Little Pink Slips (11 page)

clearly had always been in charge of her changes.

C h a p t e r 1 2

Bushwhacking at the Pierre

Magnolia knew she had talent.
That, and the pluck common to those who hail from the middle of nowhere, who realize

that if they want to succeed in a more stylish time zone, they must

learn early the value of hard work. Her ability to toil like an inden

tured servant was, Magnolia thought, one quality that might set her

apart from editors who came from more privileged backgrounds. But

was it true that she never doubted herself ? Every editor Magnolia

knew possessed some measure of self-doubt, even the prep-school

princesses and Ivy grads.

At thirty-seven, had she already redeemed her quota of hit-the

jackpot coupons? Her cynical side understood that she and all the

other top names on an editorial masthead owed their job security to

serendipity. Only deluded egomaniacs—and Magnolia had a few of

them on speed dial—convinced themselves that talent alone truly

engineered big breaks and continued success.

The hiring gods giveth, but they also taketh away. Today was one

of those away days. When you might least expect it, you're heading

off to the Pierre to watch a celebrity begin the public tango of let's

pretend-I'm-an-editor, while you try on the unfamiliar role of wall

flower. Magnolia dressed in the suit Natalie had suggested. She unearthed

her Chanel sample-sale handbag, and hoped no one thought she'd

scored it at the Chinatown spider hole that her assistant Sasha swore

by for dead-on knockoffs. She sat silently through her blowout. After

ward, she stopped at Tiffany's and sent out an Elsa Peretti baby spoon

to her college roommate's infant daughter. It was only June, and the

sixth baby present she'd given this year, three to little girls named

Isabelle. She arrived at work around 11:30, knowing her presence, just

now, made everyone around her twitch with discomfort.

At 1:30, Elizabeth Lester Duvall, sunlight bouncing off her silver

head, peered through the glass wall of Magnolia's new office,

mouthing, "Time to go." The limo ride to the Pierre gave Elizabeth

ample opportunity to bark a few more orders.

   "If you're asked about
Lady,
defer to me," she said.

   "Got it," Magnolia answered.

"When Bebe enters the stage, stand up, so everyone will do the

same."

"I hear you."

"Make sure your hair isn't in your eyes," she said. That wouldn't be a

problem for Elizabeth, since her hair literally stood on end. "And smile!"

Elizabeth continued, grinning at Magnolia just in case she'd forgotten

what that facial expression looked like. "It's going to be great."

Why the president hadn't put Elizabeth in charge of FEMA, Mag

nolia didn't know. No man-made crisis or natural disaster was beyond

her range. In the time it took Elizabeth to call Jock and review a few

more strategic details, she and Magnolia arrived at the Pierre.

The very fifth-arrondissment Pierre had always been Magnolia's

favorite Manhattan hotel. Whenever she walked through its hushed

lobby, a study in almost faded elegance, she looked forward to making

a turn into the blue oval salon with its cloud-covered ceiling. She pic

tured herself in a simple satin wedding dress, climbing the marble

stairs to meet her bridegroom in the ballroom a short flight up.

Unfortunately, the anteroom to the ballroom was the very space that

Elizabeth had commandeered for today's press conference. Magnolia

stepped into the room. Apparently oblivious to the charms of its gray stone trompe l'oeil walls, which created the effect of a classical piazza,

reporters were stuffing their faces with the pastry, cheese, and fruit

the covey felt was their due. Magnolia realized that, from now on, the

Pierre would be forever linked with Bebe. She'd need to manufacture

a new dream.

   "What's the deal, Maggie?" shouted Justin Fink from
BusinessWeek. "
Are we sitting shiva for
Lady
?"

She walked over to Justin. Despite his downtown affectation—geeky

black glasses, thrift shop shirts, and Puma sneakers—she knew him as

one of the sharper press journalists. At least he had a memory extend

ing back further than a year. Magnolia swallowed hard, and greeted

him with a friendly peck on the cheek.

   "
Lady'
s moving over for the next big thing, Justin. You'll see."

   "But why?" Justin asked with a wide smile. "It doesn't compute,

unless Scary's been putting out bogus circulation numbers. You guys

selling half of what you claim? Any comment?"

"Justin, are you delusional?"

"A little off-the-record, Magnolia, just for me, your favorite reporter?"

Already, he'd bushwhacked into feral territory. From across the

room, Elizabeth spotted them chatting, causing Magnolia to wonder

whether she hadn't secretly been fitted with a house-arrest ankle

bracelet. "Justin!" Elizabeth said, separating them with her skinny

shoulder blades. "Patience, honey. You know better than to give our

Magnolia the third degree. Bebe Blake will explain it all."

   "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 assessed 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 passed. 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 glasses 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 multitalented celebrity and a pas

sionate devotee to causes that interest women everywhere."

Magnolia adjusted her face to a few notches above blasé 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 God'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 w
as 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, m
y 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 damn 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.

"Condé 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 Saturday 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