Glamour (8 page)

Juniors and seniors from the
most
exclusive L.A. boys’ schools were all invited before
any
invites went to the girls of Miss Milton’s. And Paulie Lassiter knew actors. Mona was able to get several of the younger, hotter Hollywood set. Molly Ringwald was an acceptance. There were producers there, aching for some of Paulie’s cash for financing. Actors followed producers—and in a feeding frenzy, like lissome teen piranhas, the girls of Miss Milton’s followed the men.

Nobody tried to play it cool.

Sally was accosted.

“Hey, Sal. Where’s my invite?”

“Sally. Can I come?”

“Hon—you haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”

She enjoyed them all. Usually accompanied by a wheedling tone and a cajoling sort of smile. Anybody who thought they were too cool for Sally Lassiter had another think coming!

“We’ll let her crawl a little while,” Sally decided. “And then she’s gonna be seated at the
worst
table—I’m talking Siberia!”

“Out by the tennis court?”

“Yeah, with my mother’s tennis coach! And the guy who comes to teach Dad French.”

Helen laughed.Yes, Julie would
hate
that. Plus, it would be the talk of the school.

“And Maureen nowhere . . .”

“She ain’t coming. Baby, I gotta have me some standards.”

“I can’t wait,” Helen said truthfully. She would be at the center of things for once, right at the epicenter.Top table and in the thick of it.That idea gave her a buzz.“And we have to help Jane. . . .”

“Of
course
.” Sally lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow.“That’s what this whole deal is about! We’ll bring her out of her shell. She’d be a
babe,
once she got introduced to the human race. And a pair of eyebrow tweezers.
You
know what I’m talking about. Grooming 101.”

“Exactly,” Helen responded. Thrilled that her friend considered her hip enough to help.

Make Jane Morgan in Helen Yanna’s image. Wasn’t that a kick?

Jane turned the pages of her calculus textbook, trying to absorb the numbers. But outside her sitting-room windows, the path down to the clifftops beckoned. It was a glorious summer day, and she couldn’t concentrate. Maybe she would drop the numbers and pick up one of her biographies instead. That was a hobby of hers—delving into the lives of others. She especially liked ones where the subject had made it after a tough childhood. She could relate to that.

Okay, so here she was in her luxurious little rented house in Malibu, with every modern convenience, a nanny/housekeeper, and a driver. But nobody who really gave a damn. As she reminded herself, you couldn’t pay people to love you.

She wondered, with a pang, what her father was doing right now. Last time he had called,Thomas Morgan had sounded even more stressed than usual. She shouldn’t care, but she did. The hope that he would love her one day never really went away.

“Jane!” Her nanny, Consuela, was calling from the sitting room where she was watching an
Arsenio Hall
repeat with a big bag of Doritos. “Your friends are here.”

Jane jumped up, pushing the book away. What? Sally never came out here. There was nothing in her cottage that Sal didn’t have ten times better at home—they always hung out on the estate. But sure enough, her personal white limo was pulling in at the front gate, or trying to.

“Make sure you’re home by nine—remember the curfew,” Consuela said, halfheartedly.

“Yeah, sure.” She treated that with the contempt it deserved. Consuela wouldn’t care if she jumped off a bridge.

“Hey, get in.” Sally flung open the door. “We’re going to a beauty salon. And an optician.”

“What for?” Jane asked suspiciously, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Don’t argue with me, honey. We’re going to fix you right up.”

Helen poked out her head, smiling. “I’m going, too.”

“You both are. I won’t take no for an answer,” Sally said firmly. “Get in. Now.”

“Try these.”

The optician leaned forward and handed her another pair of lenses.“Don’t worry. You’ll get it; everybody drops them at first.”

“Sorry . . .” Jane was embarrassed. She hated clumsiness. Any lack of control, in fact.

“On the tip of your finger . . .
there
you go.”

“Ah.” Jane gasped. But she could see! She blinked.

“Now the other one.”

She put it in, blinked again. Her vision swam, then settled. “What do you think?” the optician said.

“She looks hot!” Sally approved.

“You’re very beautiful,” Helen agreed.
“Very.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jane said gruffly. But she couldn’t suppress a smile.Without glasses, her face was so . . . different.

Better. Prettier.Yes, almost beautiful, in its way.

“Thanks, doc. Messenger her lenses to our house, ’kay?”

“Sure thing, Sally.” The optician smiled benignly.The billionaire’s daughter got whatever she wanted. “A pleasure . . .”

“Come on.” Sally was tugging Jane along by the hand. “We haven’t even started with you yet.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

Jane shifted uneasily in her seat; the hairdresser was holding a large clump of her hair. She was still getting used to the lenses; as she blinked, her face swam in the mirror.

The hairdresser had swooped on Sally as though she were his long-lost best friend. Then when she’d presented Helen and Jane, there had been a lot of clucking and sucking air through the teeth.

Now he was prancing around like a circus pony, grabbing great fistfuls of her hair in exaggerated movements. Not that Jane really cared about looks, but still, she didn’t want to come across as a nun.

“Of
course
you don’t know. If you did, would you look like
that
?” Maurice snapped his fingers.“Nuh-uh! I’m the artist, baby, you’re the canvas. Let’s leave it to the experts.You got it?”

He drowned out her protests. “See your girlfriends, sugar?”

Maurice spun the chair—there was Sally, getting her golden mane blow-dried, and Helen, having her nails manicured.

“Now they got it going . . . Sally the most.The dark one’s shy, but she’s at least at first base.
You
need help. Major help.You do
know
that, right?”

Jane swallowed her pride. “Right.”

It wouldn’t do much good to go to the party of the year as guest of honor—to queen it over Maureen, for once—if she was also wallflower of the year.

No. No way. Like it or not, Jane Morgan was about to compete. In a new arena.

“Go for it,” she said shortly.

“Really?” He beamed.

“You got it. Give me the works.”

No pain, no gain. It took hours, long, and for Jane, boring hours. There was washing, combing, cutting, dyeing, and blow-drying.

“Does it always take this long?” she complained as Maurice wrapped the millionth piece of foil around her newly shorn head.

“You have to suffer for beauty,” he sighed.

Jane returned to her shopping magazine. It was as dull as all hell. Shopping! Who on earth would be interested in that? Green was in, was it? So what—there were only so many colors in the rainbow. Would anybody complain if she wore blue? ’Course not.

Were women really this moronic?

“Head back,” Maurice commanded. “This is going to sting . . . a little.”

“What’s that?”

“Hot wax.You’re way too cute for that unibrow.”

“Aaaargh!”

“I’m giving you French.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mani-pedi. No colors; you’re not ready to graduate.”

“If you don’t use colors, what’s the point?” Jane asked, staring at her hands.The other two had gone off for a coffee in the diner across the street. She was
still
stuck here, and that tyrant Maurice wouldn’t let her see a mirror.

“You’ll see,” he said mysteriously.

Finally, it was over. Ten minutes after Helen and Sally sauntered back in, cradling their triple latte foam whips, Maurice flicked the switch off on his sleek steel dryer.

“Of course, I don’t make her up yet,” he said modestly. “And you understand she need clothes . . . colors. But still!”

He beckoned them forward, spun the chair around, and whisked away the black silk drape he’d placed over the mirror.

“Holy Toledo!” Sally shrieked.

Helen gasped.

“Oh, my goodness.” Jane was reduced to childishness. She placed one hand over her mouth. “Oh, my goodness . . .”

Her hair, cut to just above the shoulders, was streaked with subtle lights of bronze. It was full of bounce and fullness, the lack of weight giving it a lift it had never had.Without that thick coil wound into a bun Jane felt as light as air. Her beetling eyebrows had vanished in favor of high arches that opened up her face. And the hand clasped across her mouth boasted neat, shiny nails with attractive white cuticles.

“Wait till we get some makeup on her.” Maurice preened. “I am magician, no?”

“No—you had great stuff to work with,” Sally said, smiling. “But you
are
good.” She pressed forward and gave the outraged stylist a kiss on the cheek—and put five hundred dollars into his hand.

Maurice smirked back. “
Merci, chérie.
It was
un plaisir
.”

“Now we get you a dress,” Sally announced briskly.

“You’ll look fantastic,” Helen said delightedly, beaming at Jane. It was so good to see her blossom . . .they had brought the beauty out from the shadows. Now who could bully Jane? What girl would even dare to try?

Her friend was transformed. Jane—prettier than Helen . . . but it wasn’t in Helen’s nature to be resentful. She was happy for her—after all, poor Jane. For all Baba annoyed her, at least she had family. Like Sally. What did Jane have? A useless father, not worthy of the name.

And Jane Morgan was so cold, so walled-off all the time. Angry at the world. At life. Helen, who was soft and gentle, hoped her friend would marry one day, but she wasn’t sure. Sometimes Jane gave every indication of wanting to be a bright, crabby professor somewhere—a distinguished old maid. And that would be a pity, because if Jane needed one thing, it was family. A real family, of her own. Maybe loving her own children would heal her, Helen thought.

“Not just her—
you
.” Sally’s warm southern tones interrupted her reverie.

“You can’t get me a dress!” Helen was half-flattered, half-offended. Unlike Jane, her family had their own cash. “I’ll bring my own.”

“I want to style you,” Sally wheedled.“Like Jane. Just imagine when we get the makeup girl on her!”

“Nuh-uh.” Helen shook her head. “I don’t do low-cut, Sally. I’m not like you.”

“What? Are you calling me trashy?” Sally’s eyes flashed. If she had a weakness, it was being laughed at. She just hated that. So what if she wasn’t book-smart? She was
street
-smart.

“Of course not,” Helen prevaricated. Her eyes slipped to Sally’s tight white dress, which left very little doubt as to the impressive curves and golden tanned skin beneath. If Baba saw Helen wearing something like that he’d have a fit! “I just don’t think we have the same style.”

“Relax. I know that, I know what’ll suit both of y’all.” Sally nodded. “I’m throwing this party
for you
.Trust me.”

“For us,” Jane said, nudging her. Come on! Sally loved being the leader of the gang of three. The party was hers; it would only highlight her untouchable star status, her truly limitless wealth.

Whatever Paulie had would someday be Sally’s. So what if the other girls’ fathers were famous directors or noted producers? When Sally Lassiter grew up, she’d be able to
buy a damn studio
and hire—or fire—any of them.

This party was just Sally flexing her muscles.

“Okay, then. For us.The three musketeers!”

“Excuse me?” asked Helen.

“Never mind,” Sally said. Impatiently, she tugged at the two girls. Making them over was like playing with grown-up Barbies. She adored her friends, and wanted them to look as hot as she knew they could. “Neiman Marcus. Now. I got a personal shopper waiting!”

Helen looked at Jane and shrugged. In this mood, Sally was a force of nature.

“You ladies look wonderful,” the manager gushed. Of course it meant sales for him, but Jane could see the light in his eyes; he really did seem enthused. “Truly, you are something else.You’re going to
wow
them!”

“What do you think, ladies?” Sally didn’t trouble to keep the triumph out of her voice. Her two friends had emerged from the chrysalis, and they had her to thank for it.“We make a pretty cute trio, don’t you think?”

Their reflections in the mirrored wall opposite confirmed that diagnosis.

Sally—blonde, tanned, and stunning in a knockout dress of golden sequins, with a scalloped neckline, tiny fluted sleeves, and a fishtail. She looked like a mermaid from a fairy story.

Jane—newly beautiful, now made up by the counter assistant from Chanel, her hair bouncing with life, her delicate features enhanced with a natural, glossy makeup that emphasized her youth—was wearing a sheath of dark green velvet that picked up her emerald eyes and honey-highlighted hair.

Helen—exotic and aristocratic. Playing to her heritage, Sally had chosen her a long-sleeved gown with a dramatic sweeping trail, a satin and lace confection of pewter and gray, with a matching cape of lambswool, soft as thistledown. A collar of seed pearls was knotted around her neck.

Her friends had protested they couldn’t possibly accept anything so expensive.

“Screw that,” Sally said forthrightly.“Daddy doesn’t count his money, girls, he weighs it. And if he wants to spoil me, I want to spoil
you
.We’re friends, so don’t be stupid.”

Lots of people sucked up to her, but she knew these two really liked her; they would even if she had nothing. In Sally’s position, that meant a lot. In fact, it meant everything.