Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  She delivered the request with bluster she thought would be mistaken

  for male confidence. No one ever damned a man for a bold gesture.

  “What is your title,” he asked. “Remind me?”

  “Bebe seems to think it’s deputy.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Although I don’t recall if we ever discussed

  titles, Bebe and I.”

  “Three years ago I’d have been thrilled with that title, Jock. But it

  doesn’t reflect the job I’m doing. I’m managing this magazine down to the last semicolon.” Surely, that was how Jock saw her role, a copy edi

  tor who’d mated with a lion tamer. “You know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “If I have to sleep in the ladies’ room, I’ll make this magazine the

  best it can be.”

  “Why, for God’s sake, do editors carry on about titles? It’s about

  bucks. Don’t you people get that?”

  In this life, one thing counts. In the bank, large amounts… . For publishers and other business-side folk, it was a philosophy they may as

  well have had on their business cards, but editors always wanted their

  monetary entrée rounded up with tasty side dishes, including a

  respectable title.

  “Editor then?” Magnolia said. It was a big step down from editor in

  chief, but at least it wasn’t deputy.

  “Editor. Magnolia the editor.”

  “You’ll tell Bebe?”

  Jock had already stepped halfway out the door, but turned to give

  Magnolia an appraisal that, if she wasn’t mistaken, lingered rather

  long on her chest. “I’ll try to remember,” he said.

  C h a p t e r 1 6

  Bebepalooza

  Traffic was light at this hour of the morning, and it didn’t take long to arrive at Washington Street, not far from the Hudson River.

  Most local photo shoots took place in vast studios—Manhattan’s stand

  ins for back lots—tucked into downtown loft buildings, and Magnolia’s

  favorite was Industria Superstudio, where she was heading. Fredericka

  had pulled in every chit to book Studio 6. It was small enough to be inti

  mate, yet large enough to drive in a tank and photograph a minor

  jihad—which is what Magnolia feared might take place today.

  “Good morning!” Fredericka spotted her and left her Woman’s Wear on a leather armchair as she sprinted across the shiny wooden floor in Magnolia’s direction, her platinum bob flying.

  “Guten tag, Fredericka,” Magnolia said. “Was ist das?” She pointed to a tall structure swathed in white drop cloths.

  “The backdrop,” Fredericka explained. “Vhen ve decided to go

  vith leopard, Francesco suggested a leopard vall, so ve had a muralist

  paint one.”

  “How much did this set us back?”

  “Three thousand? Six thousand?” Fredericka answered and

  shrugged. “Francesco has in mind to pose Bebe draped over one of

  those leopard chaises in front of the background.” She pointed toward

  a cluster of furniture being unpacked by several beefy deliverymen.

  “Like an odalisque.”

  Magnolia knew not to be surprised. Photographers saw themselves as artistes and cared far more about whether a day’s work would enhance their portfolio than if it fit a magazine’s image or budget. It mattered little that Bebe would be paying Francesco’s fee—half of today’s $50,000-plus bill. Photographers ruled their photo shoots, and

  if they chose to treat an art director like a summer intern or take only

  half the shots the editor in chief expected, they stamped their feet

  and got their way.

  “Check out the clothes,” Fredericka said, taking Magnolia’s hand

  and pulling her toward the other end of the room, where Ruthie and

  several assistants were setting up what looked like a good-sized bou

  tique, removing garments from bags, steaming away creases, hanging

  everything on aluminum racks, and salivating over choices.

  “Some Bebepalooza.” Magnolia whistled.

  “The shoes!” Ruthie said. “You’ve got to see them.”

  Magnolia inhaled the smell of expensive leather and listened to

  the promising rustle of tissue paper as a double for the Bergdorf’s

  shoe department came into focus. The troops carefully removed at

  least twenty pairs of leopard-print size tens: Manolo Blahnik stilettos;

  Lambertson Truex skimmers with toes so pointed they could open

  letters; Stuart Weitzman calf-hair pumps you’d feel the need to pet;

  girly, bow-bedecked Christian Louboutin peep toes. The only foot

  wear missing were actual leopard paws.

  Ruthie slipped her size six-and-a-half feet into the bowed pumps.

  “Don’t you love these?”

  “Not for $700 I don’t,” Magnolia answered, knowing she sounded

  like a social worker. “The reader could feed her family for months on

  what these shoes cost.”

  “We’re not telling people to buy the shoes,” Ruthie said. “Anyway,

  they’re what Felicity said Bebe liked.”

  Luca Luca, Moschino, Marni, and Roberto Cavalli were all here,

  along with lesser labels. Since Bebe didn’t wear a sample size—

  not by several digits—Ruthie and her junior varsity had called in

  dresses, pants, and blouses from every chic store in Beverly Hills

  and all points east. Magnolia and Fredericka combed through the garments, grouping first choices together. As Magnolia held up a ruf

  fled Alexander McQueen cocktail dress, she heard the voice.

  “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, reporting for duty,” Bebe boomed.

  “You don’t actually expect me to wear that?” she said as she got close

  enough to see the dress in Magnolia’s hands. “Christ, I’d look like a

  heifer.”

  “Not at all, Bebe,” Magnolia said. “You’re going to look like you.”

  Just not exactly like the Bebe who’d arrived in bike shorts, a long

  sweatshirt, bare, lady wrestler legs, and running shoes. In one hand,

  she carried a half-eaten doughnut and under her arm, Hell.

  “I loathe photo shoots,” Bebe said. There was an edge to her voice

  that Magnolia couldn’t quite identify. It took a second for her to real

  ize that what she was hearing was honesty. Bebe was just as freaked

  about being photographed as any woman who wasn’t a 100-pound,

  fourteen-year-old model from Eastern Europe.

  “That makes two of us,” Magnolia said. Every time she had her edi

  tor’s letter photo taken, she’d found the experience so ego-shredding

  she practically needed rehab to recover. “Most of my pictures wouldn’t

  even make the cut for the Westminster Kennel Dog Show. But don’t

  worry. We’ve got the very best for hair and makeup.”

  Fredericka broke in. “Before ve get going, you need to meet

  Francesco.” She nodded toward a short man in wireless glasses, loose

  white pants, and a long shirt billowing over a sizable tummy. A do-rag

  was tied around his head. “Ciao,” Fredericka shouted, as he ambled in

  their direction.

  “Ciao, bellissima,” Francesco said to Fredericka. “And this beautiful lady must be today’s star,” he sang out, bestowing kisses on

  Magnolia’s reddening cheeks. “I will make you so magnificent, like

  the most desired concubine in a sultan’s harem. But it will not be

  hard.”

  Fredericka interrupted. “Francesco, darling. You know Magnolia Gold. Reme
mber the Lady shoot with Nicole Kidman? This is our cover girl.” She swiveled toward Bebe. Francesco turned in Bebe’s

  direction. “Please meet Bebe Blake.”

  “You were expecting someone gorgeous perhaps?” Bebe said with a grin. “Frank, better have a drink. Catwoman ain’t coming. You got

  your work cut out for you.”

  Francesco blinked twice and kissed Bebe’s hand. “Apologies, my

  lovely lady. You will see. I will make you divine.”

  “Bovine? I can do bo-vine standing on my head.” Bebe laughed.

  Alone.

  Francesco looked confused and motioned toward the breakfast buffet. “Mangia, everyone,” he said, waving. Pineapple spears, three kinds of berries, yogurt, brioches, and bagels covered a long table set with

  heavy taupe pottery and a linen cloth. “We’re still prepping the first

  shot,” he said. “It all must be perfect.” Two male assistants in tight

  blue jeans and black Tshirts were unfurling an enormous white back

  ground. Several others were setting up a galaxy of lights. “You must

  excuse me.”

  Magnolia looked at her watch. Nearing eleven. The breakfast hour

  would drag on another twenty minutes. Then makeup, which takes a

  good hour, followed by hair, an hour there, too. By then it would be

  1:30, and the whole crew—close to thirty people, counting Francesco’s aides-de-camp plus Elizabeth Lester Duvall and the Access Hollywood crew who’d be arriving at noon—would announce that, no, they’re not

  hungry, but, sure, they could use a snack. The caterer would present

  another, far more sumptuous, meal and the gang would chow down as

  if they were gearing up for a Yom Kippur fast.

  They’d be lucky to start shooting by two.

  Magnolia wished life would allow her to age in photo shoot time. It

  wasn’t just the slow-mo pace that got to her. It was the talk, endless

  hours of it, during prep and between takes. “Did you hear about Dog

  bone, the new club?” “My boyfriend and I got totally trashed there last

  night.” “We got cut off at the pass. Had to go to Schiller’s Liquor Bar.”

  “Did you want to kill?” “Totally.” “I so need to lose ten pounds.”

  “You’re insane. I want your hips.” “Then be ready for lipo.” And on and on. Magnolia knew that even at Lady she wasn’t exactly brokering peace in the Middle East, but at photo shoots she could feel IQ points

  literally melting away. Plus, she thought crankily as she took a deep

  breath, this was a smoking crowd. Then there was the music, which as the day wore on, would throb at migraine-inducing decibels, all in the

  name of trying to “create energy.”

  Why, she wondered, did anyone think shoots were glamorous?

  Magnolia wandered off to a corner, and began to read Men’s Health, the only magazine she could find. She got almost to the end of “Put the Tiger in Your Wood—9 Hard-and-Fast Rules for Awe

  Inspiring Erections.” Just as she was thinking how her ex, Wally,

  could have benefited from the information, Bebe gave a shout-out.

  “Magnolia!” she yelled. “Whattya think?”

  Bebe looked ready for a revival of Cats. Her face was spackled to a Formica smoothness, and smoky gray eyeliner extended almost to her

  temples. At least Akiko, the makeup artist, hadn’t added whiskers.

  “Honestly, Bebe?”

  “No, lie big. Of course, honestly.”

  “Too, too, too … Akiko, could you make it more … natural?”

  Magnolia asked. Akiko smiled sweetly and continued to sculpt faux

  cheekbones into Bebe’s well-fed face.

  “Hey, I like it,” Bebe said. “The eyes stay. And Jean-Luc here”—

  she pointed to the town’s premier makeup man, who was cursing his

  boyfriend in French on a cell phone—“we’ve already decided on

  spiky hair. A whole new me.”

  A Bebe who readers might not recognize, Magnolia thought. A

  Bebe who could frighten small children. But time was marching on. Elizabeth and Access Hollywood had shown up with a truckload of equipment. As Elizabeth bossed them around like the secretary of

  defense, their presence added an element of chaos, which only slowed

  the tempo as they directed Bebe in their filming and interviewed

  Francesco.

  Magnolia bivouacked with Fredericka. “If we can finish Bebe’s

  hair and get her into the first outfit, will Francesco be ready in thirty

  minutes?”

  “I’ll ask,” Fredericka said. She returned in five minutes. “Francesco

  thinks ve should break to eat.”

  The lunch, which Francesco had ordered from Tabla, his favorite

  Indian restaurant, was worthy of New Delhi in high summer. Nor mally, chicken tikka with mango chutney and mint, coconut rice, and

  orange glazed carrots would have appealed to Magnolia. But today she

  could only look at the clock. Their star hadn’t even tried on clothes.

  Toward the end of the break, Magnolia approached Bebe. “We’ve got

  to keep moving,” she said, and motioned Bebe toward the clothing

  while she held up a Marni dress with a forgiving cut.

  “Hate it,” Bebe said, as she polished off a big bite of a pink sweet

  everyone else had left on the buffet.

  “How about this?” Magnolia pulled out a simple gown by Calvin

  Klein.

  “Nope.” Bebe chewed loudly.

  Magnolia offered Bebe a jacket by Michael Kors, followed by a

  Moschino Cheap & Chic skirt and sweater. Reject. Reject.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Bebe said, yanking off her sweatshirt and

  exposing her black lace bra. From the back of the last rack she with

  drew a flimsy leopard T, and stretched it over her head, smearing her

  eyeliner. “Love it,” she said as she stripped to her panties, which, to

  Magnolia’s relief, were grannies. “Help me find a bottom.”

  Ruthie and Magnolia searched and returned with eight pairs of

  pants. Nothing fit. If the pants were made with back or side zippers,

  Ruthie would be able to cunningly split a seam and no one would be

  the wiser, but every style zipped up the front.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” Magnolia said. “Ruthie, have your

  assistants run out and look for plain black pants.”

  “No-no-no-no-no,” Bebe said. “I’ll wear my bike shorts.” Bebe

  began to squeeze back into her spandex.

  “Bebe,” Magnolia said. “You can’t.”

  “Watch me,” Bebe responded, grinning.

  “Seriously. It’s all wrong for the cover.”

  “It’ll be fun,” Bebe said, gathering Hell into her arms. “What do

  you think, you big, bad boy?” She tickled the cat’s neck until he

  purred. “Doesn’t Mommy look fucktabulous?”

  “Do you think we could let Francesco decide?” Magnolia asked,

  peeking out from behind the curtained dressing area and motioning

  him over. “Like I care what that fat old fart thinks? Magnolia, are you forget

  ting whose magazine this is? This is me. I live in bike pants. End of

  story.”

  Francesco stepped behind the curtain. Bebe danced to the sound of

  Prince. “So, Frank, can you make me bo-vine?” she asked, striking a

  hands-on-hip pose.

  The photographer glared.

  “Francesco, let’s just try a few shots in these clothes,” Magnolia

  said, softly and evenly.

  “They will not do.” He folded his arms over his belly. “I do not see it.”<
br />
  “See it,” Bebe said, mirroring his stance.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “See it, Frank,” Bebe repeated, shimmying to the music.

  “Basta, basta,” Francesco answered, walking away. “I will not be insulted. I am Francesco Bellucci.”

  Magnolia closed her eyes and hung her head. When she took a look

  around, Fredericka was grinding her teeth and cursing in German.

  Bebe was laughing, and Francesco had escaped. Magnolia looked at

  the large clock on the wall. Four o’clock.

  “Serious scumbag, that Frank,” Bebe said. “Remind me why you

  booked him.” Because as soon as they heard you were the celebrity, six

  photographers we asked first said no, Magnolia recalled. And one of

  them was polite about it.

  “Bebe, I’ll talk to him,” Magnolia said, looking for Francesco,

  who’d walked out the door. She found him murdering a cigarette butt

  with his Gucci loafer.

  “Francesco, I know she’s—how can I say this?—unconventional, but

  could you see your way to finishing the shoot?” Magnolia said. “Please.”

  “I have my reputation,” he answered. “Sweet Jesus, who does that

  woman think she is?”

  “She’s an investor,” Magnolia said, slowly and loudly. “The maga

  zine has her name on it, for God’s sake. It might be huge.”

  “I am very sorry, Magnolia. But this shoot is a category five hurri

  cane. I must withdraw.” Magnolia considered her options. It didn’t take long. She had no

  options. Well, maybe one. “What if we up your rate by ten percent,”

  Magnolia said. “Combat pay.”

  “Twenty-five,” he countered.

  “Ten,” Magnolia said. “Think of how you’d like to continue working for Elegance and Dazzle and all the other Scarborough magazines. Ten firm.”

  Francesco lit up a second cigarette, sighed deeply, and wiped his

  brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I shall proceed,” he said

  gravely.

  Four hours later, Bebe’s hair and makeup had been redone several

  times. Magnolia and Fredericka had cajoled her into several wardrobe

  changes. Francesco had finished off eight roles of film, including one

  round in front of the white backdrop—without Hell—as an alterna

  tive to the leopard. This was a good move: Magnolia had no idea how Fredericka would get coverlines to read over those spots. Access Hollywood was packing to leave. Francesco was just about to shoot a final roll of film, when Magnolia heard a familiar bellow, growing louder