Glamour (4 page)

“I live in a rented house, with Consuela.”

“Same thing,” he lied. “Now run along, darling, your driver’s been waiting ten minutes already.”

“But . . . Dad.” Her voice was already pleading, whiny. “If I were here, you could see me more. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would.” His voice softened, just a fraction, and he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead; a brief touch, but manna to Jane. She wanted desperately to hug him, but he pulled back, and his clear gray eyes regained their professional detachment. “And I’ll see you this summer, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Darling. If only that were true.

But Jane Morgan squared her slim shoulders and pasted on a smile, as brisk and impersonal as Daddy’s always were.

“Okay. See you then,” she said, and gave him a hug; he patted her stiffly on the back. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you, too, Jane.”

As she walked down the stairs, she heard him turn and go back to his office. He didn’t even wait to wave good-bye to her.

The memory was bitter. And she had chewed on it, like a foul herb, all the way to the airport, and then all the way to the smart, lonely rented house she lived in when she was at school. There was a mixture of longing and loathing when she thought about the school; bleak despair at yet another term of being the outsider, the outcast; her life sometimes seemed like one long story of rejection. And yet, that bright spot, her best friend; Sally, who was the closest thing, Jane sometimes thought, that she had to real family; Sally, who was almost a sister.

There was a sound; a large limousine rolling over the speed bumps in the drive.Yes—that was Sally’s car, straight out of Texas, a large, gleaming white monster; Jane would know it anywhere.

Her blues temporarily banished, she scrambled to her feet.

The car parked; the driver, neatly dressed in an immaculate uniform, got out and held the door open for his young passenger, like she was a princess. Jane hovered; behind her, she was aware of the rock music being lowered, the general drop in the hum of voices—everybody was looking this way, everybody was waiting for Sally. For that matter, they were looking at her, too.

Her friend was one of life’s stars, brilliant and dazzling. And yes, those legs, slim and tanned above the white bobby socks, tumbled out of the car’s chocolate brown leather seats; her skirt just that touch shorter, her long blonde hair blowing around her shoulders in the breeze, designer sunglasses holding it back, her eyes thick with mascara in defiance of the no makeup policy—there she was, and the school collectively exhaled at the sight of her.

She gave a whoop of joy and ran to Jane.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she cried, flinging her arms round Jane and enveloping her in a cloud of scent. “It’s been so boring while you were in D.C.”

“Me, too.” Jane felt awkward; she always did when Sally first appeared. Sometimes she was a little jealous; she was the moon, pale and serious, while Sally blazed like the sun; other times she felt all her vulnerabilities crash in on her, and agreed with the rest of them; why would Sally even be her friend?

But slowly, she relaxed. They would be chattering away by lunchtime.

“What’s going on? ’Bye, Jake. Y’all take care.” She waved to her chauffeur, who tipped his cap. “Is that Maureen talking to Julie? Horrible haircut. She looks like a boy.”

“Tough is in this year,” Jane answered wryly. “Haven’t you seen Julie’s black leather jacket? She’s all over Whitesnake. And she had platinum highlights put into her perm, and it’s gone all crispy.”

“No!” Sally squealed with delight. “I gotta see. That girl has no style.”

“Knows a lot of movie stars, though,” Jane observed.

“Whoop-de-do,” Sally said. “They’re ten cents to the pound around here.”

Her pretty face reflected such total unconcern that Jane instantly felt lightened. And slightly ashamed. How could she have let Maureen Smith get to her? Sally and she were unbreakable. The in crowd could do their worst.

“Can you help me with my vacation project?” Sally asked, lowering her voice.“I think I got the Tudors muddled up. I could use an A—Daddy’s kind of bothered about my SATs.”

“Sure.” Jane was on her own ground now. “I’ll write you something at lunchtime, you copy it out, hand the project in tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Sally blushed.“I know I should have gotten it right by now.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m always here.”

Sal squeezed her arm, and they walked off into the playground, chattering away like starlings.

“. . . which wraps up assembly for this morning,” Miss Milton concluded. Her gray hair was neatly wound in a steely bun, her doughy body encased in a couture Dior tweed suit, as she surveyed the room full of her well-heeled charges. “Orientation for the new girls we welcome into the school this year will continue at first period.”

Jane glanced, without much curiosity, at the gaggle of new girls standing off to one side like sheep waiting to be herded into a pen. Most of them, with an unerring sense of social accuracy, had tried to glom on to the crowd surrounding Julie.

There was one latecomer. Dark-haired, average height, slim without being skinny, her socks raised to maximum calf-length, no makeup. A pretty enough girl, but rather shy looking. Understandable. Unlike Jane, she seemed to make an effort: whitened teeth, plucked eyebrows, neatly brushed hair worn loose instead of scraped into a convenient ponytail, no glasses. She looked uncomfortable, and twisted her fingers around as though wanting something to do.

The English girl felt a pang of empathy. Very tanned, though, and pretty enough not to be an obvious target for bullies; not like Jane, with her thick glasses and disregard for fashion.

“We will now stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Foreign citizens are excused.”

There was a rustle of cotton as the room got to its feet; Sally stood, her blue eyes fixed patriotically on the Stars and Stripes displayed at the front of the room; she always meant it, when some of the other girls sneered and rolled their eyes; another reason to love her—Sally didn’t have a cynical bone in her body.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America . . .”

Jane, from her chair, cast her eyes around the room, picking out the other diplomats’ daughters.

“. . . and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God . . .”

Cecile Perron wasn’t here, then. Stuck in Paris, or had Papa been reassigned? That would be great; Jane couldn’t stand Cecile.

“. . . indivisible . . .”

Wait.The new girl wasn’t standing, either. One lone chair had been provided for her, and she was sitting in it, sticking out.The other new girls were casting sidelong glances . . . sneering at her. Jane looked closer; that wasn’t a tan, she was from the Middle East. Large dark eyes, an aristocratic nose. Israeli?

“. . . with liberty and justice for all.”

The bell rang, and Miss Milton left the stage.

“I got art history first period.You?”

“Math,” Jane responded, still looking at the new girl. She was being jostled. Another wave of empathy broke over Jane; it was almost exactly the same as what had happened to Jane when she first got here—before she’d found Sally. “Hey, Sal. See that new girl over there? They’re picking on her.”

“They always do.”

“Let’s go and say hi,” Jane urged.“Come on, it’ll be your good deed for the day.”

Sally sighed; art history was the one lesson she enjoyed, and the teacher hated it if she was late. All those glorious dresses they wore back in history. Fashion meant something then, it was more than a Donna Karan bodysuit or gray Armani dress. She liked color and style, gold cloth and lace.

“Sure, why not?”

Jane was her conscience. And Sally knew there was a streak of iron in Jane, something she respected, even feared at times. Jane would go over to that girl whether Sally came or not.

Sally scrutinized the object of her friend’s attentions. Modest, shy, a clever look about her; disturbingly pretty . . .

She felt a moment of misgiving. She’d never felt dwarfed by Jane’s formidable intellect, because Jane, let’s face it,
wasn’t
attractive. Both of them had strengths, but not in the same areas. This new girl was looking threateningly gorgeous, and also had a sharp light in her eyes that Sally recognized from a long association with her English friend.

What if she wanted to be real friends? She might be clever enough to rival Jane and pretty enough to steal Sally’s thunder, too. Not right now, but with a little work . . . some caramel highlights, a pair of heels, some berry lip gloss . . .

Sally blushed. Those were mean thoughts, worthy of Julie or Maureen, not her. The new girl needed help. And Sally Lassiter, even though she schemed and gossiped and loved her own reflection almost as much as everybody else did, was fundamentally kind.

“Hey!” she called out, waving brightly to the new girl, who was heading toward the door. “Hold up, hon! We want to talk to you.”

The other girl hesitated and nodded.

Jane fell in behind her friend, slightly annoyed. Now Sally was marching over there, taking the lead, like she did in everything. Jane sighed and followed her, smiling softly at the new girl.

“So what’s your name?”

Sally Lassiter flicked her curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder and treated her to that patented, dazzling smile. Behind her, Jane Morgan grinned. One thing you could say about Sally, she was no snob. She had no need to play cliques, or make anyone earn her friendship.

“I’m Sally, Sally Lassiter,” she encouraged. The warm Texan tones matched her mahogany tanned skin. Sally was a hot little butterfly, and even the sedate uniform of Miss Milton’s couldn’t disguise that.

The new girl’s dark eyes swept over the blonde, drinking her in.

Sally was a million miles away from her own long hem and high socks. Sally wore her gray pleated skirt hiked up an inch or two, with her socks down to her ankles. Her cream shirt had an extra button undone, revealing a tiny glimpse of bountiful, all-natural breasts.The boys all stared, and some of the men, too, when Sally walked by.

That was the way she liked it. Such brassy confidence!

“Helen,” the new girl muttered. “Helen Yanna.”

“I’m Jane.” Jane moved forward, adjusting her glasses up the bridge of her nose. They were thick, and made her eyes disappear behind them. Helen pegged her as English, at once. She had unkempt hair roughly tied back in a ponytail. Not a likely companion for this Sally Lassiter.

And nor,
Helen thought,
am I
.

Olive-skinned with an aristocratic, aquiline face, Helen had hazel eyes flecked with green, and lush, black hair, glossy and sleek. Where Sally’s shirt was undone, Helen’s was buttoned up, the extra button under the chin tightly drawn. Her thick hair was loose, and her dark eyes peeked shyly out from under her bangs. But, like Sally, Helen’s frame had dangerous curves that no amount of buttons could hide.

“How do you do?” Helen replied, formally.Warily.Were they about to start teasing her like the other girls had done? She already hated this school. When she got home tonight she’d beg her father to reconsider.

But Helen was a realist. Baba was a bit of a social climber. He was thrilled when his daughter was accepted at Milton—they weren’t ambassadors or princes, after all, just mildly successful businesspeople.

And whatever her differences with the other girls, they all had that one vital thing in common—cash.

It required
mucho dinero
to make it here.

Everybody tried to get their kid in. The school had an unofficial policy against the Biz—only the finest directors, Oscar-winning actors, and truly determined studio execs and producers managed to get past admissions. Miss Milton’s Academy preserved its cachet by attracting a better class of girl. The daughters of congressmen and senators, the mayor and the governor. Senior lawyers, major player bankers, and real estate moguls. And huge amounts of girls from the diplomatic community. They liked exotic—French, European, Israeli, Arab. Once there had been a couple of genuine Russians. Sending your girl to Miss Milton’s Academy guaranteed her an instant shot of culture.

Of course, the Americans still ruled the roost. This was their home turf, and they knew all the unspoken rules from day one.

Helen had already suffered from that.

“You’re new,” Sally observed. “We figured maybe you’d want somebody to show you round. Help you fit in.”

The olive-skinned girl nodded shyly. “That would be very kind.”

Jane noticed at once she spoke in full sentences, didn’t use contractions or slang.

“Where are you from, Helen? Israel?” she guessed.

The girl didn’t take offense. “Jordan. It is very close by.”

“You’re an Arab!” Sally said, blue eyes widening.

Helen nodded, and Jane noticed her back stiffen. “Does that upset you?”

“Of course not,” Jane said quickly. “We have people in the school from all over. I’m English; my dad works in Washington.”

Helen made a face. “How sad, to be separated from your father.”

“Not particularly.” Jane tried to harden her heart to match her words.“My father’s a diplomat. He mostly thinks of politics. I don’t think he’ll be winning Father of the Year anytime soon.”

“Your mother, then.”

The English girl shook her head.“She died when I was three. Car crash.”

Helen looked horrified. “I’m sorry.”

Jane shrugged. She sometimes wondered about that night. Her father had been driving, and had emerged almost unscathed, apart from one long scar on his back. Who knew the truth? Maybe he had been drunk.

Her mother would have loved her. As it was, Jane had nothing but herself and her friend. She had learned to be self-sufficient, and books and studying were her salvation. Every time she got an A, it soothed her, deep inside. Intelligence was the one area where she was more than good enough. She was outstanding.

Jane had big ambitions. Oxford or Cambridge. A Fellowship of All Souls. After that, tenure somewhere in an Ivy League school. Permanent respect, a job for life, and worth that did not depend on something unreliable, like a man, or something ephemeral, like looks.