Little Pink Slips (14 page)

"Ah, real people—that makes it much harder, Bebe. We have to

find the women, be sure there's geographic and racial diversity, see

when they can be flown to New York, be fitted for clothes—it takes

planning, and real women don't usually fit into sample sizes."

Magnolia answered in a tone even she identified as prissy, but the fact was that organizing real people stories was like planning the inva

sion of a small country. They were ten times the trouble of regular

fashion stories, where you phoned an agency, cast a few models, and

called it a day. Real people stories required massive effort and yet often

looked amateurish.

"They can wear their own clothes," Bebe said.

"But women want to be able to buy the clothes they see," Magnolia

said, thinking that the bigger problem would be with Darlene. Peri

odically, Darlene gave Magnolia a list of the fashion advertisers she

was wooing, and she expected the magazine to flog their clothes in the

editorial pages, even if they came with price tags way out of reach for

the readers.

"You work out those details," Bebe said, frowning. Her eyes looked

even closer together than usual. "You and Sam must be gangbusters at

that. Now in the fall, I also like to eat. Well, I always like to eat. Felic

ity here bakes bread, believe it or not."

"Mother taught me," Felicity explained with pride. "I'd be happy to

be photographed teaching the readers. I bake a mean pumpernickel."

"Sounds delicious, Felicity," Magnolia answered. Now that her

painkiller was gone, she remembered that she hadn't eaten a bite of

anything today. "But most American women try to stay away from

bread."

"Bullshit, Mags," Bebe said. "Show me one."

"Ladies?" Magnolia looked to her staff. A few timid hands shot up,

but several editors refused to yield, even though Magnolia knew

they'd rather give their Jimmy Choos to the homeless than eat the

crust of a pizza.

"Okay, bread, done." Bebe switched on to a higher voltage. "And then

I'll write a sex column. Answer readers' questions. Nothing off-limits."

She nodded her head in enthusiasm. "We'll need a great name. I'm

thinking 'Pussy Talk'?"

   According to polls, if you believed them,
Lady'
s readers—and Scary would send
Bebe
to all of those subscribers; that's how it worked—had husband and children, but no one ever admitted to having, liking, or

being the least bit curious about sex. "You think it might be a smidge too graphic, Bebe?" Magnolia

asked.

"How about 'Getting Naked,' " she suggested.

"Love it," Magnolia said, "but some other magazine uses it."

" 'Sex Ed,' " an editor shouted.

" 'Your Pleasure Starts Here.' "

" 'A Course on Intercourse.' "

"Not just intercourse," Bebe said. "Get real, girls."

" 'The B Spot! The B Spot!' " a very pregnant Phoebe, who usually

never came up with an idea beyond her annual "Metallic Makeup for

the Holidays," screamed the suggestion.

" 'The B Spot,' " Bebe hollered it back. "I get it. I like it. 'The B

Spot.' "

"Whatever turns you on," Magnolia snickered softly.

"What's that? 'Whatever Turns You On!' " Bebe repeated. " 'What

ever Turns You On.' Yup, that's it. Magnolia, you little genius. 'What

ever Turns You On.' "

Magnolia realized she could transform the meeting into a Roman

holiday, with every editor feasting on the gore and barbarism of

watching her tear out Bebe's squinty little eyes. Or she could encour

age Bebe to create a magazine in her own image and have it die a nat

ural death.

That is, if the magazine would fail. With the American public, who

knew? Bebe could be right. Women might adore these ideas. Maybe

every woman was secretly dying to hop on a big old Harley, stuff her

face with a loaf of pumpernickel, and have mind-blowing sex on a

quiet country lane with a three-hundred-pound biker named Runt.

"So Mag-knowl-ya, what do you think?"

"Whatever Turns You On . . ." Magnolia said. "Let's make it happen."

C h a p t e r 1 5

In This Life, One Thing Counts

During the two years
Magnolia had reported to Jock Flanagan, he had not once popped into her office for a schmooze. So it

was curious that today, Friday, the end of her first full week as Bebe's

deputy, Jock arrived like a missile. He landed on her new guest seat

ing—an armless, royal blue swivel job, pilfered from the conference

room—as if it were time for their weekly therapy session.

"So how's it going with Bebe?" he asked, trying to smooth his thick,

wavy hair. Jock required regular mowing, and if he missed a trim, he

looked as if he'd been coifed by a Cuisinart.

Magnolia flashed on the last few days. She and Bebe had settled

into a no-routine routine. A few times Bebe had buzzed her to demand

a drive-by meeting, but either she hadn't learned to turn on her Mac

or didn't care to use it, so no e-mail volleys existed. Felicity kept regu

lar hours to supervise the fluffing of Bebe's office, and could be heard

squealing with glee as each mirror, poster of Bebe, or carnivorous

looking plant found its home in the red lair. Bebe fit the magazine around rehearsals and tapings for
The Bebe Show.

Magnolia wished that Jock were, in fact, an actual therapist. Then

she could have told him how she felt. Ridiculous, pissed off, and stuck—

she couldn't afford to walk out since no guardian angel had dangled another opportunity in her face. This didn't surprise her; she'd counted on the redesign of
Lady
to project her into the orbit of hotshots who circled from big job to bigger job. But she also felt guilty—she knew she

should be grateful for the well-paying, well-percolated position she still

had, even if it was at a lower rank than at the first of the month.

"Magnolia, I asked you a question," Jock said.

"Everything's fine," she answered. "Really. We're developing a

terrific sex column, we're stalking biker chicks for fashion, and we've

got a story in the works where we're all over leopard—clothes, shoes,

dishes, furniture, everything except the big cat itself."

Jock seemed to cringe a little, but offered no response, so Magnolia

continued.

"There's a special section called 'Don't Get Screwed—Get Every

thing,' where matrimonial attorneys advise divorcing women. Bebe

came up with the idea, based on her last settlement. She's been mar

ried several times, you know? Husband number three demanded a

fortune in alimony—I'm sure you read about it. He was her agent, ten

years younger. It's sad the way he ripped her off."

"Hmm," Jock said.

She thought, given Jock's marital history, that at least the divorce

story would have piqued his interest, but now it was Magnolia's turn to wait. It hadn't sounded like a good
hmm.
The staff
was
busy, she thought defensively. Whether it added up to a unique magazine was

not for her to say. Not that anyone was asking.

"Magnolia, from what I hear you haven't been, well, the most

cooperative."

"What?" she snapped, wondering who might have slimed her. She

thought she'd been as neutral as Switzerland. Well, maybe not sweet,

stern little Switzerland, but definitely more Western European than

Middle Eastern. If someone—most likely Darlene, that sociopath

masquerading as a publisher—had portrayed her as a suicide bomber

of Bebe's plans, it was outrageous. "You heard this where?"

"Where doesn't matter," Jock said, staring at his manicured nails as if

he'd just noticed they were attached to his hand. "You get how serious

this is, don't you? How much money Scarborough has on this horse?" Magnolia took Jock's measure. She wasn't convinced he was angry:

she'd seen him in this state enough times to recognize his version of

rage. Once, when he'd swooped down on an editor whose newsstand

sales had plummeted 62 percent, you'd have thought she'd shot his

bulldog, Grover Cleveland. Magnolia decided Jock probably just

needed reassurance. No doubt, he was getting heat from the Scary

brothers who owned the company. They rarely left Santa Barbara, but

tortured him by phone, fax, and summons to California.

Magnolia calculated that she'd best kick it up a notch. She'd need

this job until something better came along. "You have my word that I

will get and keep things in line," she said, in honor student mode.

"Bebe's first cover shoot's today, and I'll be there to run interference. Elizabeth's people have arranged for an
Access Hollywood
crew to film the shoot. Build buzz. They'll air the film the week of the launch."

Would she be insane to spit out what she was thinking of saying

next? "Would you like to come to the shoot?" Magnolia held her breath,

thinking how the photographer they'd booked—Francesco Bellucci, a

fading star known for grand opera tantrums—would very likely walk

out if the president of the company showed up to cramp his style.

Jock appeared to consider the invitation. But then he said, "Oh,

please, that won't be necessary," and waved away the thought. "In

fact, I'm catching a plane. I know I can count on you, Magnolia."

He looked at his vintage Patek Philippe and stood to leave. Should

she spring her next question, the one that kept her up every night and

had, as a result, cost her four hundred dollars for a QVC chinchilla

wrap too faux for even a ho? Magnolia went for the red meat. "I'm glad

you stopped by, because I was hoping we could discuss my . . . title."

She delivered the request with bluster she thought would be mistaken

for male confidence. No one ever damned a man for a bold gesture.

"What is your title," he asked. "Remind me?"

"Bebe seems to think it's deputy."

"Makes sense," he said. "Although I don't recall if we ever discussed

titles, Bebe and I."

"Three years ago I'd have been thrilled with that title, Jock. But it

doesn't reflect the job I'm doing. I'm managing this magazine down to the last semicolon." Surely, that was how Jock saw her role, a copy edi

tor who'd mated with a lion tamer. "You know that."

"Do I?"

"If I have to sleep in the ladies' room, I'll make this magazine the

best it can be."

"Why, for God's sake, do editors carry on about titles? It's about

bucks. Don't you people get that?"

   
In this life, one thing counts. In the bank, large amounts.
. . . For publishers and other business-side folk, it was a philosophy they may as

well have had on their business cards, but editors always wanted their

monetary entrée rounded up with tasty side dishes, including a

respectable title.

"Editor then?" Magnolia said. It was a big step down from editor in

chief, but at least it wasn't deputy.

"Editor. Magnolia the editor."

"You'll tell Bebe?"

Jock had already stepped halfway out the door, but turned to give

Magnolia an appraisal that, if she wasn't mistaken, lingered rather

long on her chest. "I'll try to remember," he said.

C h a p t e r 1 6

Bebepalooza

Traffic was light
at this hour of the morning, and it didn't take long to arrive at Washington Street, not far from the Hudson River.

Most local photo shoots took place in vast studios—Manhattan's stand

ins for back lots—tucked into downtown loft buildings, and Magnolia's

favorite was Industria Superstudio, where she was heading. Fredericka

had pulled in every chit to book Studio 6. It was small enough to be inti

mate, yet large enough to drive in a tank and photograph a minor

jihad—which is what Magnolia feared might take place today.

   "Good morning!" Fredericka spotted her and left her
Woman's Wear
on a leather armchair as she sprinted across the shiny wooden floor in Magnolia's direction, her platinum bob flying.

   "
Guten tag,
Fredericka," Magnolia said. "
Was ist das?
" She pointed to a tall structure swathed in white drop cloths.

"The backdrop," Fredericka explained. "Vhen ve decided to go

vith leopard, Francesco suggested a leopard vall, so ve had a muralist

paint one."

"How much did this set us back?"

"Three thousand? Six thousand?" Fredericka answered and

shrugged. "Francesco has in mind to pose Bebe draped over one of

those leopard chaises in front of the background." She pointed toward

a cluster of furniture being unpacked by several beefy deliverymen.

"Like an odalisque."

   Magnolia knew not to be surprised. Photographers saw themselves as
artistes
and cared far more about whether a day's work would enhance their portfolio than if it fit a magazine's image or budget. It mattered little that
Bebe
would be paying Francesco's fee—half of today's $50,000-plus bill. Photographers ruled their photo shoots, and

if they chose to treat an art director like a summer intern or take only

half the shots the editor in chief expected, they stamped their feet

and got their way.

"Check out the clothes," Fredericka said, taking Magnolia's hand

and pulling her toward the other end of the room, where Ruthie and

several assistants were setting up what looked like a good-sized bou

tique, removing garments from bags, steaming away creases, hanging

everything on aluminum racks, and salivating over choices.

"Some Bebepalooza." Magnolia whistled.

"The shoes!" Ruthie said. "You've got to see them."

Magnolia inhaled the smell of expensive leather and listened to

the promising rustle of tissue paper as a double for the Bergdorf's

shoe department came into focus. The troops carefully removed at

least twenty pairs of leopard-print size tens: Manolo Blahnik stilettos;

Lambertson Truex skimmers with toes so pointed they could open

letters; Stuart Weitzman calf-hair pumps you'd feel the need to pet;

girly, bow-bedecked Christian Louboutin peep toes. The only foot

wear missing were actual leopard paws.

Ruthie slipped her size six-and-a-half feet into the bowed pumps.

"Don't you love these?"

"Not for $700 I don't," Magnolia answered, knowing she sounded

like a social worker. "The reader could feed her family for months on

what these shoes cost."

"We're not telling people to buy the shoes," Ruthie said. "Anyway,

they're what Felicity said Bebe liked."

Luca Luca, Moschino, Marni, and Roberto Cavalli were all here,

along with lesser labels. Since Bebe didn't wear a sample size—

not by several digits—Ruthie and her junior varsity had called in

dresses, pants, and blouses from every chic store in Beverly Hills

and all points east. Magnolia and Fredericka combed through the garments, grouping first choices together. As Magnolia held up a ruf

fled Alexander McQueen cocktail dress, she heard the voice.

"Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, reporting for duty," Bebe boomed.

"You don't actually expect me to wear that?" she said as she got close

enough to see the dress in Magnolia's hands. "Christ, I'd look like a

heifer."

"Not at all, Bebe," Magnolia said. "You're going to look like you."

Just not exactly like the Bebe who'd arrived in bike shorts, a long

sweatshirt, bare, lady wrestler legs, and running shoes. In one hand,

she carried a half-eaten doughnut and under her arm, Hell.

"I loathe photo shoots," Bebe said. There was an edge to her voice

that Magnolia couldn't quite identify. It took a second for her to real

ize that what she was hearing was honesty. Bebe was just as freaked

about being photographed as any woman who wasn't a 100-pound,

fourteen-year-old model from Eastern Europe.

"That makes two of us," Magnolia said. Every time she had her edi

tor's letter photo taken, she'd found the experience so ego-shredding

she practically needed rehab to recover. "Most of my pictures wouldn't

even make the cut for the Westminster Kennel Dog Show. But don't

worry. We've got the very best for hair and makeup."

Fredericka broke in. "Before ve get going, you need to meet

Francesco." She nodded toward a short man in wireless glasses, loose

white pants, and a long shirt billowing over a sizable tummy. A do-rag

was tied around his head. "Ciao," Fredericka shouted, as he ambled in

their direction.

   "Ciao,
bellissima,
" Francesco said to Fredericka. "And this beautiful lady must be today's star," he sang out, bestowing kisses on

Magnolia's reddening cheeks. "I will make you so magnificent, like

the most desired concubine in a sultan's harem. But it will not be

hard."

   Fredericka interrupted. "Francesco, darling. You know Magnolia Gold. Remember the
Lady
shoot with Nicole Kidman?
This
is our cover girl." She swiveled toward Bebe. Francesco turned in Bebe's

direction. "Please meet Bebe Blake."

"You were expecting someone gorgeous perhaps?" Bebe said with a grin. "Frank, better have a drink. Catwoman ain't coming. You got

your work cut out for you."

Francesco blinked twice and kissed Bebe's hand. "Apologies, my

lovely lady. You will see. I will make you divine."

"Bovine? I can do bo-vine standing on my head." Bebe laughed.

Alone.

   Francesco looked confused and motioned toward the breakfast buffet. "
Mangia, ev
eryone," he said, waving. Pineapple spears, three kinds of berries, yogurt, brioches, and bagels covered a long table set with

heavy taupe pottery and a linen cloth. "We're still prepping the first

shot," he said. "It all must be perfect." Two male assistants in tight

blue jeans and black T-shirts were unfurling an enormous white back

ground. Several others were setting up a galaxy of lights. "You must

excuse me."

Magnolia looked at her watch. Nearing eleven. The breakfast hour

would drag on another twenty minutes. Then makeup, which takes a

good hour, followed by hair, an hour there, too. By then it would be

1:30, and the whole crew—close to thirty people, counting Francesco's aides-de-camp plus Elizabeth Lester Duvall and the
Access Hollywood
crew who'd be arriving at noon—would announce that, no, they're not

hungry, but, sure, they could use a snack. The caterer would present

another, far more sumptuous, meal and the gang would chow down as

if they were gearing up for a Yom Kippur fast.

They'd be lucky to start shooting by two.

Magnolia wished life would allow her to age in photo shoot time. It

wasn't just the slow-mo pace that got to her. It was the talk, endless

hours of it, during prep and between takes. "Did you hear about Dog

bone, the new club?" "My boyfriend and I got totally trashed there last

night." "We got cut off at the pass. Had to go to Schiller's Liquor Bar."

"Did you want to kill?" "Totally." "I so need to lose ten pounds."

"You're insane. I want your hips." "Then be ready for lipo." And on and on. Magnolia knew that even at
Lady
she wasn't exactly brokering peace in the Middle East, but at photo shoots she could feel IQ points

literally melting away. Plus, she thought crankily as she took a deep

breath, this was a smoking crowd. Then there was the music, which as the day wore on, would throb at migraine-inducing decibels, all in the

name of trying to "create energy."

   Why, she wondered, did anyone think shoots were glamorous?

   Magnolia wandered off to a corner, and began to read
Men's Health,
the only magazine she could find. She got almost to the end of "Put the Tiger in Your Wood—9 Hard-and-Fast Rules for Awe

Inspiring Erections." Just as she was thinking how her ex, Wally,

could have benefited from the information, Bebe gave a shout-out.

   "Magnolia!" she yelled. "Whattya think?"

   Bebe looked ready for a revival of
Cats.
Her face was spackled to a Formica smoothness, and smoky gray eyeliner extended almost to her

temples. At least Akiko, the makeup artist, hadn't added whiskers.

"Honestly, Bebe?"

"No, lie big. Of course, honestly."

"Too, too, too . . . Akiko, could you make it more . . . natural?"

Magnolia asked. Akiko smiled sweetly and continued to sculpt faux

cheekbones into Bebe's well-fed face.

"Hey, I like it," Bebe said. "The eyes stay. And Jean-Luc here"—

she pointed to the town's premier makeup man, who was cursing his

boyfriend in French on a cell phone—"we've already decided on

spiky hair. A whole new me."

A Bebe who readers might not recognize, Magnolia thought. A

Bebe who could frighten small children. But time was marching on. Elizabeth and
Access Hollywood
had shown up with a truckload of equipment. As Elizabeth bossed them around like the secretary of

defense, their presence added an element of chaos, which only slowed

the tempo as they directed Bebe in their filming and interviewed

Francesco.

Magnolia bivouacked with Fredericka. "If we can finish Bebe's

hair and get her into the first outfit, will Francesco be ready in thirty

minutes?"

"I'll ask," Fredericka said. She returned in five minutes. "Francesco

thinks ve should break to eat."

The lunch, which Francesco had ordered from Tabla, his favorite

Indian restaurant, was worthy of New Delhi in high summer. Nor mally, chicken tikka with mango chutney and mint, coconut rice, and

orange glazed carrots would have appealed to Magnolia. But today she

could only look at the clock. Their star hadn't even tried on clothes.

Toward the end of the break, Magnolia approached Bebe. "We've got

to keep moving," she said, and motioned Bebe toward the clothing

while she held up a Marni dress with a forgiving cut.

"Hate it," Bebe said, as she polished off a big bite of a pink sweet

everyone else had left on the buffet.

"How about this?" Magnolia pulled out a simple gown by Calvin

Klein.

"Nope." Bebe chewed loudly.

Magnolia offered Bebe a jacket by Michael Kors, followed by a

Moschino Cheap & Chic skirt and sweater. Reject. Reject.

"You're kidding, right?" Bebe said, yanking off her sweatshirt and

exposing her black lace bra. From the back of the last rack she with

drew a flimsy leopard T, and stretched it over her head, smearing her

eyeliner. "Love it," she said as she stripped to her panties, which, to

Magnolia's relief, were grannies. "Help me find a bottom."

Ruthie and Magnolia searched and returned with eight pairs of

pants. Nothing fit. If the pants were made with back or side zippers,