Little Pink Slips (7 page)

C h a p t e r 7

Marshmallow and Mademoiselle

Manhattan offered far posher
nail salons than Think Pink, where the only frills were a bowl of miniature Snickers and two

jade plants in the jaws of death. What the establishment lacked in lux

ury it made up for in location, which was equidistant from Magnolia

on West End and Abbey on Central Park West. The real draw, though,

was its owner, Lily Kim, the mother of Ruthie Kim, Magnolia's fash

ion director.

In Korea, Lily had been a midwife. Here, she labored seven days a

week in her shop, her real mission being to make sure that her daugh

ter Ruthie achieved profound success. The tutors who helped Ruthie

get into Stuyvesant High School—the Ferrari of New York City pub

lic education—paid off when Wellesley gave her a full scholarship.

While picking clothes and arranging fashion shoots wasn't quite what

Lily had projected for her daughter—her ambition ran along the

superhighway of concert cellist–Olympic skater–McKinsey consult

ant—Lily had accepted Ruthie's choice. Now she made it her business

to know Nina Ricci from Narciso Rodriguez, and she never hesitated

to offer fashion advice or to comment on the appearance of Ruthie—

or anyone else. "Maggie, you look tired," Lily announced, as she arranged Magno

lia's polish shades: Marshmallow and Mademoiselle, one coat of each,

to create the subtle pink of a blushing bride.

"Week from hell," Magnolia responded. She had to be careful what

she said, since every detail would bounce back to Ruthie. "But it's been

worse for Abbey." She turned to her friend. "What's the late-breaking

news?" she asked. This much Magnolia knew: as of 11:30 last night,

Tommy was still MIA.

Magnolia thought it a testament to the donation of her precious

Ambien stash that Abbey had even shown up today for their weekly

manicure. She'd bombarded her with calls to make sure she wasn't still home in her nightgown on a sunny afternoon watching
You've Got Mail, w
hich every single woman in Manhattan could lip-synch.

"Got a message last night," Abbey said. "The prick's alive."

Anger, Magnolia thought. Excellent. Abbey's still alive, too. "Where

is he?" she asked.

"Hiding in cyberspace," Abbey reported. "That's all I know." She

blinked away a tear. Clearly, wrath was only a topcoat on a fragile base

of fear, hurt, and anxiety.

"What did he say?" Magnolia pressed on, while Lily quietly began

filing her nails, not too long, square with rounded edges. The Satur

day afternoon opera played quietly on a boom box.

"Needs time to think," Abbey reported.

"Code for 'I will take my own sweet time to fuck around while you

squirm and writhe,' " Magnolia said. She couldn't remember the last

time any woman benefited when a man got to thinking. "What are

you going to do?"

"Throw myself into work," Abbey said. "Become the world's most

prolific jewelry designer. I was up all night sketching. I'm seeing

lizards, lizards everywhere. Lizards with slinky diamond bodies.

Lizards with cowardly topaz stripes. And strangely, these lizards have

no balls."

While Abbey and Lily debated the anatomy of scaly reptiles, Mag

nolia tried to ignore the fleeting thought that Abbey might actually produce one of these critters for her birthday—preferably in a size big

enough to make a statement around her wrist. "Did you read your

husband the riot act?" Magnolia asked.

   "My
estranged
husband?" Abbey asked. "Not in so many words. I'm such an ass. I was actually relieved to hear from him."

"Did you e-mail back?"

"Told Tommy to get his butt home," Abbey admitted.

Magnolia thought Abbey might have asked a few more questions.

Like where was he? Who was he with? What were his intentions?

Why did he think he could treat her this way? She knew it would be up to her to play rottweiler. "If he writes back—correction:
when
he writes back—give him a deadline."

"I hope you never put his name on the lease," added Lily, ever the

pragmatist, as she warmed Magnolia's hands with a steamy towel.

When they married, Tommy had moved into Abbey's rent-stabilized

apartment. For the cost of a Queens studio, the couple luxuriated in six

rooms and nine-foot ceilings capped by dentil moldings, a butler's

pantry, enough closets to hide a family of fugitives, and a view of the

park. The desire to keep a real-estate jewel of this caliber had kept

many a faltering New York marriage together forever. Lily had clearly

hit a nerve, and Abbey gave both of them her look that telegraphed:

"Back off. This isn't a drug intervention. I am not the idiot wimp you

think I am." Directed toward Magnolia, the look seemed to also say,

"I'm married, even if my husband's not exactly around. You, on the

other hand, are single. Perhaps terminally."

"Enough," Abbey said.

"Natalie loves your jewelry—especially the pieces she heard

Bergdorf's commissioned" was all Magnolia could think to say.

"But of course Mrs. Simon would know this," Abbey said. "Is there

anything she doesn't know?" She could not forgive Natalie for never

remembering her name.

"She doesn't know who I am bringing to her party next week,"

Magnolia said. "Because I don't know myself." Magnolia's social life

had gone into remission five months before when she broke up with

Alec the architect, who had long black hair and an inability to hit an ATM. When he asked for her to pay his car leasing bill, Magnolia

ended it, finally accepting the fact that he'd been as stingy with emo

tion as he had been with cash. "If I don't come up with someone—

and you know she'll harass me about it all week until I do—Natalie

will remedy the situation herself." As a matchmaker, Natalie believed

in the classic combination of beautiful women and rich, ugly men,

although for her, another rule applied: Natalie's husband happened to

look like Jeremy Irons's baby brother.

"In that case, we need to be creative," Abbey said. "What about

Cameron in your office? I've always loved him."

Everyone did. "Next," Magnolia said.

"J-Date," Lily insisted. "You need Jewish man." She gave the same

advice to her own daughter.

"Find a guy online?" Magnolia responded. "What kind of loser do

you think I am?"

"The kind who got no man," Lily said with a laugh. Lily and her

manicurists were always cracking up. Either they found the world

infinitely amusing or their customers, imbeciles.

"You shrews take it down a notch," Magnolia said. "What you

don't know is that this week a gentleman sent me flowers."

   Abbey and Lily swiveled their creaky vinyl chairs to face Magnolia. "The designer I worked with on the
Lady r
edo sent me a magnificent orchid in a tasteful white china pot."

"He's looking for more work," Lily said. "Doesn't count."

Magnolia hated that Lily might be right.

"Is he interested in Magnolia the delightful divorcée, or Magnolia

the on-the-rise editor?" Abbey asked.

"I'm trying to decide whether I should find out. When we finally

spoke last night, he suggested meeting for a drink."

"You accepted?" Abbey asked.

"Gave him the 'I'm on deadline.' "

"Technically, he's not your employee," she pointed out. "You

should have said yes."

"Okay, I'll ask him to join me at Natalie's party. It's a business thing,

so I can't embarrass myself that badly." In fact, bringing along Harry, who'd only recently moved here from London, might even elevate her

stock. He was a hot design consultant, and Americans always thought

anyone who sounded like Ralph Fiennes was profoundly intelligent.

Lily gave Magnolia's fingertips a final coat. Abbey's nails were now

a shiny crimson, as they sat at the dryers at the far end of the shop. Magnolia noticed the latest
Lady,
along with any number of tattered
Peoples
. "Good, we've escaped Lily," Magnolia whispered, as she began thumbing through her own magazine. As soon as
Lady
was printed, she always found at least two dozen things she wished she'd

done differently. "I've hit a little, ah, speed bump at work." She filled

her in on the Michael's breakfast.

"She brought a cat to a midtown restaurant?" Abbey asked.

"That was the highlight. This whole Bebe thing is spiraling out of

control. Very soon it's going to be the cheese stands alone, and I will be a

piece of very stinky Limburger." Magnolia tried for breezy, but she

knew Abbey would see straight through to the hollow spot inside of her

that exposed her worst-case scenario. Humiliation! Loneliness! Finan

cial ruin! That's what she saw for herself if Jock pulled the plug on her

magazine. Working didn't just pay the bills—it made her whole.

"You've got to talk to Jock," Abbey insisted. "Get him to see reason."

"Natalie thinks that's a vile idea."

"Natalie? The only good advice she ever gave you was never to

incriminate yourself in e-mail. If your magazine turns into Bebe

Blake's Christmas letter, Natalie has nothing to lose. Fight!"

"Jock's totally dollar-happy," Magnolia said. "I'm afraid his mind

is made up. He thinks going with Bebe is a blue-chip deal."

"How can you be sure?" Abbey asked.

Magnolia didn't know whom to believe. Her friend's love was never

in dispute, but she thought like an artist, not a corporate strategist,

while Natalie had stayed at the top of her game for close to twenty-five

years, when some colleagues as young as forty were already roadkill.

"I say, 'Feed me,' " Magnolia said. "Omelets at Nice Matin?"

"Bye, Lily," they shouted. "See you next Saturday."

"Don't forget your newspaper," Lily called out.

   Magnolia had almost left her
Post
behind. "Hold up, guys. Let's see what Miss Universe has in store for me today."

Can you trust other people's advice? Today's stars warn that not even close colleagues and confidants can be relied upon to share good information. They may not be trying to deceive you, but how do you know that they themselves have not been deceived?

Always with the questions, that witch. This mess, she could see,

she'd have to figure out on her own.

C h a p t e r 8

Cleavage Never Hurts

Magnolia had forgotten
how much effort a woman needed to look good, really good.

The week had been too busy for a fake-and-bake at Brazilian

Bronze, so the night before Natalie's party on Saturday, starting at

midnight, she anointed herself with self-tanner, which dried while

she fell asleep right before Ingrid Bergman discovers Cary Grant was actually single in
Indiscreet. F
ortunately, the next morning she awoke even and bronzed, not like the mutant tiger she'd feared.

Magnolia ran at eight, the earliest hour Abbey deemed civilized for

weekends. Her shiatsu massage guy, Eli Birdsong, showed up at 9:30

for an hour of bliss-by-kneading. After a quick shower, she had just

enough time to cab it to Frédéric Fekkai for an eyebrow shaping and

blowout. Satisfied that her stylist didn't completely obliterate the

body in her hair—the ramrod-straight look made her nose look the

size of a muffin—she tipped handsomely and walked up Madison

Avenue, scoping out shops to see if she could improve on the clothes

she'd laid out. So, of course, she was late for this week's manicure.

It was 4:30 by the time Magnolia got home. Biggie and Lola

assaulted her, hyper and indignant—they'd been deprived of Saturday

afternoon's usual rampage at the dog run. One short whip around the block was all the time Magnolia could spare if she was going to detox

even a little, look over a bit of work, and do her makeup right. She'd

drawn the line at a professional job, even if Natalie's guest list would

feature a column's worth of bold-faced names. In fact, now that she

thought about it, she'd have to scratch the work. Harry was picking her

up at 6:45.

As she poured the last of her precious and now extinct Ralph Lauren

Safari bath beads into the tub, the phone rang.

"Running a tad late," Harry said. "I'll bring round the car and

have the doorman ring up. Will you forgive me for being the kind of

cad who expects a lady to meet him on the street?"

I am such a sucker for a proper Brit accent, Magnolia thought. Give

him a Hugh Grant stutter and I'd marry him even if he were a televi

sion evangelist. "Take your time, Harry," Magnolia said. "We'll make

an entrance."

She poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, switched on a Norah

Jones CD, and let the glorious bubbles wash off the week, which she

gave a B plus. On the upside, she, Cam, Fredericka, and the gang

had—as of 10:59 the previous night—shipped the September issue.

They'd needed to work late every night. September was always a

monster—three-minute makeup, fall fashion must-haves, a sixteen

page parenting section underwritten by Toys "R" Us, and one article she knew each
Lady r
eader would memorize: the five secrets to getting a good night's sleep. That last coverline alone would sell the

issue. The women in America may as well have a big pajama party

between three and five in the morning—the adult female half of the

country was all up, ruminating.

But the best part of the September issue was Magnolia's off-the-charts

cover girl: a sweeter-than-Krispy-Kreme portrait of Kate Hudson and

her adorable, hipster toddler. Home run. Eighty percent newsstand

sell-through, at least, maybe 85, plus she'd be the envy of every other

editor.

Magnolia had had to wait almost two years for that photo shoot,

performing due diligence with Kate's celebrity flack by featuring sev

eral of her less fabulous stars—actresses way past their sell-by dates or no-name wannabes. It was a form of blackmail the industry

shrugged off and accepted. The cabal of publicists who controlled

celebrity coverage put all the magazines in a rotation. This meant that

it would be at least nine months—when Kate's next movie premiered—until one of
Lady'
s competitors would be allowed to feature her on a cover. That's if the publicists were true to their word. Some

times a promise was a promise, and sometimes just a suggestion. An

editor could think her cover was locked, only to be told there were

"extenuating circumstances" . . . which turned out to be that the celebrity preferred to be on
Vanity Fair.

It took at least two years to get to the front of the line and by then,

anything could happen. A young mom celebrity could, for example,

decide once her baby became older, "for security reasons," never to

allow her child's face on a magazine again. Editors had it easier at
People
or
Dazzle,
Magnolia thought. They used paparazzi photographs, although the fights for the best ones got ugly and monstrously expen

sive. Still, it didn't matter if the star had lettuce in her teeth, as long as

readers recognized her. Magnolia and all the editors of more traditional

publications needed a perfect studio shot, where the celebrity locked

eyes with the reader, Mona Lisa–style. And forget about recycling a

photograph from a few years ago. Any of the stars you'd want bought

the rights to all the photos that had ever been taken. Every single one. It

was an arcane system. You needed the approval of a celebrity's publicist

to reprint a photo and if you tried to sneak around and approach the

photographer or his rep directly, they would alert the publicist who, by

midday, would be on the phone, taking your name in vain as she drove

to work in L.A.

So the Kate Hudson cover was good news, very good. On the down

side, though, Magnolia hadn't been able to meet with Jock. It took her

all of Sunday to convince herself that confronting him—make that,

gently reasoning with him—was her best move. His assistant had

rescheduled an appointment three times over the course of Monday,

Tuesday, and Wednesday. Then Jock flew off with Darlene, Charlotte Stone, the publisher of
Elegance,
and two other publishers to weasel the Detroit car lords into doing a lucrative joint buy of Scary ads. Magnolia tried not to think about the whole nasty business. It was

time for the evening's first big decision. What to wear? She didn't

know whether tonight was the equivalent of a budget meeting

washed down with a few martinis or a potentially life-altering first

date. Magnolia tried on the new Tuleh floral. It showed tasteful "I'm

a woman, not just a working girl" cleavage, and Abbey had lent her a

pair of dangly tourmaline earrings that made her eyes look as green

as granny apples. Her orange mini and halter? Did it say "festive

dress," as Natalie had requested, or "tranny hooker"? Should she go

for understated chic with the Chloe cream eyelet pants and semisheer

shirt? The outfit was her seasonal splurge—she could have gone to

Paris for a week on what she'd spent—and now she wondered if it

looked like she'd grabbed it from Forever 21. Maybe she should

default to her five-year-old black Gucci pants (thank you, Abbey, for

insisting that Loehmann's wasn't a waste of time) and compliment

generating $69 Pearl River chinoiserie jacket. With that getup at least

no one would be staring at her chest.

Dressing for Natalie's little party was harder than writing a

résumé. In terms of self-promotion, more depended on it.

Tuleh won. Cleavage never hurt. As Magnolia slipped on the frilly

frock, the doorman rang to announce Harry. She gave herself a spritz

of scent, slicked her lips with gloss, and looked in the tall mirror that

leaned against the foyer wall. Good to go.

She'd never seen Harry in anything but one of his dark business

suits, button-up shirt, and narrow ties. But there he was in a pale pink

shirt, linen trousers, and a three-button black jacket. And damn he

had blue eyes, blue as a '57 Chevy. His wavy brown hair, combed

straight back, looked as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, an

image she'd never considered until this very moment.

Harry walked around to give her a peck on one cheek and then the

other—he smelled good, too. He opened the door of his car. Magnolia

hated to be behind the wheel of a car—she didn't know a clutch from

a carburetor—but she was reasonably sure this was a vintage Jaguar.

Sinking into its nicely broken-in tobacco-brown leather upholstery as

they headed toward Westchester, Magnolia once again thanked Harry for Uma, who was still in full bloom on her coffee table, and told him for at least the fifth time how much she liked his
Lady r
edesign. "Now tell me what you're not telling me," Harry said, laughing

and turning his eyes from the Henry Hudson Parkway to Magnolia's

face—and if she wasn't mistaken, her legs. The self-tanning had been

worth the effort.

"Just that I'm not sure the design's going to go forward," Magnolia

said, hating that corporate-speak was the best she could do, wearing a

girlie dress on a balmy June night with Diana Krall in the air and a

handsome man to her left.

"This toiling artist demands a reason," Harry said.

"My publisher has an idiot big idea, high concept, never gonna hap

pen, but I have to make nice."

"Big how?"

"Bebe Blake."

   "She's big all right." Harry roared. "We're talking wide-angle lens. But I'm not connecting the dots. What does she have to do with
Lady
?" "Bebe wants to do an Oprah. Start an empire, mold nubile minds,

preach to the little people. The Scary folks are thinking of giving her
Lady
on a silver platter."

"Which makes you the turkey?"

"Stuffed, trussed, eaten alive."

"Magnolia, luv. Dial back. They can't just give away a magazine.

Utter rubbish. Wouldn't get all worked up if I were you. The folks at

Scary have got to be smarter than this."

"Have you met Jock Flanagan?"

"Only in Liz Smith."

Magnolia raised her eyebrows and gave him a long, skeptical look.

"I take your point," he said.

As Harry smiled at her, she noticed a dimple. That and what a fast

driver he was. They were already beyond Scarsdale, sailing through

that slice of good-school-district burbs to which most of Magnolia's

college friends had migrated with their reliable husbands and fast

track toddlers. By the time Exit 4 on 684 came into view, an hour had

melted away. They'd covered all the safe subjects: their first jobs (his was at
Rolling Stone
), their last vacations (Barcelona for her, Reykjavik for him), and their dogs (could she warm up to a hyperactive

Jack Russell?).

Magnolia guided Harry through the twists and turns of what New

Yorkers loved to refer to as "the country." Then they entered the

grounds. It was 8:30. Showtime.

Beyond stands of evergreens and birch, elegant gray gates parted

on a winding road. At the top of a hill stood not a condo development

but the house Natalie had christened Simply Simon. Every lamp and

chandelier was ablaze, rivaling dozens of Chinese lanterns strung

along an open front porch and swinging from old oaks in the soft

breeze. The only thing missing was Bambi. That and the paparazzi—

though for all she knew, Natalie might have hidden a crew in the

bushes. They got out of the car, handed the key to the valet parking

attendant, and walked to the front door.

The first time Magnolia laid eyes on Natalie's house, her envy was

like a rash. Natalie and her husband had bought their mini-estate only