Little Pink Slips Part 10

Fredericka interrupted. "Francesco, darling. You know Magnolia Gold. Remember the Lady shoot with Nicole Kidman? This is our cover girl." She swiveled toward Bebe. Francesco turned in Bebe's direction. "Please meet Bebe Blake."

"You were expecting someone gorgeous perhaps?" Bebe said with a grin. "Frank, better have a drink. Catwoman ain't coming. You got your work cut out for you."

Frances...o...b..inked twice and kissed Bebe's hand. "Apologies, my lovely lady. You will see. I will make you divine."

"Bovine? I can do bo-vine standing on my head." Bebe laughed.

Alone.

Francesco looked confused and motioned toward the breakfast buffet. "Mangia, everyone," he said, waving. Pineapple spears, three kinds of berries, yogurt, brioches, and bagels covered a long table set with heavy taupe pottery and a linen cloth. "We're still prepping the first shot," he said. "It all must be perfect." Two male a.s.sistants in tight blue jeans and black T-s.h.i.+rts were unfurling an enormous white back ground. Several others were setting up a galaxy of lights. "You must excuse me."

Magnolia looked at her watch. Nearing eleven. The breakfast hour would drag on another twenty minutes. Then makeup, which takes a good hour, followed by hair, an hour there, too. By then it would be 1:30, and the whole crew-close to thirty people, counting Francesco's aides-de-camp plus Elizabeth Lester Duvall and the Access Hollywood crew who'd be arriving at noon-would announce that, no, they're not hungry, but, sure, they could use a snack. The caterer would present another, far more sumptuous, meal and the gang would chow down as if they were gearing up for a Yom Kippur fast.

They'd be lucky to start shooting by two.

Magnolia wished life would allow her to age in photo shoot time. It wasn't just the slow-mo pace that got to her. It was the talk, endless hours of it, during prep and between takes. "Did you hear about Dog bone, the new club?" "My boyfriend and I got totally trashed there last night." "We got cut off at the pa.s.s. Had to go to Schiller's Liquor Bar."

"Did you want to kill?" "Totally." "I so need to lose ten pounds."

"You're insane. I want your hips." "Then be ready for lipo." And on and on. Magnolia knew that even at Lady she wasn't exactly brokering peace in the Middle East, but at photo shoots she could feel IQ points literally melting away. Plus, she thought crankily as she took a deep breath, this was a smoking crowd. Then there was the music, which as the day wore on, would throb at migraine-inducing decibels, all in the name of trying to "create energy."

Why, she wondered, did anyone think shoots were glamorous?

Magnolia wandered off to a corner, and began to read Men's Health, the only magazine she could find. She got almost to the end of "Put the Tiger in Your Wood-9 Hard-and-Fast Rules for Awe Inspiring Erections." Just as she was thinking how her ex, Wally, could have benefited from the information, Bebe gave a shout-out.

"Magnolia!" she yelled. "Whattya think?"

Bebe looked ready for a revival of Cats. Her face was s.p.a.ckled to a Formica smoothness, and smoky gray eyeliner extended almost to her temples. At least Akiko, the makeup artist, hadn't added whiskers.

"Honestly, Bebe?"

"No, lie big. Of course, honestly."

"Too, too, too . . . Akiko, could you make it more . . . natural?"

Magnolia asked. Akiko smiled sweetly and continued to sculpt faux cheekbones into Bebe's well-fed face.

"Hey, I like it," Bebe said. "The eyes stay. And Jean-Luc here"- she pointed to the town's premier makeup man, who was cursing his boyfriend in French on a cell phone-"we've already decided on spiky hair. A whole new me."

A Bebe who readers might not recognize, Magnolia thought. A Bebe who could frighten small children. But time was marching on. Elizabeth and Access Hollywood had shown up with a truckload of equipment. As Elizabeth bossed them around like the secretary of defense, their presence added an element of chaos, which only slowed the tempo as they directed Bebe in their filming and interviewed Francesco.

Magnolia bivouacked with Fredericka. "If we can finish Bebe's hair and get her into the first outfit, will Frances...o...b.. ready in thirty minutes?"

"I'll ask," Fredericka said. She returned in five minutes. "Francesco thinks ve should break to eat."

The lunch, which Francesco had ordered from Tabla, his favorite Indian restaurant, was worthy of New Delhi in high summer. Nor mally, chicken tikka with mango chutney and mint, coconut rice, and orange glazed carrots would have appealed to Magnolia. But today she could only look at the clock. Their star hadn't even tried on clothes.

Toward the end of the break, Magnolia approached Bebe. "We've got to keep moving," she said, and motioned Bebe toward the clothing while she held up a Marni dress with a forgiving cut.

"Hate it," Bebe said, as she polished off a big bite of a pink sweet everyone else had left on the buffet.

"How about this?" Magnolia pulled out a simple gown by Calvin Klein.

"Nope." Bebe chewed loudly.

Magnolia offered Bebe a jacket by Michael Kors, followed by a Moschino Cheap & Chic skirt and sweater. Reject. Reject.

"You're kidding, right?" Bebe said, yanking off her sweats.h.i.+rt and exposing her black lace bra. From the back of the last rack she with drew a flimsy leopard T, and stretched it over her head, smearing her eyeliner. "Love it," she said as she stripped to her panties, which, to Magnolia's relief, were grannies. "Help me find a bottom."

Ruthie and Magnolia searched and returned with eight pairs of pants. Nothing fit. If the pants were made with back or side zippers, Ruthie would be able to cunningly split a seam and no one would be the wiser, but every style zipped up the front.

"Houston, we have a problem," Magnolia said. "Ruthie, have your a.s.sistants run out and look for plain black pants."

"No-no-no-no-no," Bebe said. "I'll wear my bike shorts." Bebe began to squeeze back into her spandex.

"Bebe," Magnolia said. "You can't."

"Watch me," Bebe responded, grinning.

"Seriously. It's all wrong for the cover."

"It'll be fun," Bebe said, gathering h.e.l.l into her arms. "What do you think, you big, bad boy?" She tickled the cat's neck until he purred. "Doesn't Mommy look f.u.c.ktabulous?"

"Do you think we could let Francesco decide?" Magnolia asked, peeking out from behind the curtained dressing area and motioning him over. "Like I care what that fat old fart thinks? Magnolia, are you forget ting whose magazine this is? This is me. I live in bike pants. End of story."

Francesco stepped behind the curtain. Bebe danced to the sound of Prince. "So, Frank, can you make me bo-vine?" she asked, striking a hands-on-hip pose.

The photographer glared.

"Francesco, let's just try a few shots in these clothes," Magnolia said, softly and evenly.

"They will not do." He folded his arms over his belly. "I do not see it."

"See it," Bebe said, mirroring his stance.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"See it, Frank," Bebe repeated, s.h.i.+mmying to the music.

"Basta, basta," Francesco answered, walking away. "I will not be insulted. I am Frances...o...b..llucci."

Magnolia closed her eyes and hung her head. When she took a look around, Fredericka was grinding her teeth and cursing in German.

Bebe was laughing, and Francesco had escaped. Magnolia looked at the large clock on the wall. Four o'clock.

"Serious sc.u.mbag, that Frank," Bebe said. "Remind me why you booked him." Because as soon as they heard you were the celebrity, six photographers we asked first said no, Magnolia recalled. And one of them was polite about it.

"Bebe, I'll talk to him," Magnolia said, looking for Francesco, who'd walked out the door. She found him murdering a cigarette b.u.t.t with his Gucci loafer.

"Francesco, I know she's-how can I say this?-unconventional, but could you see your way to finis.h.i.+ng the shoot?" Magnolia said. "Please."

"I have my reputation," he answered. "Sweet Jesus, who does that woman think she is?"

"She's an investor," Magnolia said, slowly and loudly. "The maga zine has her name on it, for G.o.d's sake. It might be huge."

"I am very sorry, Magnolia. But this shoot is a category five hurri cane. I must withdraw." Magnolia considered her options. It didn't take long. She had no options. Well, maybe one. "What if we up your rate by ten percent,"

Magnolia said. "Combat pay."

"Twenty-five," he countered.

"Ten," Magnolia said. "Think of how you'd like to continue working for Elegance and Dazzle and all the other Scarborough magazines. Ten firm."

Francesco lit up a second cigarette, sighed deeply, and wiped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. "I shall proceed," he said gravely.

Four hours later, Bebe's hair and makeup had been redone several times. Magnolia and Fredericka had cajoled her into several wardrobe changes. Francesco had finished off eight roles of film, including one round in front of the white backdrop-without h.e.l.l-as an alterna tive to the leopard. This was a good move: Magnolia had no idea how Fredericka would get coverlines to read over those spots. Access Hollywood was packing to leave. Francesco was just about to shoot a final roll of film, when Magnolia heard a familiar bellow, growing louder and louder, like the horn of an approaching ocean liner.

"Gold!" it said. "Gold! Mags! How's it going? Bebe! Oh, Bebe, you look fabulous." It was her publisher, Darlene, hurrying toward the camera, her Prada suit a mess of wrinkles. "I was in the neighborhood on the way home, and asked my driver to swing by," she said. It was a curious detour. She lived on Park and 80th and that wasn't all. Publish ers were never invited to photo shoots. An art director and photogra pher would sooner extend an invitation to their archrival than to their magazine's publisher.

"How's it going?" Darlene asked.

"Dandy," Magnolia hissed, turning away from Darlene.

"Can I see the Polaroids?" Darlene asked in her pus.h.i.+est tone.

"Please, Darlene," Magnolia said. "Not now."

"Frank here is one h.e.l.luva photographer," Bebe said. "I did a Janet Jackson with my t.i.t, and he didn't even blink. But I guess you don't like girls, huh, Frank?"

Darlene plunged in Francesco's direction. "I'm Bebe's publisher," she said to the startled photographer, picking up a Polaroid from the table where his a.s.sistant had left them. "Mind if I look through your lens?"

"Mind if I read your tax return?" Francesco responded.

It was close to nine o'clock. Magnolia had canceled a date with Harry. She was starving, exhausted, and wanted to kick Darlene with the pointiest stiletto in Ruthie's collection. She regretted that Ruthie hadn't called in steel-toed work boots.

"Darlene, don't even think about it," Magnolia said. "This shoot is over."

Chapter 1 7.

Too Much Information.

Several workdays later, at 6:45, Magnolia was relieved to see that Ruthie was still working with her a.s.sistant to account for the clothing from the Bebe shoot which needed to be returned "Ready for an intervention?" she said.

"Big date?" Ruthie asked with a smile, looking unwilted, even at the end of the day, in a vanilla skirt and s.h.i.+rt and pale stilettos. Her straight, s.h.i.+ny black hair framed her dark almond eyes. She looked like a fas.h.i.+on editor doll.

"I wish," Magnolia replied. "No, it's a black tie, last minute, Wal dorf h.e.l.l."

Every year Scary bought tables at the Bowel Bash, a favorite char ity of the older Scary brother, the skinny one with irritable bowel syndrome. Bebe and Darlene were tapped to represent Bebe. At 6:30, however, Felicity sent word that Bebe was "indisposed"-taping her TV show, Magnolia was to believe. She would be pressed into action to replace her.

Usually, dressy events were excuses for Magnolia to wear real jew elry. Maybe her sapphire chandelier earrings, her parents' gift for her thirtieth birthday. Or she might borrow one of Abbey's pieces, like the coral and black jet Maltese cross from her short-lived Frida Kahlo period. But today there would be no time for a trip home to root around her jewelry box, hidden underneath the heating pad. There would barely be time to see if Ruthie could lend her more appropriate clothes and shoes than today's plaid jacket; stretchy, b.u.t.t-forgiving Capris, and flats. Magnolia blinked away an image of her Chanel sample sale dress sadly awaiting bright lights in the big city. The dress would have to wait a little longer.

By standards of a legitimate fas.h.i.+on magazine, the Bebe fas.h.i.+on closet-an uncarpeted s.p.a.ce roughly twenty-by-twenty, lit by fluo rescent lights-was touching. To an innocent female bystander, though, it was paradise. Shoes and boots filled shelves along every wall. Belts, hats, and scarves dangled from pegs. Hosiery and socks were arranged in drawers along with jewelry, sorted like fis.h.i.+ng tackle.

In the middle of the room stood racks of clothing. Here was the coat that had to be purchased because a model's cigarette burned a hole in the sleeve. There was the baby blue halter the talk show host demanded because it matched her eyes, then refused to wear because it exposed her ham-shaped arms. In a corner was the complete Target line Isaac Mizrahi had sent one Friday afternoon with a challah and a note that began, "Good Shabbas, Magnolia bubbe."

A fas.h.i.+on closet was one of those giddy ties to glamour taken advantage of by even the lowest of the low on the editorial masthead.

If an editor needed to replace rain-soaked shoes or swap her turtle neck with a clingy Hoorywood top for a last-minute date, Ruthie and her team always obliged. Like now.

Right now, however, Ruthie was fixated on Magnolia's hair. "Let's not talk about it, okay?" Magnolia said. This morning she'd forgone a shampoo, and tied her hair into a ponytail, which now hung like a small dead rodent waiting for the taxidermist.

Ruthie shrugged and ducked behind a rack. She quickly emerged and offered Magnolia a clingy black panther of an Armani dress.

Magnolia scowled and stuck out her rear end. "I'm not nearly skinny enough for that."

Ruthie nodded and returned with a black printed chiffon gown encrusted with beads. Magnolia stripped to her underwear and pulled the dress over her head. The bell sleeves hung below her hands. She was Morticia in a muumuu.

"Off, off," Ruthie shrieked and disappeared again, mumbling something about Valentino. The name warmed Magnolia's heart, until she saw a ruffled purple leopard gown in silk georgette. Obvi ously, even Valentino had an off day.

"Please, anything but leopard," Magnolia said, politely ignoring the gown's other faults.

"Even with this to cover it up?" Ruthie held out a gray fox stole.

"Ruthie, I'm not accepting an Academy Award."

"Got it," Ruthie said. "Glitz-lite."

"And forget about decollete," Magnolia called out as Ruthie for aged further. "Tonight's about gastroenterology, not t.i.ts."

Time dribbled away as Ruthie pulled out clothes and shook her head. Finally, she emerged, bearing a pale pink sweater. Were it not for a diamante-jeweled neckline of the softest cashmere, it could have been sold at Old Navy. Magnolia loved it. She pulled on the sweater, which made her waist look tiny and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ample but not obscene.

"With this skirt," Ruthie insisted. The sequined scalloped skirt, in a darker pink, hit her legs right below the knee. The woman who stared back in the mirror reeked chic.

"Stick this on," Ruthie commanded. She handed Magnolia a white gold ring showcasing a hunk of lemon quartz the size of a cherry tomato. "And these for your ears."

Magnolia fingered the dangly spirals that Ruthie was now proffer ing. "Garnets?" Magnolia asked.

"Rubies," Ruthie answered.

"Not too much with the sweater? Don't want to look like a pet.i.t four."

"Trust me, you need to distract from the hair," Ruthie said as she handed Magnolia a small beige satin envelope bag.