Little Pink Slips (15 page)

Ruthie would be able to cunningly split a seam and no one would be

the wiser, but every style zipped up the front.

"Houston, we have a problem," Magnolia said. "Ruthie, have your

assistants run out and look for plain black pants."

"No-no-no-no-no," Bebe said. "I'll wear my bike shorts." Bebe

began to squeeze back into her spandex.

"Bebe," Magnolia said. "You can't."

"Watch me," Bebe responded, grinning.

"Seriously. It's all wrong for the cover."

"It'll be fun," Bebe said, gathering Hell into her arms. "What do

you think, you big, bad boy?" She tickled the cat's neck until he

purred. "Doesn't Mommy look fucktabulous?"

"Do you think we could let Francesco decide?" Magnolia asked,

peeking out from behind the curtained dressing area and motioning

him over. "Like I care what that fat old fart thinks? Magnolia, are you forget

ting whose magazine this is? This is me. I live in bike pants. End of

story."

Francesco stepped behind the curtain. Bebe danced to the sound of

Prince. "So, Frank, can you make me bo-vine?" she asked, striking a

hands-on-hip pose.

The photographer glared.

"Francesco, let's just try a few shots in these clothes," Magnolia

said, softly and evenly.

"They will not do." He folded his arms over his belly. "I do not see it."

"See it," Bebe said, mirroring his stance.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

   "See it, Frank," Bebe repeated, shimmying to the music.

   "
Basta, basta,
" Francesco answered, walking away. "I will not be insulted. I am Francesco Bellucci."

Magnolia closed her eyes and hung her head. When she took a look

around, Fredericka was grinding her teeth and cursing in German.

Bebe was laughing, and Francesco had escaped. Magnolia looked at

the large clock on the wall. Four o'clock.

"Serious scumbag, that Frank," Bebe said. "Remind me why you

booked him." Because as soon as they heard you were the celebrity, six

photographers we asked first said no, Magnolia recalled. And one of

them was polite about it.

"Bebe, I'll talk to him," Magnolia said, looking for Francesco,

who'd walked out the door. She found him murdering a cigarette butt

with his Gucci loafer.

"Francesco, I know she's—how can I say this?—unconventional, but

could you see your way to finishing the shoot?" Magnolia said. "Please."

"I have my reputation," he answered. "Sweet Jesus, who does that

woman think she is?"

"She's an investor," Magnolia said, slowly and loudly. "The maga

zine has her name on it, for God's sake. It might be huge."

"I am very sorry, Magnolia. But this shoot is a category five hurri

cane. I must withdraw." Magnolia considered her options. It didn't take long. She had no

options. Well, maybe one. "What if we up your rate by ten percent,"

Magnolia said. "Combat pay."

"Twenty-five," he countered.

   "Ten," Magnolia said. "Think of how you'd like to continue working for
Elegance
and
Dazzle
and all the other Scarborough magazines. Ten firm."

Francesco lit up a second cigarette, sighed deeply, and wiped his

brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. "I shall proceed," he said

gravely.

Four hours later, Bebe's hair and makeup had been redone several

times. Magnolia and Fredericka had cajoled her into several wardrobe

changes. Francesco had finished off eight roles of film, including one

round in front of the white backdrop—without Hell—as an alterna

tive to the leopard. This was a good move: Magnolia had no idea how Fredericka would get coverlines to read over those spots.
Access Hollywood w
as packing to leave. Francesco was just about to shoot a final roll of film, when Magnolia heard a familiar bellow, growing louder

and louder, like the horn of an approaching ocean liner.

"Gold!" it said. "Gold! Mags! How's it going? Bebe! Oh, Bebe, you

look fabulous." It was her publisher, Darlene, hurrying toward the

camera, her Prada suit a mess of wrinkles. "I was in the neighborhood

on the way home, and asked my driver to swing by," she said. It was a

curious detour. She lived on Park and 80th and that wasn't all. Publish

ers were never invited to photo shoots. An art director and photogra

pher would sooner extend an invitation to their archrival than to their

magazine's publisher.

"How's it going?" Darlene asked.

"Dandy," Magnolia hissed, turning away from Darlene.

"Can I see the Polaroids?" Darlene asked in her pushiest tone.

"Please, Darlene," Magnolia said. "Not now."

"Frank here is one helluva photographer," Bebe said. "I did a Janet

Jackson with my tit, and he didn't even blink. But I guess you don't

like girls, huh, Frank?"

   Darlene plunged in Francesco's direction. "I'm
Bebe'
s publisher," she said to the startled photographer, picking up a Polaroid from

the table where his assistant had left them. "Mind if I look through

your lens?"

"Mind if I read your tax return?" Francesco responded.

It was close to nine o'clock. Magnolia had canceled a date with

Harry. She was starving, exhausted, and wanted to kick Darlene with

the pointiest stiletto in Ruthie's collection. She regretted that Ruthie

hadn't called in steel-toed work boots.

"Darlene, don't even think about it," Magnolia said. "This shoot

is over."

C h a p t e r 1 7

Too Much Information

Several workdays later,
at 6:45, Magnolia was relieved to see that Ruthie was still working with her assistant to account for the

clothing from the Bebe shoot which needed to be returned "Ready for

an intervention?" she said.

"Big date?" Ruthie asked with a smile, looking unwilted, even at

the end of the day, in a vanilla skirt and shirt and pale stilettos. Her

straight, shiny black hair framed her dark almond eyes. She looked

like a fashion editor doll.

"I wish," Magnolia replied. "No, it's a black tie, last minute, Wal

dorf hell."

Every year Scary bought tables at the Bowel Bash, a favorite char

ity of the older Scary brother, the skinny one with irritable bowel syndrome. Bebe and Darlene were tapped to represent
Bebe.
At 6:30, however, Felicity sent word that Bebe was "indisposed"—taping her

TV show, Magnolia was to believe. She would be pressed into action to

replace her.

Usually, dressy events were excuses for Magnolia to wear real jew

elry. Maybe her sapphire chandelier earrings, her parents' gift for her

thirtieth birthday. Or she might borrow one of Abbey's pieces, like the coral and black jet Maltese cross from her short-lived Frida Kahlo

period. But today there would be no time for a trip home to root

around her jewelry box, hidden underneath the heating pad. There

would barely be time to see if Ruthie could lend her more appropriate

clothes and shoes than today's plaid jacket; stretchy, butt-forgiving

Capris, and flats. Magnolia blinked away an image of her Chanel

sample sale dress sadly awaiting bright lights in the big city. The dress

would have to wait a little longer.

   By standards of a legitimate fashion magazine, the
Bebe f
ashion closet—an uncarpeted space roughly twenty-by-twenty, lit by fluo

rescent lights—was touching. To an innocent female bystander, though,

it was paradise. Shoes and boots filled shelves along every wall. Belts,

hats, and scarves dangled from pegs. Hosiery and socks were arranged

in drawers along with jewelry, sorted like fishing tackle.

In the middle of the room stood racks of clothing. Here was the

coat that had to be purchased because a model's cigarette burned a

hole in the sleeve. There was the baby blue halter the talk show host

demanded because it matched her eyes, then refused to wear because

it exposed her ham-shaped arms. In a corner was the complete Target

line Isaac Mizrahi had sent one Friday afternoon with a challah and a

note that began, "Good Shabbas, Magnolia bubbe."

A fashion closet was one of those giddy ties to glamour taken

advantage of by even the lowest of the low on the editorial masthead.

If an editor needed to replace rain-soaked shoes or swap her turtle

neck with a clingy Hoorywood top for a last-minute date, Ruthie and

her team always obliged. Like now.

Right now, however, Ruthie was fixated on Magnolia's hair. "Let's

not talk about it, okay?" Magnolia said. This morning she'd forgone a

shampoo, and tied her hair into a ponytail, which now hung like a

small dead rodent waiting for the taxidermist.

Ruthie shrugged and ducked behind a rack. She quickly emerged

and offered Magnolia a clingy black panther of an Armani dress.

Magnolia scowled and stuck out her rear end. "I'm not nearly skinny

enough for that."

Ruthie nodded and returned with a black printed chiffon gown encrusted with beads. Magnolia stripped to her underwear and pulled

the dress over her head. The bell sleeves hung below her hands. She

was Morticia in a muumuu.

"Off, off," Ruthie shrieked and disappeared again, mumbling

something about Valentino. The name warmed Magnolia's heart,

until she saw a ruffled purple leopard gown in silk georgette. Obvi

ously, even Valentino had an off day.

"Please, anything but leopard," Magnolia said, politely ignoring

the gown's other faults.

"Even with this to cover it up?" Ruthie held out a gray fox stole.

"Ruthie, I'm not accepting an Academy Award."

"Got it," Ruthie said. "Glitz-lite."

"And forget about décolleté," Magnolia called out as Ruthie for

aged further. "Tonight's about gastroenterology, not tits."

Time dribbled away as Ruthie pulled out clothes and shook her

head. Finally, she emerged, bearing a pale pink sweater. Were it not

for a diamanté-jeweled neckline of the softest cashmere, it could have

been sold at Old Navy. Magnolia loved it. She pulled on the sweater,

which made her waist look tiny and her breasts ample but not

obscene.

"With this skirt," Ruthie insisted. The sequined scalloped skirt, in

a darker pink, hit her legs right below the knee. The woman who

stared back in the mirror reeked chic.

"Stick this on," Ruthie commanded. She handed Magnolia a white

gold ring showcasing a hunk of lemon quartz the size of a cherry

tomato. "And these for your ears."

Magnolia fingered the dangly spirals that Ruthie was now proffer

ing. "Garnets?" Magnolia asked.

"Rubies," Ruthie answered.

"Not too much with the sweater? Don't want to look like a petit

four."

"Trust me, you need to distract from the hair," Ruthie said as she

handed Magnolia a small beige satin envelope bag.

"You're right. They're fabulous. But shoes, Ruthie?" They both

looked at the red flats she'd kicked off. Ruthie eyeballed the fashion closet's size nines and tens. Models

might be skinny, but they were tall girls with enormous feet. Magno

lia was a seven. "Here," she said, taking off her own bone Manolo

pumps.

"You have saved my life, Ruthie Kim, and I will be forever grate

ful," Magnolia said, slipping on the shoes, which were only a little

snug. She gathered her work clothes and flats; dumped them back in

her office; stuck her cell phone, twenty dollars, and a lipstick in the

bag, and pinned her hair in a chignon with the help of an unidentifi

able hair product she found lurking in her desk.

Five minutes later she was in the elevator. As was Natalie Simon.

"What's with the pink?" Natalie asked. "We're doing bowels, not

breast cancer, right?"

"Cut me some slack here, Natalie," Magnolia said, wondering why

a woman wearing the twin of the purple Valentino leopard dress

she'd rejected fifteen minutes ago had the temerity to be critical.

"You know I'm kidding, Cookie," Natalie said. "You look adorable.

I'd like to rip that sweater off your back. Whose is it?"

"Honestly, haven't a clue," Magnolia answered, eager to change

the subject. "What's going on?"

"Meaning to call you," Natalie said. "I just shipped our cover and I

have you to thank."

"Why is that?"

"Sarah Jessica Parker," Natalie said. "Those pictures were knock

outs. As soon as I saw them, I postponed Angelina Jolie. She scares the

bejesus out of people anyway."

   Corporately, of course, it made sense. In the boilerplate of the standard Scary contract, the company had paid for the shoot, not
Lady,
and the embargo extended for months, so it was too soon for the photographer to resell them. Why not let
Dazzle r
un the pictures shot for
Lady
? Still, it stung. Just as a courtesy, Magnolia wished Natalie would have at least asked her if she took advantage of the photos—

not that Magnolia owned them in any way beyond emotional.

"They've been lucky already," Natalie grinned. "Online tests pre

dict that cover's going to blow out of the newsstand." Natalie Simon luck, Magnolia thought.

Natalie offered Magnolia a ride to the Waldorf, and the two chat

ted about other things—whether it was true that Jock was doing it

with Mitzi, Pippi's sister, and the pissy e-mail they'd all got demand

ing that each magazine cut back 20 percent on color Xeroxes.

By the time the two of them arrived at the hotel, most of the cock

tail hour had passed. As they entered the room, Natalie got plucked

off by a Brooks Brothers type who Magnolia suspected belonged to

one of the three corporate boards on which Natalie sat. Magnolia

scanned the sea of overdressed humanity but, since it wasn't an event

exclusively for the magazine industry, she didn't recognize a soul. One

short man on the arm of a tall, willowy woman looked familiar, but

she couldn't place the face. Was he a friend's father? She started to

walk in his direction, but when she got close, several people cut in

front of her.

"Mr. Mayor, we're honored you could be here," they said.

Magnolia quickly reversed directions and grabbed a glass of cham

pagne from the nearest waiter. And then she saw her publisher, who

was eyeing her as if she'd come to the event dressed in sweats.

"Magnolia, only you could wear that!" Darlene said. "Interesting

hair." Even in the din of the crowded reception room, Darlene's voice

could be plainly heard. "Great that you're here—there's someone

I want you to meet," she added, pulling Magnolia into a three-minute sales call to a pharmaceutical advertiser. "
Of course,
our readers would be interested in a new drug for premature ejaculation," Darlene

insisted. But before the startled client had a chance to respond, the

lights blinked. Time to take their seats in the grand ballroom.

Magnolia looked for her place card, a touch Elizabeth Lester Duvall

always engineered; if she could help it—nothing in the Scary domain

was ever left to chance. When Magnolia arrived at her table, however,

she had the distinct feeling that the seating arrangement had been

reshuffled. Surely Bebe's seat, which she was filling, would have been

next to Jock, or at least one of the Scarys. But, no, she was at the sec

ond table. To her right was the chatty wife of the production director.

To her left was the number two guy in circulation, a pudgy, bow-tied fellow who she knew would be only too happy to offer a letter-by-let

ter reprisal of his winning game at the regional Scrabble tournament.

   Magnolia looked to the other table. There was Charlotte Stone, the publisher of
Elegance,
Natalie, Jock, Darlene, Elizabeth, the brothers, their matching blond wives, and the pharmaceutical executive. "Two

bottles of champagne to start," she heard Jock say, snapping his fingers

at the waiter.

   Throughout the evening, Magnolia seethed about the
Lady
photos gone to
Dazzle.
This was just as well, because her rage kept her awake, which the evening's speakers might have failed to do. The

waiters removed her tuna tartare before she'd finished it, and quickly

replaced it with a leathery hunk of filet mignon.

"May I please have fish instead?" she asked.

"See what I can do," the waiter snarled. By the time he returned

with a dry slab of salmon, the lights had gone dim for a fifteen

minute film. She fidgeted in her seat. There could be no discreet

escape hatch, not with Scary's table front and center in the ballroom.

Six speakers followed, as did the skinny Scary brother, who began

handing out the annual Bowel Booster awards. Even an enormous

serving of chocolate mousse in a bittersweet chocolate shell—an

unfortunate choice, given the evening's theme—couldn't tempt Mag

nolia to stick around. As soon as the third of five awards had been

bestowed, she found her evening bag, stood up, and said to no one in