Little Pink Slips (26 page)

good thanks. Let's start with the roasted beets with goat cheese ravioli

and toasted pine nuts. Or would you rather have the ratatouille

stuffed squid?"

"Beets, definitely," she said. To match my face.

   "And for an entrée, I insist on the duck."

   Magnolia studied the menu.
Slow rendered duck breast, braised sprouts and Aligoté in a caramelized red vinegar sauce.
Aligoté? She'd definitely missed the press release on whatever that was. Throughout

both courses, Jock kept their wineglasses filled as he nattered on about

his vacation to Dubai, Little Jock's thoroughbred, and paintings he

hoped to acquire at auction.

Magnolia responded in a language she was fairly sure was English,

but her head was on her job, which she now convinced herself would

be terminated by the end of the lunch. As galling as it was to have to

report to Bebe, and to be second-guessed by Felicity, to be tossed out of

Scary would be far worse. If she were to get a new job, she wanted it

to be on her terms, not Jock's.

Finally, Bebe came up.

"She's quite the girl, our Ms. Blake," Jock said. "We haven't seen

the end of this mess with that Fine boy. But at least we've put pressure

on the media to bury the story so we can try and settle out of court—

though Bebe's going to have to pay big, bigger than we will, to make it

go away."

He finished off his wineglass and refilled it. "The newsstand mess,

though," Jock said, "that's not a small thing." He looked as if his best

friend had just received an HIV-contaminated transfusion. "I've got it

at me every which way."

He's fattened me up for the kill, Magnolia thought. Here it comes,

the rubout.

"There's a lot of stress with being in charge," Jock groaned. Wait—

was he showing sympathy? Wrong. He was talking about himself.

The server came over to offer dessert: "Gingerbread pudding or

chocolate fig cake?"

"I couldn't possibly, thanks," Magnolia said.

"A double espresso," Jock said. "And chocolate fig cake."

"Sir, will that be with coconut ice cream or passion fruit sorbet?"

"Passion fruit." As the waiter walked away, Jock leaned in closer

across the small table and filled both their glasses with the last of

their second bottle of wine. "We're headed for some hairpin turns,

Magnolia. But you can help." He raised his glass, as if for a toast. "Do

you know you are a very beautiful woman?" he asked in a soft growl. He moved his face so near hers, she could smell the Cabernet

Sauvignon and she instinctively—though she hoped not noticeably—

backed away. This lunch was definitely not passing the sniff test.

"Why, thank you, Jock, you are very kind," she said stiffly.

   "Relax," he laughed, and took her hand. "Have I been good to you?"

   Yeah, Jock, you've been great. Murdering
Lady.
Demoting me. Importing my replacement. "Yes, Jock. I appreciate everything you've

done for me."

"Good. I've always thought the two of us could be a team. There's

something between us. I know you can feel it. And I like the way

you've at least tried to stand up to that bitch, Bebe. You've got, what's

the word you people like? Chutzpah." He took her hand and rubbed

his fingers slowly between hers. "What do you say?"

Coming on to her now, while a sexual harassment suit was

whizzing through the air? He must be totally disassembling. Magnolia shifted in her chair and backed away a little farther. I say,
Ewww
that's what I'd like to say. "I am so fucked" also comes to mind. She

considered telling a lie like "I'm very flattered, but I like the way

things are now, Jock—although if you were single and not my boss

and ten years younger . . ."

"Jock, maybe we should regroup when we haven't had two bottles

of wine" was the most authentic and politic response Magnolia could

muster.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," he said, trying to penetrate her

eyes with a look she was sure he imagined was seductive.

"I don't think you do. Do you really see this, of all times, as the

moment for you to start up with me?" she said, removing her hand

from his grasp. "Do you want more scandal, more items in the paper?"

"Magnolia, who's going to know?" he said, the words a threat.

"Everyone," she said. "Because I'll tell them."

Jock stared at her.

"I will," she said.

After an uncomfortable pause, he cleared his throat, adjusted his

glasses, and called for the bill. "I see," he said, putting on his coat

without helping her with hers. The two of them walked to the car. The ride back to Manhattan felt as long as a flight to New Zealand

and allowed plenty of time for second-guessing. What made her be so

harsh? Why hadn't she just manufactured a hidden fiancé?

Neither one of them spoke until they were just a few blocks from

Scary. "I'm considering a new position for you, Magnolia," Jock said,

"given everything that's gone down in that war zone between you and

Bebe. Yes, I'm definitely thinking about 'corporate editor.' " He was

staring straight ahead, delivering his announcement as gravely as if

he were informing the Vatican that the pope had died.

"Corporate editor?" Magnolia squeaked. In a few companies, cor

porate editor wielded heft. But more often, just like editor at large

translated to editor who's small, it was a hollow position. Jock might

give her projects—should this position come to pass—but unless they

came with his clear imprimatur, no one at Scary would take the

assignments seriously, despite her sweaty efforts to wield vigilante

authority. "Corporate editor?" It was like being named weather girl

for the three A.M. news telecast in Tulsa.

"Yes, everyone around here needs a change." Jock hopped out of

the car without saying good-bye. "Corporate editor. Magnolia, think

it over."

C h a p t e r 2 6

Pluck Sucks

"Run it by me again,"
Abbey said as they looped around the Reservoir. "When Jock said, 'You think it over,' was he talking

about that other job or the Hot Sheets Hotel?"

"I wasn't sure, but figured Hot Sheets was like an airline reserva

tion—forty-eight hours and the offer would expire," Magnolia said.

"Which I let it do, although I was dying to know what name he'd use

for reservations."

"So you have another new job?" Abbey asked.

"Scary's corporate editor," Magnolia said. "Last stop before obliv

ion." And for someone like her, who loved slaying dragons, living

death.

"Did you have a choice?" Abbey asked as they ended their run.

"I could have quit," Magnolia said. "Call me a coward. I chose pay

check over trying to prove sexual harassment."

"Jock's word against yours? I'm no lawyer, but it doesn't sound like

an airtight case," Abbey said. "Now tell me, what do corporate editors

do?"

"Look busy," Magnolia said. "The job doesn't come with a training

manual, so I'll have to write it myself. Jock will probably ask me to

interfere at the other magazines—critique them, submit ideas, sit in on meetings—and all the Scary editors in chief will despise and

ignore me." Magnolia realized as she was talking about work, she was

getting increasingly tense, even though she'd just finished a four-mile

run that was designed to obliterate stress. She knew she had to change

the subject.

"I want to hear about you and Tommy," she said. "Are you really

and truly over?"

"Done-d'-done-done," Abbey said. "I've sprinted through the five

stages of breakup—denial, anger, depression, reconciliation sex, and

Match.com."

"How goes online dating?" she asked as they walked into Abbey's

apartment building. Upstairs, Abbey began to brew coffee in her clut

tered but utterly charming kitchen with its checkerboard floor and

tall, glass-fronted cabinets filled with white china.

"Women lie about their age—for men, it's height," she said.

"Every guy I've met could be technically classified a carnival midget.

I definitely have to post my own ad." She handed Magnolia pen and

paper. "So I'm giving you an assignment. Be creative. Help me write

one."

"Ooh, fun. Give me a few essentials."

Abbey took out her notes. " 'Good listener,' 'great friend,' 'and

'compassionate'?" She looked for Magnolia's approval.

Magnolia shook her head. "That's fine if you want to head up the

Red Cross," she said. "Lead with your looks."

" 'Pretty' ?"

" 'Pretty' is code for 'not exactly hideous in the right light,' " Mag

nolia said. "Pretty is flowered dresses, jars of jam, Snow White,

granny quilts."

"Got it. 'Beautiful' ?" Abbey said. "As in 'my friends say I'm

beautiful'?"

Magnolia thought it over. "Beautiful scares the nuts off men," she

said. "Let's go with 'adorable.' And it's true. 'Adorable, sexy, artistic,

laser wit." Magnolia made a list. "Are you writing this for you or me?"

Abbey asked.

"Mine would say, 'Temporarily closed for renovation.' Back to you. 'Great with hands'?" Magnolia wondered. "Why not? Truth in adver

tising. Now we need something like 'more Guggenheim than Frick,' 'More
Breakfast at Tiffany's
than
Two for the Road
' ?" She drank half her coffee. "Think, Abbey."

" 'More Paris flea market than Bergdorf 's' ?"

   "Perfect. Clever but not too. You don't want to come off too Maureen Dowd. Brilliantly cutting
and
movie star gorgeous. Talk about a killer combo—poor thing, we should invite her to brunch—she must never go out. Although it doesn't help to write a book called
Are Men Necessary?
"

   "Enough words, don't you think?" Abbey asked. "Guys really don't

read that much."

"Or that carefully," Magnolia said. "You could write 'Man-hungry

hussy from hell looking for warthog to eat flesh' and you'll get

responses if your picture's hot enough. Show me what you've got."

Abbey pulled out her album. Many of the photos were neatly cut

in half, Tommy having been burned at the stake of Abbey's fireplace

the first night of Stage Two. Much of what remained was Abbey

snapped at black tie functions, where, given her love of vintage cloth

ing, it was hard to tell if she was wearing bag lady rejects or Yves

Saint Laurent.

Magnolia flipped through the album twice. "I think we have a

winner," she said when she got to one of Abbey in her Audrey sun

glasses and bikini top. "Can't wait to see who comes panting. If you

get a good response, I may run an ad myself."

"So are you still getting e-mails from Tyler?"

"Daily," Magnolia admitted. "They're dear. It's the purpose-driven

romance."

"Could it ever be the real thing?" Abbey asked. "He sounds awfully

sweet."

"Are you kidding?" Magnolia said. "He's a Lutheran minister in

Wild Rice, North Dakota, with a wife and two kids. I'm an ambitious,

divorced, Jewish Manhattan magazine editor who spends too much on

clothes. Do the math." She hugged Abbey and ran home.

The truth was, Magnolia had been enjoying their e-mailing more than she cared to admit. When she dated Tyler in high school, her father tried to discourage the relationship by quoting
Fiddler on the Roof: "
A bird can love a fish," he'd say, in his best Tevye imitation, "but where will they live?" Now, Magnolia could answer him. In

cyberspace. Every morning Hotmail would deliver a missive from

Preacherman8. She was getting as addicted to them as to cashews.

When she'd written him about her counterfeit promotion—

conveniently skirting what had inspired Jock's spite—he'd responded

with "If your boss doesn't know by now what you are capable of, he must

be blind or stupid or both. Don't try too hard to make sense of some

thing that is illogical." She wondered what Tyler would think of the

latest, which she'd e-mail him about tonight. Raven KensingtonWoods was replacing her at
Bebe.

And what would he think of her publisher Darlene's slobbery

send-off ? "Magnolia, I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all

your hard work," she'd said in an audition for insincerity. "I've really

enjoyed working with you these past few years." So much that you

pushed me under a bus, Magnolia thought, her teeth grinding at the

other end of the phone. You probably flew to London and lured Raven

here with a trail of Prada.

Natalie—who'd been dodging Magnolia's calls—phoned yesterday

as well. "You've got to approach the new job with pluck," she advised

from her lookout atop Mount Success. "I've always believed power is for

the grabbing." This philosophy had sustained Natalie for decades, along with
you've got to be a little bitchy to be interesting. "Bebe
—let that be Raven's problem," Natalie added. "Has Bebe called you, by the way?"

"Not a peep, not a cuss."

"Felicity?"

"She's still smoking over Polo. And, hey, what's happening with

that?"

"They're settling out of court," Natalie said. "Let's just say that it's

likely Nathaniel will have his tuition and therapy paid for through

out the rest of his life, and still have plenty left over for beachfront

property."

Magnolia felt awful that Polo had been traumatized, which shouldn't happen to anyone, but she still couldn't help feeling she'd

pulled the short straw, especially on Monday, when she opened the

door to her corporate editor office. The walls hadn't been painted in

years, and she was greeted by two roaches, one dead, the other in vig

orous health. The office was tucked into the side of the executive floor

where people never wandered unless they were lost. Sasha helped

unpack her. Raven, Sasha's new boss, would be starting tomorrow.

   "I'm never going to forget that you've kept my secret about the
Post,
Magnolia," Sasha said. "Good luck in this new job." Sasha surveyed the bleak surroundings. She didn't press Magnolia on what

she'd be doing, exactly, in her new job. The e-mail announcement had

been vague, though perhaps by now Sasha had learned to read sub

liminal messages whispered in corporatespeak.

Her second visitor was Cameron, who arrived with three dozen

pale pink roses. "It's going to be damn odd not working for you," he

said as he handed her the flowers and enfolded her in an enormous,

long hug.

"You, too, but you've got to be my lifeline to reality, promise? A

woman needs gossip to live." Isolation scared Magnolia as much as Fargo.

"Promise you will be my personal eyewitness and prognosticator?"

   "Lunch, e-mail, hanging out whenever," he said, "I'm your man."

   "There's no one left at
Bebe
who's going to appreciate how you keep that magazine moving, Cameron," Magnolia said. "You're its

central nervous system." She started to cry, had no idea where her tis

sues were, and wiped away the tears with her hand.

"I'm going to try not to feel too sorry for myself," Cameron said in

a serious voice Magnolia rarely heard. "Buck up. Keep your perspec

tive. It's just a job."

She wondered if he'd give her a hug—or at least a tissue. He did

not. Cam was halfway out the door when he turned. "I almost for

get—what's up with your friend Abbey? I read her personal online."

"You read the personals?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you had

a girlfriend."

"Katya moved back to Prague."

"Which one was Katya?" "Filmmaker. Leggy, blond. Not important. Not anymore."

For no reason she could explain to herself, Magnolia felt intrigued

to know this detail about Cameron. They were close, but only profes

sional-close. They'd often spent fourteen-hour days together. She

knew how he took his coffee and that he'd rather drink beer than

wine. Magnolia could predict what he'd wear to work the following

day and which movie he wouldn't see even if you tried to bribe him.

But Cameron cruising the personals? What kind of woman would he

be looking for? That she couldn't say.

"Who's your dream girl, Cam?" Magnolia asked.

   "Maureen Dowd."

   
Shows you how little I know w
ent through Magnolia's mind. "So what do you think about Abbey? You've met her—she
is
adorable."

   "I don't know. I don't think I'm either the Paris flea market or

Bergdorf's."

Magnolia could hear him chuckling as he walked down the hall.

She logged on to her personal e-mail. Anything from Preacherman8?

Just spam ads for drugs to make her penis bigger and a new diet pill

that promised to pop cellulite like a bubble and burn an extra 937

calories per day.

Where was her radio? This office was a tomb. Pluck sucks.