Trading Up (51 page)

“The thing about Arabs,” Estella said casually, “is that they always like to have a lot of beautiful women around. So maybe I could get Sayed to invite you on his boat. And if not, I’m sure someone else would . . .” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 272

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An alarm went off in Janey’s head, but she squashed it. “Oh, we’ll see,” she said with a deliberate mysteriousness, as if she might have better things to do . . .

But when she went into her own room to unpack, she was confronted by her two hard-sided baby blue Samsonite suitcases. Her mother had “generously” bought them for her for her trip, but suddenly, the two suitcases seemed to sum up everything that was wrong and embarrassing about her: She was shabby and American and unsophisticated—and on top of it, there were girls who had come from less but had quickly gained more. While she was thinking this over, Estella appeared in her doorway. She was wearing a multicolored Chanel jacket over jeans, the Chanel bag slung casually over her shoulder, and looking, in Janey’s mind, exactly how a glamorous young lady should appear.

“I’m going out for some
pain,
” Estella said, pursing her lips around the French word for bread. “Do you want anything? Cigarettes?”

“I don’t smoke,” Janey said.

“You don’t?” Estella asked, and then laughed. “Well, you’ll have to start. Everybody smokes in Paris.” She turned, and whistling the tune of a French disco hit, sashayed out of the apartment.

Janey silently returned to her unpacking. But as soon as she heard the heavy door to the apartment close, she found herself sneaking back into Estella’s
chambre
of treasures. She reminded herself that she had been raised with good values, was a nice girl from a nice family who had been taught from an early age not to covet, but now she wondered what that really meant. Wasn’t it just a way of preventing people who could never get what they wanted from feeling bad about their lives? For now she
did
covet in every way, and with a keen sense of purpose. Was it her fault that she’d been brought up not to expect much more from life than a vague kind of job and a vague sort of marriage with some shadowy children attached? What sort of deep meaning was she supposed to garner from
that
?

But here, she thought, touching the fabric of a fine silk dress, these things were
real
. No matter how many times she’d been warned about the dangers of wanting things, in her mind, they were
achievements
. They were like a magical duty of some kind, paid to those whom God or fate mysteriously chose to honor, and it seemed that one had hardly to do
anything
to receive them. Wandering through the room as if drugged, Janey pulled a long pinstriped jacket off its hanger; the collar was trimmed with golden fur that was softer and more luxurious than anything she’d ever felt before. Standing before the full-length mirror, Janey slipped the jacket over her T-shirt and pulled up the collar. With the fur close to her face, she no longer looked like the pretty American student studying abroad. She was suddenly transformed into a stunningly beautiful young woman for whom anything in the world 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 273

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seemed possible. Even, it seemed, marrying Prince Albert and becoming a real princess!

And as she turned from side to side, falling in love with her reflection, she thought, Yes, she coveted. But the difference was that now she saw that she could have. And somehow, she
would
have, very, very soon.

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f o u rt e e n

jane y l o oked up with a start, realizing that she’d been so deep in thought, she’d crossed the Seine and was now back on the Right Bank, and dangerously close to the Place Vendôme. She halted for a moment, and then, like a moth drawn to a flame, she took a few steps forward and suddenly found herself in the square itself.

She supposed that after fifteen years away from Paris, it was inevitable that her walk would take her here, staring up at the elegantly imposing façade of the Hôtel Ritz. For wasn’t it in this very spot that it had really begun, where she had taken that first wrong turn? Where she’d stood, fifteen years ago, staring up at this very hotel, about to make an irrevocable decision that would set the course of her life?

But maybe she was being overly dramatic.
She had been so young then,
a voice inside her reminded herself; how could she have known better? But people did know better, another voice told her, even when they
were
young. But in the end, wasn’t it only an event? An event that had led to other events, and then those events had come to an end, and she had somehow managed to “get over” them. Or had she? Because, it seemed, she was still spending a lot of time “getting over” things.

And if you were always spending your time getting over your past, how were you supposed to get on with your future?

She looked around and realized that the square was strangely deserted for a Wednesday afternoon, and spying an empty bench, she crossed the cobblestones and sat down. She put her head in her hands, remembering that day, long ago, when Estella had finally returned from getting
pain
—three days later. Janey had been so lonely, and so relieved when Estella had walked in the door at four in the afternoon 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 275

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that she’d hardly noticed that Estella’s pupils were huge and her hands were shaking, or that she was smoking one cigarette after another and didn’t seem to be able to sensibly answer any of Janey’s questions. Finally, Estella swept into the kitchen and dramatically declared that she needed a drink; in her frenzy to open a bottle of wine the cork broke off, and Janey had to take the bottle from her and push the cork in with the butt end of a knife.

“I was worried about you,” Janey said apologetically. “I thought maybe you’d died, or had an accident, or maybe something had happened with Donna . . .”

“She’s gone for good and they’ll never let her show her face in France again,” Estella said, taking a swig of wine directly from the bottle. “And I say good riddance to bad rubbish. She was a fucking bore . . .”

“But where were you?”

“I just ran into Sayed is all and we had a party.”

“A party? For three days?”

“Once we had a party for a week. Anyway, it isn’t over, and I’ve come back to get you. Sayed’s uncle is in town, and
he
wants to have a party. So what do you say?”

“Do they speak English?” Janey had asked. She’d been so miserable, she would have gone anyplace where there were people who conversed in her own language.

Estella simply laughed and said, “Of course, dummy. They all went to like Cambridge or something.” And then Janey had gone to change.

When she came out of her room, Estella shook her head and murmured,

“Wrong, all wrong. Rasheed likes women to look like ladies,” she explained. She led Janey into her room, selected a print dress, and thrust it upon her. “Rasheed?” Janey asked.

“Rasheed al . . . ,” Estella replied, revealing his full name. Janey took a step back; she immediately recognized the name and didn’t know whether to be excited or frightened.

“You know,” Estella said, with a smile. “He’s one of the richest men in the world . . .”

Janey had expected that the party would take place in a house or an apartment, but instead, she and Estella had taken a taxi to the Place Vendôme. As the car pulled up in front of the entrance to the Hôtel Ritz, Janey had looked up at the mustard-colored façade in awe. It was so big, she thought, and so elegant; nevertheless, a warning went off in her head. “A
hotel
?” she asked.

“It’s where he
lives,
dummy,” Estella said, paying the driver. “He
could
buy any house in Paris, but he lives in a hotel because it’s more convenient. All rich people are like that.”

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Estella had suddenly grabbed her arm, and looking Janey square in the eye, she said,

“Now listen.”

“Yes?” Janey asked.

“You and I are friends,” Estella said, “so I want you to know what the deal is. If Rasheed grabs you and pushes you down on the bed . . . well, you don’t
have
to do anything. But if you
do
, it’s two thousand dollars or a piece of jewelry.” For a moment, Janey stared in shock at the bustling, brightly lit hotel. Aha, she thought. So that’s how it’s done. But of course it was that way, she realized; she and Estella didn’t really belong there in their own right, and what she should do—
must
do
—was thank Estella and go home.

But it was such a
long
walk home. And she was wearing high heels. And there was nothing waiting for her at home anyway, except another lonely evening. With the dramatically short vision of youth, all she could see ahead of her was one long, empty, meaningless night stretching into another long, empty, meaningless night; with weeks and even months passing in which she would be no farther along in life than she was right now. She turned to Estella and, with far more bravado than she actually felt, said, “Okay.”

Estella took her arm, laughing, and led her into the hotel lobby, smiling at the doormen as if she owned the place. They crossed the floor, their heels making grown-up clicking sounds on the inlaid marble, and then they entered the elevator.

In the elevator, Estella checked her appearance in the mirror, and then turning casually to Janey said, “Remember, it’s two thousand dollars or a piece of jewelry.

But I think it’s better to take the cash. You can always get some boyfriend to buy you clothes and jewelry, and that way, you don’t have to ask
them
for money and they won’t think you’re a . . .”

“Right,” Janey said. She glanced at her face in the mirror, reminding herself that so far, she was still okay: She hadn’t accepted Rasheed’s advances—
yet
. She would decide when she saw him, she thought, and if she didn’t like him, she would leave . . .

The elevator door opened and they walked down a long, cream-colored hallway with a red carpet, stopping in the middle of the hall in front of a set of double doors.

Estella rang the bell; in less than a second, as if he’d been waiting, the door was opened by a small, nondescript man wearing a djellaba. He bowed slightly as they entered; he seemed neither surprised to see them nor like he was particularly expecting them.

“Is Rasheed here?” Estella asked boldly.

“He is finishing a business meeting. You’ll wait here, please?” They entered the main salon in the suite. It was the grandest room Janey had ever seen—filled with antique chairs and settees in small groupings—and yet there 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 277

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was something depressing in its enormity. The room was empty save for the two of them, and with a sudden bolt of fear, Janey cried out, “But I thought it was going to be a party . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Estella said casually. “There probably will be, later.” She flopped down onto a pink silk sofa, watching the manservant, and when he’d bowed and left the room, Estella grabbed Janey’s hand and said in a stage whisper, “Come on!”

“But we can’t just . . .”

“I do whatever I like. Rasheed knows that,” she said proudly, pulling Janey out of the living room and into a smaller room furnished as a library, with a wet bar along one wall. She searched the shelves above the bar and turned, triumphantly holding a small silver tray. “Well, come on,” she whispered. “Hurry up!”

“I don’t . . .”

“Rasheed doesn’t mind if people do cocaine, as long as they don’t do it in front of him.” She put the tray down on top of the bar and, using a silver razor blade, formed the small mound of white powder into four lines. Then she picked up a silver straw and inhaled two of the lines, turning to hand Janey the straw. Janey was momentarily shocked—she’d heard about cocaine, but she’d never done it; up to that point she’d been completely ignorant about the reason behind other girls’ fre-quent trips to the bathroom on shoots, or the way they constantly wiped their noses and wanted to tell you everything about anything that had ever happened to them.

They must have simply assumed that she was just like them, she thought, and no one had ever gotten close enough to her to find out . . .

“Don’t tell me you’ve never done cocaine,” Estella said, rolling her eyes. “Jeez.

Do I have to teach you
everything
?”

“I don’t . . . ,” Janey repeated lamely.

“Well, you’d better try,” Estella said. “It makes everything a lot easier. You’ll see.” Janey took the straw from Estella’s hand and cautiously inhaled a quarter of one of the lines as if she were sniffing poison. “For Christ’s sake, do it all,” Estella demanded. “Do you know how much that costs?” Her eyes darted back and forth nervously as she watched Janey, making sure she inhaled her full allotment of the cocaine, and when she finished, Estella quickly grabbed the tray from her and snorted directly from the pile.

From somewhere in the vast suite came the sound of two male voices, and Estella replaced the tray on the shelf and then casually extracted a bottle of pink champagne from a small refrigerator.

Two men passed by the door.

“Rasheed!” Estella called out. The two men stopped and came into the room.

One was young, in his early thirties; the other was older, maybe in his forties or early fifties. Janey stared at the older one, Rasheed, with curiosity: She’d never seen 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 278

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an Arab man before and had been half expecting a man in a turban and flowing robes like something out of
The Arabian Nights
. But this man was of medium height and dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit; his skin was a yellowy beige and he had a small, blackish gray mustache. He was more attractive than not, Janey thought, and yet his face displayed no emotion, as if he were used to keeping his thoughts and feelings entirely to himself.