It was time to step things up. She had to leave her comfort zone for a few days, go to the source of her goods, her commerce. And it was exciting that the first stop was Ghada.
She knew she had no choice. Haya couldn’t stay in the States forever. Not with the way GLAMOUR was going. They had lines at the store daily, just to get in. Jane was negotiating with some defunct American chains, trying to buy up real estate, looking for a good lease on Fifth or the Avenue of the Americas, jetting off to Paris and London. Sally, when she took an evening off from the ballpark, was turning into a bona fide star; her days were spent designing, her nights at glittering premieres, jetting off to talk shows, or giving interviews for magazines. They called her “fashion’s Martha Stewart” and, more cruelly, “Business Barbie.” But Sally rode it all like a pro, and every single item she wore in public was sourced from the GLAMOUR store.
Their next opening was to be New York, and Jane and Sally had personally begged Haya to come back. Ethical business was a money-spinner—the women’s magazines loved what they were doing with local craftswomen, and when Sally posed in
Women’s Wear Daily
wearing her own new trademark, a floor-length red velvet sheath, with one of the Ghadan necklaces draped around her long neck, orders had just gone wild.
“We have only a few hundred carpets—we’re on a waiting list.”
“The jewelry sold out weeks ago. We’ve got empty sections of the store.”
“Haya,” Jane insisted, “you can’t just go on buying trips; what you have to do is find staff—buyers—people you trust.They can purchase the ethical trade in bulk as long as it’s up to standard.We can’t jeapardize the brand.”
“Jane found a spot in Venice, too.We have to have enough for six new stores. By year’s end it’ll be twelve.” Sally grinned. “Say hello to GLAMOUR Tokyo.”
“I suppose you’re right. There’s just no way I can fulfill that number of orders.” Haya was excited. “Is it really that busy?”
Sally groaned. “Please come back.”
Haya glanced around her nursery, at the infant toys everywhere. Of course she adored Noor, her little sunshine, but . . . it was time to get back to adulthood; Haya had missed her friends, missed her business.
“So, recruit buyers?”
“At least twenty. I can give you a salary structure. Please don’t deviate from it,” Jane said.
Haya spread her hands.“Staffing is your baby.They have to be the right women, though, people I trust not to buy any old junk, and only to pick the right suppliers. . . .”
“You could hire male buyers. As long as we maintain the policy of sourcing from poor women,” Sally said,“our customers want that. It’s a little bit of sisterhood in with the designer jeans. Like fair trade chocolate.”
“Okay, then.” Haya nodded; she would need the help.With a baby, no way could she go back to full-time jet-setting. “I think I’ll pick buyers in every country—you know, somebody in Egypt, in Morocco—to look for the different goods.”
“It’s your turf,” Jane said. “Handle it however you want.”
Haya agreed. The frazzled faces of her girlfriends had added the coda:
but handle it
.
Fair enough. And so now she was on her way back, to Ghada City. Leaving Noor behind for four whole, brutal days.
It had to be done; but she didn’t have to like it.
“Welcome, Ms. Al-Yanna.” The desk clerk was all smiles.“It’s good to have you back, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay in Ghada.”
“Thank you.”
“Your meetings have been arranged in the Roosevelt Conference Room for nine a.m. tomorrow, as requested.”
“Great. If I could just get my room key . . .”
Haya was very tired; it had been a long day, and she was looking forward to a quick TV supper and then bed.
“Here you are.The presidential suite—take the penthouse elevator, second on the left.”
“I didn’t book that suite . . . ,” Haya said wearily. She hoped that this wouldn’t delay her all that long; tomorrow’s work started early.
“No, ma’am. It is a complimentary upgrade. And we have a message to deliver to you,” the receptionist said with a coy smile, “from His Highness, Sheikh Jaber.”
Haya blinked with shock. He remembered her?
They had negotiated with the Ghadan palace through the office, and over the phone; Haya had sent documents via one of Jane’s assistants. She had never expected to hear from Jaber again.
“Here.” The receptionist handed her over an envelope: thick vellum, with a small gold crest, a stylized palm tree, on the back. “Shall I have a bellhop show you to the suite?”
“No, thank you, I’ll manage.”
Haya walked into the elevator, barely noticing her surroundings; her case was compact, neatly packed with lightweight, long dresses. She rode up to the presidential suite; it was incredibly luxurious, with tinted windows on four sides looking out over Ghada City. Haya gave it a cursory glance, dumped her suitcase on the bed, and ripped open the note.
Dear Ms. Al-Yanna,
Congratulations on the birth of your daughter.The Office of Protocol has kept me up-to-date with developments with your company; His Majesty’s government is quite satisfied with the funds that have flowed in to our citizens thus far.We are willing to consider further involvement of the royal family in exchange for more significant orders worldwide.
I would, however, prefer to discuss such matters with you personally. Could you call the palace and confirm if you are free for lunch on Saturday at one o’clock?
Wa-es salaam,
Jaber
Stop it,
Haya told herself.
You’re reading way too much into this.
He is a handsome young sharif, not a man to be tempted by a widowed single mother. And anyway, what if he was? She was a partner at GLAMOUR, Inc., and he worked for the government here.They could hardly form a relationship flying back and forth across the Atlantic.
But it was no good; her heart pounded as she dialed the number on the stationery. She should just see it as a business success.
Whatever. It was thrilling. Haya gave herself permission to enjoy that. She thought of Ahmed, her love. He would not mind, if anything was to happen. Before, she had felt guilty; now that she had his Noor to love and cherish, she felt, instead, an overwhelming peace.
Haya looked round the suite, properly. She understood at once why she had been given the best room in the hotel. As hot as GLAMOUR was, there were other rich businessmen here. No, this came from the favor of His Highness. And she took every lavish inch of it as a compliment.
“Good afternoon,” said a voice in Arabic.
“Hello. My name is Haya al-Yanna—”
“Oh, yes, thank you for calling, madam. Will you be able to join His Highness for lunch?”
“Yes, I will,” Haya said, taken aback that the operator knew so fast.
“That’s wonderful news. We will send a government car to your hotel at twenty to one, if convenient. If you could bring your passport for identification.”
“Thank you,” Haya said. A government car! She couldn’t believe it.Why was he laying out the red carpet?
“We’ll see you tomorrow, madam,
insh’Allah
. Have a wonderful day.”
She hung up and went into the suite’s sumptuous bathroom; it had a stand-alone tub made of pure copper that you could almost swim in. Tomorrow morning she had interviews, eighteen candidates for six positions, and they would have to be done by twelve forty.
Haya could manage it. She had learned to trust her instincts. Those with a love of beauty and of Ghada would stand out.The important thing was to get them hired, fast, lose the deadwood, and then come back here. Whether she was right about Jaber’s interest or not, she had to look fabulous. If she could get a true princess of this country involved . . . forget it! GLAMOUR’s PR and marketing would explode just as Jane was opening the new stores.
Haya had been out of commission for a while. She wanted to contribute, to be as much a part of this as Sally and Jane. Originally, they had been the two friends; Haya had come in late. She did not want to be an outsider, the third wheel, in GLAMOUR.
If she could bring more sizzle than Sally . . . then nobody could accuse her of being some kind of afterthought.
“Here we are, ma’am. Passport, please.”
Haya meekly handed it over. The chauffeur—or was he a soldier, in his Ghadan uniform with the palm trees on his epaulettes?—passed it across to the guard at the gate. Haya leaned forward, out of the window, and looked down the drive to the palace complex.
It was exquisitely beautiful. Vast, and covered with blue and gold tiles, like the decoration on a Pharaoh’s headdress. It glittered in the sun like jewelry, and the gardens they had driven through on their way here stretched ahead of her, lush and beautifully stocked. There were fountains playing in the court-yards, and Haya noted the brickwork, old and red. There was something of the Alhambra about this place. She shivered with tension. Did she look good enough? She had selected a traditional Jordanian caftan, red silk, embroidered with gold thread, antique, stretching down to her ankles and flowing beautifully about the body; almost no makeup, just a touch of foundation and some lip gloss and mascara; and a delicate scent, Chanel No. 19, one Haya had always favored, fresher and greener than the more famous brand. Round her neck, she wore a jangling, original Ghadan coin necklace, one from GLAMOUR’s own stock; it was disturbingly sensual, she thought, like bells on her when she moved.
“Thank you.” Her passport was returned to her, and the limo pulled through the ornate carved gates, covered in Moroccan-style mosaic work. Haya tried not to stare as the driver took her around the left wing of the palace, past marching guards, into a small courtyard, and parked in a spot they were waved to by a saluting guard, who came round to open the door.
“Greetings, madam,” he said in thickly accented English.
“Thank you,” Haya responded in Arabic. The soldier smiled, and lapsed into his native tongue.
“
Sidi
Jaber is waiting in his office. . . . If you’ll come this way.” Haya nodded, and was led through marble corridors of unimaginable opulence, set about with wooden panels carved in an intricate Islamic design, to a small, modern room—part of a cleverly designed extension—where Jaber was sitting.
He jumped to his feet.
“Your guest, Highness,” the soldier said, bowed slightly, and withdrew.
“Haya.” He came forward, and clasped her shoulders warmly, kissing her on both cheeks in the Arab fashion; Haya, feeling awkward, clumsily dropped a low curtsy.
Jaber raised an eyebrow. “You do not have to curtsy to me. Although your manners are as beautiful as your face.”
She blushed, deeply; hopefully she was tanned enough that he would not notice.
“I was delighted to get your letter, sir,” she began, formally.
“Good. And it’s Jaber. I won’t have to spend the afternoon calling you Ms. Al-Yanna, will I?”
She shook her head. “Haya.”
“Then come.” He extended a hand. “I have had them cook for us in my mother’s apartments—she is at an Arab children’s conference in Dubai.”
Haya tried to eat, if only to be polite; she was a guest, it was rude to refuse hospitality. But she was intimidated. Stroppy American businessmen, rude suppliers, government customs officials who enjoyed demonstrating their power; none of them had made her feel like this. She respected Ghada, and Jaber; it was a beautiful country, a rich country, and yet they cared about the nomads, the tribeswomen, the indigent widows she was trying to protect.
And here she was, in a small corner of the center of power. And he was across the table, as deferential servants attended him, and then her; incredibly handsome, charming, and powerful—not so much in the abstract way one describes a banker or a newspaper magnate, as one having influence, but absolutely, in his own right. As a government official, and a member of a ruling family that still ruled.
Jaber took his time. He made small talk with her, about the store, the candidates she had interviewed, the GLAMOUR expansion program.
“And you?” he asked, at length, when she was picking through a delicate pastry of roasted chicken and raisins. “You are taking a full part in this? You look to me as though you were never pregnant at all, although of course I know differently.”
“This is my first trip abroad since Noor was born.”
“And it will be profitable,” he said, with a calm assurance. “I wonder, have you been following events here in Ghada?”
Haya was embarrassed. “I haven’t—I have hardly listened to any news since she was born—I was nursing . . . busy in the office.” Her voice trailed off.Was that too intimate a detail to have shared with him? Why was she starting to think of Jaber as a friend, rather than who he was? “Anyway,” she added hastily, “I think the
New York Times
on the plane on the way over was the first paper I’ve really read in months. Please excuse my ignorance, High—” She caught a sight of his face. “Jaber.”
“Much better,” he said. “And don’t worry. I find it refreshing. Anyway, His Majesty has decided to honor my mother, his cousin, who is widowed, by raising her to the rank of a princess here, with the title Royal Highness. Under our law, these things are at his absolute discretion.”
“That’s wonderful,” Haya responded automatically, trying to work out what that meant for her company. She already had photos of the sharifa—now princess—in GLAMOUR jewels. Was her work here done, then? They could start a whole new ad campaign on that.
“And me,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I have been involved in government, as you know. A little more than protocol; there was a dispute with Dubai over some oil pipelines. We managed to reconcile it. I was directly involved with the king in the matter.”