Little Pink Slips (31 page)

C h a p t e r 3 1

What About the Obvious?

Upon close inspection
a visitor could see that the volumes filling the mahogany shelves of the faux library lobby leaned

heavily toward obsolete medical texts and encyclopedias. Still, the Fifth

Avenue co-op building spoke of wealth, decorum, and an admissions

board that subliminally whispered, "Are you kidding?" to 80 percent of

its applicants.

"Penthouse it is, Miss," the elevator man said. Magnolia entered

the private landing, wallpapered in a tangle of roses never seen in

nature, and gently tapped a brass knocker.

"Welcome, Miss Gold," said the uniformed maid Natalie had

employed at least since the era when mobile phones were as big as

pound cakes. "Take your coat?"

"Thanks, Imogene," Magnolia said. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," Imogene said in a Jamaican lilt as she led Mag

nolia past the orchid-filled solarium. She moved so briskly, Magnolia

barely got a glimpse of Natalie's newest collection, which covered the

walls of a thirty-foot gallery tiled with antique limestone. When most

people go to Australia, they return with kangaroo key chains. Not

Natalie, who now owned at least a dozen aboriginal paintings taller

than most aborigines. "What happened to the American folk art?" Magnolia asked. Not

that she missed it. She could swear the eyes used to follow her from

the portraits' bony faces.

"Mrs. Simon sold 'em at Sotheby's," Imogene said. Natalie must

again be in a state of decorating flux, but Magnolia was glad to see

that the red den, where they'd arrived, was intact. Like a quartet of

plump dowagers, paisley club chairs faced the fireplace. Magnolia

chose a seat nearest the hearth.

"Tea?" Imogene offered. "Cappuccino? A sherry?" The maid prod

ded the logs with an iron poker, and they responded in a blazing

salute. Everything and everyone at Natalie's worked efficiently.

"Tea, please," Magnolia said, warming her hands by the crackling

heat.

"The missus called to say she'll be here soon—make yourself at

home."

Magnolia did. When Imogene left the room, she got up to scruti

nize the vacation photos, framed identically in sterling silver. In each,

Natalie was dead center—her husband, Stan, and three children flank

ing her. Magnolia knew many women who loved clothes, but no one

liked them half as much as Natalie. On the Simons' recent Christmas trip

to New Delhi, the family wore khaki—except for Natalie, a dead ringer

for Princess of India Barbie in a billowing raspberry sari, matching tikka

headdress, and a coordinating bindi glued to her forehead.

   Magnolia sat again and began leafing through an
Architectural Digest.
As she took in the carefully crafted whimsy of Diane Keaton's kitchen, she heard Natalie's throaty alto echoing in the gallery.

"Magnolia," she shouted, her charm fully loaded. "Let me hang

my cape and I'll be with you." By the time Magnolia had moved on to

photos of a Bavarian castle, Natalie glided into the room, lit a Rigaud

candle, and air kissed both of Magnolia's cheeks.

"So?" Natalie said, replacing her gray suede boots with red velvet

slippers waiting by the fireplace.

"Hi, Nat," Magnolia said. "Thanks for having me over." She

paused. Could this be more uncomfortable? "Anyway, without going

into specifics, I need a lawyer," she said. "For my contract." "No details, huh?" Natalie said, pouting in amusement. "Let me

guess. Age discrimination generally begins at forty. Are you preg

nant?"

"Definitely not, but can we not get into particulars, Natalie?"

Magnolia begged. "And if this is awkward . . ."

"Stop right there," Natalie said, raising her hand like a traffic cop.

"You know better than to take me for an obedient Scary stooge."

"Yes, but I was hoping you wouldn't put me in a corner," Magnolia

said. "I just need the name of a smart lawyer . . . please."

"Because your contract, obviously, was written in invisible ink,"

Natalie said, laughing. "I'm playing with you. Jock tries this every

time, in one way or another. It's a game. But I'm surprised you of all

people are asking whom to call. What about the obvious?"

"And that would be . . . ?" she said. "I'm coming up empty here."

"I say 'married couple'; you say . . ."

"My parents, Franny and Eliot Goldfarb."

"Try again," Natalie said. "You and me doing the Macarena

together at a wedding . . ."

A smile blossomed on Natalie's face as Magnolia began to remem

ber. Centerpieces as dense as a tropical rain forest. A twenty-minute

rendition of "Hot Hot Hot," which the bride had specifically placed

at the top of the no-play list. A lumpish best man declaring that the

couple's union would last forever. The groom telling 300 reception

guests he looked forward to the bride's being "a breeder."

"No!" Magnolia moaned. "Not him!"

"Why not?" Natalie asked. "Wally Fleigelman is one of the best

labor lawyers in town, and I'm not saying that because he's my cousin."

"I am not using Wally," Magnolia said. "No! This is a guy who took

the bar four times."

"Magnolia, you haven't kept up," Natalie said. "For the kind of

mess you must be in, your ex is the gold standard."

"But we haven't spoken in years," Magnolia said, which was the

least of it.

"Start," Natalie said. "Besides, if you handle yourself right, know

ing Wally, he'll waive the fee." "What do you take me for?" Magnolia looked at Natalie in mock

shock.

"Get your mind out of the gutter—I didn't mean that at all,"

Natalie said. "According to my aunt Joyce, he's gaga for his wife."

"The lovely Whitney Fink Fleigelman?"

"You know her?"

"I hear things." And see things, like Whitney in a lineup of

blondes photographed at the Central Park Conservancy annual spring

lunch, though it was hard to see her face, given the enormous, flow

ered Queen Elizabeth hat.

Natalie reached for her brown lizard address book and copied

Wally's number, which she pressed into Magnolia's hand as they

walked to the front door.

"Thanks, Natalie," Magnolia said as Imogene magically appeared

with her jacket and helped her into it.

"Anything more you want to tell me?" Natalie said mischievously

as Magnolia buttoned up. "The reason why Jock would want to be an

even bigger putz than usual, let's say?" An armful of Natalie's bangles

jingled as she placed her hand on Magnolia's arm, "Listen," Natalie

added, "I'm not Jock's type, but . . . I hear things."

Magnolia weighed Natalie's request for the fine points. "No, I'm

good," she said, kissing her on both cheeks.

"Call him."

Magnolia stuffed the number in her pocket.

How do you
start a conversation with a man who was your husband for a twelve-month eternity? It was 9:30 in the morning. If Wally

was the Mr. Big that Natalie claimed, he'd surely be at his desk by now.

She dialed his number: 212-644-0000. "Fleigelman's," a polite voice

said.

No more Fleigelman Kelly Sinatra Rodriguez and Roth? Wally

must be a lone ranger now.

"Mr. Fleigelman, please." "Who may I say is calling?"

His ex-wife? An old friend? "Magnolia Gold."

"Hold, please."

A minute went by, then several, until a breathy voice came on the

line.

"Mrs. Fleigelman speaking. May I help you?"

Damn that Natalie. Why did she give her Wally's home number?

Magnolia wanted to hang up, but all Wally's wife had to do was *69

her and she'd be busted. "I was looking for Wally, please. This is . . .

his first wife."

"Scarlett? Oh, excuse me. It's Melanie, isn't it?"

Magnolia did not care to guess how often she'd been the punch line

of Wally and Whitney's jokes. "And you must be Tiffany," she said.

"Wally's at his office," Whitney Fleigelman said curtly. "May I

know what this is in reference to?"

"Something personal. I mean, personal business. Well, really just

business," she stammered. "I'll catch him another time. Sorry to

bother you." She rushed off and called Abbey.

"I feel
like such a twit," Magnolia said. "Natalie suggested I ask Wally for legal help—"

"Wally who?" Abbey asked.

"My starter husband," Magnolia said, pacing the room.

"Oh, Wally Finklestein," Abbey said.

"Close enough," Magnolia said. "Fleigelman."

"You were Magnolia Goldfarb Fleigelman?"

"Just barely," Magnolia said.

   "That anchorwoman the network wanted to replace with the
American Idol r
unner-up—a Walter Fleigelman I read about got her two million bucks. I kept meaning to ask if he's your ex."

"If he is, he's my guy," Magnolia said. "Oops, call waiting. Talk soon."

"Would this be the best damn ass in Manhattan?" the genial caller

said. "The wildly successful magazine lady?" The voice sounded even fuller of bravado than she remembered.

"Not anymore, Wally," Magnolia said.

"You mean you didn't phone my home because you hoped to start

things up again?" he said. "You're breaking my heart."

"How are you, Wally?"

"Can't complain," Wally said. "When you've got your health, you've

got everything." He'd apparently morphed into his pinochle-playing

grandfather. "Plus, in my case, seven-year-old twins; the wife, who's a

looker, by the way . . ."

"That so?" Magnolia said.

". . . the apartment, Aspen, Southampton, solid practice—knock

wood—and still shoot in the seventies. Over Christmas, my third hole

in one. Boca's always been my lucky charm."

"So I recall," Magnolia said, remembering one of their more

three-dimensional fights, which took place on a visit to his parents'

condo there, and featured a redheaded tennis pro.

"Yes, Mrs. Fleigelman. Like I said, Can't complain."

"Well, I can," Magnolia said. "My company's trying to pretend I

don't have a contract. They eliminated my job and want to cut me

loose with virtually no severance. I'm completely nuts. Don't know

what I'll do for money. Sell my eggs?"

"Does this mean there's no Mr. Gold to pay your bills?"

"You know Daddy has never given me a dime."

"I'm thinking husband, Magnolia," Wally said, chuckling.

"Oh, one of those," she said. "Tried that. Didn't take."

"I can't believe you're still single, gorgeous girl like you. You're

what now, thirty-six?"

"Give or take."

"Should have stayed with me, kid," Wally said and laughed again.

At this rate she and Wally would be kibitzing all morning. "Wally,

I hate to hit you with this, but I was wondering if you'd take my

case?" Magnolia said. "Please."

"So Maggie needs Wally, after all," he said. "Let's see. I have a load

of depositions in Washington tomorrow, then off to Seattle Monday.

May be there for a few weeks."

"If you don't have the time, I understand," she said.

"For you, I'll make time," he said. "Can you be in my office at three?"

Except for
the cigar and a slightly higher forehead, Wally hadn't changed much. He was still broad-shouldered, bespeckled, and loud.

"How do I look?" he said, patting his head. "I'm one of those

schmucks where Propecia did zip. The minute I turned forty, my dad's

face started staring back at me in the mirror."

"You look like you," she said, kissing him on the cheek "Not a day