Glamour (40 page)

But of course. For Nelson to be unattached would have been fantasy. Sally was truly grateful, and she tried to be happy for Letty. And Chris.

She tried to tell herself there were plenty of other fish, and all that. Now that she was interested in men . . . now that she’d saved her mom . . . now that she felt she could breathe . . . there were plenty of places a pretty young woman could meet men in this town.

That didn’t work, either.

Sally was busy. Like it or not, pining or not, the store was rolling toward the grand opening. Now she had a PR campaign to organize. She got the hell on with it.What else could she do?

Haya stepped into the limo with relief.

It was air-conditioned, a blessed change after the baking heat outside. She was an Arab, and she’d thought she could handle this weather, but the further along her pregnancy got, the less she liked it.

“Take me to Bar-al-Yanni, please,” she said to the driver.

“Of course, ma’am.” He spun the car directly into traffic with practiced ease and Haya struggled to stay awake. Jet lag was bad, but she really wanted to get this trip over with. After that she could go back to the hotel, unplug the phone, hang the little sign on her door, and she’d be done.

It was vital to buy enough. She had to be four times as good on this trip, because her baby was getting too big, too restless in her belly. There would be no more sourcing from the Middle East after this. Haya needed enough goods to last in the stock-room for at least five months; she wasn’t getting on a plane until her child was six months old and weaned, and it would take her four months to train another woman to her exacting standards.

At least she knew, now, that she couldn’t do it all herself.

Choosing the precious objects had been a big deal for Haya. Sally took care of the Western fashion and the store design, and Haya added the exotic flavor and the ethical dimension. She knew she had to live up to both ideals. Sourcing art, jewelry, cloths, lamps, and rugs from the Islamic world—but not from dealers; from individual women, or from the nascent collectives that had sprung up of widows, unmarried women, women whose meager income from the glorious things they worked was keeping flesh on the bones of their children. Haya had big ambitions there. She wanted those rich Americans to get addicted to this beauty, and pay top dollar. Everybody would win—the buyers would get something unique, not mass-produced, something that would look great in their houses for generations. The women who made these things would finally receive a fair price, even a generous one by local standards. Haya had no doubt it would transform lives. And of course, GLAMOUR would take a hefty slice out of the middle.

It was ethical commerce, not simple charity. Haya had to answer to the demanding Jane Morgan on that. And she wanted to make money, anyway. For her own independence, and her child’s—Ahmed’s child. Profit and principles. If she could combine them, Haya thought, she could be happy; she could salvage something from her husband’s death, make a difference in the world.

Ghada was her last stop on the tour. She had already shipped enough Jordanian mosaics, Moroccan carpets, Egyptian lamps and carvings, and Palestinian cushions to fill the holds of a small ship.This remote kingdom was the final destination; Haya wanted to invest in a line of traditional jewelry from Ghada. The desert tribeswomen in the north crafted elegant necklaces and bracelets dripping with small metal disks, a variant on the coin jewelry in other Arab countries; Haya thought they looked feminine and delicate, good on any woman, and when she had showed Sally Lassiter a sample Sally had gone wild.The intricate pieces would be the center of the opening GLAMOUR jewelry collection. The traditional metal was silver; Haya wanted to negotiate for a commune of women to work them for her in copper; the Americans didn’t like silver, it was too dully familiar. Jangling, luxe bracelets of fiery red-gold would knock the Hollywood ladies out. Haya was sure of that.

“We may have some delays on the road north of the city,” her driver said, lapsing into the Egyptian Arabic that was a lingua franca in the Middle East.

Haya sighed. “Why is that?”

She didn’t want to be late. They were waiting for her at the small oasis town and she had had some difficulty in securing this meeting; these women did not trust Americans, even Arab-Americans.

“There is a visit there from one of the sheikhas. Sheikha Alia, the daughter of the king’s half uncle.They will have security.”

“Of course.” Haya didn’t want to be rude, so she chewed on her lip.The royal family of Ghada, highly wealthy from a combination of oil and booming real estate in the metropolitan cities on the coasts, was large and well funded.There was the king, old and tired, an absolute ruler. His many brothers and sons, daughters and sisters, all princes and princesses. A few degrees removed from that, the royalty had lesser titles like Sheikh and Sheikha. Just in case, Haya reviewed her protocols. Prince, or Emir; Royal Highness . . . Sheikha . . . just Highness.

“Why is she going there—is there some function?”

“The royal women often patronize the markets and bazaars there.They support the traditional crafts.”

“Ah.” Haya smiled. “Do they indeed?”

Perhaps—who knew. Perhaps she could get something out of this. She thought of the Western love of titles. If they could market the Ghadan necklaces as “worn by royalty” they would sell even better.Would the sheikha agree to be photographed in a necklace? There would be some samples waiting for Haya today. She got excited, she could see the advertising campaign now. Even better, maybe there would be another lady, somebody further up the tree; one of the king’s daughters or granddaughters, a true princess.

“If you can get me there half an hour faster I will pay you a bonus,” she said, “especially if you take me as close as you can to where this visit is happening.”

It was a triumph. First, Haya had the pleasure of seeing the work presented to her by Begum Fahdah al-Ali, the widow of a former chief. She had organized this group, of abandoned or poor women, many of them widows or now-grown street children, who had lived in grinding poverty. They worked the tiny metal disks into the most delicate, exquisite pieces.There would be no problem in selling these as they deserved to be treated, Haya thought, as her husband had planned to do: as works of art. She signed a deal, the women toasted it with mint tea, and she left money behind, just as down payment; the joy with which it was received made her day.

And second, with great determination and a couple of sample necklaces in her hand, Haya had approached a woman in the sheikha’s retinue, an efficient-looking matronly sort in a Western suit with a neat scarf tied around her hair, and sunglasses. The lady would not see her now, she was told, but she took a number, and said somebody from the palace would be in touch.Yes, they liked to support the work of traditional craftswomen, and yes, they were looking for trade opportunities with the States. If the sheikha could be sure that the deal the women were getting was fair . . .

Haya had no doubts on that score. She left a card with the protocol officer and took a cab back to the hotel.There she took a long bath, washed her hair, and went to lie down on the bed, wrapped in a soft white toweling robe; her room was air-conditioned, and all she wanted to do was sleep well, then rise and get on the plane.

Job done. Nothing more to do than to wait for the birth of her child . . .

The phone rang. Sighing deeply, she rolled on her side to answer it.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Haya al-Yanna, please?”

The voice was modulated; Arab with an English accent, she thought, educated abroad; a young man.

“Speaking.”

“Ms. Al-Yanna, my name is Jaber ibn Mohammed. I work for the palace and the government of Ghada.”

Haya closed her eyes briefly. Damn it, a call she couldn’t blow off.

“It’s good of you to call,” she lied.

“I understand you are to fly back to the States first thing tomorrow. Do you have time for a meeting earlier this evening? I can come to the Radisson.”

“Of course, I’d be delighted.”

“If we are going to get involved in any project like this, we have to vet it.”

“I quite understand,” Haya said, mentally relinquishing her night off.“Is six o’clock convenient? We could meet in the lobby, or have dinner.”

“Wonderful. See you then.”

“Wonderful,” Haya echoed, and hung up. Damnation. She set her mobile phone to alarm; at least she’d have half an hour, and anything was better than nothing.

He was waiting in the lobby. Haya was surprised to see he was a young man, maybe a little older than herself, and tall, with an aquiline nose and aristocratic, searching eyes. Olive-skinned, with a tan from the sun, and a beautifully cut suit; a strong body, she thought, not bulky.

“Ms. Al-Yanna.Thank you for seeing me.”

“Thank you for coming.”

His eyes swept over her, appreciatively, she thought, and then blinked; his glance had come to rest on her belly.

“You’re pregnant,” he blurted out.

She smiled. “Yes,
mash’Allah
.”

“Excuse me—I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised. Is your husband with you?”

“I’m a widow,” she replied coolly.

He flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“How could you know?” she replied graciously.

“Shall we eat?” Initially confident, Haya could see he’d been thoroughly fazed. “Uh, a pregnant woman shouldn’t go too long without dinner.They have some good cuisine here, even though it’s a chain; some local dishes on the menu.”

“That sounds good.” Haya was pleased; he was thoughtful, she was hungry, and now he’d be trapped with her for as long as it took to eat a meal—long enough to pitch him on her plan.

“Then come this way.” And to her surprise, he offered her his arm.

Beautiful manners,
she thought.
And a handsome face.
And then felt instantly disloyal to Ahmed. She was six months pregnant, even if it had not showed too badly on her body, except for the gentle swell of her stomach.What was she doing thinking about another man like that?

They ordered a perfectly reasonable meal, some local specialities, vine leaves wrapped around spiced meats, tiny roasted birds, a Ghadan version of tabbouleh, and a lemony goat cheese in oils and herbs. She discovered Jaber had been educated at Cambridge—St. John’s College, he said—and had served a military apprenticeship in the United States, at West Point.

Haya told him some of her story. Just a little, though; she did not want to drag Ahmed too far into it.

“I must ask you about your store,” he said eventually, getting down to business.

“It’s going to be prestigious and luxurious, and will charge high prices. We have backing from a senior financier—Craig Levin.”

“Levin,” he responded, clearly impressed.

“I am a full partner; the site is my husband’s former gallery. My further role is to source art from the Middle East. We are hoping to engage in ethical commerce, to buy from women, and to pay them fair prices.”

“And to make a profit.”

Haya was unabashed. “Yes; like the Body Shop, this is a for-profit enterprise. In the end, you know, these women do not need handouts, they need long-term commercial partners. That can only be sustained if the buyers are making a profit.”

He smiled slightly. “You sound like a woman who knows her own mind.”

“I am.” Haya inclined her head. “And we must be perfectly honest with you, since we want the participation of a sheikha or a princess.”

“That is true.”

“The photograph of that lady in the jewelry will help our cause; it will make our company richer—it will make me richer.” Haya blushed a little. “Although I have no doubt these pieces are of sufficient quality to sell without it. But it will also benefit these women who are your citizens and more generally help in my plan to keep trading ethically with the Middle East. Eventually we’ll be in other places, too—Europe, Africa, Asia.Wherever there are women with skills that we can help through business.” Haya smiled. “So you see, Mr. Ibn Mohammed, I’m trying to be honest; it’s a business proposition, though, in the end.”

“And a sound one.” He paused, his eyes traveling across her. “As long as you can prove you will be paying a fair market price to the Ghadan women who are supplying you.”

“As soon as I get home, I will fax the documents to the palace.”

“Very good.” He smiled, lightly, and his eyes moved, again, across her face; Haya was embarrassed, and looked away. “Then we may be able to do business. I suppose you will not be back here for some time?”

“Not until after the birth of my child.”

“I can see Sheikha Alia consenting to the photographs. If you do well with sales, and our women are benefiting, a more senior woman from the royal family might become involved. The king does want that trade.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Haya said, blushing.

“But we would want a bigger shift of your buying to Ghada—including carpets and lamps and so forth.”

“I would hope we will open more than one store,” Haya replied confidently. “But I wouldn’t come back to you unless it happened. And we could order a lot more from Ghada.”

“Then I’m sure we can do business.” He lifted his glass of mineral water to her in a toast.

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Ibn Mohammed.”

“Please call me Jaber.”

“Then Haya.” She smiled.

“And . . .” He hesitated.“It isn’t Mister . . . as it happens. I take a close interest in the affairs of Sheikha Alia because she’s my mother.”

Haya’s water went down the wrong way; she spluttered a little, embarrassed.

“You mean . . .” He said nothing. “I’m sorry, Highness,” she said, wanting to run off and hide.

“Nothing to be sorry for. I led you to believe otherwise. I should apologize . . . it’s just that I hold a government position, and I’d rather be dealt with that way, than as a member of the family.”

Haya saw he hadn’t said royal—he hadn’t had to.

“I understand. Highness,” she added, again.