by Sally Koslow
rate disease.
“The thing is, the design Harry James and I created was wonder
ful,” Magnolia said, pitching her voice low to make sure she wasn’t
whining. “We’d finally found an approach that’s not the same old,
more-white-space-than-words clone of every other magazine. What’s
up with Jock that he can’t see what a bonehead move it would be to
scuttle all this good work?”
“Since when, Cookie, does the smartest decision ever get made?”
Natalie offered, parking her polished ebony chopsticks at the side of a
red lacquer plate. “Everyone’s got his own agenda. For now, forget the
redesign. Although from what I hear, it’s spectacular.”
Was Natalie gunning for Magnolia to show it to her? That wasn’t
going to happen. Magnolia had learned the hard way that Natalie was
like every other editor, who believed what was yours was yours—
writers, headlines, ideas—until she decided it was “in the public
domain,” a time which could arrive with surprising alacrity.
“So, I shouldn’t appeal to Jock’s higher plane of reason?” Magnolia
asked, getting up from her chair and walking to the window. If
Magnolia wasn’t mistaken, that was Darlene getting into a car with a
rotund redhead poured into black leather pants, a fitted jacket, and
spiky boots.
“There’s no such place,” Natalie said with a laugh. “Right now
Jock’s thinking Bebe Blake will lead him to Oscar parties, weekends in
Malibu, and his own pilot and plane.” They both knew how it got to
Jock that his kid brother, who headed a media company deep in the
corn of Nebraska, had a GV at his disposal, when he didn’t even have
a share in a NetJet.
“But, Natalie, it doesn’t make sense,” Magnolia said. “The Bebe Show is sliding in the Nielsen’s. Will she even get an option to renew?”
“Magnolia, have I taught you nothing? Use a little sechel for a change.” Only with Magnolia did Natalie throw around Yiddish, this
time invoking the term for shrewd judgment. They were often the
only Jews at Scary meetings and on those occasions Natalie used less
Yiddish than your average Leno-watching Southern Baptist.
“Get all orgasmic about Bebe?” Magnolia asked.
“Precisely. What’s to lose?”
Integrity? Face? Time? Still, she tried to focus on the bigger picture.
“I get your drift.”
“Besides, Bebe’s not that bad,” Natalie said as she twisted a stray
tendril into her unruly topknot.
“And you would know this how?”
“We had lunch recently and she’s hilarious. Curses a blue streak.
I was peeing in my pants.”
This was the first time Natalie had ever mentioned lunching with Bebe. In fact, after her last Dazzle cover, which featured a paparazzi photo which made the entertainer look like the blue-ribbon sow at
the Texas state fair, there was talk of lawsuits. Magnolia weighed the
options. Should she ask Natalie if she was aware of Bebe’s proposal
before her meeting with Jock and the gang—or let it go? Better not. If
she knew nothing, Natalie would do a slow burn at the implication
that she was sitting on dynamite.
“How’s that friend of yours with the jewelry?” Natalie said as she
poured green tea from a fragile celadon teapot.
Magnolia sometimes felt that before a conversation with Natalie
she should pop a Ritalin, but frankly she was relieved that they’d
moved to a new topic.
“Abbey?” Magnolia asked.
“I can never remember her name,” Natalie said. “Was that one of
her necklaces I saw Charlotte wearing the other day?”
“Could be,” Magnolia said. She knew where this was going and decided to get there fast. “Want me to see if she’d give you a friends
and-family discount?”
Natalie feigned surprise. “Magnolia,” she said. “You are the sweet
est. But now that you mention it, maybe something from the new line
I hear she has coming out. The one at Bergdorf’s”
In the next ten minutes they discussed whether or not Magnolia
would go out with Natalie’s husband’s partner (Magnolia waffled— he was a troll), why the editor of Elegance ran Penélope Cruz on the cover every six months (desperate), and who’d become the next editor of the Star (each of them offered a short list). When Natalie’s assistant buzzed her, Magnolia was glad. It was almost two, and their
lunch had failed to have its desired effect of making her feel fabulous
merely from being in Natalie’s wake.
“Oh, I know it’s last minute, but I’d love it if you’d join us for cock
tails in the country a week from Saturday,” Natalie said as Magnolia
got up to leave. “Throwing a book party for Dr. Winnie. A small group.
Very casual.”
Magnolia couldn’t remember when she’d ever actually had fun at
one of Natalie’s parties, but if she declined, Natalie might be angry.
Magnolia couldn’t risk it. Natalie shifted from friend to foe like other
women changed underwear.
“Love to,” Magnolia said.
“Bring a guy—that is, if you’re dating someone.”
Her little imaginary boyfriend? They could drive in her pretend
Porsche.
“Bebe promised to come,” Natalie added.
“Your new best friend?”
“Grow up, Magele. You’re way too paranoid.”
The minute she said it, Magnolia knew that she wasn’t. On the way
back to her office, Magnolia decided to make a pit stop at the lobby
newsstand. She paid for her lottery ticket and dashed into a closing
elevator.
“There she is,” Jock said to a short, rumpled man next to him.
“Our own steel Magnolia.” Magnolia cursed the day the movie had ever been released. “Jock!”
she said, and forced what she hoped was a smile.
“Magnolia, meet Arthur Montgomery.”
Arthur Montgomery. The name sounded familiar but the face—
long and hawkish—wasn’t. “Mr. Montgomery, hello.”
“Miss Magnolia, what a lovely name,” he drawled. If they ever had
a real conversation, this gentleman was going to be disappointed to
find out she was from North Dakota, not Carolina. Could she help it if
her mother chose the name “Magnolia” on her honeymoon to New
Orleans?
“Magnolia, call me,” Jock said as the elevator opened to her floor.
His tone was neutral, but an order nonetheless.
She stopped in the art department on the way to her office. “Can
we work on the cover together in about an hour?” she asked Fredericka. For the 80 percent of Lady’s readers who were subscribers, you could put a can of pork and beans on the cover and they’d barely
notice, but to attract elusive newsstand buyers, the image and words
were life-and-death; developing covers stretched for weeks. As she
hovered over Fredericka at her computer, her art director was end
lessly patient while Magnolia suggested colors and type and tweaked
coverlines. At the end of each session, Magnolia walked away with
numerous versions, which she’d stare at for days, trying to choose the most arresting one. She’d stare so long the words—Free! Hidden! Sex!—began to look like a Slavic language. Her last step was to take the covers home, so her doorman could weigh in.
“Ready when you are,” Fredericka answered. “The film’s scanned.”
“An hour then,” Magnolia said. As she walked into her own office,
Sasha gave her a new batch of messages. Harry had returned her
thank-you call about the orchid and Cam had stopped by. Magnolia
was sorry she missed him, since she’d decided to tell him about the
Bebe situation—not that it was a talk she looked forward to having.
“Almost forgot,” Sasha said. “Darlene’s assistant set up a breakfast
for this Friday. You’re supposed be at Michael’s at eight-fifteen to
meet you-know-who.”
Sasha looked at Magnolia, waiting for more, but Magnolia walked into her office and slammed the door. Seven manuscripts and one
editor’s letter later, she went to work with Fredericka. At 5:55 she
called Jock. It was a brief conversation. Jock didn’t think it would be
necessary for him to join Magnolia, Darlene, and Bebe when they met
for breakfast. He and Arthur Montgomery, her attorney, were seeing
eye to eye on everything and he was sure she and Bebe would, too.
C h a p t e r 6
A Legend in Her Own Mind
“Good morning, Miss Gold,” the perennially cheery young greeter announced. “Mrs. Knudson’s already seated.”
In the evening, any visitor from Nome to nowhere could snag a
prime spot at Michael’s Restaurant, but at breakfast or lunch the room was unofficially reserved for le tout media, who came to check out one another. Only after Michael’s crack team verified your name,
rank, and serial number to make sure you were—or still were—who
you claimed to be. The unspoken rule was that if the maître d’ and his
fembots didn’t know who you were, they weren’t interested in taking
your $27 for eggs and toast. The seating chart was planned with the
precision of a $500,000 wedding. Executives from advertising, fash
ion, and beauty favored the back room, which won for appeal, given
its peek at what passed for a garden. The front space, with its Hockney
lithos, drew this minute’s superheroes from Scary, Condé Nast,
Hearst, Time, and big-ticket literary agencies. Television folk swung
both ways.
It was up front that Magnolia headed. She spotted Darlene bouncing
from table to table, floating photos of her sturdy Nordic daughters and
bestowing kisses as if she were campaigning for the New Hampshire
primary. Magnolia waved to several buddies from other companies as she walked across the room, stopping only to acknowledge the mayor’s press secretary, who had just been featured in a Lady “40 under 40” roundup. Today Darlene’s bag wasn’t parked at her regular pied-à-terre,
#12, but at a table that seated four. Magnolia positioned herself across
from Darlene, who’d claimed the chair against the wall, the one with
the good view.
“She should be here any minute,” Darlene said to Magnolia.
“They’re on their way.”
“They?”
“Bebe never goes anywhere without Felicity Dingle. She’s her pro
ducer, memsahib, groomer, whatever.” Magnolia remembered that at the last Lady photo shoot it was Felicity who’d barked to the publicist about Fredericka and had her banished from the studio. Darlene did a
few hits on her BlackBerry, then locked eyes with Magnolia. “Bebe’s a
force of nature,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Darlene turned to the Marketplace section of The Wall Street Journal. Other than the local business pages—especially on Monday, when they traditionally decimated the magazine industry—it was all she
read. No one would accuse her of being a seeker of wisdom and truth,
nor would Darlene apologize for that—or much. She parsed her time
to reach her goals, and since she’d entered magazines ten years ago,
had been on a fast upward trajectory. Darlene left investment banking
to begin as an ad salesperson at a small magazine about decorating (or
“shelter,” as Darlene always reminded people, even if they weren’t in
the industry, and mistook her for speaking Finnish). She got hired as publisher of Lady last year. At forty, the statute of limitations had run out on her classification as a wunderkind. She needed a grand slam, and she needed it now. But so far, Lady had only been number three in its category, with number four nipping at her heels, and her ad sales
had slipped an eyebrow-raising 9 percent.
As Darlene perused her newspaper, Magnolia looked at the menu,
a waste of time. She’d be having oatmeal, as usual. Make a call? Not
here, where the guy at the next table might be a tabloid spook.
Suddenly, the room grew silent. Magnolia turned. Bebe Blake was
heading toward them, a long-haired animal—a ferret? No, it was a cat—peeking out of her burnt-orange Birken bag. Bebe was wearing
tight jeans—Juicy Couture, Magnolia guessed, although she wasn’t
sure they were made in Bebe’s size—a V-neck Grateful Dead T-shirt
that showed deep décolletage, and boots that looked compromised try
ing to support her. She had a heart-shaped face; a small, pointy nose;
and when she removed her Gucci sunglasses, close-set dark eyes not
unlike those of her pet. Bebe’s hair was the color of ketchup.
Carrying an ostrich leather-trimmed, canvas tote loaded with
papers and liter-sized bottles of Evian, another sturdy woman arrived.
Her inky hair, which matched the feline’s, hung close to her head in
an asymmetrical cut that recalled Austin Powers’s shagadelic London.
In her aqua pants and zippered top, she looked ready for a power
breakfast in any Atlanta suburb.
“Darlene!”
“Bebe!”
“You adorable thing, you. And you must be the editor, Gardenia.”
In fact, this was not their first meeting. Every time Bebe had been on Lady’s cover, Magnolia had stopped by the photo studio to personally thank her and drop off a gift. Last time, to nibble during takes,
she’d given Bebe chocolates in a specially ordered box the size of a
laptop.
“It’s Magnolia. Magnolia Gold. Thank you for coming.”
“You’re so much younger-looking than your photo.” Bebe squawked,
and both Darlene and the other woman joined her in noisy laughter.
“And you’re so much …” Magnolia began.
“Fatter?” Bebe offered. It was just this kind of self-deprecating
remark that won her fans, who were considerable in number. “I read
minds,” Bebe continued. “Meet Felicity.” Magnolia shook hands with
Bebe’s cashmere-clad sidekick. “And this is Hell, the current man in
my life, who’s going to need some cream. Got some tongue on him,
doesn’t he?” She lifted the cat into her lap and let him lick her face.
“Shall we order?” Darlene said.
“I’ll have raspberries with soy milk,” Bebe announced. When she
smiled, her small eyes got smaller. “Felicity? Will it be soy yogurt? We
just returned from that new ashram in Santa Fe. We’re vegans now.” Magnolia wished she’d gone for the eggs Benedict. But her oatmeal
had arrived with efficiency.
Bebe yawned. “What’s this I hear about your wanting me to take
over a magazine?”
Magnolia almost spit out her cereal.
“Jock and I have been scouting for a new take on Lady for months now,” Darlene began.
Total con, Magnolia thought. Unless it’s true.
“We adore your s
how,” Darlene continued. “I TiVo it and watch it
every night on my Stairmaster. Gotta work on the old tush.” She pat
ted her rear.
“Your tush is a work of art, honey,” Bebe said. “But let’s cut to the
chase. Flattered as I am by your attention, magazines are over. They’re
bor-ing. Never read ‘em. Can’t tell ‘em apart. Beige, beige, blah. Dull,
dull, dead.”
Magnolia shot a glance at Felicity’s bag, which was knocking against her leg. At least one of them bought magazines. W stuck out. And O. Plus obviously they were all going to pretend that Bebe’s bright red memo for her own magazine, which they’d seen just days
before, didn’t exist. Magnolia realized she had officially entered an
alternate universe.
“We think that your stamp on any product would make it stand
out, and a magazine isn’t any different from, say, designing clothes,”
Darlene countered. Bebe’s brand of plus-size studded denim routinely
sold out at Target.
Hell lapped up his dish of cream, at which point Felicity emptied
the table’s milk pitcher into his saucer.
“If I would even consider this little venture, I’d insist on a few deal
points,” Bebe announced.
“Shoot,” Darlene responded.
“For starters, I require one hundred percent creative control,” Bebe
began. “Can’t be second-guessed. That’s a given. Ground-rule two, I work
when I work. Never sleep, so it’s not a problem. I spend July and August
in Hawaii, December in Aspen, and I’m thinking of buying in Tuscany.
Anyway, Felicity can make any decision for me. She’s my go-to bitch.” The two of them high-fived. Since “Good morning,” Go-to Bitch
had said not one word. Magnolia saw mouths moving, heard laughter
coming from a faraway place. Drops of perspiration trickled down
inside her new linen jacket. She would rather be enduring a Brazilian
wax after a long, bushy winter than be here.
“… and I don’t intend to renew my show. Fuckin’ noose,” Bebe
said with enough conviction to turn heads at other tables.
Magnolia came to. No show, no endorsements, no visibility for the
magazine, if it should sink to that. No! No! No!
“Bebe, I’m surprised to hear you’d think of leaving The Bebe Show. It’s such an audience-pleaser. Your fans would be outraged.” Magno