Little Pink Slips (18 page)

she reign."

"Here, here," the others said, clinking. "To Magnolia!" Cam got

grabbed by one of the publicists. This left Magnolia with the women.

"There's a serious dearth of straight men here," Ruthie observed.

"Except that one over there talking to Phoebe. It's not fair. Why does

our staff's only wife and mommy attract the best-looking guy?"

Magnolia swiveled to see Phoebe. In tonight's four-inch heels the

beauty director, who was almost six feet tall barefoot, loomed not just

above most of the other women but a good number of the men. This

included the object of Ruthie's praise, who Magnolia couldn't see in

the crowd. She extricated herself and walked toward Phoebe, who

smiled and waved.

"You look super!" Phoebe shouted over heads as Magnolia ap

proached. "Terrific party. I just saw Kelly Ripa. And isn't that Barbara Walters? She's my nana's age, but she looks amazing. Don't you

think?" She directed her question to the person who was hovering

near her, whose back was still toward Magnolia.

Magnolia got to within eight feet of Phoebe and froze.

"I'd love for you to meet my boss, Magnolia Gold," she said to her

admirer, motioning Magnolia to move closer.

"Actually, Magnolia and I are acquainted," the man said, leaning

closer to Phoebe than was necessary. "Rather intimately."

"Ah, okay," Phoebe mumbled, and looked from the man to Magno

lia. "I'm going to grab another Bebepolitan. Lovely to meet you,

Harry." Phoebe glided away on her elegant stork legs.

"See you later, luv," he said. "Saucy girl, your Phoebe," he said to

Magnolia.

"Glad you could make it," Magnolia asked. She suddenly felt so hot

she wanted to rip off her mink top and stomp on it.

"Did you really think I'd miss this little drinks party?" Harry said.

"Seasonal highlight and all."

"So you're still not over last night?" she said.

"I don't know that I am," he said. The face that looked so hand

some just days before was twisted in a snarl, and Magnolia could

swear that his hairline had receded by another half inch.

"I can't deal with this right now," Magnolia said. "I want to talk,

but our conversation is going to have to wait, Harry. This isn't an easy

night for me. I'm sure you get that."

"But what could be more important than us?" he said.

From a distant place in the densely packed ballroom, Magnolia

could hear a heavily amped country western artist—LeAnn Rimes?

Faith Hill?—singing an upbeat ballad over the room's noise. Out of

the corner of her eye, she spotted Jock and Darlene, who were now

standing only four feet away, and if she wasn't being paranoid, she

could swear they were listening to her with Harry.

"Magnolia, you're not answering me," Harry was almost shouting.

"We still need to talk about you and that asshole ripping each other's

clothes off."

Just as she had the impulse to throw her Bebepolitan in his face, Magnolia saw someone loping in her direction. Elizabeth all but tack

led her and simultaneously gave Harry a chilly look. She had that gift.

"Magnolia, stage!" she snapped. "We're starting the presentation."

Leaving Harry standing with his mouth half open, Elizabeth cor

ralled Jock and Darlene and steered them, along with Magnolia,

toward the front of the room, where Felicity was already waiting.

"Don't move a muscle, any of you, while I find Bebe," Elizabeth said,

signaling for the Nashville singer to continue.

Jock and Darlene stood aside while Magnolia tried to calm herself

with breath after deep breath. "That asshole Harry, that asshole

Harry," she repeated silently as she followed Elizabeth.

Ten minutes later Elizabeth returned, frowning. "Has Bebe swung

by here?" she said. "Where could that woman be?" The party was

called for seven to ten, although it hadn't got rolling until eight. It was

now past nine, and Magnolia knew that Elizabeth was worried that

guests would soon start to leave.

"Let me check around for her," Magnolia answered, just to be able

to break away from Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. She'd passed Bebe

more than twenty minutes before, holding court by a photograph of

Frank Sinatra. Magnolia stopped there first. No Bebe. She walked

down the stairs to look in the lounge. Bebe was sitting on the floor

next to a glass sculpture that appeared to have been liberated from an

ice carnival.

"What's up, Magnolia?" Bebe's head was in Slow Mo's lap, an

empty champagne bottle next to the two of them.

"Foxy!" Mo said. "Bebe here knows how to party."

   "Bebe here has a speech to give," Magnolia said. "Enough with the liquid courage, Bebe.
Achtung.
"

"Magnolia, Magnolia," Bebe said. "Calm down. Itsabeautifulnight."

She drained the champagne like a bottle of Snapple.

"Mo, help me get her upstairs," Magnolia said. Mo stood up, and

Bebe—still joined to him—did the same. As they began to walk, Bebe

tripped. Magnolia got on her other side, and the three of them stag

gered to the elevator, Bebe hiccuping loudly.

"Gotta tinkle," Bebe said when the door opened on thirty-six. Magnolia walked her to the ladies' room. As Bebe left the stall, she

pulled up her skirt, took off her thong, and dropped it on the floor.

"Can't stand this damn string up my butt," she said.

Magnolia waited for Bebe to put her undies in the trash, which she

did not do. Magnolia decided not to rise to that occasion. She took

Bebe's arm, and together they walked into the ballroom and over to

Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. Elizabeth motioned the singer to finish

her number and lined up the five of them to go onstage. Jock wel

comed the crowd and handed the mike to Bebe, who took center stage.

Elizabeth had written a seven-minute speech for Bebe, who was

supposed to thank Jock, Felicity, and Magnolia, then hand the mike to

Darlene, who'd cue the start of a $75,000 video that featured behind

the-scenes shots of Bebe "working" on the magazine. They'd rehearsed

this drill six ways to Sunday. At the end, a velvet curtain would rise,

revealing the cover of the premiere issue's cover.

"Hello, out there," Bebe said to the crowd. "We having fun yet? All

I can say is you're going to love my magazine and. . . ." She stopped.

The crowd waited. "All I can say is . . ." She stopped again. The room

became still. "All I can say is—" this time she found words to finish

the sentence—"we have a great goody bag."

This wasn't the script.

"I'm not shitting you," Bebe continued. "Hey, I want to show you.

Jock, where's a fucking bag?"

   Jock looked confused. Elizabeth rushed to the stage with one of the red Coach
Bebe
totes. As the video started to roll, Bebe pulled out the gifts, one by one, and announced each. "Here we have a Bebe doll.

Great knockers, huh?" She pointed toward her own. "Leopard cash

mere slippers!" She threw her stilettos into the crowd and put the slippers on. "A stuffed kitten wearing a
Bebe T
-shirt! Looks like Hell! Bacardi raspberry rum? By the way, did everyone here have enough to

drink? An itsy-bitsy red Canon camera! A sterling silver choker . . ."

To appreciative howls from the crowd, who were now chanting,

"Be-be. Be-be. Be-be," she held up every piece of loot. Someone cued

the video, but no one even noticed it or heard its worshipful voice

over, which was drowned out by the shouts. Bebe was still unsteady on her feet. Magnolia considered the

outcome if Bebe, now going commando under her dress, slipped.

Magnolia tried to get her eye, to tell her to stop.

"'Scuse me, but Deputy Gold has something to say to all of you.

Magnolia, you adorable thing, get your rear up here."

Magnolia walked forward and took the mike. "The magazine, Bebe.

Don't forget to show everyone the issue! Hold it up!"

   "Oh, the magazine," Bebe said, emitting an audible belch as she lifted a copy of
Bebe.
But by this point, the crowd—Harry included, arms linked with an assistant to one of the
Access Hollywood
reporters—was stampeding toward the door to receive goody bags.

"Stay, everyone," Magnolia implored, shouting as loud as she could.

"We'd love to show you the magazine." But no one was paying atten

tion to her. Not even Jock, Darlene, or Elizabeth. They were all glaring

at Bebe.

As the ballroom emptied, Bebe linked arms with Magnolia. "I think

that went rather well, Gold," she said. "Don't you?" Bebe's makeup

was smudged and her dress, slightly ripped. At that moment, Magno

lia wished she could dig deep and find some motherly instincts. What would
her
mother advise? If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Maybe the advice was from Thumper in
Bambi
and not her mother. No matter.

She put her arm around Bebe's ample waist, and together they

walked out the door, Bebe's leopard cashmere slippers padding softly

on the empty ballroom floor.

C h a p t e r 2 0

Cupcake? I Don't Think So

"What's the latest
from Planet Bebe?" Abbey asked. Given the trifecta of her and Tommy breaking up again, Harry's dwindling

attentions—apparently holding a grudge, he hadn't called in a

week—and Magnolia's thirty-eighth birthday, Abbey had decided to

underwrite a beauty blitz in her honor. They were starting at the

Exhale spa on a sunny November morning, waiting for massages in a

dim Japanese-serene room.

"The technical term is, 'It sucks,' " Magnolia replied. "Bebe and

Felicity flew to the West Coast, and Cam and I have been closing the

issue through fax, phone, and e-mail. When it's just the two of us, for

whole minutes it's bliss. Then I snap back to real life."

"Is Bebe still in the crosshairs of the columnists?" Abbey asked.

"Not at all," Magnolia said. "You'd think it would work against you

to go full moon wacky at your launch party, but the magazine indus

try's collective memory has the depth of a pore. Bad behavior and bad results rarely correlate. Elizabeth had her send tickets for
The Bebe Show
to all the reporters—everyone's mother's a groupie. Since then it's been a big, wet kiss. She wound up on the cover of
Us,
and now the premiere
Bebe'
s almost sold out."

"She isn't haunted by the
Post r
eferring to her as Burpin' Bebe?"

"She'll probably brag about it in an editor's letter," Magnolia said.

   Magnolia took out her
Times
and began to read aloud. "Get this. 'A report on November second about the wedding of Sarina Balfour

Smythe and Heath Farina included an erroneous account of the

bride's education, which she supplied. Ms. Balfour-Smythe, the new publisher of Scarborough Magazines'
Dizzy,
did not graduate from Stanford University or receive a master's in business administration

from Dartmouth University or a Ph.D. in anthropology from Yale

University. Although she attended Stanford summer school, her degree is from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh. The
Times
regrets that it did not corroborate the credentials before publishing

the report.' "

"I'll bet they do," Abbey said.

"Why don't more people get outed for their whoppers," Magnolia

said. "Darlene tells everyone she got a perfect SAT."

"What amazes me is a forty-year-old woman is still lying about her

SATs," Abbey said.

"I take heart that as long as we both shall live, Darlene will always

be older than I am," Magnolia said. Lately, no matter the situation,

Magnolia defaulted to the subject of age, her brain trilling, "Thirty

eight! Thirty-eight!" like a taunting parrot. She'd started to ask new

questions. Am I too old to show my navel? No, not as long as my

abs stay flat, she decided. Is it time to start dressing like a lady sena

tor? The world will reward me if I don't. Will I ever again be carded?

Not likely. And the extra credit question: Should I harvest my eggs?

Next!

Magnolia would be Googling a stray fact, and suddenly her fingers

were researching the age of other editors. She was relieved to discover

how many were older than she—a whole crop was born in 1964.

But combing through the personals, she found herself wanting to

throw a meatball at guys like "Genetically Swedish/Emotionally

Italian SWM, 39," who only wants to hear from women thirty-five

and younger.

   Magnolia opened her
Post.
She stopped at a photograph of the
Vogue
soccer team, in fitted T-shirts emblazoned with their motto: We're secretly judging you. They trounced the Dazzlers. They could do with a better slogan than "
Dazzle
will beat you to a frazzle." Scary was rarely at the Condé Nast level, no matter the game.

Just as the New Age music began to give Magnolia a headache, her

masseuse beckoned. Inside an immaculate massage room, Magnolia

inhaled the lavender aroma, stripped, and slid between fine white cot

ton sheets.

"Any spots giving you trouble?" the masseuse asked, as she began to

knead Magnolia's shoulder with a luscious lotion that smelled faintly

of ginger and grapefruit. Magnolia could feel Bebe in her neck, Felic

ity in her left hip, and Harry in her lower back. For the past week

she'd been hobbling around like Toulouse-Lautrec.

"Everywhere," she admitted.

"I want you to go to a place that makes you feel relaxed," the

masseuse said in a gentle voice. Her old office, Magnolia wondered?

Nope. There must be a law against thinking about work during a mas

sage. Her living room with the dogs beside her? Better.

"Now take someone special with you to this place," the masseuse

directed, as she began to banish the stiffness in Magnolia's neck.

You even need a date for a massage! She closed her eyes but could

visualize no one with her. Definitely not Harry. She was still furious

at him for making such a big deal of the Tommy incident and goad

ing her into a spat observed by Jock and Darlene. He and Genetically

Swedish could go to a singles bar together.

"Are you beginning to unwind?" the masseuse asked as Magnolia

started to float into a zone near sleep, savoring every long, smooth

stroke on each thirty-eight-year-old muscle group. Fifty minutes later

she opened her eyes.

"Didn't want to wake you," the masseuse whispered, handing

Magnolia the thick terry robe she'd worn into the room. "You were

totally out."

Was this sorceress a masseuse or an anesthesiologist? All Magnolia

knew was she felt mercifully calm, as if her tension had been laid

on the chair like a worn-out coat. She thanked her and dressed slowly, not wanting to abruptly reenter reality. In the outer lobby, Abbey

looked similarly tranquil, but not too mellow to ask, "Ready for lunch?"

Crossing the street and walking along Central Park South and over

to Madison, they entered the impeccably lit Barney's. They always

stopped first at the jewelry displays—Abbey, for professional reasons,

and Magnolia, because in a faraway bazaar, whenever she was

tempted to purchase a bauble, she did the Barney's test, trying to

imagine the treasure displayed under glass with just a few other

choice pieces. If she could see it at Barney's, she rarely suffered

buyer's remorse.

Ten minutes later, she and Abbey rode the elevator to Fred's, the

store's crowded café, took a table amid the Black AmEx card crowd,

and ordered their usual chopped salads. Today they were having them

with champagne.

"To Magnolia!" Abbey said. "To the best year of your life. May it

only get better."

"Amen," Magnolia said. "And to you, Abbey—to getting through

this rotten Tommy stretch with unbelievable grace."

Abbey and Magnolia raced through their salads, and the waiter

approached with a tiny fudge cake, which Magnolia was pleased to

see arrived with only one sparkler and two forks. "Make a wish,"

Abbey insisted. "A secret wish."

A better man? A better job? Both, definitely, but not in that order.

Bebe's hostile takeover was bothering her more than being disap

pointed by Harry.

Abbey handed her a tiny box wrapped in pale gray tissue and tied

with yellow ribbon. Inside were earrings with yellow jade teardrops sus

pended from clusters of tiny gray pearls and turquoise stones.

"Abbey, gorgeous," Magnolia said, replacing her small diamond

studs with the exquisite pair. "I adore them." The yellow jade reflected

her amber highlights; the turquoise made her green eyes greener.

"Thank you!" She gave Abbey a big hug.

"A Nolita boutique ordered them for Christmas, but you have the

originals," Abbey said. Ten minutes later, as they got in the taxi to go to Think Pink,

Abbey's phone rang, which reminded Magnolia that hers had been

strangely mute for hours, except for an early call from her parents.

She removed it from her bag and saw why—Exhale required clients

to silence their cells and Magnolia had forgotten to turn hers back on.

When she did so, there were four messages. Three were from Bebe

with variations on "Where the hell are you, Gold? We've got to talk. Very, very important.
Hasta pronto.
Divine weather in L.A. At the pool. New bikini."

The fifth was from Harry. "Cupcake, I really need to see you," he

said. "I'm such an arse. Tail between my legs. Call me." Magnolia felt

a twinge return in her back. Cupcake? I don't think so, she thought.

"Lots of birthday greetings?" Abbey asked as Magnolia clicked her

phone shut.

"My parents," Magnolia said. "And Bebe."

"What about Dirty Harry?"

"Not a word," Magnolia lied. She didn't want to spoil a perfect day

by discussing him. "Which is just as well. He might be somebody's

Mr. Right—just not mine."

By five o'clock, afternoon darkness hung in the air. Magnolia

walked home, careful not to smudge her newly red toes. She opened her cards. "Another year older?" Cam's read "
Crappe diem.
" She changed into white silk pajamas sent by her parents, settled in front of

her fireplace, and started a novel. The only thing that can make this

evening better is a big piece of leftover cake from my office party, she

decided, and I'm not going to feel the least bit guilty about eating

dessert twice in one day. Tomorrow, starvation. As she walked into her

kitchen, however, the intercom sounded.

"Gentleman to see you," Manuel said.

Not Tommy! Magnolia gritted her teeth.

"Mr. James," Manuel continued. "Send him up?"

Magnolia hesitated. She'd managed to get through the day without

any spikes in her emotional EKG. With Harry, who knew? Still, he'd

arrived. "Yes, send him up, please," Magnolia responded.

Standing in her doorway, he looked taller than she remembered.

A man always looks taller when he carries a Tiffany bag.

"For you," he said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

"Take your coat?" Magnolia asked, aware that she sounded as for

mal as a fusty maiden aunt. At least she hadn't called him sir.

"Here's a better idea," Harry said. "I take off my own coat, you

open this little gift, and then we play kiss and make up in your bed

room." He placed his coat on the bench and handed her the small blue

bag. It felt light in her hand.

They sat down on the bench. His thigh touched hers. She pulled

the box out of the bag and slowly unwrapped the white silk bow, care

fully placing it on a table. She opened the box and fingered the blue

felt bag.

Magnolia pulled out a shiny sterling silver cuff half covered with

an ornate golden blossom. She gasped.

"Tiffany calls it their Magnolia bracelet," Harry said.

   How many times had she noticed Tiffany's reliable upper-cornerof-page-three
Times
ads and admired this very bracelet advertised
?
Every time she saw the photograph—or wandered through the

store and casually tried on the real thing, hoping the salespeople

hadn't grown to recognize her—she coveted the bracelet, and, twice,

she'd almost bought it. But where was that flutter of excitement

tonight?

"Thank you, Harry," she said. "You have the most magnificent

taste." That much was true.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Harry said, taking the bracelet out of her hand.

"Here, Cupcake, put it on. It looks so beautiful on your wrist."