Little Pink Slips (4 page)

five years. Every other company—and apparently Bebe, too—was

jealous of Oprah's slam dunk.

One by one, all the good soldiers fell in line praising the Bebe idea.

Magnolia spoke last. "I beg you to reconsider," she said, trying to stay

calm. "First, Bebe's not Oprah. Nobody is. Oprah's the closest thing

this country has to a saint. You can trip any woman anywhere and she

can explain what she stands for. If Oprah ran for president with Tom

Hanks as VP, she'd win by a landslide."

No one in the room said a word, so Magnolia went on.

"Bebe doesn't stand for anything bigger than herself—she's just a

collection of interests. Doughnuts, kittens, country music. Interests

change."

She was definitely on a roll. She thought about the photo shoot

when Bebe wouldn't wear the designer clothes they'd had specially

made in her size and relived the incident with Fredericka. Should she

mention that Bebe was notoriously difficult to work with? Nah, her

colleagues wouldn't care—that would be her problem. Besides, when

ever you complained that someone else was a pain, people always assumed
you w
ere the difficult one.

She flip-flopped about whether to go on, fearing that the head of

Human Resources would crash through the door and haul her to P.C.

court. But Magnolia had to say it.

"Third, it's pretty much an open secret that Bebe is . . ." She

searched for a delicate word. ". . . a player." Who was she kidding?

She's a slut. "This doesn't bother any of us, but remember how our

clients refused to place their ads next to that story we ran about the

call girl who became a pediatric oncologist? They aren't going to like it if Bebe and her latest boy toy get splashed on
The National Enquirer,
and many of
Lady'
s more conservative readers—you know we're mostly read by red-state Republicans—may be upset by it, too."

Magnolia took a deep breath. "Seriously, guys—you'll rue the day

you sign a contract with Bebe Blake."

She looked the table up and down, waiting for one of her col

leagues to see the wisdom of her impassioned homily. Silence.

"Okay, then," Jock announced, grinning his beaver smile. "Meet

ing adjourned."

Was there a clue she'd missed? Would a shrewder editor have seen

it all coming? Maybe. Somebody who slept with Jock, perhaps? Defi

nitely. Was the idea hatched by Darlene to make her suffer? Magno

lia, even in a spasm of paranoia, doubted it. Darlene was more

treacherously ambitious than pointlessly cruel; she cared about mak

ing money, the primary credential—along with the ability to avoid

getting bogged down in pesky introspection—for succeeding as a publisher. If
Bebe
could guarantee Scary the direct route to a bigger pile of cash than
Lady
did, the company might get behind it.
If.
Magnolia collected her thoughts, along with her boards, and

headed back to her office.

C h a p t e r 4

The Two Women Who Still Eat Carbs

When it came
to running with Abbey Kennedy, Magnolia was what the United States Postal Service used to be. Neither snow nor

rain nor gloom of night—hangovers, insomnia, upstairs party

people—kept her from the appointed rounds. If the two made a date,

she'd show on the dot of 6:45 A.M. Running wasn't all about protecting

her butt from gravity or a sincere interest in heart health—no matter how much
Lady
preached on the subject. A couple of spins around the reservoir was her Prozac.

Magnolia had returned home late last night; walked Biggie and

Lola, her Tibetan terriers; poured a glass of Shiraz, and promptly

crashed after three sips. She'd had every intention of returning

Abbey's call, greased with apologies, but exhaustion triumphed. Guilt

trailed her as she ran a few blocks east and turned on to Central Park

West to pick up Abbey.

To run, Magnolia wore the usual—whatever was clean and a base

ball cap from a trip to the Golden Door, where for two days Julia

Roberts had been her best friend. "Mea culpa," she said to Abbey as

she entered the oak-paneled lobby of her apartment building. Abbey

quickly popped on her big, black Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, but not

before Magnolia noticed she'd been crying. Next to Abbey, Magnolia was Babe, Paul Bunyan's ox. Abbey could

shop in the teen department and barely looked twenty-four, though

she was ten years older. Crying jag or not, this morning she was

adorable in tiny black running shorts, an orange racer-back running

bra, and shoes that gleamed brand-new. Her dark brown ponytail

looked as sleek as always.

"Okay, tell me," Magnolia pleaded gently. "Sorry I couldn't return

your calls yesterday. Work tsunami. First, talk."

Abbey started to run and stared ahead, her smile zipped into a tight

line." It's Tommy."

"And?"

"Gone."

As they entered the park, Seymour, a neighborhood golden

retriever who'd become Abbey's surrogate canine child, bounded up to

them, Frisbee in tow. Normally Abbey would have given Seymour a

hug, and the Frisbee a long toss. But today she ran past him, pushing

uphill on her twiggy but powerful legs, leaving Seymour looking as

confused as Magnolia felt.

"When I got back from San Francisco Sunday night, I noticed

Tommy had made brownies. They were arranged on that stainless

steel platter he'd got for me at Moss on Valentine's Day." Magno

lia remembered how annoyed Abbey had been—she was romantic

to her last cabbage rose print—when she'd received a serving dish

as a gift from her husband of three years. And from SoHo's bas

tion of ultramodern design, when she was the countess of the flea

market.

"I went to cut a brownie in half and the knives were gone."

"Huh?"

"It took me a few minutes until I saw the note taped to the fridge.

'Abbey, I will always love you, but it wasn't meant to be.' It took a

few minutes to sink in. I kept looking for a P.S.: 'I'm outta here and

you're outta eggs.' What kind of bullshit way is that to leave your

wife?"

Tommy bullshit. "I was out all night working on a story" bullshit.

"I've stopped seeing Stephanie" bullshit. "The trip to Turks & Caicos is for work" bullshit. The kind of bullshit Abbey chose to

believe.

Magnolia disliked Tommy O'Toole, deeply. She guessed the feeling

was mutual, as it is when someone knows you've got their number,

although she could understand why Abbey fell for him. Two years

younger than Abbey, a model turned anchorman for the local news,

broad shoulders, no waist, that faint shrimp-on-the-barbie accent,

curly brown hair, terrific piano player. Also quite the baker boy and,

according to Abbey, extraordinary in bed. But ever since Tommy came

on to her, a month before his wedding, Magnolia wanted to snarl at

him whenever he entered the room.

"I've been hysterical," Abbey said. "Blindsided. Haven't been to

my workshop once. Or eaten a thing except for a whole pint of

Chunky Monkey last night between three-thirty and four."

What were Ben and Jerry putting in ice cream? Abbey picked up

the pace and kept talking. "I feel like such a fool. I want to claw his

eyes out. I miss him. I'm embarrassed. I feel pathetic. I'm in disbelief.

I hate him. I love him. I'm exhausted from all this emotion. How can

he really be gone?"

What do you say to a friend who hurts everywhere? "Tommy is an

asshole." Why state the obvious? "He tried to kiss me once, but I said,

'Fuck off.' " Instead Magnolia said, "Abbey, he'll be back." As soon as

she heard her voice, she realized any devotee of Dr. Phil could have

done better. Plus, she doubted it was true.

"Magnolia, you're wrong. This time I know he's never coming

back. He took his cell phone charger, that navy Asprey blazer we had

the fight about. Nineteen hundred dollars for a jacket that looks like

Brooks Brothers? I'm still pissed. And the good knives. What kind of a

man takes knives? Oh, and his passport. At least I never have to look at

that Vuitton case again."

Abbey and Magnolia had bonded long ago over how much they

loathed Louis Vuitton anything, and now that Magnolia thought

about it, she was suddenly convinced that Tommy's passport case was

probably a gift from a woman with whom he'd had an adventure,

probably in a humid place in a faraway time zone. "Do you have any idea where he went?"

"No clue."

They ran in silence, completing their laps. This was the first time

Magnolia remembered a lull in their conversation. She and Abbey

were perfectly matched as two of the slower runners around the

reservoir—although today's shock appeared to be propelling Abbey

to a speed that Magnolia had to work hard to match—and their

chatter always made the runs seem more like a phone call than exer

cise. Whether they were discussing if Abbey should use citrines

or garnets in one of her designs—her jewelry line, Abbey K, had just been shown in a recent
W
("worn by Hilary Swank to the Oscars")—or analyzing last night's dream, talk carried them

through.

After finishing their run, they headed to a nearby coffee shop for

the fifteen minutes of breakfast Magnolia allotted herself on a work

day. Not only were she and Abbey the only two women on the Upper

West Side who still ate carbs—they shared a scone whenever they

ran—she guessed they might also be the neighborhood's sole adult

females who got through the day without antidepressants, although

Magnolia was thinking that it would be handy right now for Abbey to

have some pharmaceutical voodoo.

"Tommy will be back," Magnolia insisted. "He adores you. You're

his life." Where was this drivel coming from? Abbey burst into tears.

Magnolia grabbed a stack of napkins, handed them to her friend, and

hugged her hard.

"Forget me," Abbey said through her heaving, Italian widow

moans. "What's going on with you?"

"If I start venting, I will never stop," Magnolia said. "I'll give you

two words. Bebe Blake."

"She walked off another photo shoot? What do you care? She sold,

what, eleven copies for you last time."

"Oh, that it were so simple. I'll call you tonight and give you the

whole deal." Magnolia got up to leave, remorse pulsing. She wished

she could take off the morning, tuck Abbey under a downy duvet in a cool, air-conditioned room, and hold her hand while they listened to

Harry Connick Jr. But there was rarely a day to be late for work, and

this was definitely not it. Scary was the court of Henry VIII—make a

mistake and you could be beheaded.

They said their good-byes. Magnolia raced home and rushed into

the shower for a quickie shampoo. She went over her clothing options.

Today called for skyscraper heels, definitely, and the confidence

building Stella McCartney dress she'd been saving for a very impor

tant occasion. With water dripping across her pale gray carpeting, she

checked her schedule. Did she have a lunch? Yes, Natalie Simon for

their monthly sushi pig-out.

Magnolia could use a dose of Natalie just now. A sit-down with

Natalie could be better than finding money in your pocket: her advice

was that astute. The vox populi was that Natalie was the cagiest editor

in town, having earned her chops over the course of thirty years. The

only problem was that Natalie seemed to have a selective memory and

so many industry friends sucking up that you couldn't always count on

her to recall promises she'd make to you, even if your discussion was

yesterday.

Thirty-five minutes later, Magnolia was out the door. As she left

the elevator downstairs, she collided with a delivery boy. "For you,"

shouted the day doorman. A magnificent white orchid—pale, perfect,

a botanical Uma Thurman—was on its way up.

   Magnolia accepted the present with curiosity. Flowers at
Lady
were routine, although it was usually the beauty and fashion depart

ments that cleaned up; you could barely walk to the bathroom with

out seeing a glorious floral tribute. The untrained observer might

think someone on the staff got engaged every day, but, no, the deliver

ies were almost always attached to press releases for, say, a new ultra

hydrating, pro-vitamin hair complex a publicist wanted mentioned in

the magazine.

Could the orchid be a guilt gift from Darlene? Unlikely. She'd

never given Magnolia a present, not even at Christmas. She opened

the card. "Can't wait to see how yesterday went."

   Uma was from Harry James, the designer who'd worked so hard on
Lady'
s potential facelift. Their months of late nights had been all business but not unpleasant. Harry. What a lovely thought.

Magnolia checked her watch. She realized that for a full five

minutes she'd forgotten about Bebe Blake hovering on the horizon, ready to turn
Lady
into a caricature of a magazine and her job into something worse.

That is, if she still had a job.