Little Pink Slips

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