Little Pink Slips Part 7

"That Justin-he's a dog." Now Mike McCourt, the genial reporter from the Post, had joined their circle. Everybody liked Mike, but you didn't need a Sergeant Elizabeth to tell you to close down when he accosted you at an event or surprised you with a call. You could count on Mike for being relaxed with the facts. Then again, he could be use ful. At least one editor had incorporated him into her long-term strat egy. She was widely known for leaving him messages indicating that she was rumored to be up for absolutely every job-generally, when she wasn't-hoping Mike would print the tip. Mike, with a daily column to fill, happily obliged. As a result, the untrained reader a.s.sessed her as a hot magazine stock. "When will we be getting the pleasure of your star's company?"

Mike asked. "Her helicopter still circling?" The speeches were sup posed to start ten minutes earlier.

"Patience, ya'all," Elizabeth drawled, her Mississippi accent conve niently restored. "Talk amongst yourselves." She pushed Magnolia toward the dais, positioning her to the right of the podium.

Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. No sign of Bebe. Ten more minutes. Above the rumble in the room, Magnolia heard a stir. Darlene, looking like a Girl Scout leader, led the pack in a sleeveless safari-style sheath, not afraid to expose her meaty arms. Felicity followed in a mumsy pantsuit and clunky, gold-trimmed shoes. The two of them placed themselves to the left of the podium and began whispering.

And then she entered, on Jock's arm. In a bow to her vision of a working editor, Bebe wore red Harlequin gla.s.ses trimmed with rhine stones. On her right, middle finger she flashed an emerald-cut diamond the size of a sugar cube.

"First, there was Martha." Jock began, in his deep, sonorous tones.

"Then there was Oprah. Now Scarborough Magazines proudly pres ents Bebe Blake, the country's most mult.i.talented celebrity and a pas sionate devotee to causes that interest women everywhere."

Magnolia adjusted her face to a few notches above blase but com fortably below bootlicking.

"And here she is, Bebe Blake," Jock said with a flourish. The room, filled with at least eighty reporters and photographers, thundered with applause. Bebe exploded onto the podium.

"Can't you give these guys some booze?" she yelled. "Jock, you cheapskate, this is an occasion, for G.o.d's sake."

Jock, standing behind Bebe, looked paralyzed, then switched on a big guffaw and matching grin. Magnolia checked out Elizabeth hov ering near the wall. Anyone who worked at Scary knew she became homicidal if an employee strayed off script. Elizabeth looked as if she might shoot a Howitzer at Bebe any second now.

"Okay, okay," Bebe continued, beaming a wide, engaging smile. "I get it. We have to sell some magazines and then we get to drink. Well, gang, that's what we're going to do. Sell mags. More women are going to buy Bebe than buy maxipads. Why? Because Bebe's going to be fun. Fart-out-loud fun."

The crowd roared.

"It's going to be pee-in-your-pants fun. It's going to be fun, fun, fun till Daddy-takes-the-T-Bird-away fun. It's going to be all the things I stand for. Darlene Knudson-she's my publisher-can attest to that.

I'm told that woman could sell a page of advertising to the pope."

Bebe blew a kiss to Darlene, who shouted "thank you" in her no amplification-required voice, and then to the audience, and they all blew kisses back.

Darlene joined Bebe and blathered on about what a great opportunity Bebe would be for every product in America to reach its target audience, although she didn't declare who, exactly, that would be.

Magnolia looked out to the crowd. She expected one of the reporters to start asking hard questions. "What do you stand for, Bebe?" "Why do we need your magazine?" And even if she'd wince at the answer, Magnolia wanted someone to press Bebe, or Jock, or at least Darlene, on why Lady was being abandoned, just so she could hear the creativity of the answer. But the usually brutal crowd demurred. To Magnolia's horror, she realized they adored Bebe, and were awestruck to be close enough to an authentic celebrity to feel her spit on their faces.

"Ever since I was a kid, I've been into magazines," Bebe was saying, and-dammit, Magnolia thought-it sounded genuine. "My dad's Playboy, my mother's National Enquirer-I've loved 'em all. But regular, old women's magazines-"

As Bebe continued, Magnolia heard a cell phone ring. Once, twice, three times. The noise sounded as loud as a car alarm. Elizabeth glared.

Bebe stopped talking. Magnolia couldn't understand why everyone was looking at her. It took until the fifth ring for Magnolia to realize the phone was in her bag, which she'd plunked behind her.

"Mag-knowl-ya, answer the d.a.m.n phone," Bebe demanded, with a big grin. "You all know Mags, right? I love that gal and she's quite the looker. She's going to be my deputy. Which I guess makes me the sheriff."

"Magnolia, who is it?" shouted Justin from BusinessWeek.

Magnolia grabbed her bag-happy that she'd switched to the Chanel-and quickly turned off the cell. But not before she saw the number.

"Conde Nast on the line?" Mike McCourt asked. "Your lawyer maybe?"

"Justin, Mike, you'll be happy to know it's my boyfriend," Magnolia shouted with what she hoped was an adorable smile. "Excuse me, everyone."

"Who's the cutie?" Bebe asked? "The guy I met Sat.u.r.day night?"

Elizabeth walked to the podium, shooting Jock a look that implored him to take charge now. Jock grabbed the mike. It took another minute for the bedlam in the room to subside.

"Time for all of you to see Bebe, our new baby." He yanked the cord on a silky curtain and revealed the cover of an eight-foot maga zine featuring a life-size photo of Bebe, her arms stretched forward as if she were going to perform a kung fu move. She was wearing a halter top and a rose in her hair. The background color was red, the logo gold.

"How ya like it, guys?" Bebe said. "I want you to know that's one hundred percent G.o.d-given cleavage. I am not an implant gal." She stood back and mimicked the cover.

"Or do you like it better this way?" She struck a different pose. "Or like this?" Bebe began to dance, first alone, then with Felicity, Jock, and Darlene, and finally with Magnolia. The podium became a hoedown.

Bulbs began to flash as Elizabeth supervised various constellations for photo ops-Bebe and Jock, Bebe and Darlene, a large group shot that included Magnolia, then Bebe posing one by one with many of the reporters. The members of the feared Manhattan press corps were probably going to each ask for Bebe's autograph, Magnolia thought.

No one paid attention to Magnolia as she peeled away to play back her voice message and return Sub-Zero's call.

"Harry, it's about time you called," she said. She failed to sound angry.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, Magnolia, luv. I am a bad boy, but I was trying to think of the right words, and I'm never very good with that. But enough about me," he said. "You poor chickadee." "What's this about you missing me?" Magnolia asked.

"What can I say? We English like a woman who appreciates a good, juicy chop," he said. "Oh, and I like your b.u.m."

"I like yours more."

"I need to rescue you from this h.e.l.l you seem to have fallen into, don't I?"

"I'm not saying no."

"Can I talk you into dinner Sat.u.r.day? Please tell me you're not one of those women with a tattered copy of The Rules next to her bed, who needs weeks of notice."

"I hardly have any rules at all," she admitted.

"Lovely. A woman with no scruples is the one for me. So, eight.

Pick you up. I have just the place."

"Where?"

"Surprise."

"Date."

Date. Magnolia liked the retro ring of it. She popped her cell back in her bag and returned to the reception. Jock was giving sound bites to Mike. Darlene had snagged the WWD guy. Elizabeth was steering Felicity away from the New York Times reporter.

As Magnolia scanned the room, she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned.

"Nice touch, Gold," Bebe said, embracing her. "Loved the cell phone bit. Priceless. Got to admit, I never thought you had it in you, upstaging me and all. G.o.d knows, I respect a worthy adversary." She shook her head in admiration and held on to Magnolia's arm, in a best-girlfriends way. Then she gave Magnolia's arm an affectionate squeeze. "Are you ready to rock and roll?"

"I'm ready if you're ready," Magnolia said, wis.h.i.+ng she actually had been crafty enough to have planned the mishap.

Chapter 1 3.

Extra Virgin.

Waiting for their manicurists, Abbey and Magnolia huddled on a black leather love seat, heads down, hooting at movie star photographs in Dazzle's "What Were They Thinking?" section. "Will you promise to stage an intervention if I ever buy anything this short?" Magnolia asked. "The statute of limitations for wearing skirts like this is just about over for me."

"The thing about age-appropriate dressing is that the rules keep changing," Abbey said.

Magnolia hoped she'd evolve into a wiser version of herself and that woman would want a wardrobe she couldn't even imagine right now. She closed the magazine, and focused on Abbey, who had the look she got when she wanted to spill a secret.

"What is it?" Magnolia asked.

"Tommy and I had ex-s.e.x last night," Abbey announced, as seri ously as if she'd disclosed that she'd fornicated with a beagle.

"It's not technically s.e.x-with-an-ex," Magnolia pointed out. "But give me the goods."

"We've been e-mailing and text messaging," Abbey said, moving over to her manicurist who, today, was Lily Kim. "Stay away from that man." Lily had joined the conversation. "Bad, very bad." With her normal efficiency, Lily began to file Abbey's nails square and short, which made her hardworking jeweler's hands look even more like tiny paws.

"I couldn't turn him away. He wanted to stop by and talk."

"Run that conversation by us," Magnolia said, sliding into the chair next to her. She immersed her fingers in the china bowl her manicurist presented before her. As Abbey continued to speak, Mag nolia closed her eyes and let the warm, jasmine-scented water wash away the last few days.

"First we went to dinner at Balthazar, and you know how much I love it," Abbey started. "We'd gone there for our last anniversary."

When you fought about the gift you received, Magnolia recalled.

"Dinner turned into coffee back at the apartment," Abbey said.

"Did he seem mildly contrite?" Magnolia asked. "Deeply apolo getic? Fraught with anguish?"

"No, no, and yes." Abbey said. " 'Disabled' was how he put it,"

"Well, we all want to embrace diversity," Magnolia said, striving for funny and realizing she'd failed. "How did the conversation go?"

"Quickly, with a trail of clothes to our bedroom," Abbey reported.

"s.e.x was never the problem. It was almost like the first time."

Magnolia thought back to her own first time, which had been fast but worth the wait. Reverend Peterson's Pontiac after the prom. She and Tyler Peterson, the preacher's son, had dated for two years. Soon she'd leave for Michigan and he to St. Olaf, where bright Lutheran boys with good baritones go. During the summer he'd be in Montana, working cattle or whatever you did with cows. The end was closing in on them- graduation, college, another life. The nightly phone calls and Sat.u.r.day movie dates would be fading to black. They both knew it and never dis cussed it. Tyler couldn't imagine he'd ever again meet a girl as full of dreams as Maggie Goldfarb and she, a sweeter guy-or better-looking.

The Norse G.o.ds had kicked in, and Tyler had shot up to well over six feet.

"Magnolia, are you with me?" Abbey asked.

"I'm listening to every word," she said. "Does this mean you guys are back on track?" "Hardly. Even when we were kissing, I knew it was a mistake.

Not the kissing-he can still speak in tongues-but change is not in Tommy's vocabulary. Talk about fraught, though. I was definitely fraught. With l.u.s.t fraught. Incredible night."

"And the morning?" Magnolia asked. She believed in the revealing powers of mornings after.

"There was no morning," Abbey answered, shrugging. "I asked him to leave at around four A.M." She drew her hands away from Lily and turned toward Magnolia. "Tommy's always going to be a baby.

Who can wait for him to grow up?"

"How do you feel?" Like backup singers in a Motown group, Lily and Magnolia begged the question in unison, giving the last word emphasis.

"Sad. Resigned. Pretty sure it's the end."

Magnolia wished Abbey could be happier-she deserved to be hap pier-but her a.s.sessment of Tommy was dead-on accurate. "You're tough," Magnolia said. "You'll get through this. I'll help you. Do some thing today that will make you smile."

"Such as?"

"Hmm . . ." Magnolia said. "Make dessert lunch?"

"Pecan pie and cheesecake," Abbey said. "And buy s.l.u.tty underwear."

"That's a start," Magnolia said.

"Pick different polish," Lily insisted. "Your nails have been Dead Red since 1999."

The three of them deliberated over Lily's newest choices. Abbey chose Kinki in Helsinki. Magnolia considered Chocolate Moose, but decided it would make her fingers look as if she'd been digging for worms. Pink Slip? Definitely bad karma. She settled for Jewel of India, a shade the red of s.h.i.+raz. Magnolia guessed she could live with it for a week, and if things didn't work out at Bebe, perhaps she'd get a job naming cosmetics. Or erectile dysfunction drugs.

Kinki in Helsinki and Jewel of India progressed to the nail dryers.

"Give me your world news of the week," Abbey said. Magnolia hit the high notes, compressing Bebe, the new office, and her cosmic panic to a chunk of conversation that she felt came across with minimal self-pity and admirable cheer. Magnolia wasn't up to a.n.a.lysis. She wanted only to coax herself into the right mood for tonight.

"All I'm thinking about now is Sub-Zero," she said, knowing Abbey would see through her fiction but wouldn't press.

After lunch, Magnolia took a nap and didn't dream of Bebe, Jock, or Darlene, just a long riff involving Jude Law and chocolate.

She awoke refreshed, and dressed quickly. Magnolia had insisted to Harry-who lived in the Village, as did most ex-pat media Brits-that he didn't have to pick her up just to drive her back downtown for din ner. Women who played the high maintenance game infuriated her.

On the cab ride downtown, she ruminated on how second dates were loaded, especially when Date One lasted for eighteen hours and ended with a tasting menu of I'd-forgotten-how-this-feels s.e.x. Would the two of them fumble for conversation-the bioethics of lobster boiling, perhaps? Magnolia often wondered why couples in long rela tions.h.i.+ps didn't run out of chat but then considered her own parents.

After thirty-eight years of marriage, Fran and Eliot Goldfarb never failed to find something about which they didn't agree; conversation thus wasn't a problem.

Just this morning, when they called her-as they did every Satur day morning on the dot of ten-Magnolia's father thought he had the sure cure for her work-related problems. "Quit and move out here to Southern California," he said. "I don't know why anyone in their right mind would put up with New York."

"But, Eliot," her mother interrupted, "Magnolia is a magazine edi tor and New York is where all the magazines are. That's why she moved there. Am I right, Maggie, honey?"

"Right, Mom," she said.

"Now tell me about Bebe," she said. "I've read that her last hus band was ten years younger and she had to pay him a fortune after they divorced? Is that true?"