Little Pink Slips (45 page)

Seasons in Beverly Hills couldn't be less like its forbidding Manhattan

cousin. She was admiring its warm, old-world ambience, waiting for

her room key, when she heard her name.

"Mag-knowl-ya."

"Bebe!" she said, spinning around to face her. "Hello." Bebe had

lost a good fifty pounds and had dyed her hair black.

"I hear you're in town for the Oscars."

"And you're making a movie."

"Don't you think I'm perfect for the Elizabeth Taylor role?" Bebe said. "As soon as I started Hellcat—that's my production company—I knew
The Taming of the Shrew had
to be our first release."

"Sorry
Yentl c
losed so soon," Magnolia said.

Bebe dismissed the four performances with a wave of her hand.

"Those Broadway audiences don't get subtlety," she said. Magnolia

saw a fleet of Louis Vuitton luggage roll by. "Great, my bags are

finally here. So, can I take you to dinner?"

"Sorry, Bebe, but my publisher has us seeing a client," Magnolia

said. "But thanks."

"Breakfast tomorrow?"

"Same."

"Drink then?" Bebe said. "The bar here, say about ten?"

"I'd love to, but we'll be meeting with other clients later," Magno

lia lied. "You know how it is—sell, sell, sell."

"Well, catch you later," Bebe said, unfazed. "And think cover. I

want a fabulous cover just like this!" she said as she put on white

movie-star sunglasses.

   "Yes, I know," Magnolia said. Bebe had been agitating for a cover on
Dazzle
since Magnolia had got her job.

   "Promise?" Bebe said, winking.

She winked back.

A bellman ushered Magnolia into her suite. She tipped him gener

ously. On one table stood a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver bucket.

"Cookie, enjoy the Oscars," the card from Natalie said, "and thanks for
your
wonderful performance." Magnolia hadn't known what to expect of Natalie as a boss, but she quickly learned that as long as she kept
Dazzle
solidly in the black and favorably in the news, they'd get along famously.

Two large bouquets crowded the coffee table. One was a tall stand

of mango calla lilies, their bright orange a lightning bolt in the taste

fully beige room. She ripped open the card. "Orange you glad we're

going to the Oscars?" Malachy's jokes sometimes fell a bit short on the

wit meter, but unlike Darlene, at least he tried. The second bouquet

was an extravagance of peonies, hydrangeas, and full-blown red roses

accompanied by a gardenia-scented candle and two pounds of dark Belgium chocolates. "Welcome to the town where more is more, Big

smooch, BEBE," the card read.

Magnolia unpacked, carefully hanging her gown on a heavily

padded silk hanger. She lined up her Cinderella-worthy sandals on

the closet floor and stowed this year's birthday present from Abbey—

jade and moonstone drop earrings—in the safe. The Balenciaga

evening bag, filmy wrap, and silky lingerie, still with their tags on,

she slipped into the drawers.

In fifteen minutes, she was due downstairs to meet Malachy. She

considered—as she had, constantly, for the last few weeks—whether

she should call Cameron. She hadn't seen Cam at all since she aborted

her trip to visit him the past spring and once her job started, their

e-mails had dwindled to nothing. "Hi, there. Want to get together? In

town for the Oscars!" Magnolia practiced saying the lines out loud,

trying to imbue them with a blithe insouciance.

She couldn't do it. She'd make the call later.

Later, however—after dinner with four obstreperous, twenty

eight-year-old cosmetic clients who seemed to especially enjoy that

the mojitos were on Scary—she fell dead into bed. Amélie's arrival,

the time difference, her months and months of fatigue . . . in two

minutes, she was out cold. On Sunday, she nearly overslept, and before

the nine o'clock appointment Malachy had lined up for them, barely

had time for a swipe of lip gloss before meeting him downstairs. Mag

nolia had scant conversation to share as they drove in their rented

convertible to Doughboys on Third and La Jolla.

As the group gorged on flaxseed pancakes, Magnolia discreetly

checked her itinerary. After breakfast she'd be back at the Four Sea

sons, at the spa. Eleven o'clock: manicure and pedicure; twelve o'clock:

massage; and one o'clock: the house specialty, margarita body pol

ishes: she'd be rubbed with juices from limes, oranges, and tangerines

mixed with sunflower oil, salt, and tequila. Magnolia hoped she

wouldn't walk away, smelling like a Tijuana bar. After the spa, she'd

return to her room to meet a hair and makeup stylist. Assuming no

snafus, she and Malachy would connect at three-thirty.

Which was how it worked out. Having been pummeled, exfoliated, and transformed by a team of dedicated Southern California profes

sionals, slipping into her sequins and shoes was the quickest thing she

did all day. As she fastened her earrings and admired the way they

caught the light, there was a knock.

"Flowers," the bellman said. "Again." She peeked through the

chained door and saw a bouquet in each of his hands.

"Kisses from the Cohens—Abbey, Daniel, and Amélie," said the

card attached to the lavender roses in a silver cache. The other blos

soms were creamy white and starlike, on branches that appeared to

have been recently cut from a backyard garden. She breathed in their

unmistakable fragrance, as sweet as a June twilight on the delta.

Magnolias.

There was no card. Did she dare think they might be from Cam?

They were probably from a publicist who would follow up later, per

haps with skywriting promoting a miracle depilatory she wanted
Dazzle
to feature. Although they might be from Rabbi Hirsch. They'd gone out six times, and although Magnolia felt he was a good

deal more appropriate for her than Tyler Peterson, she couldn't see

herself with a man who might expect her to bake a kugel every Fri

day night.

Magnolia locked her cell phone in the safe—her evening bag was

barely bigger than a six-year-old's hand—and checked her reflection.

No one was going to mistake her for a best-actress wannabe, but a doc

umentary short subject nominee perhaps. She went downstairs to

meet Malachy.

"You look lovely, Ms. Gold," he said, offering his arm. Magnolia

hoped she looked half as pretty as he did. Malachy-the-metrosexual

had eyelashes she would kill for, not a pore in sight, and highlights so

deceptively natural she wished she had the nerve to ask for the name

of his colorist.

"You, Mr. Jones, will be mistaken for a star," she said. "In fact, I do

believe you will get lucky tonight."

"I believe I have gotten lucky already," he said. "Did you see the

tall Spanish guy at the bar around eleven? Great abs?"

"I am sorry to say at that hour I was asleep." "Well, here's the deal," Malachy said, as he helped her into the

limo. "He's a seat filler tonight, and we're going to meet at the end of

the evening. But don't worry. The car will still pick you up to take you

to the party."

"Got it," Magnolia said, as a surge of Fargo shyness kicked in at the

thought of having to navigate an Oscar bash solo. But, she told her

self, like everything else this year, it would be character-building.

Given the crush of limos, it took almost thirty minutes to drive

twenty blocks on Sunset Boulevard, and the car came to a complete

halt on Hollywood, two blocks from Highland.

"Let's walk," Malachy suggested. They joined the swarm of other

guests already perspiring under the blinding afternoon sun. It took

twenty-five minutes to get near the red carpet.

But there it was. Hair extensions! Cleavage! A lyric poem to excess,

the epicenter of hyperbole. Vince Vaughn, Nicole Kidman, and Bill

Murray looked taller than she had imagined; Jude Law, Reese With

erspoon, and Ralph Fiennes, shorter. Two feet from her, Catherine

Zeta-Jones dissed Renee Zellweger, who turned to chat up a man in a

cowboy hat. Her ex? No, Tim McGraw, with Faith Hill.

A man bumped into her as she and Malachy got pushed to one side.

"That you, Magnolia?"

"Hugh!" Magnolia said, but when she blinked, he was gone.

"You know Hugh Grant?" Malachy asked.

"Long story," she said.

In one corner, a phalanx of reporters and photographers charged

Angelina Jolie, dressed tonight as an impossibly beautiful angel of

death. A rogue state of hip-hop artists, led by Jay-Z and Sean Diddy

Combs, all but danced its way across the carpet, nearly colliding with a

frizzy-haired, fashion-resistant gentleman Magnolia recognized as the

director of the creature feature nominated for best picture. From far

across the red carpet, she spotted Joan Rivers accosting Bebe, though it

might be the other way around. Oprah and her best friend Gayle—

in Magnolia's exact gown—arrived, bejeweled and bemused, and ex

changed compliments with Cate Blanchett. Everyone greeted Jack

Nicholson as if he were Jesus, Buddha, and Muhammad combined. Prada, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Jean Paul Gaultier,

J. Mendel, Vera Wang, Dior, Chanel, and Armani—the gang was all

here. The tuxedos were exceptional, especially Ellen DeGeneres's.

Magnolia wished Abbey could be here just to do a head count of the

eight-carat-and-larger diamonds, although it would be more fun to

critique the fashion boo-boos. In eighty-degree heat, why was Hilary

Swank in chinchilla? Did Penélope Cruz think a bubble skirt flattered

anyone over the age of ten? Magnolia hoped she wasn't watching it all

with her mouth agape. She circled wide-eyed through the crowd, knowing it wasn't just fodder for
Dazzle
but the world's best cocktail party.

Eventually, Malachy grabbed her hand as they were ushered into

the theater. Passing through a glass curtain, she wanted to study the

photos from the previous years' Best Pictures, but like a herd of royal

cattle, she, Malachy, and the other three-thousand-plus chosen ones

were verbally prodded toward their seats. The two of them headed for

the uppermost balcony. It didn't matter, at least not to Magnolia.

Tonight was the best one she'd had in—well, ever. If celebrity wor

ship were religion, this was Jerusalem. The thought of Cameron

bounced in and out of her brain—how great it would be to chew over

this vaudeville of narcissism with him—but then the overture began.

She leaned back.

Malachy seemed far less taken with it all than Magnolia. He fid

dled with the digital buttons next to his seat, ordered them cocktails,

and any number of times checked his BlackBerry. But for Magnolia, it

didn't matter if it was for Best Actress or Best Sound Mixing—when a

winner was announced she cheered as if her mother had won.

"Excuse me for just a minute," Malachy said as the third hour of

the ceremony began. "I'm going to the little boy's room." Magnolia

barely heard him, since the next award was for Best Actor. The bright

lights beamed on every face, each trying harder than the next to look

as if he didn't give a flying fuck.

And the winner is . . . "Johnny Depp!"

The auditorium erupted in applause. Magnolia stood up and

started clapping. "Johnny—I love you," she shouted in a rebel yell. She may have actually whistled. Until he spoke, however, she barely noticed

that a body had slid in next to her, filling Malachy's empty seat.

"That guy your type?" said the seat filler.

She whipped her head around so fast an earring flew off.

"Cameron?" Magnolia blinked in disbelief.

"Hey, aren't you that magazine chick?" he asked.

"And aren't you the writer whose novel's getting all that buzz?"

"Good dress," he said.

She wanted to answer with something appropriate, but had no idea

what appropriate might be. He looked as good in a tuxedo as she had

imagined, from his piqué shirt, to studs the exact blue of his eyes,

right down to his feet, shod in dignified black, and not—thank God—

in velvet slippers embroidered with martini glasses, like the stranger

to her left. She continued to stare. "What a coincidence," she finally

sputtered.

"Do you think maybe we should sit down?" he said. After one of

the more abbreviated speeches, Johnny Depp had already left the

stage. Magnolia and Cam were the only people in their corner of the

third balcony left standing. Hands all around were motioning for

them to stop blocking the view. But first, Cameron bent over and

retrieved her earring, which had landed—like an offering—directly

at his feet.

He took her hand and laughed as he placed the earring in it. "Mag

nolia, it's good to see you," he said as he slid his cool fingers down her

bare back, let them rest above her hip, and pulled her as close as he

could. "What a guy has to do to get your attention."

She leaned into Cam both to steady her balance and to see if he

was real. "How'd you come up with this idea?"

"Abbey."

"Really?" was all she could say.

"And your publisher, Malachy—great guy—engineered it. The

magnolias, though," he said, nodding his head up and down, "my