by Sally Koslow
able and kind—and continued to report on the drive, which lasted
fifty-five minutes, exactly the length of a shrink session, but proved
far more therapeutic than any she’d ever experienced.
“We chatted about how much he loved going on Bebe’s telly hour,”
Magnolia said. “And he wanted to know if when American women
told you what they want in the bedroom—down to the millimeter, in
full sentences, practically with charts and graphs—they’re being
bossy or helpful. Both, I assured him.”
Magnolia decided to edit out the portion when she gave Hugh the
Cliffs Notes of her most recent battered romance. ” ‘Did I do the right
thing to break up?’ ” she’d asked. ” ‘Did I blow it with Harry? He’s
such a hothead.’ “
” ‘Stay away from English public school blokes,’ ” Hugh cautioned.
” ‘Every one’s a pack of twitchy nerves. Too much bad mommy/good
nanny going on, yours truly included. Find yourself a red-blooded
American and don’t be fooled by those Ivy League almost-Brits.
They’re stunt doubles for the crew who went to Oxford with me.’ “
“Oxford?” Magnolia asked. No wonder she’d always liked Hugh
Grant. Without a brain, a penis didn’t count for much. “What did you
study there?”
“English,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said, although she left the Big Ten university out of
it. For a moment on that birthday-that-trumped-all-others, Magnolia
let herself wish that Hugh wasn’t a mere cameo in her life, and that
her charms might be sufficient to make him look at her like some
thing beyond a Make-A-Wish recipient. But then he got out, giving
her a quick embrace as he brushed both cheeks with his lips, leaving
Magnolia clutching her arms around herself, as much to cover up her
nipples as to keep herself warm. The frosty November evening drove her inside, and she immediately started regretting that she’d kvetched
to Hugh Grant—Hugh-fucking-Grant—about her boyfriend prob
lems. Idiot!
As she rode up in the elevator, she considered the possibility that
she’d hallucinated the whole thing. When she opened the door, how
ever, and saw three dozen long-stemmed yellow roses abandoned in
her foyer, she smiled and laughed out loud. At least six times that
evening and throughout Sunday, Magnolia left effusive messages of
thanks for Bebe—but never got through.
Magnolia switched her head back to Monday and the colleagues
waiting for her grand finale. “He gave me a kiss on both cheeks and saw
me to my door… .” Magnolia told the group. “I floated until bedtime.”
Magnolia could see her audience deflate. “Meeting adjourned,”
she said in a chipper tone. “I’m only sorry I didn’t bring my digital
camera to document the whole event.”
After her colleagues scattered, Cam returned. “Big birthday, huh?”
he said with a sly smile. Magnolia suddenly felt like a fool that Cam
had witnessed any part of her soliloquy.
“Thanks for the card,” she said.
“Sorry I didn’t have it delivered by Brad Pitt,” he said, pushing his
wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, a gesture which made him look
about ten—and adorable, Magnolia couldn’t help but notice. “Any
emergencies in the last ten minutes I should know about?”
“Nope,” Magnolia said, glad they were switching off her private
life. “Have to read all these proofs—then I’m meeting Darlene and
Bebe at Glamazon.” Which, of course, Cam already knew.
“Why do you suppose Darlene wants you there?” he asked. Bebe
and Darlene had been doing every ad call together—exactly what
Magnolia expected. She’d never loved making sales calls, particularly
when Darlene and her clients gossiped like college roommates. Still,
not being invited was another reminder of her grand unimportance.
“Because then she can blame me when we don’t get the account?”
Magnolia suggested.
At the end of the calendar year, Glamazon—the new prestige cos
metic line—had found some extra funds in its budget and invited three magazines to a bake-off for the prize of a few choice ad pages.
Darlene didn’t know who the other contenders were, only that the command performance for Bebe was scheduled for two in the afternoon. The plan was for Bebe, Magnolia, and Darlene to converge at
Glamazon’s headquarters.
“No prep needed,” Darlene had said. “Just look sharp and bring
your big brain. Meet at one forty-five.”
Magnolia rode uptown, and arrived by 1:35. Plopping down on a
stiff suede chair in the austere reception room, and unable to bear the thought of pulling out the Bebe she’d stowed in her bag, she looked for something else to read. Five fresh copies of InStyle—and only InStyle—were fanned out on the low limestone table in front of her. The publisher of InStyle obviously had had an appointment this morning and, when the receptionist wasn’t looking, chucked what
ever magazines had been displayed and left her copies in their place.
Magnolia opened the issue to the Editor’s Note, always the first page
she read in another magazine, and considered what it would be like to
have a position where she’d be paid to go to the couture shows in Paris
and Milan, as this editor clearly was.
As she was reading, her head facing down, the publisher of Marie Claire and Susannah Slutsky, her associate publisher, walked past her. Magnolia slunk an inch lower and pulled InStyle close to her face.
“Yes!” Susannah said, high-fiving her boss. “That went well. Who do you suppose our competition is besides the InStyle ladies we saw leaving?”
“I’d guess Lucky or Bebe.”
“Bebe, what a sorry excuse for a magazine,” Susannah said. “Did you catch the looks on the Glamazon women when we did our pageby-page Marie Claire/Bebe comparison?”
“Priceless,” she said. “Hey, gotta pee. Leave behind the magazines
and I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”
Susannah turned toward the table to swap InStyle for Marie Claire. “Magnolia Gold!” she said, startled. Far fewer than six degrees of
separation connected most people in the industry—Magnolia and Susannah had worked together years before at Glamour. “I’ve been meaning to call you. How’s it going?”
“Dandy, Susannah, and you?” Magnolia asked, deciding not to rise
and greet her with the customary hug.
“So I gather Bebe’s up for this account?” Susannah said.
“Isn’t that a copy of it in your hand?” Magnolia asked.
“Oh,” Susannah said, as if she were surprised to discover she was
holding it. “I was just telling my boss how super the magazine looks.”
“Really, Susannah?” Magnolia asked. “Because ‘sorry excuse’
sounded like scant praise.”
Susannah’s jaw opened and shut like a mechanical dog’s. She and
Magnolia took each other’s measure.
“You’re too funny!” Susannah said. Without leaving her magazines
behind, she racewalked to the elevator door, which opened to dislodge
Darlene. The two gave each other big smooches as Susannah ducked
inside.
“Susannah Slutsky, that two-faced bitch,” Darlene said, lowering
her booming voice. “Can’t trust one thing she says. Bebe arrived yet?” Darlene smoothly
traded the InStyles for Bebe, and walked over to the Glamazon receptionist with an engaging smile. “We’re here for our two o’clock,” she said. “Darlene Knudson. Publisher of Bebe.” “We’ll call you when we’re ready, thanks,” the receptionist said.
“Water?”
“Sure, great,” Darlene said. “You’re a sweetie.” Darlene accepted
the Evian, parked herself, and shot Magnolia a cranky look. “Where’s
Bebe?” she half-whispered.
Magnolia shrugged. “Haven’t heard from her.”
“Well, Consuelo is a stickler for punctuality,” Darlene said, pulling
out her BlackBerry and trying Bebe’s number. “She doesn’t even have
her phone on!” Annoyed, she started making another call.
“Ms. Everett will see you now,” the receptionist announced five
minutes later.
Darlene and Magnolia walked into Consuelo Everett’s office, which
matched the reception room beige for beige, as did Consuelo herself, from her shorn, honeyed hair brushed away from her chiseled face,
to her vertigo-inducing buff suede boots. Consuelo walked toward
the door to embrace Darlene, as did her twenty-five-year-old twin
daughters, Consuelo Jr., and Sophia, who trailed behind her like
bridesmaids.
“Bebe will be here in ten minutes—she just phoned from her car to
say she’s on her way,” Darlene lied. “You know Magnolia Gold, right?”
Consuelo and her daughters offered gummy smiles and nods of hello.
“Consuelo, you’ve never looked better!” Darlene said with the
enthusiasm usually reserved for someone recovering from major cos
metic surgery. “Thank you not just for your support”—Glamazon had
eight pages and a potent scent strip in the launch issue—“but for
joining us last week at Canyon Ranch. I appreciate how difficult your
schedule is, and how hard it is to get away.”
“I have you to thank,” Consuelo said. “Lost five pounds.” She pulled
out the waistband of her size 0 café au lait leather pants.
“Shall we start with a PowerPoint, then,” Darlene said, as she
turned on her laptop. “Welcome to Bebe-world,” the presentation began, narrated in Bebe’s nasal voice. “Bebe is like no other magazine. It’s where American women learn to take charge of their lives.” The
images showed Bebe playing with Hell, driving her red Porsche along
the Pacific Coast Highway, interviewing Russell Crowe. “One of the
things I’ve learned in life is that bravado can take you a long way. In
fact, it can take you all the way.” The images continued. Bebe skydiv
ing, Bebe swinging on a trapeze, Bebe flying a plane.
Magnolia had already seen the presentation, created by Darlene’s marketing director. What connection it had to the lives of Bebe’s readers she’d yet to determine.
The PowerPoint concluded with a shot of the cover accompanied by Marvin Gaye singing, “What’s Going On.” “You can see that Bebe captures the spirit of a bold woman, the kind everyone wants to
become,” Darlene intoned. “The kind of buyer Glamazon has in
mind for Consuelo, its new fragrance, and its skin-care line.” Darlene
looked pleased. As she began to unroll the heart of her sales pitch,
however, there was a persistent knock. “Enter,” Consuelo said. The receptionist stuck in her head.
“Excuse me, Ms. Everett, but there’s a woman here who insists on
seeing you and she won’t tell me—”
Bebe shouldered her way past the young receptionist and walked
toward the round glass table where everyone was seated. “Damn grid
lock,” she said, as she threw off a sleeveless black coat that appeared
to be made of monkey fur. She deposited the garment on the edge of
Consuelo’s pristine desk.
“Bebe, I’d like you to meet Consuelo Everett,” Darlene said.
“Hey, Connie,” Bebe said, offering the executive her hand and a
grin. “So what do you think of my magazine?”
“Well, Bebe, we were just getting acquainted with it,” Consuelo
answered, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, her long,
French manicured fingers crossed over one another, which gave Mag
nolia a close-up of Consuelo’s hunky, canary diamond solitaire. “You
couldn’t have arrived at a more auspicious time.”
“Suspicious?” Bebe asked. “Of what?”
“Auspicious, Bebe,” Consuelo said. “I was wondering why you
believe Glamazon belongs in your magazine.”
“Come again?” Bebe asked.
“Our products, Consuelo parfum, Glamazon exfoliators, and agedefying eye enhancers—how do we know the Bebe reader will embrace them?” Consuelo asked evenly.
Bebe stared at Consuelo as if she’d just noticed she had a large
mole on her nose.
Darlene jumped in. “I can answer that. We know our reader’s an
upscale shopper—she buys more department store brands than drug
store, she’s young, she’s sophisticated, and she has a significant dispos
able income, $76,000. She’s Glamazon all the way.”
What rot, Magnolia thought. We know nothing. We don’t even
have final numbers on how well the first issue sold. The readers could
all shop with food stamps.
“I appreciate that, Darlene,” Consuelo said, “but—”
Bebe woke up. “When you buy Bebe you’re buying me, the complete Bebe Blake experience,” she asserted with conviction. “I stand for independence. And don’t your cosmetics?” As she leaned toward
Consuelo, the woman leaned back ever so slightly.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way,” said one of the matching
daughters.
Bebe and Darlene began talking over each other in increasingly
shrill tones. Magnolia tried to follow both conversations at once, but it
was as if they’d switched to Zulu. All she could pick out were the
occasional buzz words like “must buy” and, from Bebe, “dog doo.”
Then she heard her name spoken.
“Magnolia, would Lady’s reader have purchased Glamazon?” Consuelo asked. “From what I hear, those subscribers have been sent the
magazine.” All eyes turned to her.
“Glamazon’s new,” Magnolia answered, “so I can’t quote you hard facts, but we know the Lady reader always regarded high-end cosmetics as an affordable indulgence she felt she deserved. I can compare to, say, Chanel. The Lady reader couldn’t, frankly, afford the clothes or the bags, but she was a huge consumer of Chanel No. 5, the
lipsticks, and the nail polish. I’m positive the analogy would extend to
Glamazon.”
Consuelo looked satisfied. Darlene, Magnolia thought, looked
relieved. Bebe looked radioactive.
“Chanel #5 is for tight asses,” Bebe said, scowling. “Wouldn’t wear
it to a pig roast.”
Magnolia saw Darlene roll her eyes, although she was sure Con
suelo and her daughters did not. They were fixated on Bebe. Darlene
shot up.
“Isn’t she hilarious, our Bebe?” Darlene said to Consuelo. “That’s
what we love about her, complete and unbridled candor. I’m going to
be following up by phone this afternoon.” Darlene looked at her
watch. “Two forty-five? We’ve eaten up way too much of your time. Muchos, muchos gracias.” With that, Darlene herded Bebe out of the room, and Magnolia followed.
Riding to the office, Magnolia decided not to pierce the silence
with in-person thanks to Be
be for her birthday gift. Darlene stared
out one window, and Bebe, the other. Magnolia began to imagine the amusing recap of the meeting she’d be able to give Cam. Then it
dawned on her—a bad meeting was not necessarily good news, espe
cially not for her. No one talked for the rest of the ride.
“Damage control, damage control.” Magnolia muttered as she
rang Jock’s office after she returned. If she got to him immediately,
she could offer him her own carefully crafted summary—witty but
damning—of how Bebe had blown the ad sales call and how she,
Magnolia Gold, had tried to save the day. Score: Magnolia, 15; Bebe,
love.
“Any chance of getting a little time with the man?” she asked
Elvira, Jock’s gatekeeper. “Fifteen minutes?”
“And the purpose of the meeting is?” Elvira asked, reflected power
oozing through the phone line.
Manipulation? Retaliation? Garden-variety ass-saving? “Just a
Bebe update,” Magnolia answered.
“He’s got a heavy schedule for the next week, and then there’s a
trip to Shanghai,” Elvira replied. Magnolia could hear her making
blowing sounds as if she were drying her nails. “How about a week
from Friday at three-forty? Oops—he’ll be off to Key Largo.” The
season had arrived for the Sun God to go south on weekends.
“The following Monday?” Elvira suggested. “Ten-twenty?”
By then the Glamazon decision would have been announced—not to Bebe’s advantage, on that Magnolia would bet Biggie’s best bone— and her vigorous self-defense would be moot. “Elvira, please call me if
there’s a cancellation,” Magnolia said, knowing it would never happen.
“Even better, ask him if he couldn’t squeeze me in, okay?” So much
for having showered Elvira with cosmetics she’d asked Phoebe to
assemble for her birthday last summer. She may as well have given the
grab bag of Bobbi Brown and Lancôme products—Elvira’s favorites—
to the night maid.
Magnolia proceeded to Plan B and called in Sasha. “Do a drive-by
outside Jock’s office,” she instructed.
“Got it,” her assistant answered. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Glass walls throughout Scary extended to Jock’s vast, leathery do
main. While Magnolia knew better than to walk by his office herself, an innocent stroll from Sasha—an invisible assistant—would never