by Sally Koslow
“She isn’t haunted by the Post referring to her as Burpin’ Bebe?”
“She’ll probably brag about it in an editor’s letter,” Magnolia said.
Magnolia took out her Times and began to read aloud. “Get this. ‘A report on November second about the wedding of Sarina Balfour
Smythe and Heath Farina included an erroneous account of the
bride’s education, which she supplied. Ms. Balfour-Smythe, the new publisher of Scarborough Magazines’ Dizzy, did not graduate from Stanford University or receive a master’s in business administration
from Dartmouth University or a Ph.D. in anthropology from Yale
University. Although she attended Stanford summer school, her degree is from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh. The Times regrets that it did not corroborate the credentials before publishing
the report.’ “
“I’ll bet they do,” Abbey said.
“Why don’t more people get outed for their whoppers,” Magnolia
said. “Darlene tells everyone she got a perfect SAT.”
“What amazes me is a forty-year-old woman is still lying about her
SATs,” Abbey said.
“I take heart that as long as we both shall live, Darlene will always
be older than I am,” Magnolia said. Lately, no matter the situation,
Magnolia defaulted to the subject of age, her brain trilling, “Thirty
eight! Thirty-eight!” like a taunting parrot. She’d started to ask new
questions. Am I too old to show my navel? No, not as long as my
abs stay flat, she decided. Is it time to start dressing like a lady sena
tor? The world will reward me if I don’t. Will I ever again be carded?
Not likely. And the extra credit question: Should I harvest my eggs?
Next!
Magnolia would be Googling a stray fact, and suddenly her fingers
were researching the age of other editors. She was relieved to discover
how many were older than she—a whole crop was born in 1964.
But combing through the personals, she found herself wanting to
throw a meatball at guys like “Genetically Swedish/Emotionally
Italian SWM, 39,” who only wants to hear from women thirty-five
and younger.
Magnolia opened her Post. She stopped at a photograph of the Vogue soccer team, in fitted Tshirts emblazoned with their motto: We’re secretly judging you. They trounced the Dazzlers. They could do with a better slogan than “Dazzle will beat you to a frazzle.” Scary was rarely at the Condé Nast level, no matter the game.
Just as the New Age music began to give Magnolia a headache, her
masseuse beckoned. Inside an immaculate massage room, Magnolia
inhaled the lavender aroma, stripped, and slid between fine white cot
ton sheets.
“Any spots giving you trouble?” the masseuse asked, as she began to
knead Magnolia’s shoulder with a luscious lotion that smelled faintly
of ginger and grapefruit. Magnolia could feel Bebe in her neck, Felic
ity in her left hip, and Harry in her lower back. For the past week
she’d been hobbling around like Toulouse-Lautrec.
“Everywhere,” she admitted.
“I want you to go to a place that makes you feel relaxed,” the
masseuse said in a gentle voice. Her old office, Magnolia wondered?
Nope. There must be a law against thinking about work during a mas
sage. Her living room with the dogs beside her? Better.
“Now take someone special with you to this place,” the masseuse
directed, as she began to banish the stiffness in Magnolia’s neck.
You even need a date for a massage! She closed her eyes but could
visualize no one with her. Definitely not Harry. She was still furious
at him for making such a big deal of the Tommy incident and goad
ing her into a spat observed by Jock and Darlene. He and Genetically
Swedish could go to a singles bar together.
“Are you beginning to unwind?” the masseuse asked as Magnolia
started to float into a zone near sleep, savoring every long, smooth
stroke on each thirty-eight-year-old muscle group. Fifty minutes later
she opened her eyes.
“Didn’t want to wake you,” the masseuse whispered, handing
Magnolia the thick terry robe she’d worn into the room. “You were
totally out.”
Was this sorceress a masseuse or an anesthesiologist? All Magnolia
knew was she felt mercifully calm, as if her tension had been laid
on the chair like a worn-out coat. She thanked her and dressed slowly, not wanting to abruptly reenter reality. In the outer lobby, Abbey
looked similarly tranquil, but not too mellow to ask, “Ready for lunch?”
Crossing the street and walking along Central Park South and over
to Madison, they entered the impeccably lit Barney’s. They always
stopped first at the jewelry displays—Abbey, for professional reasons,
and Magnolia, because in a faraway bazaar, whenever she was
tempted to purchase a bauble, she did the Barney’s test, trying to
imagine the treasure displayed under glass with just a few other
choice pieces. If she could see it at Barney’s, she rarely suffered
buyer’s remorse.
Ten minutes later, she and Abbey rode the elevator to Fred’s, the
store’s crowded café, took a table amid the Black AmEx card crowd,
and ordered their usual chopped salads. Today they were having them
with champagne.
“To Magnolia!” Abbey said. “To the best year of your life. May it
only get better.”
“Amen,” Magnolia said. “And to you, Abbey—to getting through
this rotten Tommy stretch with unbelievable grace.”
Abbey and Magnolia raced through their salads, and the waiter
approached with a tiny fudge cake, which Magnolia was pleased to
see arrived with only one sparkler and two forks. “Make a wish,”
Abbey insisted. “A secret wish.”
A better man? A better job? Both, definitely, but not in that order.
Bebe’s hostile takeover was bothering her more than being disap
pointed by Harry.
Abbey handed her a tiny box wrapped in pale gray tissue and tied
with yellow ribbon. Inside were earrings with yellow jade teardrops sus
pended from clusters of tiny gray pearls and turquoise stones.
“Abbey, gorgeous,” Magnolia said, replacing her small diamond
studs with the exquisite pair. “I adore them.” The yellow jade reflected
her amber highlights; the turquoise made her green eyes greener.
“Thank you!” She gave Abbey a big hug.
“A Nolita boutique ordered them for Christmas, but you have the
originals,” Abbey said. Ten minutes later, as they got in the taxi to go to Think Pink,
Abbey’s phone rang, which reminded Magnolia that hers had been
strangely mute for hours, except for an early call from her parents.
She removed it from her bag and saw why—Exhale required clients
to silence their cells and Magnolia had forgotten to turn hers back on.
When she did so, there were four messages. Three were from Bebe
with variations on “Where the hell are you, Gold? We’ve got to talk. Very, very important. Hasta pronto. Divine weather in L.A. At the pool. New bikini.”
The fifth was from Harry. “Cupcake, I really need to see you,” he
said. “I’m such an arse. Tail between my legs. Call me.” Magnolia felt
a twinge return in her back. Cupcake? I don’t think so, she thought
.
“Lots of birthday greetings?” Abbey asked as Magnolia clicked her
phone shut.
“My parents,” Magnolia said. “And Bebe.”
“What about Dirty Harry?”
“Not a word,” Magnolia lied. She didn’t want to spoil a perfect day
by discussing him. “Which is just as well. He might be somebody’s
Mr. Right—just not mine.”
By five o’clock, afternoon darkness hung in the air. Magnolia
walked home, careful not to smudge her newly red toes. She opened her cards. “Another year older?” Cam’s read “Crappe diem.” She changed into white silk pajamas sent by her parents, settled in front of
her fireplace, and started a novel. The only thing that can make this
evening better is a big piece of leftover cake from my office party, she
decided, and I’m not going to feel the least bit guilty about eating
dessert twice in one day. Tomorrow, starvation. As she walked into her
kitchen, however, the intercom sounded.
“Gentleman to see you,” Manuel said.
Not Tommy! Magnolia gritted her teeth.
“Mr. James,” Manuel continued. “Send him up?”
Magnolia hesitated. She’d managed to get through the day without
any spikes in her emotional EKG. With Harry, who knew? Still, he’d
arrived. “Yes, send him up, please,” Magnolia responded.
Standing in her doorway, he looked taller than she remembered.
A man always looks taller when he carries a Tiffany bag.
“For you,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips.
“Take your coat?” Magnolia asked, aware that she sounded as for
mal as a fusty maiden aunt. At least she hadn’t called him sir.
“Here’s a better idea,” Harry said. “I take off my own coat, you
open this little gift, and then we play kiss and make up in your bed
room.” He placed his coat on the bench and handed her the small blue
bag. It felt light in her hand.
They sat down on the bench. His thigh touched hers. She pulled
the box out of the bag and slowly unwrapped the white silk bow, care
fully placing it on a table. She opened the box and fingered the blue
felt bag.
Magnolia pulled out a shiny sterling silver cuff half covered with
an ornate golden blossom. She gasped.
“Tiffany calls it their Magnolia bracelet,” Harry said.
How many times had she noticed Tiffany’s reliable upper-cornerof-page-three Times ads and admired this very bracelet advertised? Every time she saw the photograph—or wandered through the
store and casually tried on the real thing, hoping the salespeople
hadn’t grown to recognize her—she coveted the bracelet, and, twice,
she’d almost bought it. But where was that flutter of excitement
tonight?
“Thank you, Harry,” she said. “You have the most magnificent
taste.” That much was true.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Harry said, taking the bracelet out of her hand.
“Here, Cupcake, put it on. It looks so beautiful on your wrist.”
She had to agree, as she twisted the silver and gold bracelet to catch
the foyer’s dim light. But the ad called “Magnolia” a cuff. If she
accepted this gift, she’d be shackling herself to a relationship she knew in her gut would never be right. Maybe she was having a Blink moment she’d later regret, but she didn’t want this gift, not from
Harry. As he took her wrist, she pulled back and stood up. “Really, thank you so much,” she said, removing the cuff. “It’s a
hugely extravagant present. But I don’t think so, Harry.” Magnolia
began to choke up.
He looked at her. A tear fell on the sleeve of her silk pajamas. “I
know I’ve acted like a fool, Magnolia,” he said. “But let’s just forget
about that.” He stepped forward.
She raised one palm to block him.
“Let’s talk about it,” he said. “I’m willing to overlook all that busi
ness with Tommy.”
“There’s nothing to say, Harry. Except that it just doesn’t feel right.
Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be. I’ve had my sea
son’s fill of scenes.” Magnolia carefully placed the bracelet in the felt
bag, the box, and then the bag. “We’re finished.”
“I’d like to know where I’ve gone so terribly wrong, Magnolia?”
“Let’s see,” she said. “Talk about blame the victim—you made me
feel like a hooker when my friend’s husband came on to me. You
wouldn’t see reason when I tried to explain. You started carrying on in front of my boss and publisher at Bebe’s party and I see how you look at other women. But a lot of it’s me. With Bebe at the magazine, I’m
stepping around land mines every day—I’m not going to make any
man very happy right now.”
As she said it, she knew she and Harry were just a miniseries, not a
hit that would go into eternal syndication. “Harry, I like you.” She
decided not to admit that even a week ago, she thought “love” might
be a more apt word. “But I’m getting too old to be in relationships
that I know won’t work.”
“I see,” he said. “I suppose this is some sort of womanly coming-of
age rite.” He snickered and picked up his coat from the bench.
Magnolia handed him the bag.
“You know, I thought Englishwomen were batty. But you Ameri
cans are nuts.”
For several minutes after Harry closed the door behind him, Mag
nolia was still standing in the same spot, feeling the special burn
fueled by disappointment. She’d like to have a man in her life, prefer ably the man. But at least she was smart enough not to trick herself into staying with the wrong one.
Where was I, she thought. Ah, on the way to the kitchen. But noth
ing now seemed less appealing than leftover cake. She returned to her
chair, threw another log on the fire, and stared at the flames. Lola
brought over her squeaky mouse, which Magnolia threw across the
room. The dog scampered off and settled down for a good long chew.
Magnolia reopened her book and read the first page three times. She
couldn’t remember a word.
The phone rang. Magnolia welcomed the intrusion.
“Gold!” Bebe said. “Could you be any harder to get hold of ? Why
didn’t you call me back? I said it was important.”
“That you did, Bebe,” Magnolia said, subdued. “I’m so sorry. Did
you want to change a line on the cover again? Can you hang on a
minute? My files are in the other room.”
“Don’t be an ass. It’s not the magazine.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a delivery.”
Magnolia was about to mention that it was her birthday and she’d
just broken up with Harry—she wasn’t in the mood to play messen
ger girl—but decided she’d let it pass. “A delivery? You want me to pick something up?”
“No, just stay put. Gotta go.” Bebe clicked off without even thanking
her for sticking around on a Saturday night. But what difference did it
make? She was in for the evening anyway. Maybe a herd of goats would
arrive for the weekend and camp out until Bebe moved them to the
farm she was buying upstate. Perhaps they’d be good company.
Magnolia settled herself again in her chair and started channel
surfing. She could at least manage a movie. As
she tried to decide between The Way We Were and Sleepless in Seattle, however, the doorbell rang. Had Harry been standing in her hallway all this time,
pleading for a second chance? He had more stamina than she.
Magnolia looked through the peephole. All she could see was an
enormous bunch of yellow roses. “Special delivery,” said a familiar British accent. Only it wasn’t
Harry’s.
“My good friend Bebe Blake asked me to deliver these to you,” the
voice said. “If you’ll open up. Oh, and from both of us, a very happy
birthday.”
Was that a Hugh Grant impersonator standing in her hallway?
C h a p t e r 2 1
Hugh Grant and the Glamazon Girls
“I looked through the peephole and there he was,” Magnolia repeated before an expanding circle of editors and designers
crowding her office and overflowing into the hall. She felt as if she
were lip-synching a stump speech—she’d already told Abbey and her
parents the whole story—but it wasn’t half bad to revisit life at the
red-hot center of the universe.
” ‘Care for a short drive?’ ” he said. Magnolia tried to get the accent
right.
” ‘Mind if I change?’ ” I answered.”
” ‘Well, shoes might be in order,’ ” he said, ” ‘but as far as the rest
goes, you look quite swish. I’ll be Tracy to your Hepburn.’ So there I
was, in my jammies—they were fancy, but I was wearing zilch under
neath—and off I went. We got in a normal black town car, nothing
slimy like a stretch. ‘Spot of tea? Champagne? Gatorade?’ he said. I
fixated on his eye crinkles, the compact body, that voice. Bull’s-eye
look-alike. Then he handed me a red envelope.”
Magnolia took a large gulp of her coffee as Fredericka, Ruthie,
Phoebe, Sasha, and the others listened attentively. Cameron, she
noticed, walked away when she got to the part about no panties. “It said, ‘Yes, it’s Hugh. You think I’d send a fake? P.S. You can have
him—not my type. Bebe.’ “
“Bebe!” Fredericka hooted. “Talk about a power present. Vat ever
became of giving a nice scarf ?”
“Now do we have to think she’s adorable and kind?” Sasha asked,
but Magnolia ignored her—the truth was, much of Bebe was ador