Little Pink Slips (30 page)

the room like Forty-second Street, and be meticulous about what job

she took next. Wrong choice? Hello, Has-Been.

Thinking about it all made Magnolia drowsy. If she closed her

eyes, she could rouse herself in twenty minutes, shower, put on some

thing other than her baggiest jeans and run to Zabar's. Sasha had just called to see if a group from
Bebe
could stop over after work with a bottle of wine. Magnolia would need at least some chips and

salsa, and she definitely required a quickie blow-dry and Think Pink

manicure.

A few minutes later—it felt like minutes, yet it was dark outside—

Manuel buzzed to ask if he could send up some people who said they were from her office. Forget the blow-dry and manicure. She rushed

to brush her teeth, but there was no time to change her clothes or

even put on lipstick.

She opened the door. "Sign here," said a beefy messenger. "This is

the first load. Where do you want 'em?" At least ten cartons as big as

Bernese mountain dogs stood in the vestibule outside her door.

"Here will be fine." The delivery—which she'd forgotten about—

was joined by a second load, then another. But it wouldn't be fine, see

ing her work life reduced to thirty-two cartons she'd have no place to

unpack. She supervised the messengers stacking the boxes in what

now looked like a war memorial blocking her foyer mirror. At least

she wouldn't have to look at the face of a whiny malcontent every

time she walked to the kitchen.

"We're done," Mr. Muscle said. He gave her what she took as a

meaningful once-over.

Is this guy coming on to me, she wondered, dressed the way I am,

in a ratty Michigan sweatshirt? Then it occurred to Magnolia that he

and his sidekick expected a tip. To have her apartment become a stor

age bin was going to cost her thirty bucks.

   The intercom buzzed again. The
Bebe
gang was on its way up. Ruthie, Fredericka, Sasha, and Cameron trooped through the door,

throwing their coats and bags on the boxes. She let herself be con

sumed by their embraces, not noticing that the door had opened again.

There was Felicity, lugging a case of beer. Bringing up the rear was

Bebe, carrying numerous large pizza boxes.

"Magnolia, you look like shit," Bebe said.

If someone had used the Heimlich maneuver, they couldn't have

got Magnolia to respond.

"C'mon, don't be a hard-ass," Bebe said, laughing. "I said it with

love. Got a church key? Let's party like we actually like each other."

"Don't worry about a thing," Felicity said. In five minutes Felicity

emerged from Magnolia's kitchen with dishes and silverware and

placed them next to the pizza boxes on Magnolia's seldom used for

mal mahogany table. This was testimony to the historical footnote

that ten years ago, as Mrs. Wally Fleigelman, she'd impersonated a grown-up and thrown dinner parties on wedding china. The group

attacked the pizza and beer.

"To the enemy of my enemy!" Bebe said by way of a toast, clicking

her beer bottle with Magnolia's. "May that twat Raven slit her throat

with her own tongue."

Magnolia checked to see if the others—who had to take orders

from Raven every day—were joining Bebe in the salutation. They

were silent, except for Felicity's "Here, here."

Bebe went on. "Hell sized her up and took a dump in her office."

Bebe's laughter ricocheted off Magnolia's living room walls.

Bebe took another beer. "That Jock, sense of humor like a chair," she

said. No argument there, Magnolia agreed. "On his birthday, I had the

art department mock up our gun cover, with me pointing the pistol at

him. Damn, Fredericka, why didn't you bring a copy to show Magnolia?

Dickhead couldn't crack a smile. Started going off on me about how

that issue sucked, stores sending it back, Darlene needing to do a little

dance about it to advertisers. In my face until I walked out on him."

A phone rang to the sound of the Patridge Family singing, "I Think

I Love You." Felicity fished out her cell phone and took the call.

"Gotta tottle," Felicity said. "Pressing engagement."

"You with the 'pressing engagements,' " Bebe said to Felicity.

"Always disappearing." Bebe then shouted "Beer here!" to Cam as if

he were hawking drinks at Yankee Stadium.

Bebe at center stage was, Magnolia realized, strangely relaxing.

She felt like a throw pillow in her own living room and didn't even

have to open her mouth. The others chimed in from time to time, but

it was Bebe's show.

Magnolia wondered why she had come. It was too late for the two

of them to become allies, if that's what the star wanted, and she

doubted that Bebe genuinely liked or cared about her. Someone must

have told her that it was good form to bond with your staff, and per

haps that's what the woman thought she was doing.

By eleven, one by one, Sasha, Cameron, Ruthie, and Fredericka

peeled off, with the refuse from dinner bagged and ready to dump in

the garbage. Only Bebe was left, downing the last beer. "Nice place you've got here," she said to Magnolia, as if just notic

ing the surroundings. "Not what I would have pictured."

"Really?" Magnolia asked. "How did you see me living?"

"Truthfully?" Bebe asked. "Never thought about it." Her big laugh

boomed again. "Hey, where's your john?" she asked. Magnolia

pointed her toward the white marble powder room off the foyer.

When Bebe emerged, Magnolia was glad to see her put on her coat.

"So, Magnolia, about the magazine?" Bebe asked on her way out.

"Yes, Bebe?" Why doesn't she just go home and Google herself for

entertainment, Magnolia wondered.

"Give me your esteemed opinion," Bebe said in a surprisingly seri

ous voice. "Should I cut my losses and pull out?"

"Of the magazine?"

"No, Iraq," Bebe said. "Of course, the magazine."

Was it the beer talking? From what Magnolia knew of the partner

ship with Scary, both parties were obligated for a lot longer than six

months.

"If you do that, aren't there consequences?" Magnolia asked.

"Consequences?" Bebe said. "Honey, that's what lawyers are for."

"You know what I admire about you, Bebe—you're a risk taker,"

Magnolia said, thinking out loud. When she was involved in the mag

azine herself, Bebe's risks seemed inane, but, now, who was going to

be hurt by them—Jock? Darlene? Magnolia had a glimmer of guilt when she considered that the
Bebe
staff would suffer from Bebe's missteps, but they were talented and versatile; she knew that if they

floated their résumés, they'd be snapped up by other editors. "Hon

estly, I think you should take on more of the hot-button issues, Bebe,"

Magnolia said, her conviction growing. "The more controversial, the

better. Let's think. How about gay marriage?" She had no idea where

Bebe stood on the subject. It didn't matter. No matter her position, it

would alienate half the country—and give Jock a coronary.

"Interesting," Bebe said. "Very interesting. It's my magazine. Why

not get political? I could start endorsing candidates in my editor's

letter."

"Now you're talking," Magnolia said.

"Or run for office myself."

"Yes!"

   "Hey, I've got it," Bebe said. "Abortion. We'll do a special abortion issue." She high-fived Magnolia.

"Love it," Magnolia said. "It's genius, Bebe, genius." Could she

think of one advertiser who would want to be in any magazine's spe

cial abortion issue? She could not. If Magnolia was lucky, there would

be picketers outside Scary. Maybe a televised riot and a Michael

Moore documentary.

"This was a hoot," Bebe said as the elevator door closed behind her.

"Why weren't you this much fun when we worked together?"

C h a p t e r 3 0

An Offending Prepositional Phrase

Magnolia had never visited
the Human Resources department. In the past, HR always came to her. She wandered

through Scary's basement and finally found Howard's pocket-sized

office, where his assistant asked her to wait. Magnolia stared at a

closed folder labeled with her name, hire date, and fire date. She was

about to peek inside, when Howard entered and shook her hand with

his clammy palm.

"Before we sign off on papers," he said without preamble, taking

his chair, which was upholstered in purple squiggles, "it's customary

to conduct an exit interview." Squarely in front of her, Howard placed

a clipboard with a long, printed checklist. He cleared his throat.

"Overall, Magnolia, how would you rate your experience here at Scar

borough?" he read aloud.

"Would that be before or after?" Magnolia asked.

   "Before or after?" Howard asked.

   "Before or after
Lady
?" Magnolia asked. "Before or after Bebe Blake and
Bebe
? Before or after my corporate editor job?" She could hear her voice rising. "Before or after I got axed?"

Howard scribbled on the page. Probably identifying me as ready to go postal, Magnolia thought. "Start wherever you wish," Howard

said.

   "Being recruited as editor in chief of
Lady wa
s . . . terrific," she said, remembering the gigawatt glamour of being courted and cos

seted for months—the counteroffer from her existing job that Scary

topped, the breathless press release announcing her hire, and the

veddy-veddy proper reception in her honor at Le Cirque. "I was thrilled to join this company. Everything after
Lady
. . ."

"Yes?" Howard prompted.

Should she say "sucked"? ". . . was less satisfying," Magnolia

answered.

"Do you care to elaborate?" Howard asked.

"No," she said.

He raised one eyebrow. "Then on to the next question," he said,

wearing the look of an ambulance technician trained to deal with

trauma victims. "How would you describe Jock Flanagan, your super

visor here at Scarborough Magazines?"

"Aggressive," Magnolia said, after a split second's thought.

"Do you care to elaborate?" he asked.

Should she kick it up a notch? Magnolia settled on "inappropriate

behavior," letting her fingers wink as quotations marks.

Howard raised both eyebrows and peered at Magnolia as if he were

trying to imagine her naked—although maybe he was simply deter

mining if she was an employee with a legitimate claim or a feminist

who interpreted every innocent cheek peck as foreplay, and trying to

recall a seminar he'd taken on how to know the difference.

"Care to elaborate?" Howard said.

"No," Magnolia said. "I don't."

"Nothing more you want to share?" This was like the moment in

your appointment where the kindly gynecologist gives you the chance

to reveal that your boyfriend is a drooling beast. But Magnolia couldn't

see the point of screaming harassment now, when Jock would surely

deny it, and she was already fired.

"Can we cut to the chase, please, and get to that?" Magnolia pointed

to the bulging Magnolia Gold obituary folder. "As you wish," Howard said, jotting a few notes on her form and

putting it aside. "You have been a well-respected member of the Scar

borough team," he recited. Magnolia wouldn't disagree. "In recogni

tion of the contribution you've made here for the last few years, as

well as your standing within the magazine community, Scarborough's

board, under Jock's direction, has decided to give you more severance

than you would, according to the employee guidelines, normally be

accorded." Howard smiled beneficently.

Magnolia felt her heart beat a little faster. Jock must be feeling ter

rified, guilty, or both.

"We will double your severance," he said.

Her contract was good until the end of the year, and it was only

January. She expected the silver lining of those eleven months' wages.

But double! Almost two years. Holy crap, this was delicious. Her

mind raced. She could postpone job hunting for at least six months

and travel—take her parents to Israel maybe, and then see the Pyra

mids, and Turkey. She could finally visit Australia, then rent a flat

in Paris. Magnolia pictured herself sitting at an outdoor café, wear

ing something by that dreamy Nicolas guy of Balenciaga. She'd

pass the morning in the Musée d'Orsay and the afternoons lost in

a novel—a French novel, because she'd have gone to Berlitz. Two

years!

"So, if you'll sign off here," Howard said, opening the folder and

offering Magnolia a pen.

   Several pages of boilerplate stretched in front of her. Whereas,
yada, yada, yada,
herewith,
blah, blah, blah,
hereafter, in consideration of the payments and entitlements . . . therein her employment

relationship with Scarborough Magazines, thereinunder . . . the ter

mination of that relationship . . .

Whatever. Magnolia flipped to the final page. Gold shall receive

monies equal to one month's employment.

   Her brain flashed
does not compute.
Magnolia slowed down, and reread the last clause. A
month
? The words stood out like a tattoo.

"Excuse me, there's a typo," Magnolia said. She pointed to the of

fending prepositional phrase. "You said a minute ago that my payment would be doubled. I have a contract until the end of the year. So it

comes to about two years, not a month."

Howard looked at the agreement. "No, it's correct. Perhaps there's

been a misunderstanding," he added. "The contract you speak of was for when you were the editor in chief of
Lady.
That position ceased months ago. You've been corporate editor for a short time, with no

contract. There was some discussion as to whether you were even

entitled to two weeks of severance, but as I said, Jock has chosen to

grant you a month. Now," he said, "if you'll sign."

The purple squiggles on the upholstery of Howard's chair swam

like snakes in front of Magnolia's eyes. She wanted a glass of water,

oxygen, Scotch. She wanted . . . a lawyer!

   "You're right," she said. "I agree. There
has
been a 'misunderstanding.' " Magnolia repeated the winking finger gesture. She stood.

"I'm not going to sign these. Now, if I may have those papers, please?"

"Magnolia, you've already taken almost a week to meet with me,"

Howard said, his patience having sprung a leak.

"Howard, I believe we're going to go in another direction here."

She put out her hand. "Those papers?"

Howard handed them to Magnolia, who wandered into the hall, up

the elevator, and out of Scary. She started walking blindly in the brac

ing cold until she found herself at the Starbucks she'd avoided since

her blowup here with Harry. As she sat down, tears detonated.

Who could she call? Her professional support team consisted of a

manicurist, a dog walker, a cleaning woman, Cam, and Abbey. The attorney who'd negotiated her
Lady
contract almost three years before was inconveniently incarcerated. The city was crawling with

lawyers—that balding fellow at the next table, so engrossed in his

phone conversation he didn't notice she'd come unhinged, was proba

bly one. She definitely couldn't phone the environmental lawyer she'd

dated two years ago. If you wanted to know about dog doo putrefying

our water, he was your man, though. No, she'd need someone who

could save her ass.

She finished her coffee and walked uptown, drifting in and out of stores to keep warm. At 1:30, she took herself to the café at Saks.

Around her, pairs of glossy women chatted about mother-of-the-bride

dresses and whether a five-carat ring was too-too.

Her phone rang. "Yes, I had the meeting," she told Abbey between

sniffles. "Trying to stiff me out of my contract."

"Yikes, Jock's revenge," Abbey said. "You're not going to let him

get away with it, are you?"

"I was just about to call one of those lawyers who advertise in the

subway," Magnolia said. "1-800-SCREWED."

"Not funny," Abbey said. "What's plan B?"

"Tell me if I'm crazy," Magnolia said. "The person who keeps

coming to mind to ask for help is Natalie."

"What makes you think you can trust her?" Abbey asked.

"With the bouquet she sent me—which was the most fabulous one

I got, by the way—there was a note that read, 'Call me if you need

help—with anything. I'm always here for you,' " Magnolia said. "I

think that was code."

"Mags, I know this woman likes to find people furniture refinish

ers and gastroenterologists, but she's a card-carrying Scary person.

You've lost your mind."

"You may be right," Magnolia admitted. She left Saks, walked all

the way home, and reread her contract three times.

The next morning she flipped a coin, called Natalie's office, and

left a message, which Natalie returned early that evening.

"Was hoping you'd call," Natalie asked. "How are you doing,

Cookie?"

Natalie hated a whiner. "Pretty well," Magnolia said. "But I need

some advice, and no one would know better than you."

"Love to talk, sweetie, but I've got a car downstairs and I've already

kept it waiting for ten minutes," Natalie said. "Black-tie thing."

Was she saying I-can't-help-you now or I-can't-help-you-ever?

"Shall I call you tomorrow in the office?" Magnolia ventured.

"Don't think we should be talking from office phones," Natalie said.

Strike two, Magnolia thought. "But if you swing by the apartment tomorrow at five-thirty, we'll

chat," Natalie suggested. "I know what you're going through."

I doubt that, Magnolia thought, thinking of Natalie's unblemished

bio—Stanford, Columbia School of Journalism, perched at the top of a

masthead for decades. She hated needing Natalie. But just now, she did.

"You're on," Magnolia said.