by Sally Koslow
tune-up.”
Magnolia had met Estelle, Natalie’s mother, numerous times. The
woman could have run General Motors if she hadn’t been too busy
negotiating delicate country club politics, taking on issues as onerous
and portentous and divisive as whether kids in diapers should be
allowed in the pool. Certainly, Estelle had done a number on Natalie.
No flagging confidence there.
“The press conference is what you should be concentrating on,”
Natalie said. “Look sharp. Wear your Michael Kors suit.”
Later in the evening, while walking Biggie and Lola, she thought
again that in the avalanche of attention, all unwanted, there was still
one person she hadn’t heard from who might have made her hellish
day easier. Why hadn’t Harry sent flowers or at least called? But her
head reverted to work. Change is good, she repeated to herself.
Change is good.
What a lot of crap, she decided. Whoever thought up that proverb
clearly had always been in charge of her changes.
C h a p t e r 1 2
Bushwhacking at the Pierre
Magnolia knew she had talent. That, and the pluck common to those who hail from the middle of nowhere, who realize
that if they want to succeed in a more stylish time zone, they must
learn early the value of hard work. Her ability to toil like an inden
tured servant was, Magnolia thought, one quality that might set her
apart from editors who came from more privileged backgrounds. But
was it true that she never doubted herself ? Every editor Magnolia
knew possessed some measure of self-doubt, even the prep-school
princesses and Ivy grads.
At thirty-seven, had she already redeemed her quota of hit-the
jackpot coupons? Her cynical side understood that she and all the
other top names on an editorial masthead owed their job security to
serendipity. Only deluded egomaniacs—and Magnolia had a few of
them on speed dial—convinced themselves that talent alone truly
engineered big breaks and continued success.
The hiring gods giveth, but they also taketh away. Today was one
of those away days. When you might least expect it, you’re heading
off to the Pierre to watch a celebrity begin the public tango of let’s
pretendI’m-an-editor, while you try on the unfamiliar role of wall
flower. Magnolia dressed in the suit Natalie had suggested. She unearthed
her Chanel sample-sale handbag, and hoped no one thought she’d
scored it at the Chinatown spider hole that her assistant Sasha swore
by for dead-on knockoffs. She sat silently through her blowout. After
ward, she stopped at Tiffany’s and sent out an Elsa Peretti baby spoon
to her college roommate’s infant daughter. It was only June, and the
sixth baby present she’d given this year, three to little girls named
Isabelle. She arrived at work around 11:30, knowing her presence, just
now, made everyone around her twitch with discomfort.
At 1:30, Elizabeth Lester Duvall, sunlight bouncing off her silver
head, peered through the glass wall of Magnolia’s new office,
mouthing, “Time to go.” The limo ride to the Pierre gave Elizabeth
ample opportunity to bark a few more orders.
“If you’re asked about Lady, defer to me,” she said.
“Got it,” Magnolia answered.
“When Bebe enters the stage, stand up, so everyone will do the
same.”
“I hear you.”
“Make sure your hair isn’t in your eyes,” she said. That wouldn’t be a
problem for Elizabeth, since her hair literally stood on end. “And smile!”
Elizabeth continued, grinning at Magnolia just in case she’d forgotten
what that facial expression looked like. “It’s going to be great.”
Why the president hadn’t put Elizabeth in charge of FEMA, Mag
nolia didn’t know. No man-made crisis or natural disaster was beyond
her range. In the time it took Elizabeth to call Jock and review a few
more strategic details, she and Magnolia arrived at the Pierre.
The very fifth-arrondissment Pierre had always been Magnolia’s
favorite Manhattan hotel. Whenever she walked through its hushed
lobby, a study in almost faded elegance, she looked forward to making
a turn into the blue oval salon with its cloud-covered ceiling. She pic
tured herself in a simple satin wedding dress, climbing the marble
stairs to meet her bridegroom in the ballroom a short flight up.
Unfortunately, the anteroom to the ballroom was the very space that
Elizabeth had commandeered for today’s press conference. Magnolia
stepped into the room. Apparently oblivious to the charms of its gray stone trompe l’oeil walls, which created the effect of a classical piazza,
reporters were stuffing their faces with the pastry, cheese, and fruit
the covey felt was their due. Magnolia realized that, from now on, the
Pierre would be forever linked with Bebe. She’d need to manufacture
a new dream.
“What’s the deal, Maggie?” shouted Justin Fink from BusinessWeek. “Are we sitting shiva for Lady?”
She walked over to Justin. Despite his downtown affectation—geeky
black glasses, thrift shop shirts, and Puma sneakers—she knew him as
one of the sharper press journalists. At least he had a memory extend
ing back further than a year. Magnolia swallowed hard, and greeted
him with a friendly peck on the cheek.
“Lady’s moving over for the next big thing, Justin. You’ll see.”
“But why?” Justin asked with a wide smile. “It doesn’t compute,
unless Scary’s been putting out bogus circulation numbers. You guys
selling half of what you claim? Any comment?”
“Justin, are you delusional?”
“A little off-the-record, Magnolia, just for me, your favorite reporter?”
Already, he’d bushwhacked into feral territory. From across the
room, Elizabeth spotted them chatting, causing Magnolia to wonder
whether she hadn’t secretly been fitted with a house-arrest ankle
bracelet. “Justin!” Elizabeth said, separating them with her skinny
shoulder blades. “Patience, honey. You know better than to give our
Magnolia the third degree. Bebe Blake will explain it all.”
“That Justin—he’s a dog.” Now Mike McCourt, the genial reporter from the Post, had joined their circle. Everybody liked Mike, but you didn’t need a Sergeant Elizabeth to tell you to close down when he
accosted you at an event or surprised you with a call. You could count
on Mike for being relaxed with the facts. Then again, he could be use
ful. At least one editor had incorporated him into her long-term strat
egy. She was widely known for leaving him messages indicating that
she was rumored to be up for absolutely every job—generally, when she
wasn’t—hoping Mike would print the tip. Mike, with a daily column to
fill, happily obliged. As a result, the untrained reader assessed her as a
hot magazine stock. “When will we be getting the pleasure of your star’s company?”
Mike asked. “Her helicopter still circling?” The speeches were sup
posed to start ten minutes earlier.
“Patience, ya’all,” Elizabeth drawled, her Mississippi accent conve
niently restored. “Talk amongst yourselves.”
She pushed Magnolia
toward the dais, positioning her to the right of the podium.
Fifteen minutes passed. No sign of Bebe. Ten more minutes. Above
the rumble in the room, Magnolia heard a stir. Darlene, looking like a
Girl Scout leader, led the pack in a sleeveless safari-style sheath, not
afraid to expose her meaty arms. Felicity followed in a mumsy pantsuit
and clunky, gold-trimmed shoes. The two of them placed themselves
to the left of the podium and began whispering.
And then she entered, on Jock’s arm. In a bow to her vision of a
working editor, Bebe wore red Harlequin glasses trimmed with rhine
stones. On her right, middle finger she flashed an emerald-cut diamond
the size of a sugar cube.
“First, there was Martha.” Jock began, in his deep, sonorous tones.
“Then there was Oprah. Now Scarborough Magazines proudly pres
ents Bebe Blake, the country’s most multitalented celebrity and a pas
sionate devotee to causes that interest women everywhere.”
Magnolia adjusted her face to a few notches above blasé but com
fortably below bootlicking.
“And here she is, Bebe Blake,” Jock said with a flourish. The room,
filled with at least eighty reporters and photographers, thundered
with applause. Bebe exploded onto the podium.
“Can’t you give these guys some booze?” she yelled. “Jock, you
cheapskate, this is an occasion, for God’s sake.”
Jock, standing behind Bebe, looked paralyzed, then switched on a
big guffaw and matching grin. Magnolia checked out Elizabeth hov
ering near the wall. Anyone who worked at Scary knew she became
homicidal if an employee strayed off script. Elizabeth looked as if she
might shoot a Howitzer at Bebe any second now.
“Okay, okay,” Bebe continued, beaming a wide, engaging smile. “I
get it. We have to sell some magazines and then we get to drink. Well,
gang, that’s what we’re going to do. Sell mags. More women are going to buy Bebe than buy maxipads. Why? Because Bebe’s going to be fun. Fart-out-loud fun.”
The crowd roared.
“It’s going to be pee-in-your-pants fun. It’s going to be fun, fun, fun
till Daddy-takes-the-T-Bird-away fun. It’s going to be all the things
I stand for. Darlene Knudson—she’s my publisher—can attest to that.
I’m told that woman could sell a page of advertising to the pope.”
Bebe blew a kiss to Darlene, who shouted “thank you” in her no
amplification-required voice, and then to the audience, and they all
blew kisses back.
Darlene joined Bebe and blathered on about what a great opportunity Bebe would be for every product in America to reach its target audience, although she didn’t declare who, exactly, that would be.
Magnolia looked out to the crowd. She expected one of the reporters
to start asking hard questions. “What do you stand for, Bebe?” “Why
do we need your magazine?” And even if she’d wince at the answer,
Magnolia wanted someone to press Bebe, or Jock, or at least Darlene, on why Lady was being abandoned, just so she could hear the creativity of the answer. But the usually brutal crowd demurred. To Magnolia’s
horror, she realized they adored Bebe, and were awestruck to be close
enough to an authentic celebrity to feel her spit on their faces.
“Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been into magazines,” Bebe was saying,
and—dammit, Magnolia thought—it sounded genuine. “My dad’s Playboy, my mother’s National Enquirer—I’ve loved ‘em all. But regular, old women’s magazines—”
As Bebe continued, Magnolia heard a cell phone ring. Once, twice,
three times. The noise sounded as loud as a car alarm. Elizabeth glared.
Bebe stopped talking. Magnolia couldn’t understand why everyone
was looking at her. It took until the fifth ring for Magnolia to realize
the phone was in her bag, which she’d plunked behind her.
“Mag-knowl-ya, answer the damn phone,” Bebe demanded, with a
big grin. “You all know Mags, right? I love that gal and she’s quite the
looker. She’s going to be my deputy. Which I guess makes me the
sheriff.”
“Magnolia, who is it?” shouted Justin from BusinessWeek.
Magnolia grabbed her bag—happy that she’d switched to the
Chanel—and quickly turned off the cell. But not before she saw the
number.
“Condé Nast on the line?” Mike McCourt asked. “Your lawyer
maybe?”
“Justin, Mike, you’ll be happy to know it’s my boyfriend,” Magnolia
shouted with what she hoped was an adorable smile. “Excuse me,
everyone.”
“Who’s the cutie?” Bebe asked? “The guy I met Saturday night?”
Elizabeth walked to the podium, shooting Jock a look that implored him to take charge now. Jock grabbed the mike. It took another minute for the bedlam in the room to subside.
“Time for all of you to see Bebe, our new baby.” He yanked the cord on a silky curtain and revealed the cover of an eight-foot maga
zine featuring a life-size photo of Bebe, her arms stretched forward
as if she were going to perform a kung fu move. She was wearing a
halter top and a rose in her hair. The background color was red, the
logo gold.
“How ya like it, guys?” Bebe said. “I want you to know that’s one
hundred percent God-given cleavage. I am not an implant gal.” She
stood back and mimicked the cover.
“Or do you like it better this way?” She struck a different pose. “Or
like this?” Bebe began to dance, first alone, then with Felicity, Jock, and
Darlene, and finally with Magnolia. The podium became a hoedown.
Bulbs began to flash as Elizabeth supervised various constellations
for photo ops—Bebe and Jock, Bebe and Darlene, a large group shot
that included Magnolia, then Bebe posing one by one with many of
the reporters. The members of the feared Manhattan press corps were
probably going to each ask for Bebe’s autograph, Magnolia thought.
No one paid attention to Magnolia as she peeled away to play back
her voice message and return Sub-Zero’s call.
“Harry, it’s about time you called,” she said. She failed to sound angry.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, Magnolia, luv. I am a bad boy, but I was trying
to think of the right words, and I’m never very good with that. But
enough about me,” he said. “You poor chickadee.” “What’s this about you missing me?” Magnolia asked.
“What can I say? We English like a woman who appreciates a good,
juicy chop,” he said. “Oh, and I like your bum.”
“I like yours more.”
“I need to rescue you from this hell you seem to have fallen into,
don’t I?”
“I’m not saying no.”
“Can I talk you into dinner Saturday? Please tell me you’re not one of those women with a tattered copy of The Rules next to her bed, who needs weeks of notice.”
“I hardly have any rules at all,” she admitted.
“Lovely. A woman with no scruples is the one for me. So, eight.
Pick you up. I have just the place.”
“Where?”
“Surprise.”
“Date.”
Date. Magnolia liked the retro ring of it. She popped her cell back in her bag and returned to the reception. Jock was giving sound bites to Mike. Darlene had snagged the WW
D guy. Elizabeth was steering Felicity away from the New York Times reporter.
As Magnolia scanned the room, she felt a tap on her shoulder and
turned.
“Nice touch, Gold,” Bebe said, embracing her. “Loved the cell phone
bit. Priceless. Got to admit, I never thought you had it in you, upstaging
me and all. God knows, I respect a worthy adversary.” She shook her
head in admiration and held on to Magnolia’s arm, in a best-girlfriends
way. Then she gave Magnolia’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Are you
ready to rock and roll?”
“I’m ready if you’re ready,” Magnolia said, wishing she actually
had been crafty enough to have planned the mishap.
C h a p t e r 1 3
Extra Virgin
Waiting for their manicurists, Abbey and Magnolia huddled on a black leather love seat, heads down, hooting at movie star photographs in Dazzle’s “What Were They Thinking?” section. “Will you promise to stage an intervention if I ever buy anything
this short?” Magnolia asked. “The statute of limitations for wearing
skirts like this is just about over for me.”
“The thing about age-appropriate dressing is that the rules keep
changing,” Abbey said.
Magnolia hoped she’d evolve into a wiser version of herself and
that woman would want a wardrobe she couldn’t even imagine right
now. She closed the magazine, and focused on Abbey, who had the
look she got when she wanted to spill a secret.
“What is it?” Magnolia asked.
“Tommy and I had ex-sex last night,” Abbey announced, as seri
ously as if she’d disclosed that she’d fornicated with a beagle.
“It’s not technically sex-with-an-ex,” Magnolia pointed out. “But
give me the goods.”
“We’ve been e-mailing and text messaging,” Abbey said, moving
over to her manicurist who, today, was Lily Kim. “Stay away from that man.” Lily had joined the conversation. “Bad,
very bad.” With her normal efficiency, Lily began to file Abbey’s nails
square and short, which made her hardworking jeweler’s hands look
even more like tiny paws.
“I couldn’t turn him away. He wanted to stop by and talk.”
“Run that conversation by us,” Magnolia said, sliding into the
chair next to her. She immersed her fingers in the china bowl her
manicurist presented before her. As Abbey continued to speak, Mag