Little Pink Slips (42 page)

"Just kidding," he said and laughed loudly. "Listen to this." He

paused for dramatic effect. "Scary is offering two years' salary."

"Wally!" Magnolia said. "That's amazing. Beyond amazing! Tell me everything!" She was screaming so loudly, people were turning to

stare.

"They came around yesterday," he said. "Turns out, you weren't

the first woman to charge sexual harassment. Your Mr. Flanagan had

a history." Wally switched to his serious lawyer voice. "Employers are

liable for sexual harassment of employees by their managers and

Scarborough had done nothing to reprimand Jock, despite numerous

complaints."

"Dickheads," she said.

"You're right on that one. And the Scary dickheads are not too

pleased with their boy now that the world knows he cooks the books

and, you'll pardon my French, he's basically accused the whole indus

try of being a lying sack of shit," he said. "But back to you. At first

Scary was only going to come through with one year of salary. Then I

let them know you were planning to sue."

"I was?"

"You were."

"I am one ballsy chick, aren't I, Wally?"

"I'm afraid I'm not done yet, Mags," Wally said. "There's a bit

more to it."

   It
had
sounded too good to be true, Magnolia thought.

   "I let Jock's attorney know you were planning to sue Jock person

ally, which—by the way—is perfectly legal. And, an hour ago, the

damnedest thing happened. The attorney found $200,000 for you.

Funny how that happens. Guess Mr. Flanagan sold a painting."

Magnolia gasped.

"You there, Mags?" Wally shouted. "I've got to know if these

terms sound acceptable, or you want to go back for more." There was

only breathing from Magnolia's end of the phone. "Magnolia?"

"I'm here, Wally, talking to you from euphoria," she said. "Magno

lia Gold accepts—with pleasure."

C h a p t e r 4 2

Fired, Finished, Decapitated

"I missed you."
"I missed you, too."

After two weeks in Italy and one in Paris, Abbey had returned.

Daniel wouldn't be visiting for several more weeks, and Magnolia was

just slightly ashamed of being elated to have the new Madame Cohen

all to herself. "I can't figure out what's changed about you," she said

as they began their early morning run. A moisturizer sold only in

Europe? A subtly different hair color? "Your face looks softer," she

decided. "Is this what happiness looks like?"

"This is what five pounds looks like," Abbey said, puffing her

cheeks and patting her tummy, which—to Magnolia—looked as con

cave as ever. "And at my height, my five is your ten. Great food, great

wine–that was my honeymoon. Well, not quite." She paused, appar

ently to recollect a moment she didn't care to share.

As they ran, Abbey reviewed every four-star restaurant they vis

ited. "And by the way, forget the hype—the real reason French

women don't get fat is that they smoke." She stopped as they finished

their second loop. "But enough about me. Your settlement! You must

be crazy happy." They walked briskly toward their coffee shop. "Oh, I am," Magnolia

said. But she considered herself an ingrate not to be radiating ostenta

tious glee. "Wally's a prince, and my financial adviser—I have one now,

can you believe it?—put almost all the money in something she insists

I don't touch for years. Except for the pittance I plan to live off, I'm

pretending my windfall doesn't exist. This is what good Fargo girls

do—hoard."

"Come on," Abbey said. "Indulge yourself. At least a little

bauble?" Their regular waiter appeared as they grabbed the prime

corner booth. "Just tea for me this morning, nothing to eat," Abbey

said as the waiter welcomed them back.

"The usual, please," Magnolia said, then turned back to Abbey. "I

wrote checks to ten charities, and I'm sending my parents on a cruise

of the Greek islands."

Abbey raised her eyebrows. "That's noble, but what about you?"

"I'm replacing my kitchen countertops." Magnolia brushed poppy

seeds from her bagel into a tiny black pyramid. "What do you think of

white marble? Not practical, huh?"

"Magnolia?" Abbey sounded dubious.

"Truth? I'm too agitated to spend a cent," she said, staring at the

table. "My inner bag lady is shouting, 'Watch out—you'll never work

again.' I'm beginning to feel this firing is The End."

"C'mon—it may take a while to find a dream job—you told me

that yourself," Abbey said. "At least plan a trip while you're waiting. You can use Daniel's apartment in Paris." She stopped herself. "
Our
apartment."

"I don't feel like traveling alone," she snapped and immediately

regretted it. Throwing guilt bombs at Abbey hadn't been her plan.

"Forget I said that. I couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to—still

polishing my Fancy proposal."

"You were working on that before I left."

"Every time I think I'm finished I start over. Maybe I have a learn

ing disability."

"Clinical ambivalence," Abbey said and gently poked Magnolia's

arm. "Do you even want that job?" "I'm not sure there even is a job," she said. "Fancy might just be

picking my brains." Magnolia put her hand in the pocket of her

windbreaker and pulled out a $10 bill, which she laid on the table.

"This one's on me. Welcome back. Movie tonight?"

"Whatever you want to see," Abbey said. They stood up and lay

ered on their scarves, gloves, and hats. The calendar read April, but it

still felt like the winter of Magnolia's discontent.

She walked west, toward her apartment. While Abbey had been

away they'd e-mailed every few days, so Abbey was up to speed about

the trial and the sale of Cam's book, though not its plot, and definitely

not the kiss. What else was there to tell, really? That she and Cam had

each made a move but ultimately retreated to their passion-free com

fort zones? True, they'd been talking, e-mailing, and IM-ing since

he'd returned to Los Angeles for more meetings. Yet in every way

there was a continent between them.

   Now Cam wanted her to visit. She'd been telling him she couldn't leave town because of her
Voyeur
proposal. Magnolia knew she was a freeze-dried liar.

"You'd love running on the beach," he'd said last night. His pub

lisher, or maybe it was his agent—Cam was vague on this point—was

putting him up at the Shutters in Santa Monica, and his room had a view of the Pacific. He hadn't exactly said that he wanted her to
share
that room, however, and Magnolia felt uncomfortable asking.

Maybe Abbey was right, though. She should get out of town. What

would be the worst that might happen? She and Cam would laugh at

the absurdity of thinking they could hook up, then buy a movie star

map, rent a red convertible, and prowl the city.

Every trip she'd ever made to L.A. had been in tandem with a pub

lisher for the sole purpose of selling ads. Magnolia associated the city

with predawn wake-up calls, six meetings per day, and ten P.M.

exhaustion. As pure R&R, it might be different. She and Cam could

gorge on overpriced sushi, go to comedy showcases, and visit the

wineries in Santa Barbara. When Cam was busy, she'd dress in aggres

sively casual left coast clothes and get some practically iridescent

highlights or do a Pilates class and rub shoulders with celebrities she'd been scrutinizing ad nauseam on television and in magazines.

Maybe she'd even discreetly check out plastic surgeons; by L.A. stan

dards, surely thirty-eight was past the legal limit to be walking

around with a face and body that hadn't been reengineered. On the

weekend, the two of them could stop by that enormous swap meet at

the Rose Bowl or wind their way up the coast, stay in Big Sur, and end

in Napa, where they'd drink even more wine.

It could be chummy—or better than chummy—and at the very

least shake her out of the New York blahs. Anyone could get cranky

living through a damp Manhattan winter. She always felt far more

shivery here than in the arctic desert of North Dakota.

By the time Magnolia arrived at her apartment, she'd decided to

call Cam and announce her plans to take the trip. She looked at her

watch. Five o'clock in the morning in California. Better wait. She left

her running clothes in a heap on her bathroom floor and hopped in

the shower. In the steam, she let herself imagine a second kiss with

Cam. And more. Much more. She heard the phone ring. As the fan

tasy flowed into every tributary of her unloved body, she let it ring

and ring.

After drying herself with a towel she'd warmed on the radiator,

Magnolia found her most extravagant lotion—no Vaseline Intensive

Care today—and lovingly massaged it into her skin, inch by inch. She

stood in front of the opened armoire and reached for a variation on

her ongoing work uniform—flannel pajama bottoms and a baggy

T-shirt. No thanks, she decided. From a drawer, Magnolia unearthed

some excellent underwear and pale blue cashmere sweatpants with a

matching hoodie. The unworn set was still wrapped in tissue paper

from last Christmas and felt like kitten fur against her newly silken

skin. Her fantasy intact, she logged on to her computer and, using

miles to upgrade to first class, made an airline reservation for two

days later. Within ten more minutes, she'd booked a car to take her to

the airport and arranged for Biggie and Lola to be kenneled.

Magnolia felt better already.

Yet it was still too early to call Cam. She decided to e-mail. "In the

mood for sushi after all. See you Thursday at LAX," she wrote. "I've missed you," she added and immediately substituted the sentiment

with "Talk later. M."

Magnolia thought through what else she'd need to do before she

left. A haircut and root job, definitely. Maybe someone would already

be at Frédéric Fekkai and be able to book an appointment. She got to

her phone and noticed she had a message that must have arrived

when she was showering. "Turn on your TV pronto, Magnolia,"

Natalie's recorded voice said. "The verdict's in. Call me. ASAP."

Magnolia ran to her TV. She'd missed the last round of news, so she

checked online. There were no postings she could locate. She returned

to channel surf.

Throughout the trial, Judge Tannenbaum made no secret that she

had bigger legal fish to fry and that the plaintiffs, defendants, and all

their lawyers were wasting her precious time. "This trial never should

have happened, and these two are just a pair of playground bullies,"

she'd carped about Jock and Bebe, "but there's no client like a rich,

angry one." Nonetheless, everyone Magnolia knew was betting that

Bebe would clean up—big. As she continued to flip channels, Magno

lia started pacing as if she were waiting to see whether a pregnancy

test would turn blue.

". . . and the victor in the infamous trial between talk show person

ality Bebe Blake and Scarborough Magazines, the publisher of her eponymous magazine,
Bebe, i
s . . ."

   Why did she care? Strictly speaking, was she even
in
the magazine industry anymore?

". . . absolutely no one," the newscaster said. "That's right, folks.

Judge Margaret Ruth Tannenbaum of the Supreme Court of the

State of New York has essentially said a pox on both your houses."

The screen flashed to footage of the judge. "There is no proof that
Bebe
magazine would ever have made a dime," the judge lectured, "so neither side deserves monetary damages."

   "In further comments," the reporter continued, "Judge Tannenbaum stressed that she thought it was 'a crime that
Lady
magazine was sacrificed to a narcissistic celebrity so she could be the hood orna

ment for a pointless magazine.' Both the judge and her mother had been longtime
Lady
subscribers. 'I miss their recipes,' said the judge, who is widely known for her home-baked biscotti, 'and the article on

pet psoriasis saved my Max from considerable heartbreak.' "

Magnolia switched to other channels, searching for more coverage.

Bebe popped up.

"Viewers," she heard Matt Lauer say, "Bebe Blake is standing by.

How do you feel about the verdict on your lawsuit, Bebe?"

Bebe's face looked terrifyingly large as it filled Magnolia's TV

screen. "This is a huge victory," Bebe said. "Huge."

"But, Bebe, you didn't get a dime," Matt countered.

"That's not the point," Bebe said. "Justice has prevailed. I don't

care what it cost—I care about the principle, and the important thing

is that Scarborough Magazines didn't win a dime. And," Bebe contin

ued, pausing for a split second to catch her breath, "we're going after

those suckers to recover legal fees, which are substantial." She raised

her arm in a victory salute. "They started this war!"

"You did quit your own magazine," Matt pointed out. "And weren't

there some improprieties on the part one of your editors, Felicity Din

gle—and a few other, uh, bumps along the way?"

Bebe failed to respond, which caused Matt to catapult another

question into the dead air. "Your future plans, Bebe? What can your fans look forward to now that
Bebe
magazine is over? Are the rumors true that you are also quitting your television show?"