Little Pink Slips (17 page)

C h a p t e r 1 9

Not Great, Not Grateful

The Mandarin Oriental
was in a glitzy tower that in any other city would rightly be called a vertical mall. Bebe stood in

one of its ladies' rooms and twirled, showing off her new dress, which Magnolia recognized from
Harper's Bazaar.
"Magnolia, opinion!" she said. Magnolia remembered the "price available upon request" cap

tion, magazinespeak for "Don't even think about it." In the photo, the

ruffled pouf skirt and balloon sleeves made the model's waist even

waspier. But Bebe had no waist. She looked like a bundt cake.

"Magnolia?" Bebe repeated, and struggled to undo the tiny buttons

the designer had clearly intended to stay fastened up to the wearer's

neck. Apparently satisfied with her deep cleavage now on display,

Bebe smiled in a way Magnolia had never seen before. My God, she

thought. That smile isn't the least demonic. She's not slicing and dic

ing a soul in sight. If I'm reading her right—Bebe was now shifting

from side to side—Bebe Blake is anxious about her launch party and

she's insecure about the way she looks. The woman is human!

But she stayed that way only for a second.

"I look fabulous," Bebe declared. "Felicity, have I ever looked bet

ter?" She turned to Felicity, who was perched on the ledge of a marble sink. She was trying to attach a brooch to her suit, whose skirt and

jacket had rhinestones the size of thumbtacks circling the cuffs and

hem like neon bulbs announcing a Times Square attraction.

"Beebsy, you are ravishing, and Magnolia—" Felicity said, talking

to Magnolia's reflection in the mirror while she applied coral lipstick,

"—you look sweet."

Weeks before, Magnolia entrusted herself to Ruthie and Elizabeth

for tonight's styling. "Not too showy," Elizabeth insisted. 'Cause it

wasn't Magnolia's show. For the occasion, Elizabeth was wearing a

simple gray suit that matched her hair. For Magnolia, Ruthie had

come up with an homage to Twiggy—a short, black mink pullover;

tight, cropped pants; and black kitten heels. A shame the getup had to

be returned the following day, because Magnolia thought she looked

quite the minx. A perspiring minx, however. There didn't seem to be

air-conditioning on at the hotel. It was October but unusually hot.

"Thanks, Felicity," Magnolia said. She was saved from returning the

compliment by Elizabeth's charging into the bathroom with Darlene,

whose look for the party recalled Pocahontas. She wore a rust-colored,

shearling-lined coat. On her feet were snakeskin sandals whose heavy

soles made Darlene appear to be walking with snowshoes.

"Darlene's finished with hair and makeup and they're ready for

you two, Bebe and Felicity," Elizabeth barked. "Magnolia, come back

in forty-five minutes."

   Magnolia walked to the lobby outside the ballroom. On an ebony grand piano, red roses spelled out the
Bebe
logo in an arrangement that might well have been sent by Staten Island's leading crime fam

ily. She peeked inside the ballroom. A caterer's assistant was construct

ing a tower of glazed doughnuts. "One, two three, testing," blasted

through the empty room, as the sound crew checked the mikes, while

in the back of the room a DJ who called himself Slow Mo—he ruled

Williamsburg—was setting up equipment.

"Smile, Foxy," Slow Mo shouted, taking off his earphones. "Life

can't be that bad."

Magnolia shot him a grin. "What's this party for?" Slow Mo asked. He was in his late twenties,

had wavy auburn hair, a closely trimmed beard, and a high-voltage

smile.

"Just a bunch of magazine people pigging out on free food," Mag

nolia shouted back.

"No dancing?" Mo said. "You're breaking my heart, Foxy."

Magnolia considered continuing the volley. She'd dated younger,

a run of T-shirt designers, aspiring filmmakers, and so many law stu

dents she could pass Contracts. But now? She was in a mature relation

ship. Or was she? Her life was messy enough, she decided, with no Mo.

She waved him good-bye, exited the ballroom, and walked down the

winding stairway to the blissfully cool lounge on the thirty-fifth floor.

Magnolia settled herself in a buttery leather armchair and took in

the Central Park view. Location, location—that was the point of this

hotel. Autumn leaves clung to the trees in a medley more opulent

than anything the Mandarin Oriental's decorators had imagined. I

should be happy to be here, she thought, as she began to sip her martini. Grateful. I could still be writing obits for the Fargo
Forum,
spending my days on the phone to funeral directors.

She was feeling her drink's first tingle of relaxation when she over

heard familiar voices. Magnolia turned. Across the room, Jock and

Darlene had their heads close and appeared to be making a toast.

"Magnolia" was all she could pick up of their conversation. There

was no way to leave without passing them. She paid her tab, and

walked toward the lounge's entrance, hoping Jock and Darlene were

too involved to notice her.

"Ms. Gold," Jock called out. "Magnolia. We were just saying how

this night would never be happening without you."

Right, Magnolia thought. And I am Jackie Onassis's love child.

"You look fabulous, Mags," Darlene said. "Love the fur."

More fabulous than I looked twenty-five minutes ago when you

saw me and didn't say a word, Magnolia wondered? "You flatterers,"

Magnolia said. "Thanks, guys, but you'll have to excuse me."

"No time for a cocktail?" Jock asked.

"Hair," Magnolia tugged a few locks. "And makeup. Elizabeth will kill me if I blow it off." She bolted to the elevator and rode to the

ground floor. Breathing heavily, Magnolia walked outside and ducked

into Pink, the shirt shop, simply because it was nearly empty.

"May I help you?" said a salesgirl.

If only you could, Magnolia thought. If she were being honest—

which in regard to her mental health Magnolia often viewed as an

overrated policy—she had to admit that until tonight she hadn't real

ized how depleted she'd become by the last few weeks. Bebe! Let her

jump out a window. With Jock. And forget grateful. In her heart,

Magnolia knew what she really wanted was to be great. All-on-her

own, sweat-equity, toast-of-the-town, Englishman-optional great.

She walked out of the store. Dusk was falling. Soon klieg lights

would be shooting a loop of comets into the Manhattan sky, and a

thousand of Bebe's nearest and dearest would descend from limos and

walk the red carpet past flashing cameras into the hotel.

Magnolia rode back up to thirty-six. Elizabeth was pacing.

"Magnolia," Elizabeth said briskly, her face flushed and her silver

crew cut as motionless as ever, "Alessandro and Akiko are waiting. You

don't want to grace that stage all mousy and shiny."

Elizabeth directed Magnolia to the hair and makeup station, where

Akiko was powdering Bebe's face with a big, pink poof. Alessandro

looked on, horrified, while Felicity bombed her hair with spray. Bebe

and Felicity left the room, and twenty minutes later, Magnolia had

been buffed to a gloss.

She walked into the ballroom, which was filling rapidly each time

the elevators opened. Waiters circulated with dark red drinks, heavy

on the pomegranate juice, which they were forced to call Bebepoli

tans. There hadn't been a major magazine launch party for at least two

years, and tonight's invitation, which arrived in a red leather, leopard

lined box, turned out to be as coveted as a ticket to next week's Yan

kee-Red Sox series. Bebe, Felicity, and Elizabeth had spent weeks

planning the party, including a forty-eight-hour standoff until Bebe

abandoned the idea of a stripper pole. Only when Magnolia saw the

list of the final invitees two weeks before, did she get a chance to open

her mouth. "You forgot to invite the staff," Magnolia pointed out.

"The whole staff ?" Bebe hooted. "I don't even know most of them."

"Bebe, they made the magazine," Magnolia pointed out. "And it's

just forty people."

"Forty people! What do they all do, forty people?"

"Now that I think of it, closer to seventy-five with sales and mar

keting," Magnolia added. "It's only fair." She heard herself whine ever so slightly. "You're inviting your whole staff for
The Bebe Show.
" She decided not to bring up the fact that Bebe's maid, driver, herbalist,

veterinarian, cook, tarot card reader, and broker also made the cut.

"Okay, no squabbles." Elizabeth said. "We'll squeeze in the staff.

But no dates."

"Fair enough," Magnolia agreed.

"Except Magnolia's hottie," Bebe said. "We need guy candy."

Tonight, as she began to roam the room, Magnolia realized that on

that count Bebe had been correct—available heterosexual males were

in seriously short supply. It was a sad day when Mike McCourt from the
Post w
as one of the hotties. He was walking toward her now. "What do you think of the new issue?" As Mike took a gulp of his

drink, a drizzle of red slid down the lapel of his tan corduroy jacket. "Is
Bebe
going to march toward world domination?"

"What do you think?" Magnolia responded, kissing him on the

cheek. "Oh, that's right. You won't see the magazine until you leave."
Bebe'
s premiere issue would be handed out with tonight's goody bags. "You're not sounding over the moon," Mike said. "Shall I take your

tone as a critique?"

"Critique-wise . . ." Magnolia cleared her throat. Elizabeth had re

hearsed her, knowing she'd be questioned again and again at the party. "I think we've done a superb job of defining
Bebe'
s unique perspective."

   "Magnolia, you're talking to me," Mike said. "
En inglés.
"

   "It's . . . interesting." Magnolia gave Mike a little smile.

"What does Miss Understatement think is 'interesting' about it?"

"You'll see," Magnolia said. "I'd love to schmooze, Mike, but I

think I see Darlene," she added as the crowd thickened. Darlene

would be one of the last people she'd want to hang out with tonight, but she didn't trust herself to play at pro level this evening, and she'd

be damned if Mike would corner her into a quote she'd regret. She

found Fredericka instead.

"I rode up vith Paris Hilton!" Fredericka said. "And isn't that Rosie

O'Donnell? Are she and Bebe bosom buddies?"

"Maybe Rosie's her hair and wardrobe consultant."

"This is the oddest crowd," Fredericka said. "That's Bruce Villis,

talking to Samuel L. Jackson, no? And that little person? Danny

DeVito in drag?"

"Dr. Ruth."

"I think I'll introduce myself to Lindsay Lohan," Fredericka said,

and walked off.

   Magnolia took stock of her conversational options. The
WWD
reporter circled Bebe, who was draped over Jock. Two major players

from Lancôme had caught up with Felicity. Some car magnates flown

in from Detroit eyeballed the girls from the art department. Natalie

Simon was chatting with Charlotte Stone. Magnolia made the round

with each group. An hour later, hoarse from shrieking over Slow Mo's

earsplitting sound, she gravitated toward a group from her staff as if

it were running a halfway house.

"To our queen in exile," said Cameron, lifting a glass. "Long may