Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  and louder, like the horn of an approaching ocean liner.

  “Gold!” it said. “Gold! Mags! How’s it going? Bebe! Oh, Bebe, you

  look fabulous.” It was her publisher, Darlene, hurrying toward the

  camera, her Prada suit a mess of wrinkles. “I was in the neighborhood

  on the way home, and asked my driver to swing by,” she said. It was a

  curious detour. She lived on Park and 80th and that wasn’t all. Publish

  ers were never invited to photo shoots. An art director and photogra

  pher would sooner extend an invitation to their archrival than to their

  magazine’s publisher.

  “How’s it going?” Darlene asked.

  “Dandy,” Magnolia hissed, turning away from Darlene.

  “Can I see the Polaroids?” Darlene asked in her pushiest tone.

  “Please, Darlene,” Magnolia said. “Not now.”

  “Frank here is one helluva photographer,” Bebe said. “I did a Janet

  Jackson with my tit, and he didn’t even blink. But I guess you don’t

  like girls, huh, Frank?”

  Darlene plunged in Francesco’s direction. “I’m Bebe’s publisher,” she said to the startled photographer, picking up a Polaroid from

  the table where his assistant had left them. “Mind if I look through

  your lens?”

  “Mind if I read your tax return?” Francesco responded.

  It was close to nine o’clock. Magnolia had canceled a date with

  Harry. She was starving, exhausted, and wanted to kick Darlene with

  the pointiest stiletto in Ruthie’s collection. She regretted that Ruthie

  hadn’t called in steel-toed work boots.

  “Darlene, don’t even think about it,” Magnolia said. “This shoot

  is over.”

  C h a p t e r 1 7

  Too Much Information

  Several workdays later, at 6:45, Magnolia was relieved to see that Ruthie was still working with her assistant to account for the

  clothing from the Bebe shoot which needed to be returned “Ready for

  an intervention?” she said.

  “Big date?” Ruthie asked with a smile, looking unwilted, even at

  the end of the day, in a vanilla skirt and shirt and pale stilettos. Her

  straight, shiny black hair framed her dark almond eyes. She looked

  like a fashion editor doll.

  “I wish,” Magnolia replied. “No, it’s a black tie, last minute, Wal

  dorf hell.”

  Every year Scary bought tables at the Bowel Bash, a favorite char

  ity of the older Scary brother, the skinny one with irritable bowel syndrome. Bebe and Darlene were tapped to represent Bebe. At 6:30, however, Felicity sent word that Bebe was “indisposed”—taping her

  TV show, Magnolia was to believe. She would be pressed into action to

  replace her.

  Usually, dressy events were excuses for Magnolia to wear real jew

  elry. Maybe her sapphire chandelier earrings, her parents’ gift for her

  thirtieth birthday. Or she might borrow one of Abbey’s pieces, like the coral and black jet Maltese cross from her short-lived Frida Kahlo

  period. But today there would be no time for a trip home to root

  around her jewelry box, hidden underneath the heating pad. There

  would barely be time to see if Ruthie could lend her more appropriate

  clothes and shoes than today’s plaid jacket; stretchy, butt-forgiving

  Capris, and flats. Magnolia blinked away an image of her Chanel

  sample sale dress sadly awaiting bright lights in the big city. The dress

  would have to wait a little longer.

  By standards of a legitimate fashion magazine, the Bebe fashion closet—an uncarpeted space roughly twenty-by-twenty, lit by fluo

  rescent lights—was touching. To an innocent female bystander, though,

  it was paradise. Shoes and boots filled shelves along every wall. Belts,

  hats, and scarves dangled from pegs. Hosiery and socks were arranged

  in drawers along with jewelry, sorted like fishing tackle.

  In the middle of the room stood racks of clothing. Here was the

  coat that had to be purchased because a model’s cigarette burned a

  hole in the sleeve. There was the baby blue halter the talk show host

  demanded because it matched her eyes, then refused to wear because

  it exposed her ham-shaped arms. In a corner was the complete Target

  line Isaac Mizrahi had sent one Friday afternoon with a challah and a

  note that began, “Good Shabbas, Magnolia bubbe.”

  A fashion closet was one of those giddy ties to glamour taken

  advantage of by even the lowest of the low on the editorial masthead.

  If an editor needed to replace rain-soaked shoes or swap her turtle

  neck with a clingy Hoorywood top for a last-minute date, Ruthie and

  her team always obliged. Like now.

  Right now, however, Ruthie was fixated on Magnolia’s hair. “Let’s

  not talk about it, okay?” Magnolia said. This morning she’d forgone a

  shampoo, and tied her hair into a ponytail, which now hung like a

  small dead rodent waiting for the taxidermist.

  Ruthie shrugged and ducked behind a rack. She quickly emerged

  and offered Magnolia a clingy black panther of an Armani dress.

  Magnolia scowled and stuck out her rear end. “I’m not nearly skinny

  enough for that.”

  Ruthie nodded and returned with a black printed chiffon gown encrusted with beads. Magnolia stripped to her underwear and pulled

  the dress over her head. The bell sleeves hung below her hands. She

  was Morticia in a muumuu.

  “Off, off,” Ruthie shrieked and disappeared again, mumbling

  something about Valentino. The name warmed Magnolia’s heart,

  until she saw a ruffled purple leopard gown in silk georgette. Obvi

  ously, even Valentino had an off day.

  “Please, anything but leopard,” Magnolia said, politely ignoring

  the gown’s other faults.

  “Even with this to cover it up?” Ruthie held out a gray fox stole.

  “Ruthie, I’m not accepting an Academy Award.”

  “Got it,” Ruthie said. “Glitz-lite.”

  “And forget about décolleté,” Magnolia called out as Ruthie for

  aged further. “Tonight’s about gastroenterology, not tits.”

  Time dribbled away as Ruthie pulled out clothes and shook her

  head. Finally, she emerged, bearing a pale pink sweater. Were it not

  for a diamanté-jeweled neckline of the softest cashmere, it could have

  been sold at Old Navy. Magnolia loved it. She pulled on the sweater,

  which made her waist look tiny and her breasts ample but not

  obscene.

  “With this skirt,” Ruthie insisted. The sequined scalloped skirt, in

  a darker pink, hit her legs right below the knee. The woman who

  stared back in the mirror reeked chic.

  “Stick this on,” Ruthie commanded. She handed Magnolia a white

  gold ring showcasing a hunk of lemon quartz the size of a cherry

  tomato. “And these for your ears.”

  Magnolia fingered the dangly spirals that Ruthie was now proffer

  ing. “Garnets?” Magnolia asked.

  “Rubies,” Ruthie answered.

  “Not too much with the sweater? Don’t want to look like a petit

  four.”

  “Trust me, you need to distract from the hair,” Ruthie said as she

  handed Magnolia a small beige satin envelope bag.

  “You’re right. They’re fabulous. But shoes, Ruthie?” They both

  looked at the red flats s
he’d kicked off. Ruthie eyeballed the fashion closet’s size nines and tens. Models

  might be skinny, but they were tall girls with enormous feet. Magno

  lia was a seven. “Here,” she said, taking off her own bone Manolo

  pumps.

  “You have saved my life, Ruthie Kim, and I will be forever grate

  ful,” Magnolia said, slipping on the shoes, which were only a little

  snug. She gathered her work clothes and flats; dumped them back in

  her office; stuck her cell phone, twenty dollars, and a lipstick in the

  bag, and pinned her hair in a chignon with the help of an unidentifi

  able hair product she found lurking in her desk.

  Five minutes later she was in the elevator. As was Natalie Simon.

  “What’s with the pink?” Natalie asked. “We’re doing bowels, not

  breast cancer, right?”

  “Cut me some slack here, Natalie,” Magnolia said, wondering why

  a woman wearing the twin of the purple Valentino leopard dress

  she’d rejected fifteen minutes ago had the temerity to be critical.

  “You know I’m kidding, Cookie,” Natalie said. “You look adorable.

  I’d like to rip that sweater off your back. Whose is it?”

  “Honestly, haven’t a clue,” Magnolia answered, eager to change

  the subject. “What’s going on?”

  “Meaning to call you,” Natalie said. “I just shipped our cover and I

  have you to thank.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Sarah Jessica Parker,” Natalie said. “Those pictures were knock

  outs. As soon as I saw them, I postponed Angelina Jolie. She scares the

  bejesus out of people anyway.”

  Corporately, of course, it made sense. In the boilerplate of the standard Scary contract, the company had paid for the shoot, not Lady, and the embargo extended for months, so it was too soon for the photographer to resell them. Why not let Dazzle run the pictures shot for Lady? Still, it stung. Just as a courtesy, Magnolia wished Natalie would have at least asked her if she took advantage of the photos—

  not that Magnolia owned them in any way beyond emotional.

  “They’ve been lucky already,” Natalie grinned. “Online tests pre

  dict that cover’s going to blow out of the newsstand.” Natalie Simon luck, Magnolia thought.

  Natalie offered Magnolia a ride to the Waldorf, and the two chat

  ted about other things—whether it was true that Jock was doing it

  with Mitzi, Pippi’s sister, and the pissy e-mail they’d all got demand

  ing that each magazine cut back 20 percent on color Xeroxes.

  By the time the two of them arrived at the hotel, most of the cock

  tail hour had passed. As they entered the room, Natalie got plucked

  off by a Brooks Brothers type who Magnolia suspected belonged to

  one of the three corporate boards on which Natalie sat. Magnolia

  scanned the sea of overdressed humanity but, since it wasn’t an event

  exclusively for the magazine industry, she didn’t recognize a soul. One

  short man on the arm of a tall, willowy woman looked familiar, but

  she couldn’t place the face. Was he a friend’s father? She started to

  walk in his direction, but when she got close, several people cut in

  front of her.

  “Mr. Mayor, we’re honored you could be here,” they said.

  Magnolia quickly reversed directions and grabbed a glass of cham

  pagne from the nearest waiter. And then she saw her publisher, who

  was eyeing her as if she’d come to the event dressed in sweats.

  “Magnolia, only you could wear that!” Darlene said. “Interesting

  hair.” Even in the din of the crowded reception room, Darlene’s voice

  could be plainly heard. “Great that you’re here—there’s someone

  I want you to meet,” she added, pulling Magnolia into a three-minute sales call to a pharmaceutical advertiser. “Of course, our readers would be interested in a new drug for premature ejaculation,” Darlene

  insisted. But before the startled client had a chance to respond, the

  lights blinked. Time to take their seats in the grand ballroom.

  Magnolia looked for her place card, a touch Elizabeth Lester Duvall

  always engineered; if she could help it—nothing in the Scary domain

  was ever left to chance. When Magnolia arrived at her table, however,

  she had the distinct feeling that the seating arrangement had been

  reshuffled. Surely Bebe’s seat, which she was filling, would have been

  next to Jock, or at least one of the Scarys. But, no, she was at the sec

  ond table. To her right was the chatty wife of the production director.

  To her left was the number two guy in circulation, a pudgy, bow-tied fellow who she knew would be only too happy to offer a letter-by-let

  ter reprisal of his winning game at the regional Scrabble tournament.

  Magnolia looked to the other table. There was Charlotte Stone, the publisher of Elegance, Natalie, Jock, Darlene, Elizabeth, the brothers, their matching blond wives, and the pharmaceutical executive. “Two

  bottles of champagne to start,” she heard Jock say, snapping his fingers

  at the waiter.

  Throughout the evening, Magnolia seethed about the Lady photos gone to Dazzle. This was just as well, because her rage kept her awake, which the evening’s speakers might have failed to do. The

  waiters removed her tuna tartare before she’d finished it, and quickly

  replaced it with a leathery hunk of filet mignon.

  “May I please have fish instead?” she asked.

  “See what I can do,” the waiter snarled. By the time he returned

  with a dry slab of salmon, the lights had gone dim for a fifteen

  minute film. She fidgeted in her seat. There could be no discreet

  escape hatch, not with Scary’s table front and center in the ballroom.

  Six speakers followed, as did the skinny Scary brother, who began

  handing out the annual Bowel Booster awards. Even an enormous

  serving of chocolate mousse in a bittersweet chocolate shell—an

  unfortunate choice, given the evening’s theme—couldn’t tempt Mag

  nolia to stick around. As soon as the third of five awards had been

  bestowed, she found her evening bag, stood up, and said to no one in

  particular at the table, “You’ve got to excuse me,” she said. No one

  even looked up.

  As she listened to Comedy Central an hour later, Magnolia carefully folded her borrowed clothes, removed her makeup, and laid

  out running clothes for the following day. She checked her office

  e-mail and answered the phone twice—a short call from Harry, who

  suggested she not get her knickers in a twist over the Natalie picture

  heist, then offered a long monologue on knickers in general, and

  Abbey, who patiently listened to an accounting of Magnolia’s day.

  Just as she was starting to set her alarm for 6:15 A.M., Magnolia heard the intercom. She thought her doorman might be saying,

  “Gentleman wants to see you.” The building’s system made the sub

  way’s loudspeaker sound elegantly clear.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Harry,” the doorman said. At least she hoped that’s what he’d

  said. Harry might have been in a cab on the way uptown when they

  spoke and had called on his cell, not his landline.

  Was there time to switch into the new black camisole set nestled in

  her drawer? The thong had two tiny bows at the V above her butt

  cheeks, which the top’s matching bows marched down to meet. She

&nbs
p; tossed off her SpongeBob T-shirt and pulled on her new underwear

  just as she heard the knock.

  “Be right there,” she said, hoping the outfit would cause Harry to

  overlook her hair, which was not improved by the gel she’d used to

  cement it into a chignon.

  “Can’t wait to see you, gorgeous,” Harry said. Only it wasn’t Harry.

  As the knocking got louder, Magnolia looked through the peephole.

  “Magnolia, gorgeous, it’s me. Open up.”

  There he was, catapulted from cyberspace. “Tommy O’Toole,

  where the hell have you been?” Magnolia screeched through the door.

  “You’ve been AWOL for months, and Abbey’s a twitching mess. And what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Since their postbreakup tryst, Tommy had been communicating

  with Abbey, but only through e-mail. He’d last claimed to be in New

  Zealand, though for all Abbey knew, he’d been holed up at the Hotel

  Gansevoort in the meat-packing district.

  “Gotta see you, Magnolia,” he answered. “Give a guy a break.

  Open up.”

  “One minute,” Magnolia said. She put on her robe—her ratty

  one—and let him in. Tommy immediately pressed her to his chest

  and covered her mouth with his. Magnolia pulled away quickly but

  not before she smelled Scotch.

  “Hey, Magnolia, you’ve never been such a tease,” Tommy said.

  “Come to Tommy boy. You know I’ve always thought you were hot.”

  He circled his arms around her again, then grabbed her wrists and planted her arms around his back, holding her tight. Magnolia

  couldn’t escape his grip. His tongue probed her mouth.

  “I want to see you naked, Magnolia,” he whispered.

  “Too much information, Tommy,” Magnolia said, as he momentar

  ily relaxed and she was able to push him away.

  “You smell good,” he said, his blue eyes half-shut “You’ve got a

  beautiful shape. I’ve always thought of you as a fine wine.”

  A wine, she thought. I’m a wine? Did he think she was old ? Magnolia realized she didn’t have time to analyze Tommy’s train of

  thought. She just needed to get him to stop this horseshit.

  “I think about you all the time,” he said. “At work, at the gym,

  when I’m with other women.”

  “You don’t, Tommy,” she yelled. “You’re just drunk. My God, you’re