Little Pink Slips (44 page)

C h a p t e r 4 4

The Devil's Work?

"Congratulations."
Air kisses. "Perfect choice." Hugs. "Can't wait to see what you'll do." Big smooch. "Success becomes you."

With Michael's patrons genuflecting to Natalie as they arrived and

departed in their spiffy best, Magnolia's lunch dragged into its second

hour. Finally, cappuccinos and cookies arrived on a small silver tray,

and Natalie beamed her attention toward Magnolia. "You must feel

vindicated," she said. In her new role as Scary's president and CEO,

Natalie had arrived on a crimson tide of a red suit and Christian

Louboutin T-strap heels.

"How's that?" Magnolia wondered.

"Pundits are spinning the trial as a retroactive win for
Lady.
" "One pundit in one ultraconservative newspaper with a circulation

of 10,000."

"Cookie, you're not hearing what I'm hearing. Your stock is way up

on the magazine NASDAQ."

"Well, thanks Natalie," she said. "But the last time I looked I was

still unemployed."

"I hear you may be starting a new celebrity magazine," Natalie said.

"Don't believe everything you hear," she said, smiling coyly. A

more accurate answer would be "fat chance," since she hadn't mas saged her
Voyeur
proposal to anywhere near perfection or even given herself a deadline to set up an appointment at Fancy. The editorial

director there had probably forgotten they'd ever met.

"We can't have you working for a competitor now, can we?" Natalie

said, nibbling one of Michael's decadent butter cookies. "You know, I'm going to be replacing myself at
Dazzle.
"

Two months before, Magnolia wouldn't have felt the least bit qual

ified to lead a magazine that depended not only on being able to dis

tinguish Jessica Simpson from Jessica Alba but knowing what, exactly,

each was famous for; and, more important, the names of their butt

doubles. Yet after dedicating herself to nonstop celebrity watching,

she'd got it. She'd got it fine.

   Magnolia was just about to say she'd be thrilled to discuss
Dazzle
when Darlene stopped by the table, grunted a hello to her, and

swooped down on Natalie. "I hope you got my flowers, Natalie," she

said in a voice the whole restaurant could hear. "I am so thrilled for

you. I can't think of a better choice for Scarborough, and I know the

two of us are going to work together famously and make a ton. A

ton!" Were those tears in her eyes or was Darlene just allergic to sin

cerity?

"Thank you, sweetie," Natalie said, patting Darlene's sturdy hand.

"The flowers are gorgeous." She took a sip of cappuccino. "So, we'll be

seeing each other today at four?"

Confusion blew over Darlene's face. Magnolia thought she saw a

sign on her forehead say, "What the fuck?" but Darlene recovered.

"Of course," she said. "Later!"

As soon as she had left, Natalie leaned her head close to Magnolia's.

"She's history," she whispered without moving her lips. "I just

decided this very minute that we'll have 'the talk' at four, and if I'm

lucky I will never see that loudmouth bitch again. She's a walking

speaker phone." Natalie picked up her BlackBerry and sent a message

to her assistant instructing her to set up an appointment with Dar

lene. "Those manufactured circ numbers . . . and does she think I

don't know she's had her nose up everyone's butt for a new job?"

Natalie ate another cookie. "I think I am going to like being CEO." "You'll be brilliant," Magnolia said and meant it. But why can't we

return to the topic on the table before Darlene appeared? Natalie

looked at her watch.

   "You were mentioning
Dazzle,
" Magnolia said. She hoped the desperation in her voice didn't come across like ticker tape.

"Oh, right," Natalie said. She pulled out her corporate AmEx card,

which was identical to the one Magnolia had to shred when her little

pink slip arrived. "Do you think you might be interested?"

"I think I would," she said.

   "Being a weekly, you pretty much have to be on call three hundred fifty-two days of the year," Natalie said. You've never
done
a weekly—that's what she was really saying. Or even worked on a

celebrity magazine or been an entertainment editor. Neither had Natalie when she'd talked her way into becoming
Dazzle'
s editor in chief. But Magnolia understood. Natalie wanted her to scrawl, "I will

die if you don't hire me" on the white tablecloth in her own blood,

then jump on the chair, beat her chest, and declare undying love for
Dazzle.

   
Dazzle
led the media parade that revered fame. Op-Ed page critics could make a strong case for why it was the kind of scandal sheet that

made teenagers want to grow up to become stars of their own reality

TV shows instead of schoolteachers and pediatricians, but hadn't

Anne Frank had photographs of celebrities in her hiding place? Working at
Dazzle w
asn't the devil's work, Magnolia told herself. It was just entertainment—and the most lucrative editor-in-chief job at

Scary.

   She swallowed hard. "Natalie, I am shocked and flattered. I would be completely honored to lead
Dazzle,
" she said. "Of course, I would have very big shoes to fill . . ."—rats. Unfortunate choice of phrase,

Natalie being vain about her size-five, triple-A feet—"but especially

during my, uh, hiatus, I've become utterly enamored of the current

celebrity culture in the United States. Ask me anything! Brangelina's

baby's middle name. Jennifer Lopez's preferred underarm deodorant.

Salma Hayek's electrolysis technician . . ." Natalie was smiling beautifully, thoroughly enjoying the grovel

ing. "I think I could be a highly effective, energetic editor in chief of
Dazzle,
" Magnolia continued. "As far as its being a weekly goes, you know how fast I am, Natalie. You know I never stop working for a

damn second. I am always ahead of schedule. 'Anal retentive' is my

middle name . . ."

"Okay, okay," Natalie said. "You're in."

"I'm in? Great!" Magnolia said. She felt light-headed and thought

she needed water. Then the wires in her brain connected. What,

exactly, did "in" mean?

"I'd love you to be a candidate," Natalie continued. "Several edi

tors on my staff have spoken to me about the job, and Raven, of

course. Plus, I've gotten calls from several other strong contenders from the company, as well as from
Vanity Fair
,
People
,
Us
, the
Star
,
InTouch.
" Natalie stood to leave. "Interest in the job is off the charts."

"Understandable," Magnolia mumbled.

"Anyone who wants to be considered needs to give me their vision

for the magazine, in less than thirty pages—including visuals—by

Monday at ten."

C h a p t e r 4 5

Best Picture

"Amélie is here,"
the voice said, sounding exhausted but happy. "She wants to meet you."

"Oh, my God," Magnolia said groggily. "I'll get there as fast as I

can." No one expected Amélie for several weeks. "How is she?"

"Beautiful."

Magnolia scrambled into yesterday's clothes, which she'd tossed

on the chair when she'd got home past midnight, and grabbed the

present hiding in her closet. She stopped on Columbus Avenue at the

posh new florist—they were overpriced, but she didn't care—and

asked for four dozen tiny white tea roses packed tightly in a square

glass vase.

It was snowing and taxis were scarce. Snowflakes blew sharply in

her face as she stood, burdened with her gifts, looking for an empty

cab. After fifteen minutes, one found her.

"Mount Sinai Hospital," she said to the driver. The taxi skidded

along the icy streets and through the park and, ten minutes later,

stopped on Fifth Avenue and 100th Street. A nurse directed Magnolia

to the room. She stood in the doorway and watched Daniel sitting on

the edge of the bed, stroking Abbey's hair. He bent over and gave his

wife a tender caress. "Knock, knock," Magnolia said softly.

"Magnolia," Abbey said sleepily. "Have you seen her yet?"

"You first," Magnolia answered, as she placed the roses on the win

dowsill and the bag next to the bed. She hugged Abbey and then

Daniel. "How do you both feel?"

"Surprised," Abbey said, "elated, exhausted."
"Très content,"
he said.
"A long labor?"

"C-section at three-ten this morning," she said. "We got here at

eleven. I thought it was a false alarm until my water broke—it hap

pened fast after that." In slow motion, Abbey shifted her position. "I

want you to see her."

"She is in the front left corner," Daniel said, "with the long, dark

coiffure."

At five pounds, thirteen ounces, Amélie Charlotte Rothschild

Cohen looked about as big as a Perdue oven-stuffer. She was sleeping

peacefully in a tightly swaddled blanket, a curl escaping from a small

pink cap. Already, she had a certain je ne sais quoi.

"Welcome, little angel," Magnolia cooed through the glass. "I'm

your auntie Magnolia and wait till you see the layette I bought you at

Barney's. It's at home." Amélie yawned. "Okay, if you don't like it, we

can exchange. I'm telling you now—this is a promise—I will be your

fairy godmother. We are going to explore New York together, and I

plan to teach you everything I know." Magnolia was fairly sure

Amélie opened her eyes and held her gaze. Maybe one day I'll pro

duce a friend for you, she thought.

She returned to the room. With Daniel's help, Abbey sat up. "I'm

duct-taped together," she said and winced. "I can't believe Nurse

Ratched out there expects me to take a walk."

"This is for you," Magnolia said, handing her the large box in the

bag. Abbey opened it carefully. Inside was a peach chiffon bed jacket

Magnolia had found two months ago on Portobello Road. "There,"

Magnolia said, as she helped Abbey slip it on. "You look like some

body's very well-kept mistress, circa 1955."

"Thanks, Mags," Abbey said. "For everything." "Sorry those lessons of ours turned out to be irrelevant," Magnolia

said, puffing out a few shallow Lamaze breaths. "We were world-class."

"Thank you for being there," Daniel said in his deep voice. "Now I

stay in Manhattan for three months. And next week, Marie-France

will arrive."

   "She takes care of
les enfants R
othschild," Abbey said. "Don't you love it?"

"Abbey, I want your life," Magnolia said, though both of them

knew it wasn't true.

"I'm so sorry I have to leave this afternoon."

"As I recall, you have a plane to catch."

"Not for five hours, and I'm already packed."

"Which dress are you wearing?"

"The Armani sequins. Definitely not the Dolce & Gabbana. I'm

aiming for elegant, not 'I work at Hooters.' "

"I loved you in the Dolce."

"Because you're obsessing about nursing," Magnolia said. "I just

hope you aren't one of those mommies who whips out her huge titties

every chance she gets."

"Stop—it hurts when I laugh," Abbey said, holding her stomach.

Wind howled against the windows. "I really think you should get to

the airport early," she urged.

"Unfortunately, I believe you're right," Magnolia said, as she stood

to leave. "As usual."

   It had been almost a year since Magnolia had become editor in chief of
Dazzle.
Her weeks of drafting and redrafting the
Voyeur
proposal allowed her to submit—almost overnight—a fully hatched vision of how she could attract new, younger readers to
Dazzle
and give it an edge.

"Cookie, you nailed it," Natalie had called to say the very day she

turned in her pitch, complete with eight sample covers on which Mag

nolia had worked with Fredericka, with the understanding that if she

got the job, Fredericka would have one, too. "When can you start?"

"Thanks, Natalie," she said. "I'll start as soon as Wally looks over

my contract." "Fair enough," Natalie answered.

A week later, she moved into Natalie's old office, which Natalie

agreed to let her redecorate—smart of Wally to ask for that, Magno

lia thought, along with weekly flowers in lieu of the standard health

club. Magnolia wasn't ready to give up running with Abbey.

The walls were now a whispery violet repeated on the soft, low

mohair sofas that flanked the fireplace, which Magnolia had kept

ablaze since Halloween. She was back to working at the same long,

antique pine table—unearthed from Scary's netherworld—that she'd used at
Lady.
There were big windows and huge bulletin boards layered with photographs and in-progress pages from the magazine. It

was a spare, calming work space, which was good, since her days

began before eight and ended after ten.

True to Natalie's prediction, Magnolia had been working seven

days a week, including traveling at least once a month with the maga

zine's publisher, Malachy Jones. They'd made sales calls in San Fran

cisco, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit (twice), Boston,

Houston, and London. This trip would be their first to Los Angeles.

There were two aspects of travel with Malachy Jones that Magno

lia particularly appreciated. The first was that in every city he seemed

to have a boyfriend, which meant her evenings always ended by nine.

The second: he wasn't Darlene Knudson; he was quiet and thoughtful.

What had become of Darlene since the firing, nobody was certain.

Some said she and Jock were selling condos in Queens, which they

were marketing as "the new downtown." Others declared that Dar

lene had launched a tween girls' clothing line with prices starting at a

thousand dollars.

   Almost every day at
Dazzle
brought the rush of New Year's Eve, minus the champagne. Magnolia had more than kept up her end of

the bargain. The magazine wasn't just Scary's queen breadwinner—

newsstand, subscriptions, and ads were all soaring. There were two

good reasons why. First, a long overdue redesign by Fredericka. The

second, Magnolia's secret weapon, Sasha.

"Do you want to work for me again?" she'd asked Sasha. "You'll be

my first hire." "As your assistant?" Sasha asked. Magnolia could hear her disap

pointment. "You know I'm applying to law school."

"You'd be a staff writer," Magnolia said. Sasha accepted the posi

tion on the spot, and every week generated headline-grabbing articles,

like her exclusive on those nasty rumors about one of President Bush's

daughters.

The rest of the staff, which she'd inherited from Natalie, wasn't

just efficient—she liked them. And the person she liked the best was

Stella, her number-two geisha, whom Natalie had left behind. With

her MBA from the Natalie Simon School of Office Protocol, Stella

arranged every detail with what was once quaintly known as military

precision. Before a trip, for instance, she anticipated Magnolia's needs

down to the location of each airport's ladies' rooms.

Today, the moment Magnolia arrived home after visiting Abbey,

Stella was on the line, assuring her that the car she reserved to take

her to the airport was—amazingly, considering the blizzard—on

time. Magnolia thanked her profusely and opened the shiny black

folder Stella had messengered over with its hour-by-hour itinerary

amended with tickets, directions, and vouchers.

What she looked at first, of course, was the large, square engraved

invitation, not unlike the one she'd received last week for her cousin's

daughter's Bat Mitzvah in Boca Raton. "The Academy of Motion Pic

ture Arts and Sciences invites Ms. Magnolia Gold to the Academy

Awards . . ." This year she would be watching the Oscars not from her

living room but from the Kodak Theater, in one of the two seats traditionally accorded to
Dazzle.
Magnolia wondered if Malachy, her date, would actually wear socks with his evening shoes.

Magnolia reached the airport with more than an hour to spare, but

soon enough she settled into her seat—first class—and eyed her

heavy bag of manuscripts. Usually, she couldn't wait to read and com

ment. Today she had other plans. Magnolia took out the bound,

uncorrected galley of the book Stella had worked her contacts to

chase down just the previous day. The cover showed the back of a couple embracing.
A Friend Indeed.
She was glad Cameron had won the war with his publisher over the name.

She looked first for the dedication and acknowledgments, her heart

racing, but they were TK—publisher's jargon for "coming later." She

flipped to the end for the author's bio: "Cameron James Dane was

raised in Burlington, Vermont," it said. "He received his bachelor's

degree from Williams College and a master's in fine arts from Yale University.
A Friend Indeed,
his first novel, is being published in fourteen countries and made into a major motion picture. He lives in Mal

ibu with his rescue dog, Mags." The photograph showed Cam with a

pup whose fur was the same dirty-blond as that of her owner, who was

walking barefoot on the beach, his face hidden by sunglasses.

Magnolia opened to the first page, telling herself she was just curi

ous to see whether Cam's editor had macerated his deceptively simple prose.
"Jake Hawkins had loved Daisy Silver for four years. Five, if you counted the year when he only admired her from his desk in the office three doors down. He loved the way her laugh sounded like the charm bracelet that never left her slim wrist, and he wondered whether she kept it on, even when . . ."

As she devoured the pages, she could see that the decorum com

mittee at Cam's publishing house had convened and blessed the sex

scenes, which were now more fruitful and had multiplied. But, other

wise, the book was as she remembered. Cam's voice was still strong. In

fact, she felt as if he were dictating into her ear and she luxuriated in

every word. When the captain announced they were landing at LAX,

she was only half finished, having—at strategic points—allowed her

mind to swerve into territory no one would call virginal.

Magnolia deplaned and found her waiting town car. The Four