Little Pink Slips Part 11

"You're right. They're fabulous. But shoes, Ruthie?" They both looked at the red flats she'd kicked off. Ruthie eyeballed the fas.h.i.+on closet's size nines and tens. Models might be skinny, but they were tall girls with enormous feet. Magno lia was a seven. "Here," she said, taking off her own bone Manolo pumps.

"You have saved my life, Ruthie Kim, and I will be forever grate ful," Magnolia said, slipping on the shoes, which were only a little snug. She gathered her work clothes and flats; dumped them back in her office; stuck her cell phone, twenty dollars, and a lipstick in the bag, and pinned her hair in a chignon with the help of an unidentifi able hair product she found lurking in her desk.

Five minutes later she was in the elevator. As was Natalie Simon.

"What's with the pink?" Natalie asked. "We're doing bowels, not breast cancer, right?"

"Cut me some slack here, Natalie," Magnolia said, wondering why a woman wearing the twin of the purple Valentino leopard dress she'd rejected fifteen minutes ago had the temerity to be critical.

"You know I'm kidding, Cookie," Natalie said. "You look adorable.

I'd like to rip that sweater off your back. Whose is it?"

"Honestly, haven't a clue," Magnolia answered, eager to change the subject. "What's going on?"

"Meaning to call you," Natalie said. "I just s.h.i.+pped our cover and I have you to thank."

"Why is that?"

"Sarah Jessica Parker," Natalie said. "Those pictures were knock outs. As soon as I saw them, I postponed Angelina Jolie. She scares the bejesus out of people anyway."

Corporately, of course, it made sense. In the boilerplate of the standard Scary contract, the company had paid for the shoot, not Lady, and the embargo extended for months, so it was too soon for the photographer to resell them. Why not let Dazzle run the pictures shot for Lady? Still, it stung. Just as a courtesy, Magnolia wished Natalie would have at least asked her if she took advantage of the photos- not that Magnolia owned them in any way beyond emotional.

"They've been lucky already," Natalie grinned. "Online tests pre dict that cover's going to blow out of the newsstand." Natalie Simon luck, Magnolia thought.

Natalie offered Magnolia a ride to the Waldorf, and the two chat ted about other things-whether it was true that Jock was doing it with Mitzi, Pippi's sister, and the p.i.s.sy e-mail they'd all got demand ing that each magazine cut back 20 percent on color Xeroxes.

By the time the two of them arrived at the hotel, most of the c.o.c.k tail hour had pa.s.sed. As they entered the room, Natalie got plucked off by a Brooks Brothers type who Magnolia suspected belonged to one of the three corporate boards on which Natalie sat. Magnolia scanned the sea of overdressed humanity but, since it wasn't an event exclusively for the magazine industry, she didn't recognize a soul. One short man on the arm of a tall, willowy woman looked familiar, but she couldn't place the face. Was he a friend's father? She started to walk in his direction, but when she got close, several people cut in front of her.

"Mr. Mayor, we're honored you could be here," they said.

Magnolia quickly reversed directions and grabbed a gla.s.s of cham pagne from the nearest waiter. And then she saw her publisher, who was eyeing her as if she'd come to the event dressed in sweats.

"Magnolia, only you could wear that!" Darlene said. "Interesting hair." Even in the din of the crowded reception room, Darlene's voice could be plainly heard. "Great that you're here-there's someone I want you to meet," she added, pulling Magnolia into a three-minute sales call to a pharmaceutical advertiser. "Of course, our readers would be interested in a new drug for premature e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n," Darlene insisted. But before the startled client had a chance to respond, the lights blinked. Time to take their seats in the grand ballroom.

Magnolia looked for her place card, a touch Elizabeth Lester Duvall always engineered; if she could help it-nothing in the Scary domain was ever left to chance. When Magnolia arrived at her table, however, she had the distinct feeling that the seating arrangement had been reshuffled. Surely Bebe's seat, which she was filling, would have been next to Jock, or at least one of the Scarys. But, no, she was at the sec ond table. To her right was the chatty wife of the production director.

To her left was the number two guy in circulation, a pudgy, bow-tied fellow who she knew would be only too happy to offer a letter-by-let ter reprisal of his winning game at the regional Scrabble tournament.

Magnolia looked to the other table. There was Charlotte Stone, the publisher of Elegance, Natalie, Jock, Darlene, Elizabeth, the brothers, their matching blond wives, and the pharmaceutical executive. "Two bottles of champagne to start," she heard Jock say, snapping his fingers at the waiter.

Throughout the evening, Magnolia seethed about the Lady photos gone to Dazzle. This was just as well, because her rage kept her awake, which the evening's speakers might have failed to do. The waiters removed her tuna tartare before she'd finished it, and quickly replaced it with a leathery hunk of filet mignon.

"May I please have fish instead?" she asked.

"See what I can do," the waiter snarled. By the time he returned with a dry slab of salmon, the lights had gone dim for a fifteen minute film. She fidgeted in her seat. There could be no discreet escape hatch, not with Scary's table front and center in the ballroom.

Six speakers followed, as did the skinny Scary brother, who began handing out the annual Bowel Booster awards. Even an enormous serving of chocolate mousse in a bittersweet chocolate sh.e.l.l-an unfortunate choice, given the evening's theme-couldn't tempt Mag nolia to stick around. As soon as the third of five awards had been bestowed, she found her evening bag, stood up, and said to no one in particular at the table, "You've got to excuse me," she said. No one even looked up.

As she listened to Comedy Central an hour later, Magnolia carefully folded her borrowed clothes, removed her makeup, and laid out running clothes for the following day. She checked her office e-mail and answered the phone twice-a short call from Harry, who suggested she not get her knickers in a twist over the Natalie picture heist, then offered a long monologue on knickers in general, and Abbey, who patiently listened to an accounting of Magnolia's day.

Just as she was starting to set her alarm for 6:15 A.M., Magnolia heard the intercom. She thought her doorman might be saying, "Gentleman wants to see you." The building's system made the sub way's loudspeaker sound elegantly clear.

"What's his name?"

"Harry," the doorman said. At least she hoped that's what he'd said. Harry might have been in a cab on the way uptown when they spoke and had called on his cell, not his landline.

Was there time to switch into the new black camisole set nestled in her drawer? The thong had two tiny bows at the V above her b.u.t.t cheeks, which the top's matching bows marched down to meet. She tossed off her SpongeBob T-s.h.i.+rt and pulled on her new underwear just as she heard the knock.

"Be right there," she said, hoping the outfit would cause Harry to overlook her hair, which was not improved by the gel she'd used to cement it into a chignon.

"Can't wait to see you, gorgeous," Harry said. Only it wasn't Harry.

As the knocking got louder, Magnolia looked through the peephole.

"Magnolia, gorgeous, it's me. Open up."

There he was, catapulted from cybers.p.a.ce. "Tommy O'Toole, where the h.e.l.l have you been?" Magnolia screeched through the door.

"You've been AWOL for months, and Abbey's a twitching mess. And what in G.o.d's name are you doing here?"

Since their postbreakup tryst, Tommy had been communicating with Abbey, but only through e-mail. He'd last claimed to be in New Zealand, though for all Abbey knew, he'd been holed up at the Hotel Gansevoort in the meat-packing district.

"Gotta see you, Magnolia," he answered. "Give a guy a break.

Open up."

"One minute," Magnolia said. She put on her robe-her ratty one-and let him in. Tommy immediately pressed her to his chest and covered her mouth with his. Magnolia pulled away quickly but not before she smelled Scotch.

"Hey, Magnolia, you've never been such a tease," Tommy said.

"Come to Tommy boy. You know I've always thought you were hot."

He circled his arms around her again, then grabbed her wrists and planted her arms around his back, holding her tight. Magnolia couldn't escape his grip. His tongue probed her mouth.

"I want to see you naked, Magnolia," he whispered.

"Too much information, Tommy," Magnolia said, as he momentar ily relaxed and she was able to push him away.

"You smell good," he said, his blue eyes half-shut "You've got a beautiful shape. I've always thought of you as a fine wine."

A wine, she thought. I'm a wine? Did he think she was old ? Magnolia realized she didn't have time to a.n.a.lyze Tommy's train of thought. She just needed to get him to stop this horses.h.i.+t.

"I think about you all the time," he said. "At work, at the gym, when I'm with other women."

"You don't, Tommy," she yelled. "You're just drunk. My G.o.d, you're vile. And what are you doing with other women anyway? You're mar ried!" The loudness of Magnolia's voice appeared to penetrate his psyche. He sat down on the bench in her foyer, cradling his head in his hands. Biggie and Lola, awakened by the ruckus, circled around, barking.

"You've hijacked my heart, Magnolia."

"The hijacked organ is your brain, Tommy," Magnolia said from the other end of the foyer. "No, you have no brain. It's your p.r.i.c.k talk ing. And to think Abbey's been carrying on about you. She's down to ninety-eight pounds."

"My sweet Abbey," he said, as he started to whimper. "I love my little wife."

"Of course, you do, Tommy," Magnolia said. Maybe Tommy wasn't vile. Maybe he was just an idiot drunk. Abbey deserved better, of course, but he wasn't a total villain. Definitely not. Magnolia walked over to him and began to stroke his arm as if he were a child. "Now I'm going to make you some coffee, and then you're going to get out of here, go see Abbey, and figure out your life."

He looked up with tears in his eyes. "Magnolia, I love Abbey, but I love you, too. You're a wise, s.e.xy woman."

Magnolia pretended she didn't hear him. She walked into her kitchen, thinking how it would be at least ten minutes until the coffee would brew, and she would force Tommy to drink a cup and start to sober up. Then he'd leave, and she could fall into her bed.

Magnolia made the coffee, superstrong. "You're going home," she said, handing him a mug. "I'm going to take you down in the elevator myself." Just to make sure he didn't hang around the lobby like a lost shoe. She let him almost finish the coffee, then yanked his arm.

Tommy put down the mug, spilling coffee on her rug, and followed her out to the hallway. They stepped in the elevator, Tommy first.

The doors closed. Magnolia faced forward, pressed the b.u.t.ton, and started to tell Tommy they were both going to forget this ever hap pened. But when Magnolia turned, Tommy was at it again. He embraced her from behind, pressing his frame tightly against hers.

She tried to ignore the sensation of his well-muscled body close to her own. He had been going to the gym! Struggling to free herself from his embrace, she started to groan.

"Oh, Tommy," she said. "This is just too much."

She heard the elevator open, and sensed that someone was in the doorway. Let it be Manuel, the night doorman, she prayed, worried about her because a neighbor had reported a ruckus. Thank G.o.d she'd overtipped him last Christmas-and thrown in a Burberry scarf.

It was not, however, Manuel. When she twisted around and looked up, she could see the doorman at the far end of the lobby, and hear him laughing uproariously at a Spanish television program playing on the small set he hid behind the concierge's desk. But she knew the man waiting to get into the elevator, the man who'd taken in everything and was now observing Tommy wrapped around her like a tortilla.

It was Harry. "Well, Magnolia, aren't we the lady of the evening?"

he said.

"It's not how it looks, Harry," she said.

"It never is, luv," he snickered.

"Yeah, man," Tommy added, as he swayed to keep his balance.

Harry shook his head. On his forehead she noticed small beads of sweat. "Magnolia," he said, "you have really disappointed me. Did the last few weeks mean nothing to you?"

"Harry, this is Abbey's husband-" she started to say. "How does that make it better?" he said. "Whoring around with your friend's man?"

"You sc.u.mbag," Tommy said. "Don't insult Magnolia,"

Harry straightened his shoulders and turned. "Sod off, the both of you," he said as he stomped out of the building.

Chapter 1 8.

Mistress Tortured.

It was past midnight. Magnolia returned to her apartment and tried Harry's cell phone five times, hoping he'd turn it on.

He did not. She tried sleeping, unsuccessfully, and couldn't even take a sleeping pill, since she'd given her stash to Abbey. So she attempted to organize her closet, a task so tedious that whenever she started it, she fell into a coma.

Magnolia began with the suits, wondering if she should hang on to a gray pinstripe Max Mara, just right for the job she would never want or get at a Fortune 500 company.

"The suit stays-it cost over $2,000," argued one voice in her head-her mother's, to be exact.

"You haven't worn it in three years," the other voice answered.

"Dump it."

"It's a cla.s.sic," retorted Mom. "You can keep it forever!"

"What a crock" came the answer. "Cla.s.sics are cauliflower."

"Hang on to that suit-you might need it for a funeral."

She dropped Max Mara onto her chaise and walked into the bath room to draw a hot, sudsy bath. Just as she slid into the tub, the phone rang. She bolted upright, ran across her tile floor to the bedroom, and grabbed the receiver. "h.e.l.lo," she said, trying to disguise the fact that she was out of breath. She could hear loud, labored breathing on the other end. The phone display indicated a restricted number. "Who is this?" The creep clicked off. Magnolia gave up on her bath. She wrapped herself in a towel, lay down on her bed, and pulled the duvet to her chin. "This is not happening," she repeated.

The next thing she knew, she'd overslept for the day of Bebe's launch party. Magnolia checked her phone log. She'd managed to snooze through a second call, but again the number wasn't identified.

Tommy or Harry-which was worse?

Magnolia grabbed the garment bag of clothes she'd laid out the previous day for this evening and-lucky break-found a taxi to take her to work. Luck's a commodity I could use a little more of, she mut tered as she settled herself in the cab. Her cell phone rang. Let me not get hang-ups on this phone, too, she prayed. But the caller offered a cheery h.e.l.lo.

"Ready for the big freak show?" Abbey asked.

"Not my night," Magnolia answered. "I just need to show up and hope for a cataclysm. Any locusts coming our way? You'll be there tonight, right?"

"Well, the thing is, Mags, I'd love to-give you moral support and all-but something's come up, and, well, will you hate me if I miss the Bebelicious party of the year?"

"You won't be missing much. But what's up?" she asked, working to sound casual.

"Tommy," Abbey said.

"Oh, really? Tommy?"

"Magnolia, don't jive me. I know."

What did she know, and when did she know it?

"Yeah, I know," Abbey said. "And thanks, you're the most wonder ful friend."

Magnolia didn't know how to respond.

"You there?" Abbey said. "I know that you convinced Tommy to try and reconcile-he told me all about how you insisted he stop by my-make that our-apartment. He was here till two A.M., a perfect gentleman, full of unexpected insights. G.o.d, I forgot that's one of the things I love about that man." If Abbey were angry, she was disguis ing it with enormous bravado.