Little Pink Slips (8 page)

three years before. After a contractor had gone belly up, he'd unloaded

his family dream house and its nine hilly acres to Natalie and Stan

("all cash") Simon. Within a year, Natalie had nestled a swimming pool and Jacuzzi into rocks that looked cloned from the set of
The Flintstones
—if Wilma and Fred had lived beside a man-made waterfall and hot tub. She and her decorator had tag-teamed at every

antique show on the Eastern seaboard for insta collections of McCoy

pottery, folk art tchotchkes, and flower-sprigged English china, which

crowded into imposing cupboards with their requisite peeling paint.

Outside, weathered European garden furniture dotted the lush, rolling

grounds. An herb garden sat next to two tennis courts surrounded by a

tasteful log fence. A cutting garden wasn't far from the basketball

court and campfire circle, should anyone have a Kumbaya moment.

"Cookie, you made it," Natalie shouted as she encircled Magnolia

with a warm hug. Natalie wore a heavily embroidered purple kimono

over silky black cigarette pants. Her hair was secured by chopsticks.

Magnolia was glad she'd ixnayed her Chinatown jacket.

"And you must be . . . ?" Natalie asked. "Harry. Harry James," he said as he extended his hand.

Natalie clasped Harry's hand with both of her own. "Harry, I'm so

glad you could join us." But when Harry began to thank her, she had

already turned to receive the next couple, whom Magnolia recognized from the Sunday
Times
Evening Hours photos as a Park Avenue plastic surgeon and his bony wife. Natalie didn't bother to introduce

Harry and her, and motioned them toward the door to the back

veranda. Waiters circulated with delicate walnut-stuffed artichokes,

gooey Brie tartlets, and spears of asparagus to dip in a lemony sauce.

Magnolia and Harry maneuvered past a throng to the bar, trying to

avoid eye contact with the head of Scary circulation, who looked like

the missing Marx brother but who, sadly, lacked the family's wit.

Drink in hand, Magnolia noticed an old-fashioned glider at the end of

the porch. She weighed whether she might park herself with Harry

for a respectable length of time, dodge the small talk with other

guests, and get to know this man just a little better. She didn't know

if it was due to the magical combination of dusk and high-voltage

electricity—or the fact that she hadn't eaten so much as a six-ounce

yogurt all day—but during the ride, he seemed to have grown more

attractive.

No such luck. "Magnolia, speaking of the devil . . ." It was Darlene,

coming at her like a tornado and speaking with that natural disaster's

force. "Charlotte and I were wondering if you'd be here. I knew you

were a Wong girl."

Magnolia had almost forgotten that the party was in tribute to

Dr. Winnie Wong, the dermatologist, and Darlene and Charlotte were

patients, too. Not that Natalie would have left them out even if

tonight's celebration honored the assistant to the head of sanitation in

Queens. Charlotte and Natalie were the best of friends and Darlene

was, well, Darlene, who got herself invited everywhere.

Charlotte, she suspected, had done a bit better at the Chanel

sample sale than she had. As Magnolia was complimenting her on her

satin pants and tiny beaded halter, both of which exactly matched her

Gwyneth-blond hair, Darlene was leaning dangerously close to Harry,

snorting at something he'd said. Magnolia tried to eavesdrop while nodding attentively as Charlotte described in footnoted detail the

house she was building in Sagaponack.

"After a lot of thought, we decided to go with bidets in three out of

five bathrooms," she said. "You know, from Waterworks. The white, not

the bone. Definitely not the ivory." As Magnolia tried to concentrate

on the stress of picking high-quality porcelain fixtures, she realized

Darlene had commandeered even more of Harry's personal space and

was now whispering—she hoped only that—into his ear. Magnolia

waited until Charlotte drew a breath, then turned to Darlene.

"What are the girls doing this summer?" she asked. Magnolia knew

Darlene always shipped the three of them and the two senior nannies

to her parents, the ranking royalty of Des Moines's country club set. Then in August she and her husband spent two weeks
en famille
on Martha's Vineyard. But Magnolia suspected that Darlene wouldn't

want to out herself to Harry as a young matron with a large family.

"The Vineyard. The usual," Darlene responded, with less than

complete enthusiasm. But Darlene was not to be bested easily. "Harry,

have you met Jock, our president?" she asked.

There he was, strolling toward them, arm in arm with Bebe and

Felicity, each of whom was dressed as if for the Grammys. In her red

sequined pants and flowing top, Bebe appeared ready to accept her

trophy with thanks to Jesus and her band, the Mother Fuckas. Felicity

took it down a notch, in a black-and-gold-striped caftan. A vaguely

familiar-looking man trailed them. Oh, yes, the Southerner, Arthur

Montgomery, Jock's elevator friend and Bebe's lawyer.

"Can you imagine anything more ideal than all of us meeting up

here?" Jock boomed, pecking Magnolia's cheek.

Magnolia could, actually. She and Jock exchanged introductions.

"Magnolia, I believe you've met Arthur," he said.

"Mag-knoll-ya, the magazine girl," Bebe asked. "Who's the hottie?"

Bebe zeroed in on Harry. Arthur disappeared to refresh both Mag

nolia's drink and his own. Darlene, Charlotte, and Felicity attached

themselves to Dr. Winnie, who was being led around like a show dog

by book publishing's glamour girl, Rachel Wright. Wright had made the doc's book,
The 30-Day No-Wrinkle Diet,
the top of her summer list, along with political screeds from both the right and the left. That

left Jock holding a double-malt Scotch, waiting for Magnolia to speak.

"I'd hoped to get to you this week," she began.

"Right."

"About Bebe."

"Change of heart?" Jock asked. He wasn't making it easy.

"Not exactly," she began.

"But you'll trust me to make the right decision?" he said.

Magnolia began to answer, but there was Arthur, back with the

drinks. "My lovely Magnolia," Arthur said, "you've done up one pretty

little magazine. Good girl."

   "We made a big change when we brought Magnolia Gold in as editor in chief of
Lady,
" Jock said. "Our job right now is to support her, to give her both the time and the room to perform."

Magnolia thanked him, although nothing he'd said or done in the

last two weeks suggested that his statements were anything but hooey.

"You are a generous man," Arthur said, "given the numbers you

showed me,"

   Score one for Bebe: her attorney had seen
Lady'
s books, although not necessarily the ones with the figures Magnolia had been shown.

Magnolia downed her second martini.

"Magnolia, care to join us tomorrow at Winged Foot?" Jock asked.

"Arthur, Darlene, and I are in hot pursuit of a fourth."

During her marriage, whenever conversation drifted to putters and

the back nine, Magnolia's boredom began to simmer. She'd explained

to her ex, Wally—who'd always wanted her to join him at his parents'

country club—that if he'd read the editor bylaws, he'd know that it

was expressly forbidden for her to even learn to play golf. Maybe

there were some female editors somewhere who loved golf—she just

didn't know any.

"I'm going to have to beg off. All I know about golf I can summa

rize in three words: bad Bermuda shorts."

"Golf. Did I hear my second-favorite four-letter word?" The ques

tion was coming from Bebe, still glommed onto Harry.

"You play?" Jock asked. "My favorite outdoor sport," Bebe said. "I am thinking of planning

the Bebe Blake Invitational Pro-Am. Already in conversation with

ESPN. Ford's on board as sponsor."

   "Stupendous marketing opportunity for
Lady,
" Arthur added. "But we'd have to talk soon. Deal's almost done. I'm sure your readers

would be interested."

Felicity wandered over, locking arms with Bebe and Jock. "I am

having the best time," she said. "Dr. Wong promised me an appoint

ment for Monday. It's not at all like what people say. You magazine people
do
know how to party. Bebe, have to steal you away. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

The two of them wandered back into the crowd. Harry pulled

Magnolia into a corner. "May I rescue you?" he asked.

Magnolia was already way past her usual two drinks. Even Jock

was beginning to look attractive, and forty-five years old was her cut

off. "You may," she said. "We are so finished here."

C h a p t e r 9

Good, Clean Manhattan Fun

Magnolia was not hallucinating.
That really was Harry James—he of the excellent pecs and other lovely body parts—

snoring softly in her bed. She threw on a silk kimono and tiptoed into

the kitchen, careful not to wake him.

As she began to brew a pot of coffee, extra strong, she attempted to

reconstruct last night. She remembered trying to get out of Bedford

while the getting was good. Then her publisher, Darlene—no, it was

Bebe—stormed in her direction, offering an invitation she felt she could

not refuse: meeting up at Bebe's suite at the Ritz-Carlton back in Man

hattan. There were curt words with Natalie, who was probably peeved

that she, too, couldn't go to Bebe's after-party, not with a hundred guests

attacking pecan tartlets, colossal strawberries, and chocolate-covered

fortune cookies that the caterer wasn't presenting until eleven.

When she and Harry arrived at the hotel, Bebe's cat, Hell, rubbed

against her leg. That Magnolia recalled. Jock—whose third wife, Pippi,

always seemed to be visiting her family in Houston—was canoodling with
Dazzle'
s entertainment editor, a corkscrewed, brunette poptart in a dress slit past the boundaries of corporate propriety. Jock's hand

seemed glued to her left hip, all 34 inches of it. Bebe's lawyer, Arthur,

played the piano while Felicity, in a booming alto, belted out Billy Joel. Did Bebe and Darlene start a game of strip poker? That was too awful

to try to remember.

Everything about the evening melded—everything except the kiss.

During the drive back into the city, she and Harry bantered away, hit

ting every broad target from Bebe's behind to the number of plastic

surgery procedures per guest. Good, clean Manhattan fun. At Bebe's, as

the Veuve Clicquot flowed, Magnolia and Harry began to feed each

other oysters. One for Harry, one for Magnolia, and on and on. They'd

staked out the balcony, its Manhattan vista as timeless as a torch song.

As if he'd done it hundreds of times, Harry put his arm tightly around

her waist, and pulled her close. It was just one kiss, one long, slow,

warm, champagne-y kiss.

He'd been together enough to call the front desk and have his car

brought around. With two crisp twenties, Harry thanked the door

man, Felix—he seemed to know his name. As they turned onto West

End Avenue, a parking spot opened in front of Magnolia's building,

which she took as a portent. It would have been rude, then, not to

invite him up. Magnolia liked to think of herself as a well-mannered

Midwesterner. Who was she kidding? Manners had nothing to do

with it. It was two A.M., Harry was clearly available and she hadn't

had sex in seven months.

The phone rang, jarring Magnolia back to Sunday morning. Who'd

be phoning at this hour? She looked at the clock. Anyone—it was almost

eleven. What was indecent was that she'd just got up after sleeping with

a man with whom before last night she'd never discussed anything more

intimate than a font.

"How was the party?" It was Abbey, sounding bizarrely chirpy for

a wife who knew her husband was floating in cyberspace, and not

much more. God bless her antidepressant, which she'd decided to

start two weeks ago. It must have begin to kick in.

"Either amazing or a catastrophe," Magnolia answered. "Too

blitzed to decide."

"Details, sweetie. Cough 'em up."

"Better-than-average food and much swanning around in off-the

charts clothes." "Yeah, yeah, another dull night for Magnolia Gold. More, please.

Anyone fabulous there?"

"An impressive showing of the New York narcissists' delegation," she said.

"Plus Bebe, Felicity, Jock, and Darlene. Oh, and Bebe's lawyer."

"I see, all the cool kids from high school."

"Starting to feel that way," Magnolia said, as she walked to the cof

feemaker to fill her mug.

"Did you hold your ground?"

"It's become a slippery slope," she said. "But, to be honest, work is

not the first thing on my mind this very minute."

"And what is?" Abbey asked.

"Not a what. A who," Magnolia whispered, stirring milk into her

coffee. "Harry."

"Magnolia Gold, you harlot," Abbey screamed. "You do me proud.

I think I'm gonna cry. Was he worth it, or are you already suffering

dater's remorse?"

"Box number one."

"Do we think he's interested?"

"Can't talk. I hear him rustling around and I may be experiencing

post-traumatic stress disorder—the kind where you want to rip the

guy's clothes off all over again."

"As your mental health adviser I feel obligated to speak up. Miss

Gold," Abbey said. "You may be in the first stage of an all-too

common condition we refer to as first-degree lust, which is often

brought on by an extended drought."

She suddenly felt Harry massaging her neck and beginning to

work his way down the back of her thigh-high robe. "Dr. Abbey, you

are a brilliant diagnostician but don't hate me. Gotta go."

Magnolia stood up and turned to him, to say . . . what? . . . some

party last night, huh? How about those martinis? Fortunately, there

was no need for conversation, cheesy or otherwise, because while his

hands slipped inside her lacy panties, he was kissing her in the most

determined way. Harry was neither tall nor short, and for a guy in his

late thirties who mostly sat around making computer magic, he was in commendable shape—an attribute equal to his ability, just then, to

multitask.

Harry pressed her against the refrigerator. Twenty-five minutes

later, Magnolia realized that Sub-Zero would no longer be an appro

priate name for that particular kitchen appliance.

Drying off after their shower, Magnolia decided this would be an

opportune moment to locate her inner Frenchwoman. She pictured

them washing down flaky pastries with steaming café au lait while they lingered over the
Times.
The best she could offer, however, was stale granola topped with acidophilus yogurt and some rather mature

strawberries. Magnolia sensed that her standard breakfast would

squelch the mood faster than a dog pooping on the rug—which would

be happening any second.

"After I walk Biggie and Lola, how do popovers sound?" she asked.

"Popover Café?"

"It's just a short walk." Magnolia gave Harry her most fetching

smile. Famous for popovers as big as cantaloupes, the restaurant—

four blocks away on Amsterdam Avenue—was one of Magnolia's

favorites, despite the fact that it appeared to have been decorated by

an eight-year-old girl—there were more teddy bears than you could

count, and calico curtains snatched from Snow White's cottage.

"I'm not sure I could handle the double-stroller gridlock, luv," he

answered. Much as she appreciated her nine-closet co-op, vigilant

doormen, and proximity to parks and the Dakota—which Magnolia

considered her ultimate destiny (she'd be a very considerate neighbor

to Yoko)—on the coolness scale, her neighborhood scored, maybe, a

five. It was family land, filled not just with strollers, which must been

made by Hummer, but with unshaved foodies, both male and female,

loading up as if Hurricane Shlomo would hit the Hudson any minute.

She thought it best not to suggest Barney Greengrass, the sturgeon

king, as a brunch alternative.

An awkward pause later, they both started talking. "I've got so much

work to do," Harry and Magnolia said in unison. For Magnolia, at least,

it was true—even if she'd happily prepare performance evaluation reports all night long just to have Harry close to her for a few more

hours.

"It's been——"

"Magnificent," he interrupted. "The most delightful night. And

not unexpected."

Harry put on his jacket. After one lengthy embrace, where she

memorized the scent of his freshly showered neck, she closed the door

behind him. I-will-call-you-later, he recited, five words that loboto

mize even the most self-assured single woman. She walked the dogs,

collapsed on her unmade bed, pulling the rumpled Frette sheets up to

her chin, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

   At five o'clock Magnolia awoke, ordered chicken with cashews from Imperial Dragon, and worked straight through
60 Minutes,
an
Entourage
rerun, and a Lifetime movie where a washed-up actress plays a psycho who buries alive a tycoon's wife. She had a mountain of

manuscripts, potential book excerpts, and layouts to review, which she

turned to during commercials. Usually she was a patient editor,

writing clear, detailed comments in the margins. But today, more

than once, she scrawled "Huh?" or "Is English this writer's first lan

guage?" in barely legible handwriting.

Just as Magnolia was going to find out if the movie's victim would rise

from the grave, the phone rang. It was Abbey, filling her in on Tommy's

latest and waiting for Magnolia's social weather report. At 10:45 she got

another call, from Sasha, to give her the heads-up that she was stranded

in the Pittsburgh airport and would be late in the morning.

Magnolia let her mind wander. She could picture Harry across the

room at the desk, her laptop replaced by a sleek designer's computer.

He'd be calling her over, saying they had to stop what they were

doing, that he had other ideas in mind.

She should be focusing on work. On tomorrow. On deconstructing

what to do about Bebe. But she didn't want to think about her—she

was too busy deconstructing Harry's "not unexpected." Did that

mean that she, Magnolia Gold, was as luscious a morsel as he'd imag

ined—or that she, Magnolia Gold, was as easy to bed as a porn star?

Why couldn't men come with instruction manuals?