the office today, ma’am.” The smooth response kicked at Jane’s guts; she couldn’t believe how disappointed she felt. “May I tell him who called?”

“Certainly.This is Jane Morgan.”

“From which company?”

“From GLAMOUR, Incorporated.” It was sort of true. “My number is 555-9856.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” the assistant said blandly. “Thank you for calling.”

Jane hung up, and gently rested her head on the steering wheel.Why? Why had she done that? He wasn’t going to call her back. Craig Levin had bigger fish to fry.

No—she was just going to have to start over. Find some independent banks. Some venture capitalists . . .

Her phone rang. She jumped out of her skin.

“Jane Morgan.”

“Craig Levin,” he said, and she felt the warmth spread from her face all through her chest and curl its tendrils down into her belly. “I’m disappointed, Jane.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t call me at home. Or on my cell.Which means you want to talk business, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.”

Since he couldn’t see her, she smiled.

“You got me.”

“Then come see me. At home. Hollywood Hills.” He gave her the address. “I’m free right now.”

“Do you promise not to hit on me?” Jane demanded, fighting for some control.