Little Pink Slips (21 page)

Great Pumpkin. Her guest today was Sharon Stone. The two of them

air-kissed, and Sharon slinked across the set and settled herself next

to Bebe. Sharon looked flawlessly young, another celebrity who pro

claimed that plastic surgery was great for other people, just not her. "This seems like an odd choice for you, Sharon," Bebe began. "A

Western. You being such a rabid antigun slinger."

You could all but hear the inner Sharon summon her agent with "Get

this crazy bitch off me—this wasn't the talking point we agreed to."

   "Not sure what you mean, Bebe," Sharon said, however, utterly poised. "
Shoot
isn't just 'a Western.' It's a Clint Eastwood movie." "Clint might be the most popular guy in Hollywood, but that's not

the point. What I want to chew over is that I understand you've

turned in your guns to the L.A.P.D., Sharon," Bebe said. "What's that

about? You one of those gun-hating nuts? I never knew."

Magnolia dropped the channel changer. Bebe was leaning forward

in her chair, jumping on Sharon the way Biggie would a pork chop.

Magnolia heard two phones ring—her cell and her phone next to the

couch—but she couldn't tear away to answer.

"Guns, Bebe?" Sharon replied, still cool. "Why are we talking

about guns?"

"Well, don't you believe that owning a gun can help prevent a mur

der, Sharon?" Now Bebe was practically out of her chair and in

Sharon's face. Sharon fixed Bebe with her ice-pick stare and tossed off

a laugh.

   "You've got to be kidding, Bebe," she said. "Guns
preventing m
urders? I suppose you think chocolate prevents weight gain and sex pre

vents pregnancy." A few members of the studio audience tittered.

"Sharon, honey," Bebe was saying. "Scotland and Ireland have

tougher gun laws than we do, and higher murder rates."

Sharon rose to the bait. "I'm not tracking you," she said, her mike

now unnecessary. "Bebe, are you saying we should all go out and buy

guns?"

"Well, I just did," Bebe said, leaning back in her chair and putting

one of her chunky legs up on her desk. "Relax—it's not an assault

weapon." The audience laughed, a little more vociferously than before.

"That's a relief," Sharon said.

"Keep going, Bebe!" Magnolia shouted to the TV. "Make an utter

ass of yourself." And Bebe did.

"I bought the cutest little handgun," she declared. "Fits into my

handbag like a banana. Gives me a whole lot of peace of mind when

ever I'm walking alone at two A.M."

"So now she's armed," Magnolia screamed—loud enough to rouse

the dogs.

"I suppose you think I'm a monster for owning a gun?" Bebe asked

Sharon with a jack-o'-lantern grin.

"People who own guns scare the crap out of me, I'll admit it,"

Sharon answered. As she ground her perfect white teeth, delicate cords

appeared on the actress's swanlike neck. "You people say you need

guns to protect yourselves, and the next thing you know you're going

postal and your creepy kids are mowing down their friends at school."

   "'
We people
'?" Bebe asked, glaring. "So now you're blaming me for serial killers?"

Magnolia's cell phone went off.

"I can't believe it either," Magnolia said quickly to Cam. "Bebe's

trying to turn Sharon Stone into chopped meat. Can't talk. Need to see

who'll self-destruct first." She clicked off.

"No one's blaming you for anything, Bebe," Sharon said wearily, as

Magnolia returned her attention to the screen. "Hey, I didn't come on

this show to be ambushed. All I want is to talk about my movie."

"Fat chance!" Magnolia yelled. "Strike back, Sharon! Attack!"

"So talk about it," Bebe taunted. "Didn't I read you have a genius

IQ? Change the subject."

Sharon stayed mute, but her fingers pulled nervously at her hair.

Bebe picked up Hell and put him in Sharon's lap. "Cat got your

tongue?" Bebe swiveled and looked into the camera. "You saw it here

first, folks—a friendly discussion about the merits of gun ownership.

I hope all you morally superior liberals out there have paid special

attention."

"Who are you calling a 'morally superior liberal'?" Sharon asked,

indignant. "Try law-abiding citizen who still has a brain." Sharon

tossed a startled Hell onto the floor and stomped off the set.

   "Guess we pushed
her
buttons," Bebe said with a malevolent laugh as her bandleader keyed her theme song. It took a good twenty sec

onds for the credits to roll.

Magnolia looked at her AOL mailbox. Nine new e-mails ranged

from "that woman will do anything for publicity" to "call in the

National Guard." On her phones she had messages from her parents,

along with Natalie, Ruthie, Phoebe, and Sasha.

   Immediately after
The Bebe Show, ev
ery major network ran news of Bebe sandbagging Sharon. The celebrity shows followed, which

left plenty of time for cable's talking heads, with Larry King snagging

Sharon Stone, whose agent had wisely advised her to turn this into an

opportunity for continued exposure. Sharon was joined on the pro

gram by Robin Williams, who did a brilliant Bebe. From ten until

eleven there was more news, capped off by Jon Stewart, Stephen Col

bert, David Letterman, and Jay Leno. "Did you see the gun gals face

off this afternoon?" Jay asked in his monologue. "Man, I wouldn't

want to be between those two cowgirls in a dark parking garage."

Magnolia watched it all, flipping channels while she multitasked on

the computer and phone dissecting Bebe's performance.

"What did you think?" Natalie asked.

"You first," Magnolia said. "No,
you,
" Natalie urged.

There was no percentage in revealing to Natalie how over-the-top

thrilled she'd been by Bebe's performance. How great it felt to have

the world see that Hollywood's lovable loudmouth could be this vile

and off. How much she was identifying with Sharon Stone. She won

dered if Bebe's behavior breached some don't-act-insane clause in her

Scary contract and if Jock would ditch her. How maybe she, Magno

lia, would now get her sweet old job back and could return to the

office on Monday to strains of "Hail to the Chief."

But then it occurred to Magnolia that if Bebe would self-destruct,

she would sink with the ship or be asked by Jock to salvage it.

   "Well, this could be very bad for
Bebe
" was what Magnolia said to Natalie. "Our readers are divided on the gun issue, although the one thing they see eye to eye on is etiquette. They're going to hate seeing

Bebe in attack mode."

"They're a well-mannered demo," Natalie agreed. "You're right.

They might turn against her."

Would that be good or bad? Magnolia would have liked to know

what, exactly, Natalie would suggest as a next step, but Natalie sud

denly took another call, which left Magnolia alone with her alternat

ing worry and glee. Bebe was important and well-connected. Even if

the public responded to her behavior as a gaffe, she would survive it,

Magnolia finally decided as she turned off Conan O'Brian in favor of

sleep. But then the phone rang one more time. It was Scary's spin mis

tress, Elizabeth.

"Stay calm," Elizabeth said, although it was she who sounded fran

tic. "By the end of the long weekend, this Bebe fuss will all blow over.

Do. Not. Worry."

   "I wasn't worrying exactly," Magnolia said. "At least not about that."

   There was a long pause. "Oh, are you ruminating about that
Post
silliness?" Elizabeth asked. "Jock shopping your job?"

   For a second Magnolia couldn't follow Elizabeth. Then she remembered the
Post, w
hich Bebe's performance had pushed out of her psyche for eight full hours.

"Well?" Magnolia asked.

   "Well, silly goose, don't," Elizabeth answered. "Nobody believes the
Post.

Elizabeth had
promised that after the weekend the Bebe coverage would evaporate. She was partly right. The next bounce came in

the weekly celebrity magazines, which featured the stars inside their

issues. They invited readers to take online polls declaring their loyalty

to either Sharon or Bebe, who did her best to keep the controversy alive, appearing on
Larry King
herself. In a slower news week—without a Midwestern ice storm of biblical proportions (Magnolia noted

that Fargo was once again the coldest spot in the nation)—she might have made the cover of
Time
or
Newsweek.
But by Thursday the ruckus had almost been forgotten. Except by the NRA.

"Magnolia, we've gotten the most fantabulous opportunity," Felic

ity trilled as she walked into Magnolia's office. "Beebsy could have

the cover of their magazine."

Magnolia looked up from her proof. "What does Elizabeth have to

say about it?"

"What's this got to do with Elizabeth?" Felicity asked, looking gen

uinely confused.

"A lot," Magnolia answered. "Everyone at Scary runs requests like

this past Elizabeth." Who will say no. Did you not hear me? No.

"Magnolia, dear," Felicity said, her voice dripping with condescen

sion, "Bebe Blake is not 'everyone.' "

No argument there, Magnolia silently agreed.

"I'll call her at the photo shoot and see how she feels about it,"

Felicity said.

"The photo shoot?" Magnolia asked. "What shoot?"

"Oh, didn't Sasha tell you the cover shoot got moved up a day?"

Felicity asked, all innocence.

"Sasha's at a press conference," Magnolia said. "Why didn't you

mention anything to me about the schedule change?"

"The photographer Fredericka booked was called to Paris for a

funeral, so I lined up the woman who did Bebe's publicity stills. She's

entirely capable. Magnolia, don't you think that Bebe can handle a

photo shoot by herself ?" Felicity asked as she walked away. It was just

as well that Magnolia didn't get a chance to answer.

She walked into the art department. "Fredericka, what do you

know about a rescheduled photo shoot?" she asked.

"Vich one?" Fredericka asked, looking up from the screen of her

giant Mac, on which she was designing a food story. The triple-decker

burger looked like it had escaped from the Sci Fi Channel.

"Cover," Magnolia said.

"Vat cover?" Fredericka asked, looking perplexed.

"Something about Philippe being called to Paris for a funeral." "But I just had lunch vit Philippe and ve nailed down all the

details," she said. "I'll call him. There's some miscommunication

here." Magnolia stood by while Fredericka got him on the line.

   "
Bonjour,
Philippe," Fredericka said cheerfully, but her face quickly contorted. "Could you speak a little more slowly, please? Vat

happened? Canceled? You just found out? Fuck. Pardon my French.

Never mind, it's just an expression. Of course, I know nothing about it!
Mon Dieu.
I totally agree. Yes, of course ve'll pay. I am so, so sorry. Yes, I already told you ve'll pay. I agree about protecting your reputa

tion, Philippe. Listen, Philippe, I have to go. I'll call ven I get to the

bottom of this."

Fredericka took to a minute to absorb the news. "Felicity canceled

him, just like that."

They both knew it was too late to book another photographer, and

that after this incident, it would never be easy to book one. Word

would get around. Magnolia explained to Fredericka about the rene

gade photo shoot. "Check into it," she said.

Fredericka did. There had been a photo shoot: Bebe did it without

hair and makeup, in the studio of a photographer no one had heard

of, who promised the photos in two days. Fredericka explained to the

photographer that she was the art director and asked that the photos

be sent to her directly.

"Someone named Felicity gave me instructions to send them to

her," the photographer said, sounding more worried than arrogant. So

Fredericka and Magnolia waited. And waited. Two days turned into a

week. When the photos finally arrived, it was Bebe who presented

them, calling Magnolia and Fredericka into her office, where she and

Felicity had the shots—far fewer then usual—laid out on a light box

behind her desk.

"It's time for Bebe to make a statement," Bebe said. "The Decem

ber cover was just too sappy." Granted, Bebe in an apron making cook

ies was a stretch—on that point Magnolia and Bebe concurred. "I

need to be true to myself. And this," she said, radiating satisfaction,

"is me. Have a look."

In every shot Bebe's index finger cocked straight ahead at the reader as if it were a gun. Her small eyes, devoid of makeup, shone

with menace. She looked like a woman who'd fled the double-wide to

take out her whoring, no-good, check-bouncing slob of a husband,

Billy Bob.

"This is what I call taking a stand," Bebe said.

C h a p t e r 2 2

The Intimidation Card

"Nathaniel Fine, is it?"
Magnolia looked across her cluttered desk at the young man sitting soldier-straight in front of her.

"Yes." He hesitated and cleared his throat.

   Magnolia hoped he wasn't thinking of adding "ma'am." She was feeling old enough already, which, for someone whom
The New York Times
just five years ago called a wunderkind, was an unfamiliar sensation.

   "So, you'll be interning with us?" Magnolia said. Natalie had asked Magnolia if
Bebe w
ould take him. His parents were her friends, and the
Dazzle
art department already had four interns.

   "Yes, Miss Gold."

"Magnolia," she corrected him. "Call me Magnolia."

He didn't. In fact, he said nothing at all as he shifted in his chair,

uncrossing a long pair of legs. Magnolia got a glimpse of his powerful

arms and chest. He was almost a man, although from moment to

moment you could still see the Bar Mitzvah boy, an effect enhanced

by a navy blue blazer a quarter inch too short in the sleeves.

"Natalie tells me you play water polo," she said, stretching for a

topic to put him at ease. Magnolia didn't typically mind exercising the intimidation card—which in her world was required as often as

AmEx—but she didn't want to spook a child, even one who looked

twenty-three. Or maybe he looked eighteen, which he actually was;

one sign of getting older, she recognized, was no longer being able to

reliably pinpoint the exact age of a younger person. Magnolia won

dered whether Nathaniel knew yet that he was handsome; he looked

like the secret son of George Clooney. "All I remember about the sport

is that guys wear swim caps with earmuff gizmos."

Her remark harvested a small smile, which spread across Nathaniel's

face as he offered Magnolia details of the sport's finer points. "It's one

of the hardest games to play," he concluded proudly, "'cause you can't

touch the bottom of the pool—you always have to swim or tread

water."

"Treading water—that skill will come in handy with our little

games here," Magnolia said, hoping he might laugh. He did not.

"Okay, then." She stood. "Our art director, Fredericka von Trapp, has

found all sorts of work for you to do. Scanning photos, making color Xeroxes, logging photos—if we lose one, $3,000 gone,
whoosh.
You might, if you're very lucky, even get the chance to design a page—if

you're not busy bringing in pizza for the whole department."

"I know I'm the bottom of the food chain," he said, standing as

well. Magnolia estimated his height at five foot eleven. "But someday

I want to run an art department. I appreciate this opportunity, Miss

Gold." He caught himself. "Magnolia."

As she ushered him out the door, she noticed assistants to both

Phoebe and Ruthie idling by Sasha's desk.

"I'm Jordan," the brunette said, flashing a smile she'd bleached

one shade too white.

"Zoe," added the zaftig blonde, extending a hand with a hefty sil

ver mesh ring on the middle finger.

"I'm Sasha and if you need anything . . . " She pointed to herself.

"Forget those two slackers exist."

Ready aides for Nathaniel Fine were always going to be in supply.

Elite private school; promising applications to Brown, Princeton, Duke, and—for backup—Wisconsin; intact Upper East Side family:

dad a senior partner at a major law firm, mom an in-demand interior

decorator—Natalie's, to be exact; designer summer camps; good looks;

even good manners. If this kid had talent to match the rest of the

package, by the time he was twenty-nine he'd be running the art department of
GQ
and earning in the high six figures.

"Ladies, meet Nathaniel," Magnolia said.

"Actually, only my mom calls me Nathaniel," he said.

Magnolia pretended to wince.

"Please call me Polo."

"For the cologne?" Magnolia asked.

He looked at her as if she were brain damaged. "For the sport you

play in a pool."

Magnolia marched him into the art department. There were the

usual three designers developing layouts, the photo editor and her asso

ciate examining images on a huge light box, and an assistant answering

the phone. But everything did not sound as usual. All Magnolia could

hear was a Chris Botti CD faintly playing in the background.

She looked into Fredericka's office and understood the hush. There

was Bebe hulking over Fredericka as the two of them worked on the

upcoming cover. "Make the words huge," Bebe said. "Put them here."

Her hand touched a spot on the upper-left corner of the computer

screen, leaving a visible fingerprint. Fredericka will be Vindexing the

minute Bebe blinks, Magnolia thought. Yet the art director offered no

reaction except to dutifully move the coverline—"Guns: Why Every

Woman Needs One"—exactly where Bebe pointed.

While Magnolia stood outside Fredericka's open office and debated

whether she should interrupt to introduce Polo, Bebe glanced in their

direction.

"Who have we here?" Bebe asked. If Magnolia wasn't mistaken,

Bebe was sucking in her gut. "I see you've brought me a treat." Her

gaze nailed Polo's reddening face.

"Polo Fine, our art intern," Magnolia said. "Bebe Blake. Freder

icka von Trapp." Fredericka walked toward them and extended her hand to Polo—

Fredericka was pleased, Magnolia guessed, to briefly escape Bebe's

intimate scrutiny.

"How'd you get that name, Polo?" Bebe asked.

"For water polo," he answered.

"I hope you're going to model your uniform," she said. He blushed.

"You two, look," ordered Bebe, still by the computer. "So? Opinions!"

Magnolia and Polo walked to the screen, which displayed an image

from Bebe's I'm-gonna-blow-your-brains-out series.

"Bebe, you know what I think," Magnolia said, shaking her head.

"Ditch this idea."

"Ignore her," Bebe said, as she rested her hand on Polo's arm.

"Magnolia's not a risk taker. You have fresh eyes. Tell Mamma what

you think."

Bebe's hand fell to her side as Polo crossed his arms and stepped

back, taking a minute to consider the design. Magnolia watched a

surge of Park Avenue confidence kick in.

"It's provocative," he answered. "Grabs my attention. Sends a strong

message. I like how your eyes in the photo lock with the reader's."

   Magnolia couldn't disagree with his observations. It would be an excellent cover—for, say,
Guns & Ammo. P
olo couldn't be blamed if no one had taught him ground zero of cover design: know and

entice your unique reader, who in this case was a violence-abhorring,

middle-of-the-road American mother/wife/church lady who wouldn't want
Bebe'
s emerging cover within a block of her Ethan Allan coffee table.

"You get it, kid," Bebe said, one hand back on Polo's arm, the other

fidgeting with her neckline to lower it ever so slightly. "We're going

to be great friends. Fredericka, see what he can do with the cover."

Fredericka looked startled. Magnolia knew the art department's

other designers always campaigned to get a crack at cover design, but

Fredericka trusted no one but herself for that responsibility. A small

wrinkle emerged between the art director's eyes as she placed her

hands squarely on her narrow hips. "I mean it, Fredericka," Bebe said. "See what he's got."

Magnolia tried to process the situation. If Polo worked on the

cover, Natalie's friends, Polo's parents, would be picturing the result attached to his college applications.
Hello, Ivy.
But if Polo reported back to them that Magnolia Gold had blocked that opportunity,

Natalie's friends would be less than understanding and Natalie would

be pissed. Then again, this version of a cover would never sell. And

she might get blamed.

How could she protect herself ? She couldn't.

What the hell. Bebe wanted it. Let her have it.

Magnolia decided now would be a good time to get as far away from

the art department as possible. As she was leaving, Fredericka was set

tling Polo in front of his own giant Mac. "Veel scan in the cover images

and check back vit you in two hours," Magnolia heard her say in a

quiet monotone, followed by a whoop and a "Hot damn" from Bebe.

"Well,
he's
going
to be a welcome diversion around here," Sasha said as Magnolia stopped by her desk to pick up messages.

"Pants on, Sasha," Magnolia said. "He's a baby. Who called?"

"Message from Darlene. 'Glamazon big fat fucking zero' were her

exact words." Magnolia crumpled the message and dropped it in the

trash.

"And some woman asking if you could speak to the"—Sasha

checked her notes—"Prairie Press Club. All-expense-paid trip to

nowhere. Needs an answer ASAP."

Magnolia half-heard Sasha as she watched Bebe saunter down the

hall, arm in arm with Felicity.

"Said she knew you from high school," Sasha added.

Magnolia perked up. "Oh, really?"

"A Misty Knight," Sasha said. "And if she's a stripper, she never

mentioned it."

Misty Sandstrum, it has to be. Magnolia pictured a red-and-white

cheerleader sweater a size too small to showcase her Miss North

Dakota chest and a graduation speech that made Magnolia want to gag. Misty beat her to that glory by one white-blond hair and then put

everyone to sleep with thirty-two minutes about rainbows.

"Where's her number?" Magnolia asked, answering Sasha's you

can't-be-serious look with her don't-even-think-of-asking glare before

she entered her office. She closed the door and dialed.

   "Misty?" Magnolia said in her best-girlfriend tone. "Sure, it's me. . . . Of
course,
you can still call me Maggie. . . . You married Bucky Knight? He's running the Ford dealership? Four kids? All

named with B? Precious . . . And you . . . ? You're a restaurant reviewer at the Fargo
Forum
?"

Ten minutes passed as Magnolia listened to Misty. Did I ever talk

that slowly, she wondered?

"So what's this speaking thing?" Magnolia finally asked. Misty

ran down the details. The annual meeting of journalists wanted

Magnolia to be the keynote speaker a week from Saturday. The pride

of the Dakotas, Tom Brokaw, had been the original choice, but he'd

bailed.

"Very tempting—thanks," Magnolia said. "Someone from my

office will let you know by tomorrow. Promise . . . It would be great to see
you.
I'll bet you haven't changed a bit either." Magnolia wondered whether Misty considered this a compliment.

Her first choice would have been a long weekend in Paris. But

for Magnolia Gold, an escape to Fargo would do just fine. Why stay

here? To take the heat when Jock saw Bebe's gun cover? She'd rather

not.

Magnolia opened the door and returned to Sasha's desk. "Clear my

calendar—I'll be gone next Friday," she said. "We're going to need to update my
Lady Pow
erPoint to make it
Bebe
-specific," Magnolia said.

"Would that 'we' be me?" Sasha asked.

Magnolia smiled. "Book me on Northwest Airlines," she said. "And

call Misty tomorrow at six our time to tell her I accept."

"What did you ever do to this woman that there's some return

favor you can't refuse?" Sasha asked.

"Change of scenery will do me good," Magnolia said. "What scenery? I saw
Fargo
twice."