Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  “No!” Magnolia moaned. “Not him!”

  “Why not?” Natalie asked. “Wally Fleigelman is one of the best

  labor lawyers in town, and I’m not saying that because he’s my cousin.”

  “I am not using Wally,” Magnolia said. “No! This is a guy who took

  the bar four times.”

  “Magnolia, you haven’t kept up,” Natalie said. “For the kind of

  mess you must be in, your ex is the gold standard.”

  “But we haven’t spoken in years,” Magnolia said, which was the

  least of it.

  “Start,” Natalie said. “Besides, if you handle yourself right, know

  ing Wally, he’ll waive the fee.” “What do you take me for?” Magnolia looked at Natalie in mock

  shock.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter—I didn’t mean that at all,”

  Natalie said. “According to my aunt Joyce, he’s gaga for his wife.”

  “The lovely Whitney Fink Fleigelman?”

  “You know her?”

  “I hear things.” And see things, like Whitney in a lineup of

  blondes photographed at the Central Park Conservancy annual spring

  lunch, though it was hard to see her face, given the enormous, flow

  ered Queen Elizabeth hat.

  Natalie reached for her brown lizard address book and copied

  Wally’s number, which she pressed into Magnolia’s hand as they

  walked to the front door.

  “Thanks, Natalie,” Magnolia said as Imogene magically appeared

  with her jacket and helped her into it.

  “Anything more you want to tell me?” Natalie said mischievously

  as Magnolia buttoned up. “The reason why Jock would want to be an

  even bigger putz than usual, let’s say?” An armful of Natalie’s bangles

  jingled as she placed her hand on Magnolia’s arm, “Listen,” Natalie

  added, “I’m not Jock’s type, but … I hear things.”

  Magnolia weighed Natalie’s request for the fine points. “No, I’m

  good,” she said, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Call him.”

  Magnolia stuffed the number in her pocket.

  How do you start a conversation with a man who was your husband for a twelve-month eternity? It was 9:30 in the morning. If Wally

  was the Mr. Big that Natalie claimed, he’d surely be at his desk by now.

  She dialed his number: 212-644-0000. “Fleigelman’s,” a polite voice

  said.

  No more Fleigelman Kelly Sinatra Rodriguez and Roth? Wally

  must be a lone ranger now.

  “Mr. Fleigelman, please.” “Who may I say is calling?”

  His ex-wife? An old friend? “Magnolia Gold.”

  “Hold, please.”

  A minute went by, then several, until a breathy voice came on the

  line.

  “Mrs. Fleigelman speaking. May I help you?”

  Damn that Natalie. Why did she give her Wally’s home number?

  Magnolia wanted to hang up, but all Wally’s wife had to do was *69

  her and she’d be busted. “I was looking for Wally, please. This is …

  his first wife.”

  “Scarlett? Oh, excuse me. It’s Melanie, isn’t it?”

  Magnolia did not care to guess how often she’d been the punch line

  of Wally and Whitney’s jokes. “And you must be Tiffany,” she said.

  “Wally’s at his office,” Whitney Fleigelman said curtly. “May I

  know what this is in reference to?”

  “Something personal. I mean, personal business. Well, really just

  business,” she stammered. “I’ll catch him another time. Sorry to

  bother you.” She rushed off and called Abbey.

  “I feel like such a twit,” Magnolia said. “Natalie suggested I ask Wally for legal help—”

  “Wally who?” Abbey asked.

  “My starter husband,” Magnolia said, pacing the room.

  “Oh, Wally Finklestein,” Abbey said.

  “Close enough,” Magnolia said. “Fleigelman.”

  “You were Magnolia Goldfarb Fleigelman?”

  “Just barely,” Magnolia said.

  “That anchorwoman the network wanted to replace with the American Idol runner-up—a Walter Fleigelman I read about got her two million bucks. I kept meaning to ask if he’s your ex.”

  “If he is, he’s my guy,” Magnolia said. “Oops, call waiting. Talk soon.”

  “Would this be the best damn ass in Manhattan?” the genial caller

  said. “The wildly successful magazine lady?” The voice sounded even fuller of bravado than she remembered.

  “Not anymore, Wally,” Magnolia said.

  “You mean you didn’t phone my home because you hoped to start

  things up again?” he said. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “How are you, Wally?”

  “Can’t complain,” Wally said. “When you’ve got your health, you’ve

  got everything.” He’d apparently morphed into his pinochle-playing

  grandfather. “Plus, in my case, seven-year-old twins; the wife, who’s a

  looker, by the way …”

  “That so?” Magnolia said.

  “… the apartment, Aspen, Southampton, solid practice—knock

  wood—and still shoot in the seventies. Over Christmas, my third hole

  in one. Boca’s always been my lucky charm.”

  “So I recall,” Magnolia said, remembering one of their more

  three-dimensional fights, which took place on a visit to his parents’

  condo there, and featured a redheaded tennis pro.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fleigelman. Like I said, Can’t complain.”

  “Well, I can,” Magnolia said. “My company’s trying to pretend I

  don’t have a contract. They eliminated my job and want to cut me

  loose with virtually no severance. I’m completely nuts. Don’t know

  what I’ll do for money. Sell my eggs?”

  “Does this mean there’s no Mr. Gold to pay your bills?”

  “You know Daddy has never given me a dime.”

  “I’m thinking husband, Magnolia,” Wally said, chuckling.

  “Oh, one of those,” she said. “Tried that. Didn’t take.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still single, gorgeous girl like you. You’re

  what now, thirty-six?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Should have stayed with me, kid,” Wally said and laughed again.

  At this rate she and Wally would be kibitzing all morning. “Wally,

  I hate to hit you with this, but I was wondering if you’d take my

  case?” Magnolia said. “Please.”

  “So Maggie needs Wally, after all,” he said. “Let’s see. I have a load

  of depositions in Washington tomorrow, then off to Seattle Monday.

  May be there for a few weeks.”

  “If you don’t have the time, I understand,” she said.

  “For you, I’ll make time,” he said. “Can you be in my office at three?”

  Except for the cigar and a slightly higher forehead, Wally hadn’t changed much. He was still broad-shouldered, bespeckled, and loud.

  “How do I look?” he said, patting his head. “I’m one of those

  schmucks where Propecia did zip. The minute I turned forty, my dad’s

  face started staring back at me in the mirror.”

  “You look like you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek “Not a day

  older and oozing charm.” She noticed that he still wasn’t stingy with

  the aftershave, although along with a better wardrobe he’d upgraded

  to a more subtle scent than Old Spice. His suit was light gray wool; the

  shirt, red-striped with a white collar, French cuffs, and discreet gold
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  cuff links; the shoes, soft, well-polished black leather oxfords; and the

  tie, subtle silk twill.

  “You look like someone I was married to once, only prettier,” Wally

  said, hanging up Magnolia’s coat and motioning for her to sit at the

  couch in the corner of his office, where the wraparound windows

  looked north over the park and west toward the Hudson. On the

  glass table in front of the couch were a stack of legal pads and a foun

  tain pen.

  “Nice outfit, by the way,” he said. “My wife would approve.”

  For their meeting Magnolia pulled out her Chanel bag, a black

  Dolce & Gabbana skirt—Wally had always complimented her legs,

  whose calves, she thought, were a little too muscular, but were just

  like his mother’s—and a pale pink V-neck sweater that revealed a

  peek of cleavage. She hoped her choices balanced needy female with

  worth-every-damn-dime executive.

  “Thanks, Wally,” she said. “Love to see pictures of your kids.”

  He walked to his desk and returned, carrying a photograph of two

  toothless tykes with long bangs and chin-length, dark brown hair.

  “Harper and Morgan.” Magnolia didn’t want to ask if they were boys,

  girls, or one of each.

  “Adorable,” she said.

  “Take after their mommy,” he said.

  “You were always eager to be a dad,” Magnolia said.

  “Didn’t that have something to do with our splitting up?”

  That, the tennis pro, and an almost complete lack of shared inter ests, but who’s keeping score? “We were just too young to be married,”

  Magnolia said. “At least I was.”

  “So, tell Wally everything,” he said. “You have a contract they

  don’t want to honor?”

  “The company’s claiming it’s for a job that no longer exists,” Magnolia said, and retold her story of Lady turning overnight into Bebe, of being demoted to deputy editor of Bebe, then being switched to corporate editor of nothing.

  “With all these different jobs, were you paid the same?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said, placing her contract on the table.

  “And how much was that?”

  She handed him pay stubs from each job.

  Wally whistled. “Not bad,” he said. “That’s what you get for put ting in commas? Wish my wife pulled in dough like this—I wouldn’t

  be busting my balls.” As Magnolia scrolled through her brain for a

  response, he continued. “Just kidding—I love that Whitney’s home

  with the kids. She’s always bitching about how all those committees

  she’s on are as much trouble as a job, though. You tell me.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” answered Magnolia, truthfully.

  “So, anything more?” Wally asked.

  Magnolia debated whether or not to tell Wally about Jock’s come-on. As a lawyer, he’d surely heard far more lurid tales, but as an ex

  husband who always accused her of being a flirt—despite the fact

  that he was the actual cheat—she hated the idea of Wally’s judging

  her. She decided to edit that part of the story.

  “Seems pretty clear to me,” Magnolia said.

  “Then I’ll read this contract on the plane, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Call you as soon as I can, and you call me if any other details come

  to mind.”

  “Thanks, Wally,” she said, as he helped her into her sheared mink.

  “Your fees?” “You can afford me,” he said, laughing, and paused. “Hey, I’m

  thinking, why don’t you come to our place Sunday? Whitney’s having

  a bunch of friends in. Superbowl.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Wally,” she said. “Don’t you have to ask her

  first?” To get him to take her case, did she really have to sit through

  hours of Fleigelmans and football?

  “What’s to ask about?” he said. “We’re at 740 Park. Any time after

  four.”

  “Sunday, then,” Magnolia said. If she didn’t come down with a

  twenty-four-hour virus and have to beg off.

  “Just one more question,” he said.

  She knew it: he’d read her mind, and was going to nail her on the

  Jock proposition.

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “What’d you do with the ring?”

  “The ring?” Magnolia said.

  “You forgot about a flawless three-carat emerald-cut stone set in

  platinum with two serious baguettes?” he asked. “Did you hock it?

  Turn it into a necklace? That’s what Whitney did with her first ring.

  You need a loupe just to find the little fucker.”

  “The ring’s in a safety-deposit box, Wally,” she said. “I like know

  ing it’s there.”

  “You always were such a Midwesterner,” he said. “And I was some

  schmuck to let you keep both that ring and the apartment.” He gave

  her a hug and patted her butt.

  As Magnolia walked down the hall, she could still hear him

  laughing.

  C h a p t e r 3 2

  A Defining Address

  “Abbey, what do people wear to watch football?” Magnolia called to ask.

  “Cameron, what do people wear to watch football?” Abbey

  shouted. At three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, it appeared that Satur

  day night hadn’t ended for the newest couple on the Upper West Side.

  Magnolia didn’t like to think of herself as a jealous person—not

  when it came to close friends—but the thought of Abbey and Cam

  having sex made her squirmy; not picturing-your-parents-in-bed

  squirmy, but close. Was it because she felt left out? One down? Propri

  etary about Cameron? Abbey kept insisting they hadn’t slept together,

  but Magnolia found that hard to believe.

  Cameron grabbed the phone. “Jeans, sweatshirts, and cheese

  heads,” he said.

  “Cheeseheads are for Wisconsin,” Magnolia said. “Even I know

  that. They’re not playing, and I doubt this is a sweatshirt crowd. Put

  Abbey back on.”

  “Go with a sweater and good jeans,” Abbey said, taking back the

  phone.

  “You’re sure? Friends don’t let friends make fashion faux pas.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Boots: high or low?”

  “Low,” Abbey declared. “It’s Sunday afternoon.”

  Of the better buildings on Park, 740 was even more persnickety about its owners’ pedigrees than Jock’s residence up the street or

  Natalie’s co-op on Fifth. Rumor had it a co-op applicant needed a liq

  uid net worth of more than $100 million to pass the board, which was

  rumored to have ixnayed show biz types, including Barbra Streisand

  and Liz Taylor. It wasn’t lost on Magnolia that Wally had probably

  extended his invitation to give her a taste of what she’d missed.

  She checked the time that the game would start, and calibrated her

  five o’clock arrival to be late enough to avoid pregame chitchat, but

  not so late that Wally would consider her a brat unworthy of his help.

  Magnolia checked her coat in the lobby as the doorman directed, and

  rode the elevator to eleven.

  Maybe this was a sweatshirt crowd: a pack of small boys in Manhat

  tan private school sweatshirts opened the door and confidently yelled

  out, “Hello” like the type-A investment bankers and hedge-fund man

  agers they would no doubt later become. Magnolia took a guess and

  a
ddressed the tall child who resembled Wally’s pre-braces, Raquette

  Lake Boys Camp photographs. “Are you Morgan?” she asked.

  “Do I look like a girl?” he said. “I’m Harper. Who are you?”

  “A friend of your daddy’s,” she said. “Magnolia Gold.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Gold,” he said, and tore off up the staircase with his friends. She left the chocolates she’d brought next to a vase of white

  calla lilies on a large, exquisitely polished table. As Magnolia was try

  ing to figure out her next move, one of the French doors at the end of

  the foyer opened. From a distant room in the generously proportioned

  apartment, she heard a buzz of conversation. A waitress walked

  toward her with a silver tray of empty champagne flutes.

  “Hello, Mag—Miss Gold,” she said.

  “Hello,” Magnolia said.

  “I temped for you when Sasha was on vacation,” she said. “Remember?”

  “Of course,” Magnolia said, drawing a blank. Magnolia prayed

  she’d done nothing to offend this girl, and that she wasn’t marketing a

  novel based on an egomaniacal editor in chief.

  “I’ll be back with refills,” the waitress said and pointed toward the

  doors. “Everyone’s in the media room.”

  Magnolia entered a gathering of no less than a hundred people.

  The room smelled like a cigar bar crossed with the fragrance floor

  of Bloomingdale’s. Every woman was perfectly blow-dried and the

  men—Magnolia couldn’t see any men, although at the other end

  of the room, which had to be at least thirty-five feet long, she could

  pick out an enormous plasma television screen. Magnolia was al

  ways astonished that you could live in Manhattan for years, yet in

  a crowd notice no one familiar. An anthropologist could get loopy

  mapping the town’s circles of influence—so many people considered

  themselves supremely important, yet relatively few circles over

  lapped.

  As she searched the room for Wally, a trio of blondes seemed to be

  looking at her. Magnolia approached them. “Magnolia Gold,” she

  said, extending her hand.

  “Lizzie,” the tall one said, “and this is Julia and Rachel.” Each was

  dressed as if for the most important job interview of her life, except

  with more jewelry. Magnolia saw them eyeing her jeans. If they

  asked about them, she’d have to say she’d just come from mucking out

  her barn, that the horses couldn’t wait.