Little Pink Slips (40 page)

and they love me." Magnolia stared at Abbey in continued shock. There was a tap at

the door.

"Who is it?" Abbey said.

   "Véronique," a French-accented voice said.

   
"Entrez, s'il vous plaît,"
Abbey said. The lissome blonde whom Magnolia had seen Daniel greet entered the room. "Magnolia, I'd like you to meet Daniel's sister, Véronique. Véronique,
mon amie,
Magnolia." The blonde kissed Abbey, and then Magnolia, three times

each—on their right cheek, left cheek, and then right again.

"Tu est prête, ma chérie?"
Véronique said.

"Ready," Abbey replied, as Véronique returned to the living room.

From faraway, Magnolia heard the music switch from jazz to

"Chapel of Love." "That's your cue," Abbey said. "Just walk out the

door and down the hall through the living room. My brother will

have already asked people to be still. You'll figure out the rest."

Magnolia stood up and smoothed her ruffled dress as best she

could. She grasped the bouquet, holding it tightly in front of her gal

loping heart, and walked out of Abbey's bedroom. The rooms at the

end of the hall were silent. A blur of faces turned to look at her as she

walked toward the candlelight. The guests had parted, leaving a wide

swath. The chapel of love, Abbey's dining room, seemed fifty miles

away.

As Magnolia walked closer, she saw that Véronique, Abbey's

brother and sister-in-law, and Abbey's college roommate were each

holding a pole that supported an embroidered Spanish shawl that

usually hung on the grand piano. Under the canopy, Daniel stood next

to the older man she'd seen with him before—now, his best man.

Matthew Hirsch, in a black velvet yarmulke and a tallis over his

Armani suit, winked at Magnolia as she walked toward the chuppah.

Daniel bowed to her slightly and offered a half-smile. A white rose

bud was now in his lapel.

The pianist changed to "Here Comes the Bride." Magnolia hadn't

taken her friend for the sort of woman who would want that song

played at her wedding, but it certainly got everyone's attention. Every eye turned to Abbey as she proceeded through her living room, twin

kling like a small star.

Later, when friends asked Magnolia to describe the ceremony, all

she could remember was that Abbey circled Daniel seven times, there

were vows in three languages—English, French, and Hebrew—and

the bride and groom each sipped from a tall silver goblet of wine, pre

sumably poured from an excellent Rothschild vintage and a very good

year. The rabbi spoke of fate, of people coming together, and used the word
beshert.
Magnolia glanced down to see if her red bracelet was still there. It had disappeared. "
When the job is done, the bracelet will be gone,
" she remembered Malka as saying. But she couldn't contemplate what the missing bracelet might mean, because just then Daniel

stepped on the glass and kissed Abbey like the actor in the favorite movie of Magnolia's mother,
A Man and a Woman.
Shouts of mazel tov and
bonne chance
echoed through the apartment.

As the piano played Cole Porter, waiters circulated with champagne

and more champagne. There was dancing, singing, and shrieks of joy.

The pianist struck up "Hava Nagila," and Rabbi Hirsch grabbed Mag

nolia by the waist for several loops of the hora. Abbey broke away

from Daniel, took both of Magnolia's hands, and began twirling with

her in the center of a circle of clapping friends and relatives.

   "If you expect me to do the cancan, forget it," Magnolia said.

   "Thanks for being so
sportive a
bout wearing the dress," Abbey said. "It didn't come from the flea market, by the way."

"Oh, really?" Magnolia said, half out of breath as the two of them

whirled.

   "It was Daniel's mother's.
Couture.
From her trousseau."

   "Do I have to give it back?" Magnolia said. "I like it better now."

"It's yours," Abbey said. "The least I can do."

At midnight waiters brought out a four-layer wedding cake of

chocolate iced in white fondant. Chocolate piping replicated the

embroidery from the shawl that had doubled as the wedding canopy.

The couple cut the cake and fed each other pieces, and then everyone

gorged on cake, profiteroles, and lemon squares. Well past 1:30, the bride and groom bid the crowd adieu and guests started to drift away.

Magnolia found her boots—which she'd pulled off hours before and

left in a corner—and went to Abbey's bedroom to put them on.

Ringlets stuck to her face. She looked as if she'd been to a hockey

game, not a wedding.

"Magnolia Gold, I don't believe I've ever seen you this ripped,"

Cameron said as she walked out of the bedroom.

She'd danced with him hours before. Then he'd switched to

Véronique as a partner, and Magnolia had got into a long, inebriated

conversation with Daniel's father, who promised Magnolia an invita

tion to the Cohen villa in St. Tropez, providing she didn't keep her

bikini top on like a typical American. Magnolia had agreed.

"Hmmm," Magnolia said to Cameron, swaying in the boots, which

felt staggeringly high. "I might have had a little too much to drink."

Feeling at risk of falling, she put her arms around his neck.

In Abbey's hallway, as a clock chimed, she suddenly gave him a

sloppy, lingering kiss. He kissed her back. His tongue tasted like chilled

champagne.

"C'mon, Mags," he said, grabbing her around the waist. "I'm walk

ing you home."

A fine rain fell as they strolled, wordlessly, down Central Park

West, then past brownstones on the side streets where more sensible

people had gone to bed hours before.

"I can't believe she did it," Magnolia said, several times. "It took

such guts."

"Sometimes guts is all you need," Cam said.

"Guts and roses."

They arrived at her building. Magnolia was still happily intoxi

cated, but not so skunk-drunk that she didn't remember that fifteen

minutes before she'd kissed her longtime former employee and cur

rent friend. And he hadn't pulled away. Quite the opposite.

As if she were a documentary filmmaker shooting from across the

street, she saw—in black and white—a man and a woman holding

each other. The couple looked as if they belonged together. Magnolia wondered what would happen next. But mist blurred the image, and

she was suddenly exhausted.

It was hard to tell whether what she was seeing was real or a cham

pagne dream.

Magnolia awoke
at noon and forced herself out of a catatonic sleep. She was wearing her underwear and she was alone, which

she decided were both good things. She remembered enough about

last night to wonder if Cameron would be there and if they'd both be

naked. She winced.

   Once she'd published an article in
Lady
that said if you have a hangover you should make yourself a fruit smoothie from a banana,

soy milk, and a handful of vitamins. Magnolia opened her refrigera

tor. It contained batteries, leftover pad thai, and some rather nasty

carrots. She filled a glass with water, drank it down with two aspirin,

and filled it again.

How big a fool had she made of herself ? Enough so that her first

instinct was to go back to bed. This is why people have dogs, she

reminded herself as she cleaned up Biggie and Lola's mess, to make

sure that they don't simply pull the covers over their heads and never

get up after they have thoroughly embarrassed themselves. She fell

into some jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed a raincoat and hat, and

attached the dogs' leashes.

"Some mail was dropped off for you, Miss Gold," her doorman said

as she walked out.

More subpoenas? They could wait. "I'll get it on the way back,"

she said. Magnolia took the dogs to Central Park; the day was surpris

ingly warm, with the promise of spring in the air, and the rain stopped

the minute she started walking. You weren't supposed to let dogs loose

at this time of the day, but what the hell—in the ranking of mistakes

she might have made in the last twelve hours, the offense was small.

She unhooked Biggie's and Lola's leashes and for a full hour watched

them revel in the wet grass. Her headache faded, she walked back home, and brought up the mail. Sure enough, the thin letter was a

subpoena. Bebe and Jock's trial would be starting next week, and she

was cordially invited to appear in court.

The second piece of mail was large and heavy, taped shut in a big

manila envelope with no stamps or return address. Inside was another

sealed envelope, and a handwritten note.

"Magnolia," it read. "I've been wanting to show you my book for a

long time. My agent called last night to say it sold. If you'd do me the

favor of reading it, I would be very grateful. Also, I need some help

with the dedication and acknowledgments."

Magnolia ripped open the second envelope to find a manuscript of

more than five hundred typed pages. The first page had only a few words:
A Friend Indeed b
y Cameron Dane.

She walked to her living room couch, and began to read. Magnolia

read through the afternoon, well into the night, and long past sunrise,

stopping only for coffee.

At nine, she dialed Cameron's number. His voice mail picked up.

"If you wanted to ask me out," she said, "you could have just

called."

C h a p t e r 4 0

A Goose Is Cooked

Magnolia slipped into a seat
in the remarkably unsupreme courtroom. Elizabeth Lester Duvall, her short hair shorter than usual, had parked herself next to the
Post'
s Mike McCourt, most likely willing him to cover the trial through her own eyes. Darlene

Knudson sat behind a row of attorneys—although the lawyer who'd

administered Magnolia's deposition was conspicuously absent. Had

he been hired by Central Casting, she wondered, to try to unhinge

her? On the far right, Felicity Dingle—whose knitting needles were

clicking furiously on a long, drab garment—was stationed next to

Arthur Montgomery, Bebe's lead lawyer.

"All rise," said a court officer. As everyone in the courtroom stood, a

short, stout woman in half-glasses waddled to the judge's chair. Mag

nolia deflated. She'd been expecting the smash of a gavel and, in the

role of judge, was thinking along the lines of Meryl Streep. The

crowd had barely taken their seats when "the defense calls John

Crawford Flanagan Jr., CEO of Scarborough Magazines" rang out in

the room. Jock—on this, the second day of the trial—strolled to the

witness stand for his swearing-in.

"Why did you enter into an agreement to publish a magazine with Ms. Bebe Blake?" a lawyer from Team Bebe said. Jock pondered the

question as if he'd been asked to name and spell the capital of Uzbek

istan. After a moment, he furrowed his brow and said, "We thought it

was a potentially profitable idea."

"Could you please define 'we'?"

"Our team of top executives," he said with a thinly disguised tone

of contempt, reeling off a list that included Darlene's name but,

Magnolia noted, not her own.

   Yesterday, Magnolia had stayed home and tried to focus on her proposal for
Voyeur.
She'd been advised that she might be called to testify later in the week and had dutifully turned in an overflowing box of

notes and files. But knowing the trial was taking place just miles from

her home had made her too twitchy to work. That, and the fact that

she couldn't stop thinking about Cameron, who she thought might be

there. Today she boarded the subway and found the State Supreme

Court of New York.

As soon as she sat down, she scanned the courtroom for Cameron.

She couldn't, however, find his face in the crowd.

Several days had passed before Cameron returned the phone mes

sage Magnolia had left after she read his manuscript. This gave Mag

nolia ample time to impale herself with regret. Could she have

misread his book? With Abbey, her reality meter, away on her honey

moon, she went into a spin, obsessing day and insomnia-filled night.

Ultimately, she decided she'd got the subtext of the book just fine;

there was, in fact, nothing sub about it. The heroine was one Daisy

Silver, a magazine editor, albeit taller, slimmer-hipped, and blonder

than she. The hero—a shy, wry colleague—yearned for her. The sex

was hot, the love scenes graphic but romantic, and the dialogue,

steamy and real. There were a few testosterone explosions along the

way—a murder, a terrorist act, the requisite car chase—but the end

ing was pure Hollywood, and the writing, clear, clever, and poignant.

Maybe it was her assessment of the writing—or rather her lack of

assessment—that had tripped her up. Maybe she'd been so focused on

the plot she hadn't made it evident to Cam that his talent took her

breath away. Maybe he was horribly and legitimately disappointed, not to mention furious, on that count. Maybe he now regretted reveal

ing his feelings.

As the days passed, Magnolia's worry crescendoed to the most

painful possibility of all—maybe their one high-as-a-kite kiss had

succeeded in terminating his fantasy. When Cameron did finally call,

he talked about everything except what had happened between them.

Then he flew to California on a mission he didn't explain.

Magnolia was left with her maybes, including maybe on Cam

eron's return she should beg him to retreat to friendship, with its

comforts of weightless silence, scrubbed-face honesty, and chaste but

unconditional love—if such a state were now possible.

She looked up. Jock was still on the stand.

"How long does it take for most new magazines to turn a profit?"

the lawyer asked him. "Ballpark figures."

"A year or two," Jock said. Above his eye, a blue vein throbbed like

a tiny blinker flashing "stress." The lawyer reminded him he'd sworn

to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "But

more often it takes five years, or even longer," he added.

   "So it was unreasonable to expect
Bebe
to be profitable anytime soon?" he asked. Jock answered with a flurry of figures, but all eyes—

even the judge's—had turned to the back of the room. In a tweed suit

and a boa, Bebe sashayed to the front of the room. She was treating

the courtroom's center aisle as if it were a red carpet, looking from

side to side and smiling for invisible paparazzi. Like the Wave, a buzz

moved forward as she progressed to her seat.

"Don't mind me," she said loudly to no one in particular. "The

president is in town. Traffic sucks." Everyone stared. She shrugged.

"Don't blame me—I didn't vote for him."

Judge Tannenbaum looked over her glasses and gave Bebe a stern

stare. "Glad you could join us, Miss Blake," she said. "Mr. Mont

gomery, please, continue."

"I have concluded," he said. One of Cromwell, Adams, and Case's

lead attorneys stepped forward to cross-examine.

"Mr. Flanagan," he said, "how much money does Scarborough

Magazines stand to lose by Bebe Blake abandoning your co-venture?" "One hundred million dollars," he said.

Magnolia was familiar with Scary's case. Who wasn't, the way it

was being tried in the papers? But where Jock was getting this num

ber, she didn't know.

When the court officer declared an adjournment until two, Mag

nolia made her way through the crowds to the steps outside court. As

she reached the bottom, someone shouted her name, startling her. She

stumbled into a large puddle of mud and soaked her best black suede

boots. Magnolia looked up in time for a television camera to catch her

saying, "Fuck."

"How do you think Scary's doing?" a second voice shouted. It was

Mike McCourt, approaching with a notebook.

"No comment," she said. Wally had warned her not to talk to the

press while her settlement was dragging on, as it was, like a Wagner

ian opera.

"Is it true you're on the short list to start a new magazine

for another company?" Mike asked. Who fed this guy his intelligence? Abbey and Cam were the only people she'd told about
Voyeur,
and neither one would squeak a word. The leak had to be from Fancy.

"No comment," she said.

"So, I guess that means 'yes'?" Mike asked. Magnolia was consider

ing if she should say, "No comment" once more when Mike craned

his neck to her left.

"Mr. Dane?" Mike yelled. "Mr. Dane, that you?"

Magnolia turned as well, and saw Cameron walking toward her.

"Some book deal I'm hearing rumors about," Mike said to Cam.

"Hardcover rights, paperback, audio, foreign in fourteen countries,

and a possible TV series and film option. What's up?"

"You must have me confused with someone else, buddy," Cameron

said amiably, as he walked toward Magnolia, grabbed her elbow, and

steered her out of the throng.

"Cam, is what Mike says true?" Magnolia asked.

He laughed off the question. "Hungry?"

"When have I ever not been hungry?"

"I'm in the mood for dim sum," he said. "Want to join me?" They began walking to Mott Street. "Did you catch my grand legal

performance yesterday?" he asked.

"Really?" Magnolia asked. "You testified?" There had been no

report of it on television, online, or in the press.

   "Chapter and verse about how much money
Bebe
spent on this and that," Cam said. "I assure you,
Court TV
is not flashing a contract in my face."

"I'm praying I won't be called," she said. "It would kill me to help

any of these barbarians win a dime."

They reached the restaurant and continued to dissect the trial. But

what Magnolia wanted to talk about was them. As Cameron's hand

reached for a sparerib, she imagined it under her skirt, above her

soggy boot, inching upward.

"Chicken feet?" he said.

In her mind, the hand warmed her as its sensuous journey con

tinued.

"Magnolia?"

"Excuse me," she said. "What's this about cold feet?"

He looked at her strangely. "Chicken feet. You don't like these

suckers, do you?" The dim sum lady was standing by their table, try

ing to tempt them with some sad little body parts that looked like the

last remains after a nuclear holocaust.

"I'll pass," she said. "Thanks."

"The desserts, please," Cam said. A few Chinese words flew across the

room like insects. Sesame rice dumplings, mango pudding, and sticky

buns in lotus leaves appeared on a cart beside their small table, which

was nestled underneath a window. As Cam leaned forward to check

them out, his thigh brushed hers. He poured the last drops of green tea

into their cups and raised one. It looked fragile and small in his hand.

"You've been on my mind," he said.

Finally, Magnolia thought. She took a deep breath. "You've been

on my mind, too," she admitted.

   "I originally called my book
The Shy Guy,
but the editor changed it," he said. "Deal point." He laughed a musical bass that Magnolia

realized had been an essential background noise in her life for several years. "Shoot me. I'm talking like some L.A. studio exec." He shifted to an imperious voice. "
'Hello, my name is Trevor, and I demand that my pathetically underpaid assistant roll my calls the minute people who've tried to reach me walk out of their offices.' "

"Please, don't start walking around, wearing a headset," she said.

"Promise," he said. As Magnolia waited for Cameron to pick up his

original train of thought, they heard a bang on the window.

"Get your butts out here," Bebe mouthed through the glass.

Cam and Magnolia looked at each other. "The queen beckons," he

said. Cam paid the bill, and they gathered their coats and umbrellas

and met her outside.

"I haven't been to Chinatown in years," Bebe said gaily, her arms

filled with large, flimsy plastic sacks. For a woman who, according to

every paper and newsmagazine, was worried about a twenty-million

dollar investment going south, her spirits were remarkably intact.

"Here, have a bag," she said, handing Magnolia a Gucci knockoff

fashioned of industrial-strength vinyl. She cocked her head, sized up

Cam, and fished out a pimp-worthy faux gold Rolex Oyster, which she

attached to his wrist. "For the gentleman," she said.

"Thanks, Bebe," he said. They all began walking back to the court

house. "How do you think the trial's going?"

"Are you kidding?" Bebe snorted. "Fabulous! That judge loathes

Jock. Can't you see the venom in her eyes?"

"You think?" Cameron said.

"What's your esteemed opinion, Magnolia?" Bebe asked.

"Honest, Bebe, I can't even see the judge's eyes," she said, "with

the glasses and all."

Bebe stopped and scowled at Magnolia. "Why am I asking you any