Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  She pushed aside the faded orange pillows on the brown foam sofa

  and opened Anna Wintour’s unauthorized biography, which she

  hadn’t been able to put down since she had started it the previous

  evening. Magnolia felt for Anna—no fewer than two hundred writers, photographers, and former colleagues of the Vogue editor in chief had gleefully tattled about how she was as cruel, cunning, and

  controlling as she was pin thin. On the other hand, the same crowd

  admitted she was brilliantly talented and industrious and could

  charm any snake slithering along her red-carpeted path. Magnolia

  thought she might learn a thing or two. How, for example, did Anna

  beguile every man she wanted for whatever purpose she had in mind?

  She was at the part when Anna has chewed her way through a

  number of magazines no longer included on her résumé and lands an interview at Vogue. Its editor in chief at the time asks her what job she aspires to. “Actually, the job I’d like is yours,” Anna answers

  before the woman ejects her from her office.

  Do not—repeat, not—do that tomorrow, Magnolia warned herself.

  As she began to wonder where Anna got her mutant strain of mon

  strous confidence—clearly, they didn’t grow it in North Dakota next

  to the amber waves of grain—Abbey walked through the door,

  Tommy at her side. For a couple planning to dissolve their marriage in

  the eyes of the tribe, they looked decidedly amicable.

  “Hey, Magnolia,” Tommy said, hugging her. “Sorry to hear about

  the end of your career.”

  This might, Magnolia realized, be his version of sensitivity.

  “Thanks, Tommy, but I’m hoping all that’s ended is one bad job, not

  my whole brilliant career,” she said, still simmering from his mid

  night visit months earlier.

  “Mr.—” Malka was checking her paperwork. “O’Toole?” She pro

  nounced the name as if she were sounding out a word in Urdu.

  “Rabbi Plotkin can take you in to see Rabbi Lipschitz now. Sign here, please.” Tommy walked to the desk as a tall young man entered the

  reception room from another chamber.

  “Rabbi Nachum Plotkin,” he said, shaking Tommy’s hand. “Or

  Nucki, your choice. Mrs. O’Toole, you stay—we’ll call you soon. You

  brought a friend, yes?”

  Abbey pointed to Magnolia.

  “Malka,” the receptionist said.

  Rabbi Nucki approached Magnolia. “You are a good person to be

  here,” he said. Magnolia put Anna in her bag, and extended her hand.

  The rabbi stepped back slightly, kept his hands by his sides, but

  smiled. Magnolia pulled back her hand. “Thank you, Malka,” he said.

  “We’ll talk later.” He escorted Tommy into the next room and closed

  the heavy double doors behind them.

  “Are you sure about this?” Magnolia whispered to Abbey. “You guys

  aren’t even legally separated yet—and this step is terminal.”

  “I’m sure,” Abbey whispered back. “It’s over with Tommy, no mat

  ter what.”

  Magnolia noticed Malka looking at them and felt rude for whisper

  ing. “Malka, have you worked here long?” she asked.

  “Since I graduated from Barnard last year,” she said, “but I’m quit

  ting soon.” She smiled happily and patted her stomach.

  “Congratulations,” Magnolia said.

  “Mazel tov,” Abbey added.

  “I’m blessed,” she said. “My husband, Avi—he’s a cardiology resi

  dent at Mount Sinai.”

  “Malkele,” an older man’s voice called from the other room.

  “Please send in Mrs. O’Toole.”

  Magnolia squeezed Abbey’s hand as she got up to join Tommy and

  the rabbis.

  “Malka, are you married?” the full-time Malka asked when they

  were alone.

  “No. Well once, a long time ago,” Magnolia said and decided to

  answer the inevitable question. “No kids.”

  “I know we’ve just met, but I’m wondering. Would you like to meet

  someone, Malka, a beautiful woman like you? Avi has an older brother, Chaim. He’s thirty-nine. His wife—of blessed memory—

  died. Breast cancer. Tragic.” Malka wiped away a tear. “Seven won

  derful children who need a mother. It’s been a year. You walking in today … You know beshert?”

  “I know beshert and thank you for thinking of me, I’m very flattered, but …”

  “But what?”

  “But no,” Magnolia said. “Though I thank you.”

  “You’re not interested. I understand,” Malka said and returned to

  her computer. In a moment she looked up. “Actually, I don’t under

  stand. If you don’t mind me asking, if you’re single, why wouldn’t you

  want to meet such a good man?”

  Magnolia put down her book. She began to feel like a tax return

  under audit. “I’m concentrating on work right now, that’s all.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “I work in magazines—although I don’t have a job just now.” She looked around, expecting to see at least a dog-eared Reader’s Digest. Nothing. “Malka, do you read any magazines?”

  “Yes, at the doctor’s office,” she said conspiratorially. “Especially fashion magazine—I like Good Housekeeping, Woman’s World, Vogue.”

  Anna Wintour, meet your reader, Magnolia thought, as Rabbi

  Nucki walked out of the other room and sat across from her. It took a

  moment for Magnolia to calculate that minus the Old Testament

  beard and side curls, dressed in a suit that didn’t hang on him as if he’d

  just lost thirty pounds, and with a spritz of bronzer to mitigate his

  indoor pallor, Rabbi Nucki could pass for a handsome Wall Streeter.

  “It’s sad when a marriage ends, yes, Malka?” he asked.

  “Yes, Rabbi. But Abbey and Tommy—they’ll meet other people.

  I’m sure of it.”

  “God willing. And you, Malka?”

  Magnolia looked into his earnest face. A better shirt and tie

  wouldn’t hurt, either. “My first priority is to find a new job, Rabbi,”

  she said. “The man can come later,” she added, surprised to be reveal

  ing anything to this ambassador from a galaxy far, far away. “If you believe, they both will happen, Malka,” he said. “Put your

  faith in the Almighty. As a great Talmudic scholar once said, and I

  paraphrase, yesterday’s history, tomorrow’s a mystery, and that’s why they call today ‘the present’—every day is a gift. Forshtes, Malka?”

  “Yes, I understand,” she said.

  “If you work hard, Malka, and believe, God above will reward

  you,” he said. “You want your dreams to come true? Then don’t sleep,

  and when fortune calls, offer her a chair.”

  Rabbi Nucki rose to leave. “Thank you for coming today,” he said.

  “It means a lot to your friend.” He smiled kindly and returned to the

  inner sanctum, leaving Magnolia to decode his message. As soon as the

  door closed, however, Malka hurried over and sat down next to her.

  “Malka,” the young woman said, “put out your left wrist and close

  your eyes.” When Magnolia opened them, she saw a delicate red

  thread tied next to her Cartier watch. “This will bring you blessings,”

  Malka said, “and protect you against the evil eye of jealousy.” A pity

  Scary didn’t direct-deposit these bracelets with paychecks. “Thank

 
you,” Magnolia said.

  “Don’t thank me,” Malka said. “This bracelet was meant for you.

  It will remind the One Above you want His protection. When you see

  it, you will remember to perform acts of kindness—like you have

  today—and that humility is an attribute of God.”

  I’m not sure I do humility, Magnolia thought.

  “Don’t take off the bracelet,” Malka warned. “When the job is done, the bracelet will be gone, Barusch Hashem.” She gave Magnolia a quick hug and returned to her computer as Abbey and Tommy

  opened the door, accompanied by Rabbi Nucki. Tommy’s eyes were as

  red as Magnolia’s newest accessory. Before he hurried out of the

  office, he shook the rabbi’s hand, kissed Abbey on the cheek, and

  waved to Magnolia.

  Magnolia and Abbey gathered their coats. “Go in peace, ladies,”

  Rabbi Nucki said as Malka offered her good wishes. In the elevator,

  neither Abbey nor Magnolia spoke.

  “You want to grab some coffee?” Magnolia asked when they

  reached the street, “or just cab it uptown?” “Caffeine,” Abbey said. “I don’t feel too steady.” They walked a

  few blocks in silence, until they found a Starbucks.

  “What was it like in there?” Magnolia asked, as they faced each

  other over cappuccino.

  “I sat apart from Tommy,” Abbey said quietly, “about twenty-five

  feet back from the rabbis and a scribe who wrote on parchment with a

  quill. Tommy had to read from a binder with plastic sleeves. Hebrew

  words written in English. He signed something. I don’t have a clue

  what it said.”

  “So he might have traded you for three briskets and a she-goat?”

  Magnolia said. Abbey didn’t laugh. “Did they ask why the marriage

  went bad?”

  “They only wanted to know two things—if I kept kosher and

  Shabbat,” Abbey said. “I assume they were disappointed on both

  counts.”

  “No chance to vent about what a rascal our Tommy was?” Magno

  lia asked. “Or for him to confess his sins?”

  “No,” she said. “At a certain point I had to pretend I was leaving

  with our marriage contract. They put a tiny cut in it and kept it. The

  people were gentle, but the whole thing was … formulaic.” Abbey wiped away a tear. “A marriage, poof, gone. I don’t know what I expected—more pomp and ceremony, certainly. I feel a lot more upset

  now than before.”

  Magnolia put her arm around Abbey’s shoulder, and the two of

  them sat until Abbey stopped crying.

  “I know you’re going to be all right,” Magnolia said softly. “A

  woman has to be open to possibilities, and you are.”

  Abbey looked unconvinced.

  “When fortune calls, offer her a chair,” Magnolia said.

  “Today’s horoscope?” Abbey sniffed, wiping her tears and finding a

  small smile.

  “Something a wise man said,” Magnolia said, pushing her red

  string under her sweater.

  “Are you going to tell me to go on JDate, too?” “Listen to Malka the wise,” Magnolia said. “We’ve got to work

  hard at this happiness business.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Abbey said. “I’m just rattled. Tommy broke

  down in the rabbi’s office—it’s only hitting him now that he blew it. I

  don’t want to be with him anymore, but we loved each other once and

  I need to mourn. I’m going to go home, get in bed, and hope I’ll sleep

  for twenty hours.”

  “If you want your dreams to come true,” Magnolia said, “don’t

  sleep.”

  Abbey looked at Magnolia as if she knew what she was talking

  about.

  C h a p t e r 3 4

  What Would Anna Do?

  “He’ll be with you in a few minutes,” the executive-floor receptionist said.

  Should the interviewer want to see it, Magnolia had printed her

  résumé on paper with such a high fiber count a historian would be able to read it centuries from then. The best pages from Lady and a few from Bebe were tucked away in a black matte leather portfolio. Her new Jimmy Choos could pass muster here. The question was,

  could she?

  If you visited the company’s cafeteria, you’d know that three

  fourths of the employees looked as bedraggled as much of the in

  dustry. A few six-foot swans contemplated whether to indulge in a

  leaf of radicchio, but you could count more jeans in the room than

  four-thousand-dollar suits, and most of the women actually had hips.

  Still, for a top job, Magnolia realized she’d be held to the highest

  standard.

  If Magnolia knew what job she was being considered for—if, in

  fact, she was being considered for a real job, not simply being

  appraised like a piece of meat—she might be less nervous. But when

  the editorial director e-mailed her, he’d been cryptic, and you don’t ask questions at Fancy—which is how Magnolia thought of this com

  pany. They weren’t the biggest publisher, and despite their glossiness,

  you could subscribe to many of their magazines for five dollars a year

  on Mags4Cheap.com, but in the Triple Crown of hauteur, Fancy was a

  high horse indeed.

  The editorial director met her himself in the outer lobby on his

  high floor. He walked her to his office, which, she was surprised to see, was smaller than her former suite at Lady.

  “Magnolia Gold,” he said. “At liberty, I understand.”

  “Free at last,” she said.

  “Bebe Blake, now there’s a train wreck.”

  Knock Bebe and she’d come off as a whiner; say nothing and she’d

  bore this guy. Magnolia settled on: “Bebe looks out for herself—

  you’ve got to admire her grit.”

  “But why back her in a magazine?” he said. “What was Jock Flana

  gan thinking?”

  Another land mine. For all Magnolia knew, Jock and her inter

  viewer played squash together twice a week. Magnolia decided to

  respond with a laugh—not a guffaw or a giggle, more of an airy

  chuckle—although when she heard herself she was afraid she had

  whinnied like a sick pony. Damn, what would Anna Wintour do? By

  now he would have mortgaged his co-op to buy her a sable.

  “How’s Bebe selling?” the editorial director asked.

  To say it was selling poorly wouldn’t do her a bit of good. “Rather

  well, actually,” Magnolia replied.

  “Well, these numbers Darlene Knudson’s spewing—are they for

  real?” he said. “Our publishers here aren’t buying them.”

  “You’d really have to ask Jock or Darlene,” Magnolia said, wishing

  he’d move to another topic.

  He read her mind. “So what do you think of our magazines?” he

  said.

  If she critiqued ferociously, he might kick her into the hall, a

  theme park of archival photographs and voices as muted as the color

  palette of the decor. Overpraise the magazines, and he’d think she was a suck-up with nothing to bring to his table. Magnolia decided to say

  only good things, sticking to magazines where she didn’t stand a

  chance of ever becoming editor in chief, and emphasize how much

  she particularly loved the men’s, home design, and food magazines.

  “I dig almost all of what you do,” she concluded. Did she just said dig in an interview?

  “Any you don’t dig?” the edi
torial director asked wryly.

  This is where an interview could turn ugly. Why didn’t this

  man stop torturing her and let her know why she was here?

  Should she happen to pounce on a magazine that he had decided was

  flawed and flay it in a manner he found cunning, at this notably mer

  curial company she might land herself a top job with a clothing

  allowance, a car and driver, and an interest-free loan for a country house. But which magazine? She could feel the seconds ticking away—or was that her pounding heart? She may as well have been on

  a TV game show.

  “Your teen title,” she finally said. “You could shake that one up,

  not be such a clone of the mother ship.”

  “Oh, really?” he said. “Do you think you’re the right generation to

  lead that magazine?”

  Ouch. Why didn’t he come out and say it: you, Magnolia Gold, have

  aged out of the teen books, which were—inexplicably—how the

  industry referred to magazines. Perhaps this company hadn’t heard

  that sixty was the new forty, and thirty-eight was a mere tot. She’d

  pretend he hadn’t made the remark. “Oh, no, teen books—not my

  thing at all,” Magnolia said, hating herself for being a weenie.

  “Magnolia, I like you,” he said. “You’ve done some lively work in a

  tired category. You have a good eye, an amusing voice, and you don’t

  seem to take yourself too seriously.” He made a sound that took Mag

  nolia a second to realize was a laugh. “We’re up to our eyeballs in

  divas here… .”

  Magnolia felt her ego inflate like a beach ball. She was going to

  thank him, when he continued.

  “… and you have the common touch.”

  She’d been drop-kicked back to Fargo. Though their readers weren’t any more gentrified than anyone else’s, at Fancy it was all

  class all the time.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Magnolia decided. “I’d

  like to believe I can see into the soul of a fair number of women.”

  His half-smile returned. “You know, there’s a new project we

  might talk about,” he said. “It’s flying a bit under the radar and goes by the code name Voyeur. You’ve heard about it, I assume.” Magnolia hadn’t. “Of course,” she said, and smiled in a way she

  hoped he took as knowing.

  “Excellent,” he said. He removed a short document from a folder