Little Pink Slips

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication Page

Acknowledgments

Chapter One: From Fargo to Fabulous

Chapter Two: The Grunt Work and the Glory

Chapter Three: Oprah Envy

Chapter Four: The Two Women Who Still Eat Carbs

Chapter Five: The Corner of Grapevine and Yenta

Chapter Six: A Legend in Her Own Mind

Chapter Seven: Marshmallow and Mademoiselle

Chapter Eight: Cleavage Never Hurts

Chapter Nine: Good, Clean Manhattan Fun

Chapter Ten: Manhattan Is High School in Heels

Chapter Eleven: Avalanche of Reality

Chapter Twelve: Bushwhacking at the Pierre

Chapter Thirteen: Extra Virgin

Chapter Fourteen: Whatever Turns You On

Chapter Fifteen: In This Life, One Thing Counts

Chapter Sixteen: Bebepalooza

Chapter Seventeen: Too Much Information

Chapter Eighteen: Mistress Tortured

Chapter Nineteen: Not Great, Not Grateful

Chapter Twenty: Cupcake? I Don’t Think So

Chapter Twenty-One: Hugh Grant and the Glamazon Girls

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Intimidation Card

Chapter Twenty-Three: Aw, Heck, What Would Jesus Do?

Chapter Twenty-Four: In the Bleak December

Chapter Twenty-Five: Fattened Up for the Kill

Chapter Twenty-Six: Pluck Sucks

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Angel Girl

Chapter Twenty-Eight: One-Way Ticket to Siberia

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Persistent Vegetative State

Chapter Thirty: An Offending Prepositional Phrase

Chapter Thirty-One: What About the Obvious?

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Defining Address

Chapter Thirty-Three: Yesterday’s History, Tomorrow’s a Mystery

Chapter Thirty-Four: What Would Anna Do?

Chapter Thirty-Five: Knickers in a Twist

Chapter Thirty-Six: It’s a Hard-Knock Life

Chapter Thirty-Seven: See You in Court

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Blue-Blooded Butt-Head vs. the White-Trash Nympho

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Guts and Roses

Chapter Forty: A Goose Is Cooked

Chapter Forty-One: The Curse of the Perfect Memory

Chapter Forty-Two: Fired, Finished, Decapitated

Chapter Forty-Three: Passion in Flip-flops

Chapter Forty-Four: The Devil’s Work?

Chapter Forty-Five: Best Picture

About the Author

Little Pink Slips

Little Pink Slips

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sally Koslow

G. P. P U T N A M' S S O N S N E W Y O R K

G. P. PUTN AM'S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York,
New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) •
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland,
25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) •
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd,
24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2007 by Sally Koslow
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in
any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or
encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Koslow, Sally.
Little pink slips/Sally Koslow
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-4295-2927-X
1. Women periodical editors—Fiction. I. Title. 2. Women's periodicals—Fiction.
PS3611.074919L58 2007 2006037339
813'.6—dc22

Book design by Lovedog Studio

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher has no control over and assumes no responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To Robby

Acknowledgments

I am in debt
to many people who gave generously to me throughout the writing of this, my first novel.

I could not have asked for a more delightful editor than Jackie

Cantor, whose enthusiasm and insights have made the process a

dream. I am honored to have worked with her and others at Putnam,

especially Ivan Held, Catharine Lynch, Marilyn Ducksworth, and—

too briefly—the legendary Leona Nevler. To Isabella Fasciano, thanks for imagining a
Little Pink Slips
cover that is as elegant and eyecatching as her name.

   I am fortunate that fate brought me to Christy Fletcher, who believed in
Little Pink Slips
from the start. I appreciate her unerring judgment and continuing guidance, and that of Elizabeth Ziemska in

Los Angeles and Araminta Whitley in London, as well as the atten

tion of Kate Scherler.

Charles Salzburg deserves huge thanks for allowing a rogue fiction

writer to invade his nonfiction writing circle. I value his friendship,

strategic suggestions, and deadlines, without which I'd still be tweak

ing page one. Vivian Conan is a fine writer whom I am happy to count

as a friend. I am grateful for her common sense and questions—the

more nitpicky, the better—and those of other good-luck charms in our workshops, especially Kimberlee Auerbach, Patricia Crevits, Sarah

Doudna, Judy Gorfain, Sharon Gurwitz, Erica Keirstaad, Stephanie

Klein, Patty Nasey, Naama Potok, Marian Sabat, Ellen Schecter,

Sharon Samuel, Betty Wald, and Richard Willis.

To Amy Stewart and Thomas Gallitano at Conn Kavanaugh Rosen

thal Peisch & Ford, LLP, many thanks for developing Magnolia Gold's

legal argument as if she were a living, breathing client.

My friends in the wonderful, wacky world of magazines have a col

lective wit and energy equaled in few other industries. There are a lot

of Magnolia Golds out there, but I owe a special debt to the incom

parable Ellen Levine, who mentored me and so many others, as well

as to Catherine Cavender, Emily Listfield, and Diane Salvatore,

whose friendships supply a reality check and a bottomless well of wry

observations. I also wish to acknowledge my remarkably talented former staffs at
McCall's
and
Lifetime.
I hope I was a better boss than some; if not, let's all just move on.

I definitely have the world's most giving friends, who offered

hugs, hospitality, and editorial advice during the long writing process.

My friendship with Barbara Fisher flowered during the adventure of writing
Little Pink Slips
; she deserves loving thanks for her gentle encouragement and remarkable resiliency. Very special shout-outs

also go to Anita Bakal, Sherry Suib Cohen, Margie Rosen, and Ina Saltz—who all critiqued early drafts and said
yes!
with warm enthusiasm—as well as to Michele Willens. Dale Singer asked probing ques

tions and buoyed my spirits as I started a fresh chapter. Thanks to her

as well.

The women in my family are extraordinary—every one strong and

inspiring. I owe a great deal to my sisters, Betsy Teutsch, Dale Berger,

and Vicki Kriser, and to my gorgeous mother-in-law, Helen Koslow

Sweig.

My love of fiction comes from my mom, Fritzie Platkin, the Fargo

Public Library's most regular customer. I wish that she and my

father, Samuel Platkin, could have seen their daughter publish a novel

and know how much I thank them both for a lifetime of quiet gifts. My extraordinary sons make me proud in about a thousand ways.

Thanks to Jed and Rory for cheering me on, as I do them, as we chase

new dreams. It is a wonderful thing to be able to receive excellent

advice from one's children.

Most of all, my husband, Robert, has always seen the potential in

a girl from Fargo and was most of the reason I moved to Manhattan.

I thank him for his humor, love, and support, which I return.

C h a p t e r 1

From Fargo to Fabulous

The Chanel sample sale,
holy of holies for the aspiring fashionista. Magnolia Gold, editor in chief of
Lady
magazine, could imagine few other reasons to get out of bed before dawn. She hurled

herself into a sleeveless black dress that showed off her biceps, and

slipped on the stilettos she'd found in Milan, the ones you could

almost mistake for Manolos.

When she usually left for her office, three hours later, you'd sooner

find a five-carat diamond in the garlic bin at Fairway than an empty

taxi on the Upper West Side. At this hour, though, she all but collided

with a cab. In minutes, she zipped down West End Avenue, headed

around Columbus Circle, and turned on to Central Park South, arriv

ing early enough at the Park Lane Hotel to snag a good place in line.

   
Lady'
s beauty director, Phoebe Feinberg-Fitzpatrick, had given her the drill. "People get there at six, though the doors don't open till

eight," she lectured, an echo of Long Island left in her voice. "Dress comfy—it can get intense." They both knew
comfy w
asn't code for Eddie Bauer jumpers and sneakers.

Magnolia figured she scored a solid 7.5 on the cosmic scale of

attractiveness. She had mahogany brown hair—shoulder length,

thick, cut with bangs that framed big green eyes; a God-given nose which, to her horror, called to mind the word
perky
; and, despite a nuclear metabolism, a butt no one could miss. Thanks to Phoebe, who

dispensed discounts and freebies wherever she landed, Magnolia had

her frizz regularly deleted by the latest Japanese process ($800 for just

anyone, zero for her) and benefited from gratis cosmetics that allowed

her to make the most of high cheekbones and wrinkle-free skin, the

continuing payoff of the teenage oilies. She hoped the last gift would

keep on giving well past next fall's thirty-eighth birthday.

Today's invitation came via Phoebe's best friend, the PR girl for

Chanel. Normally, editors in chief of old-time women's magazines

never made the cut. In the Manhattan court of publishing, they were ladies-in-waiting. Fashion royalty came first—
Vogue, Elle, Bazaar, Elegance, W,
and even
InStyle
. Next were the shopping glossies, led by
Lucky,
tied with
Marie Claire, Cosmo,
and
Glamour,
magazines for women who'd murder for a date
.
The celebrity rags,
Dazzle, Us, InTouch
, and
The Star
, had street cred, too, because all the showroom girls read them. But even though hausfrau magazines like
Lady
were far more popular—with millions of readers—their clout in the world

of fashion fascists was down there with tapered, pleated jeans.

Magnolia entered the hotel, all five feet five inches of her, and

scurried past sleepy doormen and tall stands of calla lilies. She shot up

the thickly carpeted crimson steps. At least thirty women were strung

out along one wall, sitting on the floor. She recognized . . . no one. Parking herself, she idly opened her
New York Post. W
hat was their freakishly accurate horoscope witch warning today?

Stop playing second fiddle. As Mars moves into your birth sign, you need to convince people you are special, that you were born for bigger and better things. First of all, convince yourself.

Indeed. Magnolia knew it seemed as if she was on the top of the

heap—the great job, the enviable dividends that came with it. The

inner Magnolia was, however, less than one hundred percent sure she

deserved what she'd scored. Just as she began to ponder how, exactly,

she might jump-start a confidence transplant—she'd had the name of a shrink on her nightstand for months—she was saved from the bur

den of precaffeinated self-analysis by Phoebe, who was cheerfully

shrieking her name.

"You made it. Can you believe this dedication?"

Magnolia could. She'd be perfectly happy still buying her clothes at

H&M. But she happened to want to keep working. Along with danc

ing at office parties, the unwritten job description of being an editor

in chief at Scarborough Magazines—or Scary, as insiders christened

the company years ago, when, in a putsch remembered as Bloody

Monday, five editors in chief were canned in one day—included

managing her image. This was at least as important as keeping tabs

on an $18 million budget. No one at Scary had a Condé Nast–level

clothing allowance, but every editor and publisher was expected to

look as if she did.

At a luncheon a few years ago, Magnolia overheard the president

of a major publishing company snort, "That woman will never work for
us,
" while critiquing an editor in a ruffled peach suit more suited to the Scottsdale Country Club than the podium of the Waldorf. In a

flash, Magnolia got it, just as she understood that the editor-in-chief

position she was appointed to the next year came with migraines,

fourteen-hour days, and densely numbered Excel sheets.

"When the Chanel ladies open the doors, race to the handbags,"

Phoebe instructed, placing her hands on her hips, which, despite the

eighth month of a pregnancy, were so slim they appeared to have

been modified by Adobe Photoshop. "They'll be on the far wall and

they let you buy two. Grab them right away. Go to the opposite wall

next and hit the shoes, but don't get sucked in by the short boots.

They're so over. Then the clothes. Save the jewelry and sunglasses till

the end. They have plenty."

Okay, Magnolia thought. She might be a piece of wood at yoga, but

if she could migrate from Fargo to Manhattan, she could manage

these moves.

Truthfully, once you got over the accents, Fargo had been less

frozen wasteland and more an agreeably Type B place to be a kid,

good for cruising the mall and dating cute boys named Anderson or Olson. On vacations from the University of Michigan, she'd return home every summer, with internships at
The Forum.
But when the newspaper offered her a job after graduation—she was one fine obit

writer, that Maggie—her mother and father couldn't hustle her to the

airport fast enough.

"Fargo—no place for a Jewish girl" could have been the family

bumper sticker. For Maggie Goldfarb, there'd be little postbaccalaure

ate mooching. Recognizing she'd hit her sell-by date in the state the

country forgot ("You're the first person I've ever met from North

Dakota"), she'd need to get out, ready or not.

Maggie headed for Manhattan and morphed into Magnolia Gold.

Later, when people asked her what connections she'd exercised to snag her job at
Glamour
, she fessed up to ignorance as her sole advantage. If she'd grown up in New York, she'd have been too intimidated

to have cold-called Human Resources.

"Mags! Magnolia! Hey, Gold!"

   Magnolia's head was in Fargo, but Darlene Knudson, publisher of
Lady
, was definitely here, dripping a tall latte on Magnolia's bare leg. She and Darlene were equals at
Lady
, each ruling her own dominion: Magnolia headed up the editorial staff, and Darlene managed

sales and marketing. Both reported to Jock Flanagan, the company's

president and CEO, and a former publisher himself. Most heads of

magazine companies climbed the corporate ladder by starting as pub

lishers, and though they feigned fascination for creative types, in a

standoff, it was publishers who garnered their sympathy. When ad

sales faltered, invariably an editor got the boot.

Big-boned and braying, Darlene plopped down next to Magnolia,

ignoring scowls from the women—more than 150 by now—behind

her in line. Darlene had never met a mirror she didn't like and, at

forty, was still bragging about her SAT scores. She was a Midwestern

transplant, too, but while Mr. and Mrs. Goldfarb failed to receive the

memo that self-esteem had been invented, Darlene drank it in her

mother's milk. The child of Iowa über-WASPs, Darlene was now an

Upper East Side mother of three, with a nanny for each daughter.

Everyone on her staff knew Darlene took mental health days every Friday to make up for rarely seeing Priscilla, Camilla, and Annabel

the rest of the week.

She always tried to stick it to Magnolia, who considered Darlene

her frenemy—more enemy than friend.

"First-timer?" Darlene asked, throwing down her bulging black

satchel. "I hate this stuff myself, but Mother loves it."

"Yes, I'm a virgin," Magnolia responded in a tone she hoped was

airy and ironic. But Darlene was already thumb-dancing with her

BlackBerry. Conversation over.

By now the sisterhood of shoppers snaked down one long wall and

back around the other. The latest arrivals were nearer to the door than

sleep-deprived zealots who'd blown in at dawn. The crowd ranged

from fashion victims—whose unfortunate garments represented every

trend from the past four seasons—to dozens of adorable answers to the question "Who could ever wear
that
?"

As the clock neared eight, a Chanel representative emerged, arms

brimming with papers. "No one will be admitted without proper ID,"

she shouted above the din. "Complete these waivers before we let

you in."

   "Forms?" countered a member of the
Lucky
pep squad. "What's up?"

   "We need to make sure no one will resell on eBay," announced the

gatekeeper.

"Last year one woman made over $60,000," the girl next to

Magnolia whispered. Just as she was considering the brilliance of that

energetic consumer, a tussle broke out. A new arrival (she must be

past sixty—her face was Botoxed and Restylaned to perfection, but

the neck told all) had tried to maneuver herself to a spot near the

door. Two women half her age blocked her entrance.

"Where do you think you're headed?" one demanded.

"To shop like everyone else," the interloper responded as she

plucked a speck of lint off her yoga pants.

"Like hell you are," said early bird number one.

"Don't be crass," answered Miss Sixty. "We have equal rights here."

"Not if you don't wait your turn," the friend said as she raised an

arm to bar her elder. "No one's going in till you all calm down, every one of you," yelled

the Chanel rep, her camellia trembling. "No one."

Calm prevailed. For thirty seconds. Then the doors parted. The

room, bright as a casino, swallowed Magnolia. Neatly boxed shoes and

boots, carefully arranged by sizes, and every sort of brooch and more

were piled high on tables, which ringed row after row of tightly

packed clothing racks. Where to begin? The handbags, the handbags.

Totes the size of labradoodles, clutches too small for a Tampax, purses

worthy of a Jackie O impersonator. Not a style in sight a workhorse

could live out of from morning till night.

Then she spotted it, the black kid classic. Interlocking C's stood

chastely back-to-back in a quilted V. She'd seen this number advertised for $2,100 in the
Times.
Here, $150.

Magnolia grabbed the bag and a furry carryall that she could wear

with—well, she'd figure that out later. She scat to the shoes, and furi

ously began trying on every pair of size sevens. Powder blue ballerina

flats with huge C's. Even in her delirium she realized they were more