Little Pink Slips (19 page)

She had to agree, as she twisted the silver and gold bracelet to catch

the foyer's dim light. But the ad called "Magnolia" a cuff. If she

accepted this gift, she'd be shackling herself to a relationship she knew in her gut would never be right. Maybe she was having a
Blink
moment she'd later regret, but she didn't want this gift, not from

Harry. As he took her wrist, she pulled back and stood up. "Really, thank you so much," she said, removing the cuff. "It's a

hugely extravagant present. But I don't think so, Harry." Magnolia

began to choke up.

He looked at her. A tear fell on the sleeve of her silk pajamas. "I

know I've acted like a fool, Magnolia," he said. "But let's just forget

about that." He stepped forward.

She raised one palm to block him.

"Let's talk about it," he said. "I'm willing to overlook all that busi

ness with Tommy."

"There's nothing to say, Harry. Except that it just doesn't feel right.

Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be. I've had my sea

son's fill of scenes." Magnolia carefully placed the bracelet in the felt

bag, the box, and then the bag. "We're finished."

"I'd like to know where I've gone so terribly wrong, Magnolia?"

"Let's see," she said. "Talk about blame the victim—you made me

feel like a hooker when my friend's husband came on to me. You

wouldn't see reason when I tried to explain. You started carrying on in front of my boss and publisher at
Bebe'
s party and I see how you look at other women. But a lot of it's me. With Bebe at the magazine, I'm

stepping around land mines every day—I'm not going to make any

man very happy right now."

As she said it, she knew she and Harry were just a miniseries, not a

hit that would go into eternal syndication. "Harry, I like you." She

decided not to admit that even a week ago, she thought "love" might

be a more apt word. "But I'm getting too old to be in relationships

that I know won't work."

"I see," he said. "I suppose this is some sort of womanly coming-of

age rite." He snickered and picked up his coat from the bench.

Magnolia handed him the bag.

"You know, I thought Englishwomen were batty. But you Ameri

cans are nuts."

For several minutes after Harry closed the door behind him, Mag

nolia was still standing in the same spot, feeling the special burn

fueled by disappointment. She'd like to have a man in her life, prefer ably
the
man. But at least she was smart enough not to trick herself into staying with the wrong one.

Where was I, she thought. Ah, on the way to the kitchen. But noth

ing now seemed less appealing than leftover cake. She returned to her

chair, threw another log on the fire, and stared at the flames. Lola

brought over her squeaky mouse, which Magnolia threw across the

room. The dog scampered off and settled down for a good long chew.

Magnolia reopened her book and read the first page three times. She

couldn't remember a word.

The phone rang. Magnolia welcomed the intrusion.

"Gold!" Bebe said. "Could you be any harder to get hold of ? Why

didn't you call me back? I said it was important."

"That you did, Bebe," Magnolia said, subdued. "I'm so sorry. Did

you want to change a line on the cover again? Can you hang on a

minute? My files are in the other room."

"Don't be an ass. It's not the magazine."

"Oh?"

"It's a delivery."

Magnolia was about to mention that it was her birthday and she'd

just broken up with Harry—she wasn't in the mood to play messen

ger girl—but decided she'd let it pass. "A delivery? You want me to pick something
up
?"

"No, just stay put. Gotta go." Bebe clicked off without even thanking

her for sticking around on a Saturday night. But what difference did it

make? She was in for the evening anyway. Maybe a herd of goats would

arrive for the weekend and camp out until Bebe moved them to the

farm she was buying upstate. Perhaps they'd be good company.

Magnolia settled herself again in her chair and started channel

surfing. She could at least manage a movie. As she tried to decide between
The Way We Were
and
Sleepless in Seattle,
however, the doorbell rang. Had Harry been standing in her hallway all this time,

pleading for a second chance? He had more stamina than she.

Magnolia looked through the peephole. All she could see was an

enormous bunch of yellow roses. "Special delivery," said a familiar British accent. Only it wasn't

Harry's.

"My good friend Bebe Blake asked me to deliver these to you," the

voice said. "If you'll open up. Oh, and from both of us, a very happy

birthday."

Was that a Hugh Grant impersonator standing in her hallway?

C h a p t e r 2 1

Hugh Grant and the Glamazon Girls

"I looked through
the peephole and there he was," Magnolia repeated before an expanding circle of editors and designers

crowding her office and overflowing into the hall. She felt as if she

were lip-synching a stump speech—she'd already told Abbey and her

parents the whole story—but it wasn't half bad to revisit life at the

red-hot center of the universe.

" 'Care for a short drive?' " he said. Magnolia tried to get the accent

right.

" 'Mind if I change?' " I answered."

" 'Well, shoes might be in order,' " he said, " 'but as far as the rest

goes, you look quite swish. I'll be Tracy to your Hepburn.' So there I

was, in my jammies—they were fancy, but I was wearing zilch under

neath—and off I went. We got in a normal black town car, nothing

slimy like a stretch. 'Spot of tea? Champagne? Gatorade?' he said. I

fixated on his eye crinkles, the compact body, that voice. Bull's-eye

look-alike. Then he handed me a red envelope."

Magnolia took a large gulp of her coffee as Fredericka, Ruthie,

Phoebe, Sasha, and the others listened attentively. Cameron, she

noticed, walked away when she got to the part about no panties. "It said, 'Yes, it's Hugh. You think I'd send a fake? P.S. You can have

him—not my type. Bebe.' "

"Bebe!" Fredericka hooted. "Talk about a power present. Vat ever

became of giving a nice scarf ?"

"Now do we have to think she's adorable and kind?" Sasha asked,

but Magnolia ignored her—the truth was, much of Bebe was ador

able and kind—and continued to report on the drive, which lasted

fifty-five minutes, exactly the length of a shrink session, but proved

far more therapeutic than any she'd ever experienced.

"We chatted about how much he loved going on Bebe's telly hour,"

Magnolia said. "And he wanted to know if when American women

told you what they want in the bedroom—down to the millimeter, in

full sentences, practically with charts and graphs—they're being

bossy or helpful. Both, I assured him."

Magnolia decided to edit out the portion when she gave Hugh the

Cliffs Notes of her most recent battered romance. " 'Did I do the right

thing to break up?' " she'd asked. " 'Did I blow it with Harry? He's

such a hothead.' "

" 'Stay away from English public school blokes,' " Hugh cautioned.

" 'Every one's a pack of twitchy nerves. Too much bad mommy/good

nanny going on, yours truly included. Find yourself a red-blooded

American and don't be fooled by those Ivy League almost-Brits.

They're stunt doubles for the crew who went to Oxford with me.' "

"Oxford?" Magnolia asked. No wonder she'd always liked Hugh

Grant. Without a brain, a penis didn't count for much. "What did you

study there?"

"English," he said.

"Me, too," she said, although she left the Big Ten university out of

it. For a moment on that birthday-that-trumped-all-others, Magnolia

let herself wish that Hugh wasn't a mere cameo in her life, and that

her charms might be sufficient to make him look at her like some

thing beyond a Make-A-Wish recipient. But then he got out, giving

her a quick embrace as he brushed both cheeks with his lips, leaving

Magnolia clutching her arms around herself, as much to cover up her

nipples as to keep herself warm. The frosty November evening drove her inside, and she immediately started regretting that she'd kvetched

to Hugh Grant—Hugh-fucking-Grant—about her boyfriend prob

lems. Idiot!

As she rode up in the elevator, she considered the possibility that

she'd hallucinated the whole thing. When she opened the door, how

ever, and saw three dozen long-stemmed yellow roses abandoned in

her foyer, she smiled and laughed out loud. At least six times that

evening and throughout Sunday, Magnolia left effusive messages of

thanks for Bebe—but never got through.

Magnolia switched her head back to Monday and the colleagues

waiting for her grand finale. "He gave me a kiss on both cheeks and saw

me to my door. . . ." Magnolia told the group. "I floated until bedtime."

Magnolia could see her audience deflate. "Meeting adjourned,"

she said in a chipper tone. "I'm only sorry I didn't bring my digital

camera to document the whole event."

After her colleagues scattered, Cam returned. "Big birthday, huh?"

he said with a sly smile. Magnolia suddenly felt like a fool that Cam

had witnessed any part of her soliloquy.

"Thanks for the card," she said.

"Sorry I didn't have it delivered by Brad Pitt," he said, pushing his

wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, a gesture which made him look

about ten—and adorable, Magnolia couldn't help but notice. "Any

emergencies in the last ten minutes I should know about?"

"Nope," Magnolia said, glad they were switching off her private

life. "Have to read all these proofs—then I'm meeting Darlene and

Bebe at Glamazon." Which, of course, Cam already knew.

"Why do you suppose Darlene wants you there?" he asked. Bebe

and Darlene had been doing every ad call together—exactly what

Magnolia expected. She'd never loved making sales calls, particularly

when Darlene and her clients gossiped like college roommates. Still,

not being invited was another reminder of her grand unimportance.

"Because then she can blame me when we don't get the account?"

Magnolia suggested.

At the end of the calendar year, Glamazon—the new prestige cos

metic line—had found some extra funds in its budget and invited three magazines to a bake-off for the prize of a few choice ad pages.

Darlene didn't know who the other contenders were, only that the command performance for
Bebe w
as scheduled for two in the afternoon. The plan was for Bebe, Magnolia, and Darlene to converge at

Glamazon's headquarters.

"No prep needed," Darlene had said. "Just look sharp and bring

your big brain. Meet at one forty-five."

Magnolia rode uptown, and arrived by 1:35. Plopping down on a

stiff suede chair in the austere reception room, and unable to bear the thought of pulling out the
Bebe
she'd stowed in her bag, she looked for something else to read. Five fresh copies of
InStyle
—and only
InStyle
—were fanned out on the low limestone table in front of her. The publisher of
InStyle
obviously had had an appointment this morning and, when the receptionist wasn't looking, chucked what

ever magazines had been displayed and left her copies in their place.

Magnolia opened the issue to the Editor's Note, always the first page

she read in another magazine, and considered what it would be like to

have a position where she'd be paid to go to the couture shows in Paris

and Milan, as this editor clearly was.

   As she was reading, her head facing down, the publisher of
Marie Claire
and Susannah Slutsky, her associate publisher, walked past her. Magnolia slunk an inch lower and pulled
InStyle c
lose to her face.

   "Yes!" Susannah said, high-fiving her boss. "That went
well.
Who do you suppose our competition is besides the
InStyle
ladies we saw leaving?"

   "I'd guess
Lucky
or
Bebe.
"

   "
Bebe, w
hat a sorry excuse for a magazine," Susannah said. "Did you catch the looks on the Glamazon women when we did our pageby-page
Marie Claire/Bebe
comparison?"

   "Priceless," she said. "Hey, gotta pee. Leave behind the magazines

and I'll meet you downstairs, okay?"

   Susannah turned toward the table to swap
InStyle f
or
Marie Claire.
"Magnolia Gold!" she said, startled. Far fewer than six degrees of

separation connected most people in the industry—Magnolia and Susannah had worked together years before at
Glamour.
"I've been meaning to call you. How's it going?"

"Dandy, Susannah, and you?" Magnolia asked, deciding not to rise

and greet her with the customary hug.

   "So I gather
Bebe'
s up for this account?" Susannah said.

   "Isn't that a copy of it in your hand?" Magnolia asked.

"Oh," Susannah said, as if she were surprised to discover she was

holding it. "I was just telling my boss how super the magazine looks."

"Really, Susannah?" Magnolia asked. "Because 'sorry excuse'

sounded like scant praise."

Susannah's jaw opened and shut like a mechanical dog's. She and

Magnolia took each other's measure.

"You're too funny!" Susannah said. Without leaving her magazines

behind, she racewalked to the elevator door, which opened to dislodge

Darlene. The two gave each other big smooches as Susannah ducked

inside.

"Susannah Slutsky, that two-faced bitch," Darlene said, lowering

her booming voice. "Can't trust one thing she says. Bebe arrived yet?" Darlene smoothly traded the
InStyl
es for
Bebe,
and walked over to the Glamazon receptionist with an engaging smile. "We're here for our two o'clock," she said. "Darlene Knudson. Publisher of
Bebe.
" "We'll call you when we're ready, thanks," the receptionist said.

"Water?"

"Sure, great," Darlene said. "You're a sweetie." Darlene accepted

the Evian, parked herself, and shot Magnolia a cranky look. "Where's

Bebe?" she half-whispered.

Magnolia shrugged. "Haven't heard from her."

"Well, Consuelo is a stickler for punctuality," Darlene said, pulling

out her BlackBerry and trying Bebe's number. "She doesn't even have

her phone on!" Annoyed, she started making another call.

"Ms. Everett will see you now," the receptionist announced five

minutes later.

Darlene and Magnolia walked into Consuelo Everett's office, which

matched the reception room beige for beige, as did Consuelo herself, from her shorn, honeyed hair brushed away from her chiseled face,

to her vertigo-inducing buff suede boots. Consuelo walked toward

the door to embrace Darlene, as did her twenty-five-year-old twin

daughters, Consuelo Jr., and Sophia, who trailed behind her like

bridesmaids.

"Bebe will be here in ten minutes—she just phoned from her car to

say she's on her way," Darlene lied. "You know Magnolia Gold, right?"

Consuelo and her daughters offered gummy smiles and nods of hello.

"Consuelo, you've never looked better!" Darlene said with the

enthusiasm usually reserved for someone recovering from major cos

metic surgery. "Thank you not just for your support"—Glamazon had

eight pages and a potent scent strip in the launch issue—"but for

joining us last week at Canyon Ranch. I appreciate how difficult your

schedule is, and how hard it is to get away."

"I have you to thank," Consuelo said. "Lost five pounds." She pulled

out the waistband of her size 0 café au lait leather pants.

"Shall we start with a PowerPoint, then," Darlene said, as she

turned on her laptop. "Welcome to Bebe-world," the presentation began, narrated in Bebe's nasal voice. "
Bebe
is like no other magazine. It's where American women learn to take charge of their lives." The

images showed Bebe playing with Hell, driving her red Porsche along

the Pacific Coast Highway, interviewing Russell Crowe. "One of the

things I've learned in life is that bravado can take you a long way. In

fact, it can take you all the way." The images continued. Bebe skydiv