Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  here before someone walks in on us.” She motioned for Sasha to leave,

  but her assistant didn’t move.

  “Am I going to lose my job?” she asked, sniffling.

  “Really, Sasha,” Magnolia said. “No one’s going to lose her job.”

  Hopefully. “But if anything like this ever happens again, I want my

  cell phone ringing, my BlackBerry popping. I want a frigging blimp outside my window. Capeesh? What I don’t want is to be woken up to hear about it from Natalie Simon.”

  “I get it,” Sasha said, still trembling. “No problem.”

  “And while we’re at it, Sasha, don’t ever say that again, ever!”

  Magnolia screamed. “Now go act normal and don’t breathe a bloody

  word to anybody.”

  As Sasha walked out, Cameron walked in, holding the Post. He closed the door behind him.

  “You know, Magnolia,” he said, chuckling. “I’m only thirty-six,

  and up until now I have never felt old. But Bebe fondling Polo? I’m

  crushed. And here I thought Felicity was the weirdo.”

  “Felicity?” Magnolia said. “She’s just toady.”

  “Where Bebe is a real predator?”

  “In the Hollywood sense, yes,” Magnolia said. “Thinks everyone

  and everything is available for her amusement.”

  “So it’s true,” Cameron said. “Just when I was starting to like her.”

  “If you must know, I was, too,” Magnolia admitted. She’d been liv

  ing off the fumes of her Hugh Grant evening.

  “Well, is there’s anything I can do?”

  “You can,” Magnolia said. “Try to make sure people do some work

  today.”

  All day long, that’s exactly what Magnolia tried to do. There was a

  numbing dearth of new information. She didn’t hear from Natalie,

  Jock, or even Elizabeth. She definitely didn’t hear from Bebe. The

  only call came from Legal, and other than Cameron, the sole person

  on the staff to acknowledge the incident was Felicity.

  “A lot of hooey over nothing,” Bebe’s designated hitter said when

  she paid a visit to Magnolia. “This country is too litigious. And when

  a celebrity gets in the mix, all anyone sees is a cash register. It’s not as

  if that snot-nosed Polo needs the money. Poor Beebsy.”

  “Poor Beebsy?” Magnolia said. “She was taking advantage of that

  boy!”

  “It was a setup,” Felicity sniffed. “Nathaniel exploited Bebe’s good

  nature—after she gave him the opportunity to design a cover of a

  national magazine! It’s shameful. I’m urging Bebe to take her lawyer’s

  advice to countersue.”

  “Countersue?” Magnolia wailed. “There were witnesses.”

  “Witness—only one—and she has an ax to grind,” Felicity said icily, apparently unaware that Sasha had been in the closet. “Magnolia, dear,

  I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the most credible observer.”

  “Felicity, out!” She pointed to the door. “You codependent leech.

  What kind of shit are you shoveling?” “Well, if memory serves, young Nathaniel’s here courtesy of you

  and your friend Natalie Simon,” Felicity said with a final smirk, as she

  slammed the door so hard the papers on Magnolia’s desk scattered.

  At five, Magnolia attempted a drive-by visit to Natalie, who hadn’t

  responded to the three messages she’d left. As Magnolia got out of the

  elevator, however, Jock was walking toward Natalie’s office and she

  aborted her mission.

  A half hour later, Jock’s assistant called to inform her she had a

  command performance: lunch with him tomorrow.

  The next morning the Bebe story was bouncing around the Internet, but the television shows, both news and celebrity—to the

  degree you could tell them apart—had stopped reporting the inci

  dent, probably on advice of lawyers. Magnolia didn’t know if she was

  in the eye of the hurricane or if it had blown out to sea and, as a

  result, she deliberated for twenty minutes about what to wear. Every

  thing in her closet looked too giddy, too grim, or too prim. She ulti

  mately defaulted to an old black velvet jacket, narrow tweed pants,

  and black suede boots that gave her three and a half extra inches of

  courage. Whether she was preparing for her own memorial service or

  a tête-à-tête on the post-Polo spin cycle—which her inner optimist

  decided was more likely—she felt well-dressed.

  At 12:15, she waited at the appointed spot downstairs, the late

  December wind whipping her face. Ten minutes passed. She called

  Jock’s office to see if he was delayed. No answer. Then she heard him.

  “Over here, Magnolia.” He was calling to her from his town car.

  “C’mon in.”

  She’d assumed they’d walk to one of his neighborhood joints—the

  Gramercy Tavern, perhaps, or Union Square Café. But a car? In that

  case, she hoped for Michael’s or the Four Seasons. “Where are we

  eating?” she asked, forcing a smile, as she settled herself on the seat

  next to him.

  “It’s a surprise,” Jock said. They traveled south, crawling along Broadway in the seasonal slog.

  Might they wind up at WD-40? Nobu? That hole in the wall with

  taxidermy at the end of Freeman Alley? No, they kept going, and sud

  denly they were on a bridge. Jock must be one of those Manhattanites

  who’s just discovered Brooklyn, Magnolia decided, praying they

  weren’t headed for a slab of cow at Peter Luger’s.

  During the drive, the conversation skirted Bebe and Polo, though

  Jock did bring up the gun cover. “Not only is it nuts, that cover, this

  morning I found out a bunch of the supermarket chains won’t display

  it,” Jock complained. “As goes Wal-Mart, so goes our newsstand—

  right down the toilet.”

  Magnolia felt her stomach turn over. He’s going to blame me. What was I thinking, that today’s lunch would be about making the Polo mess go away? I’m over. Talk about deluded.

  She had a sudden urge to tell the driver to turn around, that she just

  remembered her apartment was on fire. But then Jock switched to

  harmless subjects, and she zoned out, trying to respond at appropriate

  moments. After twenty more minutes, they arrived at a Brooklyn

  restaurant that Michelin had proclaimed one of the city’s best. As they

  stepped behind a velvet curtain, Jock pressed his hand on Magnolia’s

  back to guide her to a corner table in the tiny, avocado green room.

  Jock ordered a bottle of 1997 ZD Cabernet Sauvignon—the restau

  rant was known for its wine list—and quickly downed a glass, urging

  Magnolia to do the same. “A toast,” he said. “To Magnolia, a woman of

  exceptional talent, courage, and valor.” He clicked her glass.

  “Thanks, Jock,” Magnolia said, suspicious of the accolade.

  “You’ve been a great sport, kid,” he said. “I thought you deserved a

  good thanks. Let’s start with the roasted beets with goat cheese ravioli

  and toasted pine nuts. Or would you rather have the ratatouille

  stuffed squid?”

  “Beets, definitely,” she said. To match my face.

  “And for an entrée, I insist on the duck.”

  Magnolia studied the menu. Slow rendered duck breast, braised sprouts and Aligoté in a caramelized red vinegar sauce. Aligoté? She’d definitely missed the press
release on whatever that was. Throughout

  both courses, Jock kept their wineglasses filled as he nattered on about

  his vacation to Dubai, Little Jock’s thoroughbred, and paintings he

  hoped to acquire at auction.

  Magnolia responded in a language she was fairly sure was English,

  but her head was on her job, which she now convinced herself would

  be terminated by the end of the lunch. As galling as it was to have to

  report to Bebe, and to be second-guessed by Felicity, to be tossed out of

  Scary would be far worse. If she were to get a new job, she wanted it

  to be on her terms, not Jock’s.

  Finally, Bebe came up.

  “She’s quite the girl, our Ms. Blake,” Jock said. “We haven’t seen

  the end of this mess with that Fine boy. But at least we’ve put pressure

  on the media to bury the story so we can try and settle out of court—

  though Bebe’s going to have to pay big, bigger than we will, to make it

  go away.”

  He finished off his wineglass and refilled it. “The newsstand mess,

  though,” Jock said, “that’s not a small thing.” He looked as if his best

  friend had just received an HIV-contaminated transfusion. “I’ve got it

  at me every which way.”

  He’s fattened me up for the kill, Magnolia thought. Here it comes,

  the rubout.

  “There’s a lot of stress with being in charge,” Jock groaned. Wait—

  was he showing sympathy? Wrong. He was talking about himself.

  The server came over to offer dessert: “Gingerbread pudding or

  chocolate fig cake?”

  “I couldn’t possibly, thanks,” Magnolia said.

  “A double espresso,” Jock said. “And chocolate fig cake.”

  “Sir, will that be with coconut ice cream or passion fruit sorbet?”

  “Passion fruit.” As the waiter walked away, Jock leaned in closer

  across the small table and filled both their glasses with the last of

  their second bottle of wine. “We’re headed for some hairpin turns,

  Magnolia. But you can help.” He raised his glass, as if for a toast. “Do

  you know you are a very beautiful woman?” he asked in a soft growl. He moved his face so near hers, she could smell the Cabernet

  Sauvignon and she instinctively—though she hoped not noticeably—

  backed away. This lunch was definitely not passing the sniff test.

  “Why, thank you, Jock, you are very kind,” she said stiffly.

  “Relax,” he laughed, and took her hand. “Have I been good to you?”

  Yeah, Jock, you’ve been great. Murdering Lady. Demoting me. Importing my replacement. “Yes, Jock. I appreciate everything you’ve

  done for me.”

  “Good. I’ve always thought the two of us could be a team. There’s

  something between us. I know you can feel it. And I like the way

  you’ve at least tried to stand up to that bitch, Bebe. You’ve got, what’s

  the word you people like? Chutzpah.” He took her hand and rubbed

  his fingers slowly between hers. “What do you say?”

  Coming on to her now, while a sexual harassment suit was

  whizzing through the air? He must be totally disassembling. Magnolia shifted in her chair and backed away a little farther. I say, Ewww that’s what I’d like to say. “I am so fucked” also comes to mind. She

  considered telling a lie like “I’m very flattered, but I like the way

  things are now, Jock—although if you were single and not my boss

  and ten years younger …”

  “Jock, maybe we should regroup when we haven’t had two bottles

  of wine” was the most authentic and politic response Magnolia could

  muster.

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said, trying to penetrate her

  eyes with a look she was sure he imagined was seductive.

  “I don’t think you do. Do you really see this, of all times, as the

  moment for you to start up with me?” she said, removing her hand

  from his grasp. “Do you want more scandal, more items in the paper?”

  “Magnolia, who’s going to know?” he said, the words a threat.

  “Everyone,” she said. “Because I’ll tell them.”

  Jock stared at her.

  “I will,” she said.

  After an uncomfortable pause, he cleared his throat, adjusted his

  glasses, and called for the bill. “I see,” he said, putting on his coat

  without helping her with hers. The two of them walked to the car. The ride back to Manhattan felt as long as a flight to New Zealand

  and allowed plenty of time for second-guessing. What made her be so

  harsh? Why hadn’t she just manufactured a hidden fiancé?

  Neither one of them spoke until they were just a few blocks from

  Scary. “I’m considering a new position for you, Magnolia,” Jock said,

  “given everything that’s gone down in that war zone between you and

  Bebe. Yes, I’m definitely thinking about ‘corporate editor.’ ” He was

  staring straight ahead, delivering his announcement as gravely as if

  he were informing the Vatican that the pope had died.

  “Corporate editor?” Magnolia squeaked. In a few companies, cor

  porate editor wielded heft. But more often, just like editor at large

  translated to editor who’s small, it was a hollow position. Jock might

  give her projects—should this position come to pass—but unless they

  came with his clear imprimatur, no one at Scary would take the

  assignments seriously, despite her sweaty efforts to wield vigilante

  authority. “Corporate editor?” It was like being named weather girl

  for the three A.M. news telecast in Tulsa.

  “Yes, everyone around here needs a change.” Jock hopped out of

  the car without saying good-bye. “Corporate editor. Magnolia, think

  it over.”

  C h a p t e r 2 6

  Pluck Sucks

  “Run it by me again,” Abbey said as they looped around the Reservoir. “When Jock said, ‘You think it over,’ was he talking

  about that other job or the Hot Sheets Hotel?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but figured Hot Sheets was like an airline reserva

  tion—forty-eight hours and the offer would expire,” Magnolia said.

  “Which I let it do, although I was dying to know what name he’d use

  for reservations.”

  “So you have another new job?” Abbey asked.

  “Scary’s corporate editor,” Magnolia said. “Last stop before obliv

  ion.” And for someone like her, who loved slaying dragons, living

  death.

  “Did you have a choice?” Abbey asked as they ended their run.

  “I could have quit,” Magnolia said. “Call me a coward. I chose pay

  check over trying to prove sexual harassment.”

  “Jock’s word against yours? I’m no lawyer, but it doesn’t sound like

  an airtight case,” Abbey said. “Now tell me, what do corporate editors

  do?”

  “Look busy,” Magnolia said. “The job doesn’t come with a training

  manual, so I’ll have to write it myself. Jock will probably ask me to

  interfere at the other magazines—critique them, submit ideas, sit in on meetings—and all the Scary editors in chief will despise and

  ignore me.” Magnolia realized as she was talking about work, she was

  getting increasingly tense, even though she’d just finished a four-mile

  run that was designed to obliterate stress. She knew she had to change

  th
e subject.

  “I want to hear about you and Tommy,” she said. “Are you really

  and truly over?”

  “Done-d’-done-done,” Abbey said. “I’ve sprinted through the five

  stages of breakup—denial, anger, depression, reconciliation sex, and

  Match.com.”

  “How goes online dating?” she asked as they walked into Abbey’s

  apartment building. Upstairs, Abbey began to brew coffee in her clut

  tered but utterly charming kitchen with its checkerboard floor and

  tall, glass-fronted cabinets filled with white china.

  “Women lie about their age—for men, it’s height,” she said.

  “Every guy I’ve met could be technically classified a carnival midget.

  I definitely have to post my own ad.” She handed Magnolia pen and

  paper. “So I’m giving you an assignment. Be creative. Help me write

  one.”

  “Ooh, fun. Give me a few essentials.”

  Abbey took out her notes. ” ‘Good listener,’ ‘great friend,’ ‘and

  ‘compassionate’?” She looked for Magnolia’s approval.

  Magnolia shook her head. “That’s fine if you want to head up the

  Red Cross,” she said. “Lead with your looks.”

  ” ‘Pretty’ ?”

  ” ‘Pretty’ is code for ‘not exactly hideous in the right light,’ ” Mag

  nolia said. “Pretty is flowered dresses, jars of jam, Snow White,

  granny quilts.”

  “Got it. ‘Beautiful’ ?” Abbey said. “As in ‘my friends say I’m

  beautiful’?”

  Magnolia thought it over. “Beautiful scares the nuts off men,” she

  said. “Let’s go with ‘adorable.’ And it’s true. ‘Adorable, sexy, artistic,

  laser wit.” Magnolia made a list. “Are you writing this for you or me?”

  Abbey asked.

  “Mine would say, ‘Temporarily closed for renovation.’ Back to you. ‘Great with hands’?” Magnolia wondered. “Why not? Truth in adver

  tising. Now we need something like ‘more Guggenheim than Frick,’ ‘More Breakfast at Tiffany’s than Two for the Road ‘ ?” She drank half her coffee. “Think, Abbey.”

  ” ‘More Paris flea market than Bergdorf ‘s’ ?”

  “Perfect. Clever but not too. You don’t want to come off too Maureen Dowd. Brilliantly cutting and movie star gorgeous. Talk about a killer combo—poor thing, we should invite her to brunch—she must never go out. Although it doesn’t help to write a book called Are Men Necessary?”