Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

on his big, uncluttered desk. “So if you’ll sign this mutual confiden

  tiality agreement, please.”

  Magnolia stared at the legal letter. Nobody said no to this company,

  but Wally would beat her with a nine iron if she made another foren

  sic boo-boo. “I’m going to have to show this to my attorney,” she said.

  “Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “None of the other candi

  dates have.”

  “Isn’t it refreshing that I’m not like any of your other candi

  dates?” Her remark failed to make him remove the agreement. Mag

  nolia put down her silver fountain pen and closed her tiny blue

  leather notebook.

  He took her measure. “We could handle this differently, if you

  wish,” he said. “I won’t show you our prototype, and you could simply

  hum a few bars and get back to me on paper.”

  “I could,” Magnolia thought. Only she couldn’t, since she hadn’t a clue what Voyeur was. For all she knew, he had made up the name and project two minutes before. “But I really need to know a bit more.

  What I’ve heard, it’s … sketchy.”

  He walked to his window, which had a commanding view of

  Times Square. With his back turned to her, he spoke. “Think of the

  magazines that celebrate Hollywood. Now imagine something entirely original. That’s Voyeur. Sex, glamour, dirty secrets.”

  “Aren’t you describing Vanity Fair?” Magnolia said, not to mention Dazzle and all the others. Celebrity magazines had been popping out like free boob jobs in a San Fernando Valley shopping mall. “Not literary,” he said, as if that were obvious. “It would be for

  next-generation readers—and I use that term lightly—who prefer

  the celebrity blogs and webzines. I would think your experience with

  Bebe would allow you some insights.” He gave her a sphinxlike

  glance. “We’ll only run with this if we find the right vision,” he said.

  “It’s always about the editor.”

  “Deadline?” Magnolia asked.

  “I’m leaving soon for the Oscars. A few weeks from now is fine.”

  “I’m on it,” Magnolia said.

  “By the way,” he said, “the red bracelet? Nice touch. Very Ma

  donna.”

  C h a p t e r 3 5

  Knickers in a Twist

  Magnolia didn’t know whether her firing was an exclamation point at the end of a flickering work life or an ellipsis during a

  long, rambling passage, but one thing she did know was if she was

  going to breakfast with Natalie, she’d need the holy trinity—good

  hair, good shoes, and a good bag. One, two, three, blastoff.

  As Magnolia pushed open the door to Michael’s crowded entry and

  deposited her coat, someone jostled her from behind. She turned in

  time to see Jock roaring out the door, his head a black comet careen

  ing across Fifty-fifth Street. Darlene was the comet’s tail, her long

  Prada coat flying. But before her former publisher could cut and run

  into the cold morning, she turned to Magnolia and yowled two words:

  “Whip smart.”

  Escorted by the maître d’, Magnolia walked to Natalie’s usual table,

  nervously waiting for faces to turn and inspect her. Every diner, how

  ever, was buried in a paper. Magnolia thought she heard someone

  say the identical words Darlene had shrieked, but she couldn’t hear—

  the room was rocking as if it were the White House Correspondents

  dinner and the First Lady had got off a zinger piercing the presi

  dent’s ego. “Fresh orange juice?” the waiter said, barely concealing a giggle.

  “Just coffee, please,” Magnolia answered.

  “Mrs. Simon phoned to say she was running late,” he continued,

  his snicker exploding. He paused until he controlled himself. “May I bring you a newspaper, Miss Gold? Wall Street Journal, the Times—”

  “The Post, please,” Magnolia said. With today’s thorough primping, she hadn’t read it. The waiter placed the tabloid in front of her,

  folded. All she could see was the business end of a whip dangling by a

  pair of sturdy, fishnet-clad legs and thigh-high, nosebleed stiletto

  boots. She unfolded the paper. Before her was a middle-aged matron

  wearing a diabolical expression, a black leather thong, and a laced

  bustier that any lingerie saleswoman worth her microfiber would

  instantly dismiss as several sizes too small. The determined face

  looked familiar; the cleavage, terrifying; the headline—WHIPSMART.

  Holy latex G-string! Felicity Dingle, you snake in the grass, Mag

  nolia thought. No wonder your cell phone is always going off. “I

  Think I Love You,” my big foot.

  “We’re a family newspaper, friends, so turn the page if you’ll blush

  over your morning java and spank us if you think we’re naughty,” the

  page-two article began, “but perhaps Bebe Blake isn’t keeping Felicity Dingle sufficiently busy whipping things into shape at Bebe, her eponymous magazine. Or maybe her day-job’s salary is so stingy, the poor dear

  needs to moon … light. Our exclusive sources inform us that in the evening hours, the high-ranking Bebe editor, aka Mistress Whipsmart, finds career satisfaction by, uh, dominating some of the city’s finest, as

  she had for years among the House of Lords, where she was known pro

  fessionally as Nasty Nanny and, in later years, Madame Mumsy. In

  London, she is reputed to have carried the tools of her trade in a large

  handbag purchased at Her Majesty’s favorite leather shop… .”

  Magnolia read quickly until she got to a quote from Felicity. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Mistress Whipsmart told Post insiders. “It’s not as if I opened a dungeon next to a day-care center. I

  provide a needed public service, like the National Health. Oh, forgive

  me. You don’t have that here in the States. More’s the pity.

  “On the subject of humiliation, neither Jock Flanagan, president of Scarborough Magazines—which has a multimillion-dollar stake in Bebe, launched last year to replace the venerable Lady—nor Bebe Blake, the magazine’s editor, nor its publisher, Darlene Knudson,

  could be reached for comment.”

  As Magnolia read the item for the third time, Natalie tapped her

  on the shoulder and sat down next to her.

  “If you looked any happier, I’d say you had a new boyfriend or a

  new job,” Natalie said. “Which is it?”

  “I wish,” Magnolia said. “Natalie, I know a lot of people at Scary

  have a shoe fetish, but this is taking it too far, don’t you think?” she

  added, laughing so hard, coffee almost shot out her nose.

  “What are you jabbering about?” Natalie said.

  “You didn’t see the Post?”

  “The Washington Post?” Natalie said. “Of course. Why?” Natalie always waited to read the juiciest morsels in the New York Post after she arrived in the office and her assistant presented clips to her.

  “Have a look,” she said, waving the tabloid. Natalie’s eyes got as

  big as the mantilla comb supporting her updo.

  “Oh. My. God,” Natalie said. “Elizabeth is going to flip her wig on

  this one.”

  “Elizabeth Lester Duvall’s joining the Witness Protection Pro

  gram,” Magnolia said. “Who do you think spilled this story?”

  “Who cares?” Natalie said. “What’s important now is for us to look

  like it’s inconsequential.”

  “Why does that matter to me, Natalie?” Magnolia said. “Scary
>
  gave me the boot.”

  “Of course,” Natalie said. “What am I thinking? But be a pal and

  stop gloating.” The waiter came to take their order. “Excuse me for a

  minute, Magnolia,” Natalie said as she left, presumably to make a call

  or two to ensure that none of Scary’s newest scandal stuck to her. In

  the ten minutes she was gone, several editors stopped by Magnolia’s

  table to offer breathless variations on the theme of “You look fabu

  lous! I’ve been meaning to call—I’ll have my assistant set up coffee or

  lunch. Okay?”

  “So?” Magnolia said, when Natalie returned. “How do you think this one’s going to play out? Scary paid for the Polo incident and it

  went away.”

  “This one’s not coming at a particularly propitious time,” Natalie

  said, in a low voice. She shot Magnolia one of her cryptic looks.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Natalie turned to her right, then left. One pleasure of eating at

  Michael’s was that the tables were far enough apart so that people

  could shake on deals and share names of matrimonial attorneys with

  out being overheard. Still, Natalie hadn’t stayed in the industry for

  decades by taking chances. “You didn’t hear it from me, Cookie, but the circulation numbers for Bebe—well, let’s just say Darlene is a very creative accountant,” she said even more quietly.

  When it served their purposes, the editors in chief at Scary were

  loyal to the company, but as was true of any dysfunctional family, sib

  ling rivalry could pop out at any time. If someone else’s magazine

  took a tumble, you could smell the schaudenfreude like blood at a

  slaughter.

  “She’s cooking the books?” Magnolia asked.

  “Of course I’m not a hundred percent sure, but my friends in circu

  lation are dropping hints along those lines.” Natalie made it her busi

  ness to stay on excellent terms with that particular back office

  department, which, on any given day, had the pulse of how each mag

  azine was selling.

  “Bebe’s not a rip-roaring success?” Magnolia said, clutching her chest. “I’m shocked. Shocked.”

  “Like I say, these are speculations, but subscribers are apparently

  canceling like crazy,” Natalie said, looking smug. “The business with

  Nathaniel Fine and that gun cover … Advertisers are cutting loose,

  too. Darlene’s putting out numbers that are pure fiction.”

  “With Jock’s blessing?” Magnolia asked.

  “Naturally,” Natalie said.

  “Does Bebe know?” Magnolia asked.

  Now it was Natalie’s turn to laugh. “Not if Jock can help it. You know how these contracts work. If Bebe fails to clear certain hurdles, Bebe’s allowed to pull out—and if she does that, then Scary will never make back its investment. But—of course—I don’t know any of this

  for a fact. It may be innuendo from some bean counter with an ax to

  grind because Darlene wouldn’t dance with him at the Christmas

  party.”

  Magnolia took it all in while Natalie finished the last bite of her

  egg-white omelet.

  “How are you, by the way?” Natalie said. “Cousin Wally coming

  through?”

  “Wally’s a prince,” Magnolia said absentmindedly while she

  absorbed the enormity of Natalie’s news.

  “Glad to hear it,” Natalie said. “Now, how’s the job hunt?”

  Magnolia decided not to report on her Voyeur conversation. Natalie was, after all, the editor in chief of Dazzle—theoretically, a competitor. “It’s nowhere,” she complained. “When you’re a pub

  lisher, people assume if you can sell ads in one magazine, you can sell

  anything. But as an editor”—Magnolia knew she sounded kvetchy—

  “there’s this idea that you have to be a walking mission statement for

  your magazine. Anyway, there are zero jobs now. Somebody would

  have to be assassinated to make room for me.”

  “You have to get out, be seen,” Natalie said. “Make a job find you.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Magnolia said, touching the red

  bracelet hidden under her sleeve. “What’s new with you—besides

  Mistress Burberry’s bombshell?”

  “Well, Dazzle couldn’t be hotter,” Natalie said, as she always did. “Up ten percent on the newsstand and surpassing last quarter with

  ads. But it sounds as if Scary’s going to be depending on us more than

  ever to be a cash cow. The pressure …” She looked at her watch.

  “Gotta run. Can I give you a lift? My car’s waiting.”

  “No, I’m headed uptown,” Magnolia said. “I have a meeting, too,”

  she said—with Biggie and Lola.

  As she walked to the subway, her BlackBerry beeped. Bebe. She

  hadn’t heard from her in months. Magnolia called back on the cell num

  ber she had given her only after Bebe decided Raven was a she-devil.

  “Magnolia, that you?” Bebe said, answering on the first ring. “Can

  you believe this?” “Did you have any inkling?” Magnolia asked.

  “Well, a pair of handcuffs once fell out of her bag, but who doesn’t

  own a pair?” Bebe said. “Now Jock’s ordered me to dump poor Felicity.

  Just because he took a boondoggle to China, he thinks he’s the little

  emperor. It’s my magazine. Mine. I’d like to take one of his sus

  penders and strangle that preppy asshole… .”

  Magnolia held the phone away from her ear while Bebe ranted.

  “Magnolia, you there?” Bebe shouted. “I asked you a question.”

  “Excuse me,” Magnolia said. “There’s a lot of traffic—I couldn’t

  hear you.”

  “I asked you if you’d come back,” Bebe said. “Poor Felicity

  deserves a long vacation.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting Jock dumped me?” Magnolia said.

  “But these are extraordinary circumstances,” Bebe said. “Damn.

  Hang on. Another call.”

  The pause gave Magnolia a chance to savor the moment. Even

  if she hadn’t been fired by Scary and wasn’t disputing her sever

  ance, this wouldn’t be the burning building she’d pick to run back

  into.

  “It’s my agent,” Bebe said. “Good Morning America and Today are fighting over me for tomorrow morning, and tonight I’m doing Larry King and Letterman. No time to fly to L.A. for Leno. Rats.” She clicked off.

  Magnolia dialed another number.

  “Cameron,” she said, leaving a message. “Want to come over tonight for Larry King and Letterman? Bring Abbey. Bring the world. I’m celebrating.”

  “Where’s Abbey?” Magnolia asked Cameron as he walked through her door. He kissed her on the cheek, hung his overcoat in the

  closet, and in a few giant steps made himself at home in front of her

  television.

  “Wouldn’t know,” he said, flipping channels till he found Larry King Live. “Abbey and I had the let’s-be-friends talk.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Magnolia said. And surprised, since Abbey

  hadn’t returned her last two calls.

  “Don’t be. Some Frenchman she met’s in town. Frankly, I’m

  relieved. I’d been rehearsing the same speech for weeks. She’s sweet,

  Abbey. I didn’t know how to put it to her.”

  Magnolia fixed Cam with a long, quizzical stare, searching for a

  sign that Abbey’s rejection had wounded his heart or at least stung his

  pride. She had an impu
lse to push up the glasses that had slipped

  down his nose, but the Continental Divide of boss-employee relations

  wouldn’t close, despite the fact that they hadn’t worked together for

  months.

  “What?” he said. “Really, it’s over. Finito. Abbey’s great, but there was zero chemistry. Not enough meat on her bones. And not only do I

  not know a radiant cut from a rat’s ass, I don’t want to know.”

  In truth, everything about the way Cam’s lanky, blue-jean-clad legs

  stretched in front of him looked relaxed as a breeze. Magnolia

  shrugged and walked into her kitchen.

  “There she is,” he shouted as she pulled two beers out of her

  refrigerator to accompany the chips she’d put on a tray. “White bel

  uga sighting! Gold, get in here.”

  So now she was Gold. Magnolia bolted to the TV. For her appearance, Bebe had chosen a bustier, form-fitting jeans, and go-go boots,

  all in Clorox white.

  “I guess this is her idea of a virginal look,” Magnolia said. “Drive

  home the old ‘If you think I’m a dominatrix, think again’ message.”

  Bebe leaned toward Larry King, her breasts pouring over her

  bodice, and beamed a smile that stopped short of her eyes.

  “Bebe, when you started your magazine, did you ever think it

  would be this hard?” Larry asked her.

  In the second that Bebe hesitated, Magnolia could sense this wasn’t

  the question she had expected. “Hard, Larry?” she said. “We’re start

  ing this out by talking about who’s hard?” She let loose her boisterous

  cackle.

  Larry smiled slightly. “Seriously, every year almost a thousand magazines launch,” he said. “Naked Dachshunds and yours were just two last year. Anyone who can start a fire, it seems, can start a maga

  zine, and usually all that happens is they burn a lot of money. Most

  new magazines fail.”

  Larry did like to hear himself talk.

  “How much money has Bebe burned?” he finally asked. “He’s a meanie tonight,” Magnolia said.

  “Just jerking her chain,” Cameron said.

  “Larry, honey, nobody said putting out a good magazine is gonna

  be cheap,” Bebe countered, her smile vanished. “I’m not about cheap. Bebe will cost what it costs. It’s my magazine.”

  “Sort of,” Magnolia said, imagining Jock’s blood pressure soaring

  as he watched the interchange. He was probably pulling up his copy