Little Pink Slips (5 page)

C h a p t e r 5

The Corner of Grapevine and Yenta

"Make yourself at home,"
Natalie Simon mouthed to Magnolia, a phone to her ear.

That wasn't hard. Except for a computer Natalie used as little as

possible, her enormous space—twice that of Magnolia's, although

both of them were editors in chief at Scary—was more a salon than

the hub of a working journalist. As Mozart hummed in the back

ground, a sea of azure prints, chosen by Natalie's decorator to set off

her blue eyes, enhanced an effect of unhurried calm. Flanking the

sole fireplace in the building were twin love seats. One featured a needlepoint pillow begging the question,
"What part of meow don't you understand?" w
hile the other observed that "
Many complain of their looks, few of their brains.
" The pillows were gifts to Natalie from her mentor, the famously silver-haired Hearst editorial director Ellen

Levine.

Natalie loved to dress as if she were still the 100-pound sylph she

was in 1975. Today she wore an olive military coat and periwinkle

blue polka-dot shirt over a knee-length yellow satin bubble skirt, a

mix of vintage and, as Natalie—an Anglophile from Scarsdale—

liked to put it, the high street. Her tangled, blond hair balanced like a

cumulus atop her head, and stacks of turquoise and silver Navajo bracelets jangled at her wrists. One finger sported a substantial sap

phire ring, another bands of lapis lazuli and gold.

She looked like a homeless woman who'd robbed a jewelry store.

One of Natalie's many talents was to attract people, and Magnolia

thought of her office as being located on the corner of Grapevine and

Yenta. Like a cat presents mice to her mistress, New Yorkers on their

way up and/or on their way down liked to reward Natalie with juicy

tidbits, and her phone fairly vibrated with this-just-in innuendo, deep background, and the occasional fact. This not only benefited
Dazzle,
Scary's cash cow, but made Natalie very good company when she was

in the mood to share, which was often. To show her appreciation for

information that sustained her place as the magazine world's reigning

queen bee, Natalie liked nothing better than to find people jobs,

doctors, and dates.

   More than once, Magnolia had benefited from Natalie's aid. She had given Magnolia her first job, as her assistant at
Glamour.
She'd recommended the dermatologist Dr. Winnie Wong, who never let a

little thing like FDA approval deter her; because of Dr. Winnie's signa

ture glycolic acid potions, Magnolia hoped to forestall cosmetic sur

gery for decades. Natalie had also introduced Magnolia to her cousin

Wally Fleigelman, who except for his name turned out to be a perfect

first husband.

Magnolia didn't hold it against Natalie that she and Wally stayed

married for only one year. For all of their hasty courtship, Magnolia

was crazy in love, but unfortunately, after the wedding, she and Wally

realized they were from different solar systems. He was an unabridged

New Yorker, from his accent to his out-there sarcasm, and ten years

earlier, she had yet to understand what was funny about a Woody

Allen movie and buttered a roast beef sandwich. And how was Magno

lia to know that her bridegroom's idea of foreplay would become

watching the Golf Channel side by side? Recognizing a youthful

folly—they were both only twenty-four at the time—the newlyweds

parted amicably, not so difficult when the bride gets the real estate.

"Magnolia, sit." Natalie pointed to one of the love seats. Their

sushi waited on delicate bamboo trays. They might be eating takeout from Yamahama Mama, but Stella, Natalie's number-two geisha—the

one in charge of food, travel, and expense accounts—made sure the

presentation was up to Natalie's specs.

"A shame about yesterday," Natalie offered, as she popped a piece

of unagi into her mouth, careful not to smear her plum lip gloss.

Magnolia avoided Natalie's eyes. She'd pretend the possibility

didn't exist that Natalie and others might be feeling sorry for her.

Magnolia knew pity was the first symptom of a swift but fatal corpo

rate disease.

"The thing is, the design Harry James and I created was wonder

ful," Magnolia said, pitching her voice low to make sure she wasn't

whining. "We'd finally found an approach that's not the same old,

more-white-space-than-words clone of every other magazine. What's

up with Jock that he can't see what a bonehead move it would be to

scuttle all this good work?"

"Since when, Cookie, does the smartest decision ever get made?"

Natalie offered, parking her polished ebony chopsticks at the side of a

red lacquer plate. "Everyone's got his own agenda. For now, forget the

redesign. Although from what I hear, it's spectacular."

Was Natalie gunning for Magnolia to show it to her? That wasn't

going to happen. Magnolia had learned the hard way that Natalie was

like every other editor, who believed what was yours was yours—

writers, headlines, ideas—until she decided it was "in the public

domain," a time which could arrive with surprising alacrity.

"So, I shouldn't appeal to Jock's higher plane of reason?" Magnolia

asked, getting up from her chair and walking to the window. If

Magnolia wasn't mistaken, that was Darlene getting into a car with a

rotund redhead poured into black leather pants, a fitted jacket, and

spiky boots.

"There's no such place," Natalie said with a laugh. "Right now

Jock's thinking Bebe Blake will lead him to Oscar parties, weekends in

Malibu, and his own pilot and plane." They both knew how it got to

Jock that his kid brother, who headed a media company deep in the

corn of Nebraska, had a GV at his disposal, when he didn't even have

a share in a NetJet.

   "But, Natalie, it doesn't make sense," Magnolia said. "
The Bebe Show
is sliding in the Nielsen's. Will she even get an option to renew?"

   "Magnolia, have I taught you nothing? Use a little
sechel
for a change." Only with Magnolia did Natalie throw around Yiddish, this

time invoking the term for shrewd judgment. They were often the

only Jews at Scary meetings and on those occasions Natalie used less

Yiddish than your average Leno-watching Southern Baptist.

"Get all orgasmic about Bebe?" Magnolia asked.

"Precisely. What's to lose?"

Integrity? Face? Time? Still, she tried to focus on the bigger picture.

"I get your drift."

"Besides, Bebe's not that bad," Natalie said as she twisted a stray

tendril into her unruly topknot.

"And you would know this how?"

"We had lunch recently and she's hilarious. Curses a blue streak.

I was peeing in my pants."

   This was the first time Natalie had ever mentioned lunching with Bebe. In fact, after her last
Dazzle
cover, which featured a paparazzi photo which made the entertainer look like the blue-ribbon sow at

the Texas state fair, there was talk of lawsuits. Magnolia weighed the

options. Should she ask Natalie if she was aware of Bebe's proposal

before her meeting with Jock and the gang—or let it go? Better not. If

she knew nothing, Natalie would do a slow burn at the implication

that she was sitting on dynamite.

"How's that friend of yours with the jewelry?" Natalie said as she

poured green tea from a fragile celadon teapot.

Magnolia sometimes felt that before a conversation with Natalie

she should pop a Ritalin, but frankly she was relieved that they'd

moved to a new topic.

"Abbey?" Magnolia asked.

"I can never remember her name," Natalie said. "Was that one of

her necklaces I saw Charlotte wearing the other day?"

"Could be," Magnolia said. She knew where this was going and decided to get there fast. "Want me to see if she'd give you a friends

and-family discount?"

Natalie feigned surprise. "Magnolia," she said. "You are the sweet

est. But now that you mention it, maybe something from the new line

I hear she has coming out. The one at Bergdorf's"

In the next ten minutes they discussed whether or not Magnolia

would go out with Natalie's husband's partner (Magnolia waffled— he was a troll), why the editor of
Elegance r
an Penélope Cruz on the cover every six months (desperate), and who'd become the next editor of the
Star
(each of them offered a short list). When Natalie's assistant buzzed her, Magnolia was glad. It was almost two, and their

lunch had failed to have its desired effect of making her feel fabulous

merely from being in Natalie's wake.

"Oh, I know it's last minute, but I'd love it if you'd join us for cock

tails in the country a week from Saturday," Natalie said as Magnolia

got up to leave. "Throwing a book party for Dr. Winnie. A small group.

Very casual."

Magnolia couldn't remember when she'd ever actually had fun at

one of Natalie's parties, but if she declined, Natalie might be angry.

Magnolia couldn't risk it. Natalie shifted from friend to foe like other

women changed underwear.

"Love to," Magnolia said.

"Bring a guy—that is, if you're dating someone."

Her little imaginary boyfriend? They could drive in her pretend

Porsche.

"Bebe promised to come," Natalie added.

"Your new best friend?"

"Grow up, Magele. You're way too paranoid."

The minute she said it, Magnolia knew that she wasn't. On the way

back to her office, Magnolia decided to make a pit stop at the lobby

newsstand. She paid for her lottery ticket and dashed into a closing

elevator.

"There she is," Jock said to a short, rumpled man next to him.

"Our own steel Magnolia." Magnolia cursed the day the movie had ever been released. "Jock!"

she said, and forced what she hoped was a smile.

"Magnolia, meet Arthur Montgomery."

Arthur Montgomery. The name sounded familiar but the face—

long and hawkish—wasn't. "Mr. Montgomery, hello."

"Miss Magnolia, what a lovely name," he drawled. If they ever had

a real conversation, this gentleman was going to be disappointed to

find out she was from North Dakota, not Carolina. Could she help it if

her mother chose the name "Magnolia" on her honeymoon to New

Orleans?

"Magnolia, call me," Jock said as the elevator opened to her floor.

His tone was neutral, but an order nonetheless.

She stopped in the art department on the way to her office. "Can

we work on the cover together in about an hour?" she asked Fredericka. For the 80 percent of
Lady'
s readers who were subscribers, you could put a can of pork and beans on the cover and they'd barely

notice, but to attract elusive newsstand buyers, the image and words

were life-and-death; developing covers stretched for weeks. As she

hovered over Fredericka at her computer, her art director was end

lessly patient while Magnolia suggested colors and type and tweaked

coverlines. At the end of each session, Magnolia walked away with

numerous versions, which she'd stare at for days, trying to choose the most arresting one. She'd stare so long the words—
Free! Hidden! Sex!
—began to look like a Slavic language. Her last step was to take the covers home, so her doorman could weigh in.

"Ready when you are," Fredericka answered. "The film's scanned."

"An hour then," Magnolia said. As she walked into her own office,