Little Pink Slips (16 page)

particular at the table, "You've got to excuse me," she said. No one

even looked up.

As she listened
to Comedy Central an hour later, Magnolia carefully folded her borrowed clothes, removed her makeup, and laid

out running clothes for the following day. She checked her office

e-mail and answered the phone twice—a short call from Harry, who

suggested she not get her knickers in a twist over the Natalie picture

heist, then offered a long monologue on knickers in general, and

Abbey, who patiently listened to an accounting of Magnolia's day.

Just as she was starting to set her alarm for 6:15 A.M., Magnolia heard the intercom. She thought her doorman might be saying,

"Gentleman wants to see you." The building's system made the sub

way's loudspeaker sound elegantly clear.

"What's his name?"

"Harry," the doorman said. At least she hoped that's what he'd

said. Harry might have been in a cab on the way uptown when they

spoke and had called on his cell, not his landline.

Was there time to switch into the new black camisole set nestled in

her drawer? The thong had two tiny bows at the V above her butt

cheeks, which the top's matching bows marched down to meet. She

tossed off her SpongeBob T-shirt and pulled on her new underwear

just as she heard the knock.

"Be right there," she said, hoping the outfit would cause Harry to

overlook her hair, which was not improved by the gel she'd used to

cement it into a chignon.

"Can't wait to see you, gorgeous," Harry said. Only it wasn't Harry.

As the knocking got louder, Magnolia looked through the peephole.

"Magnolia, gorgeous, it's me. Open up."

There he was, catapulted from cyberspace. "Tommy O'Toole,

where the hell have you been?" Magnolia screeched through the door.

"You've been AWOL for months, and Abbey's a twitching mess. And what in God's name are you doing
here
?"

Since their postbreakup tryst, Tommy had been communicating

with Abbey, but only through e-mail. He'd last claimed to be in New

Zealand, though for all Abbey knew, he'd been holed up at the Hotel

Gansevoort in the meat-packing district.

"Gotta see you, Magnolia," he answered. "Give a guy a break.

Open up."

"One minute," Magnolia said. She put on her robe—her ratty

one—and let him in. Tommy immediately pressed her to his chest

and covered her mouth with his. Magnolia pulled away quickly but

not before she smelled Scotch.

"Hey, Magnolia, you've never been such a tease," Tommy said.

"Come to Tommy boy. You know I've always thought you were hot."

He circled his arms around her again, then grabbed her wrists and planted her arms around his back, holding her tight. Magnolia

couldn't escape his grip. His tongue probed her mouth.

"I want to see you naked, Magnolia," he whispered.

"Too much information, Tommy," Magnolia said, as he momentar

ily relaxed and she was able to push him away.

"You smell good," he said, his blue eyes half-shut "You've got a

beautiful shape. I've always thought of you as a fine wine."

   A wine, she thought. I'm a wine? Did he think she was
old
? Magnolia realized she didn't have time to analyze Tommy's train of

thought. She just needed to get him to stop this horseshit.

"I think about you all the time," he said. "At work, at the gym,

when I'm with other women."

"You don't, Tommy," she yelled. "You're just drunk. My God, you're

vile. And what are you doing with other women anyway? You're mar

ried!" The loudness of Magnolia's voice appeared to penetrate his

psyche. He sat down on the bench in her foyer, cradling his head in his

hands. Biggie and Lola, awakened by the ruckus, circled around,

barking.

"You've hijacked my heart, Magnolia."

"The hijacked organ is your brain, Tommy," Magnolia said from

the other end of the foyer. "No, you have no brain. It's your prick talk

ing. And to think Abbey's been carrying on about you. She's down to

ninety-eight pounds."

"My sweet Abbey," he said, as he started to whimper. "I love my

little wife."

"Of course, you do, Tommy," Magnolia said. Maybe Tommy wasn't

vile. Maybe he was just an idiot drunk. Abbey deserved better, of

course, but he wasn't a total villain. Definitely not. Magnolia walked

over to him and began to stroke his arm as if he were a child. "Now

I'm going to make you some coffee, and then you're going to get out

of here, go see Abbey, and figure out your life."

He looked up with tears in his eyes. "Magnolia, I love Abbey, but I

love you, too. You're a wise, sexy woman."

Magnolia pretended she didn't hear him. She walked into her

kitchen, thinking how it would be at least ten minutes until the coffee would brew, and she would force Tommy to drink a cup and start to

sober up. Then he'd leave, and she could fall into her bed.

Magnolia made the coffee, superstrong. "You're going home," she

said, handing him a mug. "I'm going to take you down in the elevator

myself." Just to make sure he didn't hang around the lobby like a lost

shoe. She let him almost finish the coffee, then yanked his arm.

Tommy put down the mug, spilling coffee on her rug, and followed

her out to the hallway. They stepped in the elevator, Tommy first.

The doors closed. Magnolia faced forward, pressed the button, and

started to tell Tommy they were both going to forget this ever hap

pened. But when Magnolia turned, Tommy was at it again. He

embraced her from behind, pressing his frame tightly against hers.

She tried to ignore the sensation of his well-muscled body close to her own. He
had
been going to the gym! Struggling to free herself from his embrace, she started to groan.

"Oh, Tommy," she said. "This is just too much."

She heard the elevator open, and sensed that someone was in the

doorway. Let it be Manuel, the night doorman, she prayed, worried

about her because a neighbor had reported a ruckus. Thank God she'd

overtipped him last Christmas—and thrown in a Burberry scarf.

It was not, however, Manuel. When she twisted around and looked

up, she could see the doorman at the far end of the lobby, and hear him

laughing uproariously at a Spanish television program playing on the

small set he hid behind the concierge's desk. But she knew the man

waiting to get into the elevator, the man who'd taken in everything

and was now observing Tommy wrapped around her like a tortilla.

It was Harry. "Well, Magnolia, aren't we the lady of the evening?"

he said.

"It's not how it looks, Harry," she said.

"It never is, luv," he snickered.

"Yeah, man," Tommy added, as he swayed to keep his balance.

Harry shook his head. On his forehead she noticed small beads of

sweat. "Magnolia," he said, "you have really disappointed me. Did

the last few weeks mean nothing to you?"

"Harry, this is Abbey's husband—" she started to say. "How does that make it better?" he said. "Whoring around with

your friend's man?"

"You scumbag," Tommy said. "Don't insult Magnolia,"

Harry straightened his shoulders and turned. "Sod off, the both of

you," he said as he stomped out of the building.

C h a p t e r 1 8

Mistress Tortured

It was past midnight.
Magnolia returned to her apartment and tried Harry's cell phone five times, hoping he'd turn it on.

He did not. She tried sleeping, unsuccessfully, and couldn't even take a

sleeping pill, since she'd given her stash to Abbey. So she attempted to

organize her closet, a task so tedious that whenever she started it, she

fell into a coma.

Magnolia began with the suits, wondering if she should hang on to

a gray pinstripe Max Mara, just right for the job she would never

want or get at a Fortune 500 company.

"The suit stays—it cost over $2,000," argued one voice in her

head—her mother's, to be exact.

"You haven't worn it in three years," the other voice answered.

"Dump it."

"It's a classic," retorted Mom. "You can keep it forever!"

"What a crock" came the answer. "Classics are cauliflower."

"Hang on to that suit—you might need it for a funeral."

She dropped Max Mara onto her chaise and walked into the bath

room to draw a hot, sudsy bath. Just as she slid into the tub, the phone

rang. She bolted upright, ran across her tile floor to the bedroom, and

grabbed the receiver. "Hello," she said, trying to disguise the fact that she was out of

breath. She could hear loud, labored breathing on the other end. The phone display indicated a restricted number. "Who
is
this?" The creep clicked off. Magnolia gave up on her bath. She wrapped

herself in a towel, lay down on her bed, and pulled the duvet to her

chin. "This is not happening," she repeated.

   The next thing she knew, she'd overslept for the day of
Bebe
's launch party. Magnolia checked her phone log. She'd managed to

snooze through a second call, but again the number wasn't identified.

Tommy or Harry—which was worse?

Magnolia grabbed the garment bag of clothes she'd laid out the

previous day for this evening and—lucky break—found a taxi to take

her to work. Luck's a commodity I could use a little more of, she mut

tered as she settled herself in the cab. Her cell phone rang. Let me not

get hang-ups on this phone, too, she prayed. But the caller offered a

cheery hello.

"Ready for the big freak show?" Abbey asked.

"Not my night," Magnolia answered. "I just need to show up and

hope for a cataclysm. Any locusts coming our way? You'll be there

tonight, right?"

"Well, the thing is, Mags, I'd love to—give you moral support and

all—but something's come up, and, well, will you hate me if I miss

the Bebelicious party of the year?"

"You won't be missing much. But what's up?" she asked, working

to sound casual.

"Tommy," Abbey said.

"Oh, really? Tommy?"

"Magnolia, don't jive me. I know."

What did she know, and when did she know it?

"Yeah, I know," Abbey said. "And thanks, you're the most wonder

ful friend."

Magnolia didn't know how to respond.

"You there?" Abbey said. "I know that you convinced Tommy to

try and reconcile—he told me all about how you insisted he stop by

my—make that our—apartment. He was here till two A.M., a perfect gentleman, full of unexpected insights. God, I forgot that's one of the

things I love about that man." If Abbey were angry, she was disguis

ing it with enormous bravado.

"Abbey, you have nothing to thank me for," Magnolia said, relief

breaking through like sweat. "I hope you guys work things out—if

that's what you want."

"I don't know what I want," she admitted, "but we're having din

ner tonight. He was sweet yesterday but seemed kind of strung out.

I think he's got a lot on his mind."

Could she ask Abbey if Tommy had made calls during his visit?

Magnolia could not.

As Magnolia entered the lobby of her office building, she stopped

at the newsstand to pick up some magazines. That's when she saw him, pretending to read
The Wall Street Journal.
Magnolia wondered what story he'd fed the security guards to skulk past the front desk,

but then a handsome Englishman in a long, black cashmere coat isn't

ripe for profiling. To get to her office, Magnolia would need to pass

him, and she was too late to duck out and return later. May as well

swallow the big pill, she thought, even if I gag.

She walked over to Harry. "I can explain," she said.

"Fine," he said. "Go ahead."

She looked around the crowded lobby. "Magnolia, I'm back!" she

heard someone say. "I'll stop by your office later." It was Phoebe,

returned from a brief maternity leave and already fitting into her

jeans, as if she'd produced a Barbie, not a nine-pound baby. Magnolia

noticed that motherhood hadn't prevented her beauty editor from

finding time to color her hair the perfect caramel, or that Harry

wasn't too upset to give Phoebe an approving glance.

"Obviously, this isn't a good place to talk," Magnolia said to Harry.

"You want to come up to my office?"

The scowl on his face said no.

"There's a Starbucks across the street." She had no business arriv

ing late to the 9:30 production meeting. Cameron wouldn't be happy

having to deal with Felicity solo. But she followed Harry across the

street. They stared at each other over their coffees.

"Let's cut to the chase," Harry said. "You've really disappointed

me. I couldn't sleep all night and I doubt I can work today until you

explain yourself. The last thing I need in my life is a woman I can't

trust—I've had a string of those."

Magnolia's mind flashed to their last long, luxurious day together

over the weekend. It began at MoMA, the Barney's of museums,

where she always found the art lovers—with their fine fabrics and

well-cobbled shoes—as inspirational as the paintings. After a late

afternoon stroll through a few galleries in Chelsea, they walked in the

soft rain to Harry's, where he cooked a perfect dinner—grilled tuna,

risotto cakes, and snap peas. For dessert, he made crème brûlée. Not

only did he own the cute ceramic dishes, he burned the sugar with his

own blowtorch.

"You're going to be Torch from now on," Magnolia had said. "Sub

Zero no more."

"Then you're Mistress Torch," he had said. But she wasn't feeling

like Mistress Torch right now. More like Mistress Tortured.

"You've got to believe me when I tell you the man you saw was my

friend's husband, Tommy O'Toole." Magnolia said, fatigue draining

her voice. "He dropped in, shitfaced. There's never been anything

between us and never will be."

"The thing is, I wasn't seeing a whole lot of resistance going on

there," Harry said. "Close friends? And the look on your face . . ."

Harry gulped the last of his coffee. His face was red and his knuckles,

white.

"The look on my face?" Magnolia asked. "What do you think my

face is saying now?"

"You're angry," he said.

"You got that right," she said, "but I'm feeling disappointed, too.

Didn't these past two months teach you to trust me? Can't you just

cool off and realize that what you thought you saw wasn't what you

thought you saw?" She put her hand on his. He didn't pull away.

Harry gave her an inscrutable look. But at least he said, "I'll try."

He got up from the table, leaned over, and gave her a kiss, more of politeness than passion, but a kiss. "I'll think about it," he said as he

got up to leave.

   Magnolia watched him walk away. Should she ask whether he still planned to come to the
Bebe
launch party? She decided she could live in suspense.