Little Pink Slips (36 page)

   "Cameron," she said, leaving a message. "Want to come over tonight for
Larry King
and
Letterman
? Bring Abbey. Bring the world. I'm celebrating."

"Where's Abbey?"
Magnolia asked Cameron as he walked through her door. He kissed her on the cheek, hung his overcoat in the

closet, and in a few giant steps made himself at home in front of her

television.

   "Wouldn't know," he said, flipping channels till he found
Larry King Live. "
Abbey and I had the let's-be-friends talk."

"Sorry to hear that," Magnolia said. And surprised, since Abbey

hadn't returned her last two calls.

"Don't be. Some Frenchman she met's in town. Frankly, I'm

relieved. I'd been rehearsing the same speech for weeks. She's sweet,

Abbey. I didn't know how to put it to her."

Magnolia fixed Cam with a long, quizzical stare, searching for a

sign that Abbey's rejection had wounded his heart or at least stung his

pride. She had an impulse to push up the glasses that had slipped

down his nose, but the Continental Divide of boss-employee relations

wouldn't close, despite the fact that they hadn't worked together for

months.

   "What?" he said. "Really, it's over.
Finito.
Abbey's great, but there was zero chemistry. Not enough meat on her bones. And not only do I

not know a radiant cut from a rat's ass, I don't want to know."

In truth, everything about the way Cam's lanky, blue-jean-clad legs

stretched in front of him looked relaxed as a breeze. Magnolia

shrugged and walked into her kitchen.

"There she is," he shouted as she pulled two beers out of her

refrigerator to accompany the chips she'd put on a tray. "White bel

uga sighting! Gold, get in here."

   
So now she was Gold.
Magnolia bolted to the TV. For her appearance, Bebe had chosen a bustier, form-fitting jeans, and go-go boots,

all in Clorox white.

"I guess this is her idea of a virginal look," Magnolia said. "Drive

home the old 'If you think I'm a dominatrix, think again' message."

Bebe leaned toward Larry King, her breasts pouring over her

bodice, and beamed a smile that stopped short of her eyes.

"Bebe, when you started your magazine, did you ever think it

would be this hard?" Larry asked her.

In the second that Bebe hesitated, Magnolia could sense this wasn't

the question she had expected. "Hard, Larry?" she said. "We're start

ing this out by talking about who's hard?" She let loose her boisterous

cackle.

   Larry smiled slightly. "Seriously, every year almost a thousand magazines launch," he said. "
Naked Dachshunds
and yours were just two last year. Anyone who can start a fire, it seems, can start a maga

zine, and usually all that happens is they burn a lot of money. Most

new magazines fail."

Larry did like to hear himself talk.

"How much money has
Bebe
burned?" he finally asked. "He's a meanie tonight," Magnolia said.

"Just jerking her chain," Cameron said.

"Larry, honey, nobody said putting out a good magazine is gonna

be cheap," Bebe countered, her smile vanished. "I'm not about cheap.
Bebe
will cost what it costs. It's my magazine."

"Sort of," Magnolia said, imagining Jock's blood pressure soaring

as he watched the interchange. He was probably pulling up his copy

of their partnership agreement this very instant and exercising every

four-letter word he knew. Magnolia turned to Cameron. "You're the

managing editor—how over-the-top are her costs?"

Cameron rolled his eyes and waved his hand above his head but

shushed Magnolia so he could fixate on Bebe, who'd moved to a vigor

ous defense of Felicity's right to whip anyone she felt like in the pri

vacy of a boudoir.

"You and I can agree on that, Bebe," Larry said, "but will your

readers? They're a conservative crowd. Won't they feel Miss Dingle is

an abomination?"

As the censors bleeped out Bebe's response, Larry turned straight

to the camera. "On that subject, I wonder what tonight's other guest

has to say? Dr. Laura Schlessinger, are you standing by in Los Ange

les?" The camera panned back to Bebe in time to catch the fury con

torting her face. Had she been unaware that a virtue-hawk was the

other guest? Bebe dipped into her décolleté, fished out her mike,

and—making a clatter—stood.

"Bebe," Larry said. "Where you headed, girl?"

"Outta here, my friend," Bebe snapped. "It's been a pleasure, but I

know a setup when I see it."

"C'mon, Bebe," Larry said. "Let's calm down."

"Let's not," she said.

"Bebe, you're a talk show host yourself—you know this is just . . . television," Larry said, shaking his head. But Bebe had already

stomped off.

Cameron and Magnolia stared at the screen. "Did we just see what

we just saw?" she asked.

"Career annihilation in the making?" Cameron said. "Thought

our Bebe was a cooler cucumber."

   "Jock must actually be getting to her," Magnolia said. "Can't wait to see how she's going to handle
Letterman.
"

   Cameron looked at his watch. "Wish I could stay but," he said,

"gotta write."

"How's that book coming?" Magnolia asked. As far as she knew,

Cameron had been writing the same book for the full four years she

had known him. Although maybe he already had a best seller or two

under a pseudonym. Maybe even a series. That's how little he men

tioned this side of his literary life.

"On the home stretch. My agent e-mails me every day to make

sure I don't have a minute's fun."

"What's the book about?" Magnolia asked coyly, as she had many

times before. Cameron just laughed and gave her an amused look.

"Can you at least tell me what kind of novel it is? Mystery?

Thriller?"

"None of the above," he said.

"You're writing chick lit! God knows you could, working at a

women's magazine. No, I've got it. You're doing male chick lit. Yes!

Dick lit!"

"Pardon me, Ms. Gold," Cameron said in an imperious tone, "but

even if all gentlemen do is reflect on their tiny penises and ample love handles, what we write are called
books.
Got that?
Literature.
Even if the title is
The Unibrow Diaries.
"

   
"The Devil Wears Tighty Whiteys?"

   "He always does," he said. With that, he gave her an unexpectedly

huge hug, grabbed his jacket, and left.

   Magnolia walked back to her TV. Since her one and only current job prospect was
Voyeur ov
er at Fancy, she'd decided she needed to steep herself in pop culture and had been TiVo-ing every celebrity program, cable and network. The chuga-chuga-chuga of celebrity's

gossip train was roaring through her brain. She might know diddly

squat about what river flows from the Allegheny and the Mononga

hela, or take a day to recall the name of the newest Supreme Court

justice, but she'd developed an encyclopedic knowledge of whose cel

lulite was the most cottage cheesy, which bride in a Vera Wang gown

was a lipstick lesbian, and what name of which star was caught in

flagrante delicto with his personal chef. Ask her anything, and Mag

nolia could lob back the answer faster than you could spit the word

"spin." She wasn't proud of this ability, but she knew it might eventu

ally pay her way.

   Besides, celebrity shows passed the time, and when she became utterly brain-dead, there was always
Jewels of Vegas.
Magnolia had just bought her mother a pink sapphire and amethyst ring for only

$139 (there were only ten available—she had to act fast) when she decided to catch a tiny catnap so she could stay awake for
Letterman.
She opened her eyes at what seemed like ten minutes later, but

Dave was already finishing his "top ten" list.

   "And the number one reason why no one should ever start her own magazine," Dave said, "is that the swimsuit issue of
Naked Dachshunds
may outsell you." To applause, he held up a cover featuring a pregnant dachshund posing with her belly proudly displayed like Demi Moore on
Vanity Fair. "
And now, welcome our next guest, my very good friend Bebe Blake."

Bebe had changed out of her dress whites. In solidarity with seri

ous editors, she'd switched to black. Feathers, however, engulfed her.

She looked like Big Bird in mourning.

"Dave, you're not going to ambush me, are you?" Bebe said, twin

kling a laugh.

"Bebe, wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"Would you mind if a friend joined me?" she said, smoothing her

feathers as she sat with a thunk on the couch.

"Not a dachshund, is it?" he said. "No stupid pet tricks tonight."

"It's my dear colleague, Felicity Dingle," Bebe said. Felicity walked

out, carrying her infamous leather satchel. "In case you need to be whipped into shape." Dave and the audience joined her in a roar of

laughter. The three of them chattered, every remark as sweet as

cherry pie, even a long yak that contrasted sexual habits of Americans

to those in the UK.

Magnolia was getting ready to turn off the show, when Dave

turned to Felicity, "Bebe seems content, doesn't she? True, Bebe?" he

added.

"I am—now," she answered, a grin splitting her face.

"How's that?" he said.

"Now that I'm quitting the magazine," she said, looking entirely

pleased with herself. She opened Felicity's satchel and pulled out at least a dozen copies of
Bebe,
which she dropped on the floor, then punted off the set. "I made my decision earlier today. I don't know

what happened to freedom of the press, among other freedoms, but

no one's going to tell me what to put on the cover of my own maga

zine, or who to hire to run it. I can't put up with any more abuse and

interference. You heard it here. My magazine is history."

   Dave's eyebrows went up. "Now, Bebe—say it ain't so.
Bebe
's a mere babe, and you're no quitter."

"If something's not working, don't drag it out. I've been married

twice and when the relationships stopped working, I moved on. Men,

magazines—all the same. Ciao. Adios. Life's too short for aggrava

tion."

"Haven't you been having fun, Bebe?" Dave said. "And that gun

cover—well, you were making quite a statement." He held up the

gun cover issue, which had been conveniently placed on his desk.

"Do I have to spell it out, Dave?" Bebe said. "I quit. Q-U-I-T. Scar

borough Magazines can take their magazine and put it where the sun

don't shine."

"Oooh, harsh, Bebe. Harsh." Dave said, then looked into the cam

era. "Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. How about it?

Bebe Blake calling it quits to her beloved magazine. It will be dearly missed. Especially among gun lovers. It's bye-bye,
Bebe, by
e-bye. Or shall we say bang-bang,
Bebe,
bang-bang?"

The next thing Magnolia knew, a car commercial replaced David

Letterman's face. Magnolia immediately called Cameron, but his line

was busy—because he was dialing her cell.

"Didn't I say that Bebe was going to quit tonight?" Magnolia

asked. "I knew it!"

"No," Cameron said. "You didn't say it, and you didn't know it."

"But I was thinking it," Magnolia said. "I swear."

"I don't even want to imagine what goes on in that brain of yours,

Magnolia," Cameron said. "Anyway, it's probably Bebe's idea of a

publicity stunt. Make Jock sweat and beg to take her back on her

terms."

It occurred to Magnolia that what he said made sense—and that

she'd just displayed the sensitivity of a tank. If Bebe quit, Cam would

be out of a job. She better back down. "Thanks for stopping by this

evening," she said. "You're definitely right, as always."

"Pleasure's all mine," he said. "And, you know, I was wondering . . ."

The phone indicated another call. "Could you hold on, Cam? Just a

second . . ."

"Surprised?" Bebe said.

"Nothing surprises me anymore," Magnolia answered. "But why

now?"

"Jock, Raven, Darlene, bunch of losers," Bebe said. "Who needs

this shit? Nobody tells Bebe Blake what to do. I hope they'll have fun putting out
The Magazine Formerly Known as Bebe.
"

   "Bebe, if you weren't serious about the magazine, why did you start it?" Magnolia said.
And bomb my life?

   But Bebe didn't answer. She had already hung up. Magnolia went

out to walk her dogs and, when she returned, promptly fell asleep.

Only the next morning did she remember she'd never got back to

Cameron.

C h a p t e r 3 6

It's a Hard-Knock Life

"My name is Magnolia,"
she began, stepping into the inferno of a crowded subway car in July. "I know you hate people

interrupting your morning, but I just need a moment." Most of the

commuters resolutely read religious tracts, swayed to their music, or

looked through her, their goal to avoid eye contact—and, if possible,

skin contact—with fellow passengers. "A short time ago, I had a good

job and benefits. Now I'm homeless.

"I don't rob. I don't steal. I don't do drugs." Technically true, if you

discounted the occasional joint at parties. "If you could find it in your

heart to help me—money, food, whatever—anything will be appreci

ated." She walked the length of the car, her Tod's tote open. "Just

thinkin' about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow," she

sang in her wobbly voice with its five-note range. One man yelled,

"Put a lid on it," but as Magnolia hit "I love ya tomorrow—you're

always a day away," a woman opened her own Tod's bag and tossed a

half-eaten box of Good & Plenty into Magnolia's bag.

"Good luck," the woman said with deep sincerity as she squeezed

Magnolia's hand, her manicure impeccable in contrast to Magnolia's

own ragged nail stubs. Magnolia kicked off her heavy comforter and woke in a puddle of

sweat, her heart throbbing like percussion at the MTV music video

awards. Damn—she shouldn't have visited that storefront psychic

yesterday, but its handout beckoned: "Are you depressed, anxious, los

ing peace of mind?" All of the above, she decided. "Stop feeling sorry

for yourself. This gifted European spiritual adviser will remove nega

tive energy and help you achieve inner serenity." The next thing

Magnolia knew, Svetlana of West Seventy-eighth Street was predict

ing "a dazzling future" but warning her, as she chewed what Magno

lia hoped was gum and not tobacco, to "not keep repeating mistakes

and put what happened yesterday behind you."

   Which psychic phenomenon from yesterday? Svetlana didn't specify. Bebe abandoning
Bebe
? How could this touch her now that she was unemployed and possibly unemployable? Two months had passed, and

while she'd been feted at breakfasts, lunches, and cocktail hours, all

that happened was that she'd listened to no fewer than twenty-seven

editors bitch about their own work. Despite a five-pound weight gain,

after each date Magnolia felt a little emptier, exactly the emotion she

experienced handing the gifted Svetlana twenty bucks.

Svetlana may have exorcized energy all right. Magnolia collapsed

that night at 8:30. Now she stumbled into her shower and washed

away the dream. As she was getting ready to scrub off yesterday's

mascara as well, her phone rang.

"Magnolia, she who snoozes loses," Wally crooned. "Pick up, my

princess."

She rushed, dripping, to the phone she'd left on the sink.

"Wally, I've been hoping to hear from you," she said. For the last

six weeks, her case had progressed in slow motion, keeping pace with

the rest of her life. Wally split a hair. Scary split another. Every few

days he sent her an e-mail reporting that little had developed. Twice

Magnolia had been ready to ditch the whole exercise, but "This is

how lawyers show how big their dicks are," Wally insisted. "When

the schmucks at your old company make a dumb-ass move, I just

laugh, let it sit for a few days, then go back for more. Not to worry." If her dream was a barometer, however, she was worrying. "Any

developments on my case?" she asked.

"Tell you in person, kiddo. Can you be in my office in, say, an

hour?" he asked. "I'm leaving this afternoon for Aspen with Whitney

and the kids, but you and I gotta talk."

"Good news?"

"Is my name not Wally Fleigelman?" he responded. Unfortu

nately, it was.

"See you soon," she said.

For their ten o'clock meeting, Wally had ordered breakfast. He

carefully prepared a bagel for her, smearing it with chive cream

cheese, adding two glistening slices of Nova Scotia salmon, and top

ping it with a thick slab of Bermuda onion.

"Oops, forgot you hate onion on Nova," he said. "Little hick. I'll take

yours." He plucked off the onion and placed the extra slice on his own

bagel tower. "It's not like you're going to kiss me—though you should."

Magnolia glanced pointedly at the photo of Whitney and the twins.

"I deserve a kiss—I've been a champ," he added. He poured them

each a large cup of coffee from a silver Georg Jensen pot.

"How's that, Wally?" Magnolia asked.

"Let me first tell you that your old company's legal department

should stick to copyrights and libel. What is it you call your com

pany?" Wally asked. "Scary?"

"Very," she said.

"Okay. Scary failed to consider, when they switched you to deputy

editor and then corporate editor, that the term of your contract for

editor in chief was still in effect," he began. "They screwed up royally

with that one."

"Goody," she said. "So, we have a case?"

"Patience, darling. It gets better," he said. "Turns out your other

lawyer wasn't such a putz after all. There was a clause in your contract

stipulating that in order for Scary to change your title, they needed

your written consent."

"Really?" Magnolia asked. "Which, obviously, they didn't get. Don't you love it? God is in the

details."

"So, is that our case?"

"Magnolia, you'd think you were paying me by the hour. That's

just the beginning of our case. No check to cash just yet."

Her smile vanished.

"Scary isn't talking big enough numbers." He quoted her a figure.

"That's almost my salary for the rest of the year, Wally," she said,

shifting to panic. "Can't you just say yes, and stop the games?"

"They said take it or leave it, so I said shove it," he said. "Chump

change."

Why did I ever get involved with Wally? Magnolia asked herself.

Why? Was this what the psychic meant about not repeating mistakes?

She rubbed her temples.

"Stop stressing, Mags. Believe in Wally, who is pulling another

card out of his pretty little deck."

"And that would be?" Magnolia said.

"A little gem called quid pro quo sexual harassment." Wally's face

lit up as if someone had offered him a blow job. "So, if you don't mind,

I'm going to turn on my tape recorder and ask you a few questions."

Magnolia suddenly felt dirty. She'd rather analyze her sex life with

her own father than do a play-by-play with Wally. But there he was,

wired and ready.

"Did Jock Flanagan make sexual advances or requests to you, or

otherwise engage in conduct of a sexual nature?" he began. At least

his tone was quiet and professional.

Magnolia nodded yes.

"Speak up, please, Magnolia."

"Yes, he did," she said. "Jock Flanagan did make sexual advances

to me."

He nodded yes and smiled. "Was the sexual conduct welcomed by

you?" he asked.

"What do you think?" she said, looking at him as if he had the IQ

of a matzo ball.

"Magnolia, a simple yes or no?" "No," she said, recalling Jock's paw on her leg, his fingers running

up and down her thigh.

"Did you reject his advances?"

"Yes!" Magnolia was surprised by the steel in her voice. "Of course."

"And after that incident were the terms or conditions of your

employment adversely affected?"

"After that I was moved from being deputy editor to corporate edi

tor, and soon after that I was fired." It wasn't cancer. It wasn't even a

broken arm or a classic broken heart. She hesitated but said, "I call

that 'adverse,' yes."

Wally turned off his tape recorder. "Was that so bad?" he said.

"We've had worse conversations over what color white to paint the

living room."

Magnolia remembered and laughed. "You and Whitney agree on

all that?"

"I pick my battles, doll," he said. "Marriage—who ever thought

that one up?" He began to tidy his desk. Magnolia considered that

perhaps she should leave, but then Wally started talking. "By the way,

were you surprised by the lawsuit?"

Magnolia had rushed out without reading the paper or listening to

any morning television. What new national or international scandal

didn't she know about? Her face registered empty. Lately, she'd been

focusing so much on celebrity journalism—if that wasn't an oxymoron—that
The New York Times k
ept piling up unread. "Oh, you didn't hear?" Wally said matter-of-factly. He broke into a

grin. "That's right. I forgot. You couldn't have heard. Nobody knows

yet." He paused for dramatic effect. "Scary's suing Bebe Blake. For

breach of contract. You heard it here first. The story's going to break

in an hour or two."

"Who told you this?"

"A friend handling the case," he said. "Yes, ma'am. Scary's suing

for damages, punitive and actual. Three hundred big ones."

"Three hundred thousand dollars?"

"Oh, you are an innocent. Million, honey. Million. Claims your

Bebe Blake breached her contract. Behaved erratically. That true?" It was Magnolia's turn to laugh. "Honestly, Wally, Bebe defines

'erratic.' One day she sends you the best birthday gift you ever

received, and the next day you're afraid she might steal your dog."

"So, did you see it coming?"

"Wally, if you're asking me if I'm surprised that Scary would sue,

no. It's Jock, down to his boxers. Ego the size of Alaska."

"Guess that means you're rooting for Bebe?"

   Magnolia spoke very, very slowly. "Wally, honey. If Scary has money to throw around on vanity lawsuits, I'm rooting for
me.
Pull out every card in that pretty little deck of yours. Go get Magnolia a

nice, six-figure check."

He smiled. "Now you're talking."

"This is for you, Wally," she said, ignoring his onion breath and

kissing him on the lips. "Get lucky. Get very lucky."