Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  of their partnership agreement this very instant and exercising every

  four-letter word he knew. Magnolia turned to Cameron. “You’re the

  managing editor—how over-the-top are her costs?”

  Cameron rolled his eyes and waved his hand above his head but

  shushed Magnolia so he could fixate on Bebe, who’d moved to a vigor

  ous defense of Felicity’s right to whip anyone she felt like in the pri

  vacy of a boudoir.

  “You and I can agree on that, Bebe,” Larry said, “but will your

  readers? They’re a conservative crowd. Won’t they feel Miss Dingle is

  an abomination?”

  As the censors bleeped out Bebe’s response, Larry turned straight

  to the camera. “On that subject, I wonder what tonight’s other guest

  has to say? Dr. Laura Schlessinger, are you standing by in Los Ange

  les?” The camera panned back to Bebe in time to catch the fury con

  torting her face. Had she been unaware that a virtue-hawk was the

  other guest? Bebe dipped into her décolleté, fished out her mike,

  and—making a clatter—stood.

  “Bebe,” Larry said. “Where you headed, girl?”

  “Outta here, my friend,” Bebe snapped. “It’s been a pleasure, but I

  know a setup when I see it.”

  “C’mon, Bebe,” Larry said. “Let’s calm down.”

  “Let’s not,” she said.

  “Bebe, you’re a talk show host yourself—you know this is just … television,” Larry said, shaking his head. But Bebe had already

  stomped off.

  Cameron and Magnolia stared at the screen. “Did we just see what

  we just saw?” she asked.

  “Career annihilation in the making?” Cameron said. “Thought

  our Bebe was a cooler cucumber.”

  “Jock must actually be getting to her,” Magnolia said. “Can’t wait to see how she’s going to handle Letterman.”

  Cameron looked at his watch. “Wish I could stay but,” he said,

  “gotta write.”

  “How’s that book coming?” Magnolia asked. As far as she knew,

  Cameron had been writing the same book for the full four years she

  had known him. Although maybe he already had a best seller or two

  under a pseudonym. Maybe even a series. That’s how little he men

  tioned this side of his literary life.

  “On the home stretch. My agent e-mails me every day to make

  sure I don’t have a minute’s fun.”

  “What’s the book about?” Magnolia asked coyly, as she had many

  times before. Cameron just laughed and gave her an amused look.

  “Can you at least tell me what kind of novel it is? Mystery?

  Thriller?”

  “None of the above,” he said.

  “You’re writing chick lit! God knows you could, working at a

  women’s magazine. No, I’ve got it. You’re doing male chick lit. Yes!

  Dick lit!”

  “Pardon me, Ms. Gold,” Cameron said in an imperious tone, “but

  even if all gentlemen do is reflect on their tiny penises and ample love handles, what we write are called books. Got that? Literature. Even if the title is The Unibrow Diaries.”

  “The Devil Wears Tighty Whiteys?”

  “He always does,” he said. With that, he gave her an unexpectedly

  huge hug, grabbed his jacket, and left.

  Magnolia walked back to her TV. Since her one and only current job prospect was Voyeur over at Fancy, she’d decided she needed to steep herself in pop culture and had been TiVo-ing every celebrity program, cable and network. The chuga-chuga-chuga of celebrity’s

  gossip train was roaring through her brain. She might know diddly

  squat about what river flows from the Allegheny and the Mononga

  hela, or take a day to recall the name of the newest Supreme Court

  justice, but she’d developed an encyclopedic knowledge of whose cel

  lulite was the most cottage cheesy, which bride in a Vera Wang gown

  was a lipstick lesbian, and what name of which star was caught in

  flagrante delicto with his personal chef. Ask her anything, and Mag

  nolia could lob back the answer faster than you could spit the word

  “spin.” She wasn’t proud of this ability, but she knew it might eventu

  ally pay her way.

  Besides, celebrity shows passed the time, and when she became utterly brain-dead, there was always Jewels of Vegas. Magnolia had just bought her mother a pink sapphire and amethyst ring for only

  $139 (there were only ten available—she had to act fast) when she decided to catch a tiny catnap so she could stay awake for Letterman. She opened her eyes at what seemed like ten minutes later, but

  Dave was already finishing his “top ten” list.

  “And the number one reason why no one should ever start her own magazine,” Dave said, “is that the swimsuit issue of Naked Dachshunds may outsell you.” To applause, he held up a cover featuring a pregnant dachshund posing with her belly proudly displayed like Demi Moore on Vanity Fair. “And now, welcome our next guest, my very good friend Bebe Blake.”

  Bebe had changed out of her dress whites. In solidarity with seri

  ous editors, she’d switched to black. Feathers, however, engulfed her.

  She looked like Big Bird in mourning.

  “Dave, you’re not going to ambush me, are you?” Bebe said, twin

  kling a laugh.

  “Bebe, wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

  “Would you mind if a friend joined me?” she said, smoothing her

  feathers as she sat with a thunk on the couch.

  “Not a dachshund, is it?” he said. “No stupid pet tricks tonight.”

  “It’s my dear colleague, Felicity Dingle,” Bebe said. Felicity walked

  out, carrying her infamous leather satchel. “In case you need to be whipped into shape.” Dave and the audience joined her in a roar of

  laughter. The three of them chattered, every remark as sweet as

  cherry pie, even a long yak that contrasted sexual habits of Americans

  to those in the UK.

  Magnolia was getting ready to turn off the show, when Dave

  turned to Felicity, “Bebe seems content, doesn’t she? True, Bebe?” he

  added.

  “I am—now,” she answered, a grin splitting her face.

  “How’s that?” he said.

  “Now that I’m quitting the magazine,” she said, looking entirely

  pleased with herself. She opened Felicity’s satchel and pulled out at least a dozen copies of Bebe, which she dropped on the floor, then punted off the set. “I made my decision earlier today. I don’t know

  what happened to freedom of the press, among other freedoms, but

  no one’s going to tell me what to put on the cover of my own maga

  zine, or who to hire to run it. I can’t put up with any more abuse and

  interference. You heard it here. My magazine is history.”

  Dave’s eyebrows went up. “Now, Bebe—say it ain’t so. Bebe’s a mere babe, and you’re no quitter.”

  “If something’s not working, don’t drag it out. I’ve been married

  twice and when the relationships stopped working, I moved on. Men,

  magazines—all the same. Ciao. Adios. Life’s too short for aggrava

  tion.”

  “Haven’t you been having fun, Bebe?” Dave said. “And that gun

  cover—well, you were making quite a statement.” He held up the

  gun cover issue, which had been conveniently placed on his desk.

  “Do I have to spell it out, Dave?” Bebe said. “I quit. Q-U-I-T. Scar

  borough Magazines can take their magazine and put it where the sun

&nbs
p; don’t shine.”

  “Oooh, harsh, Bebe. Harsh.” Dave said, then looked into the cam

  era. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. How about it?

  Bebe Blake calling it quits to her beloved magazine. It will be dearly missed. Especially among gun lovers. It’s bye-bye, Bebe, bye-bye. Or shall we say bang-bang, Bebe, bang-bang?”

  The next thing Magnolia knew, a car commercial replaced David

  Letterman’s face. Magnolia immediately called Cameron, but his line

  was busy—because he was dialing her cell.

  “Didn’t I say that Bebe was going to quit tonight?” Magnolia

  asked. “I knew it!”

  “No,” Cameron said. “You didn’t say it, and you didn’t know it.”

  “But I was thinking it,” Magnolia said. “I swear.”

  “I don’t even want to imagine what goes on in that brain of yours,

  Magnolia,” Cameron said. “Anyway, it’s probably Bebe’s idea of a

  publicity stunt. Make Jock sweat and beg to take her back on her

  terms.”

  It occurred to Magnolia that what he said made sense—and that

  she’d just displayed the sensitivity of a tank. If Bebe quit, Cam would

  be out of a job. She better back down. “Thanks for stopping by this

  evening,” she said. “You’re definitely right, as always.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “And, you know, I was wondering …”

  The phone indicated another call. “Could you hold on, Cam? Just a

  second …”

  “Surprised?” Bebe said.

  “Nothing surprises me anymore,” Magnolia answered. “But why

  now?”

  “Jock, Raven, Darlene, bunch of losers,” Bebe said. “Who needs

  this shit? Nobody tells Bebe Blake what to do. I hope they’ll have fun putting out The Magazine Formerly Known as Bebe.”

  “Bebe, if you weren’t serious about the magazine, why did you start it?” Magnolia said. And bomb my life?

  But Bebe didn’t answer. She had already hung up. Magnolia went

  out to walk her dogs and, when she returned, promptly fell asleep.

  Only the next morning did she remember she’d never got back to

  Cameron.

  C h a p t e r 3 6

  It’s a Hard-Knock Life

  “My name is Magnolia,” she began, stepping into the inferno of a crowded subway car in July. “I know you hate people

  interrupting your morning, but I just need a moment.” Most of the

  commuters resolutely read religious tracts, swayed to their music, or

  looked through her, their goal to avoid eye contact—and, if possible,

  skin contact—with fellow passengers. “A short time ago, I had a good

  job and benefits. Now I’m homeless.

  “I don’t rob. I don’t steal. I don’t do drugs.” Technically true, if you

  discounted the occasional joint at parties. “If you could find it in your

  heart to help me—money, food, whatever—anything will be appreci

  ated.” She walked the length of the car, her Tod’s tote open. “Just

  thinkin’ about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow,” she

  sang in her wobbly voice with its five-note range. One man yelled,

  “Put a lid on it,” but as Magnolia hit “I love ya tomorrow—you’re

  always a day away,” a woman opened her own Tod’s bag and tossed a

  half-eaten box of Good & Plenty into Magnolia’s bag.

  “Good luck,” the woman said with deep sincerity as she squeezed

  Magnolia’s hand, her manicure impeccable in contrast to Magnolia’s

  own ragged nail stubs. Magnolia kicked off her heavy comforter and woke in a puddle of

  sweat, her heart throbbing like percussion at the MTV music video

  awards. Damn—she shouldn’t have visited that storefront psychic

  yesterday, but its handout beckoned: “Are you depressed, anxious, los

  ing peace of mind?” All of the above, she decided. “Stop feeling sorry

  for yourself. This gifted European spiritual adviser will remove nega

  tive energy and help you achieve inner serenity.” The next thing

  Magnolia knew, Svetlana of West Seventy-eighth Street was predict

  ing “a dazzling future” but warning her, as she chewed what Magno

  lia hoped was gum and not tobacco, to “not keep repeating mistakes

  and put what happened yesterday behind you.”

  Which psychic phenomenon from yesterday? Svetlana didn’t specify. Bebe abandoning Bebe? How could this touch her now that she was unemployed and possibly unemployable? Two months had passed, and

  while she’d been feted at breakfasts, lunches, and cocktail hours, all

  that happened was that she’d listened to no fewer than twenty-seven

  editors bitch about their own work. Despite a five-pound weight gain,

  after each date Magnolia felt a little emptier, exactly the emotion she

  experienced handing the gifted Svetlana twenty bucks.

  Svetlana may have exorcized energy all right. Magnolia collapsed

  that night at 8:30. Now she stumbled into her shower and washed

  away the dream. As she was getting ready to scrub off yesterday’s

  mascara as well, her phone rang.

  “Magnolia, she who snoozes loses,” Wally crooned. “Pick up, my

  princess.”

  She rushed, dripping, to the phone she’d left on the sink.

  “Wally, I’ve been hoping to hear from you,” she said. For the last

  six weeks, her case had progressed in slow motion, keeping pace with

  the rest of her life. Wally split a hair. Scary split another. Every few

  days he sent her an e-mail reporting that little had developed. Twice

  Magnolia had been ready to ditch the whole exercise, but “This is

  how lawyers show how big their dicks are,” Wally insisted. “When

  the schmucks at your old company make a dumb-ass move, I just

  laugh, let it sit for a few days, then go back for more. Not to worry.” If her dream was a barometer, however, she was worrying. “Any

  developments on my case?” she asked.

  “Tell you in person, kiddo. Can you be in my office in, say, an

  hour?” he asked. “I’m leaving this afternoon for Aspen with Whitney

  and the kids, but you and I gotta talk.”

  “Good news?”

  “Is my name not Wally Fleigelman?” he responded. Unfortu

  nately, it was.

  “See you soon,” she said.

  For their ten o’clock meeting, Wally had ordered breakfast. He

  carefully prepared a bagel for her, smearing it with chive cream

  cheese, adding two glistening slices of Nova Scotia salmon, and top

  ping it with a thick slab of Bermuda onion.

  “Oops, forgot you hate onion on Nova,” he said. “Little hick. I’ll take

  yours.” He plucked off the onion and placed the extra slice on his own

  bagel tower. “It’s not like you’re going to kiss me—though you should.”

  Magnolia glanced pointedly at the photo of Whitney and the twins.

  “I deserve a kiss—I’ve been a champ,” he added. He poured them

  each a large cup of coffee from a silver Georg Jensen pot.

  “How’s that, Wally?” Magnolia asked.

  “Let me first tell you that your old company’s legal department

  should stick to copyrights and libel. What is it you call your com

  pany?” Wally asked. “Scary?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “Okay. Scary failed to consider, when they switched you to deputy

  editor and then corporate editor, that the term of your contract for


  editor in chief was still in effect,” he began. “They screwed up royally

  with that one.”

  “Goody,” she said. “So, we have a case?”

  “Patience, darling. It gets better,” he said. “Turns out your other

  lawyer wasn’t such a putz after all. There was a clause in your contract

  stipulating that in order for Scary to change your title, they needed

  your written consent.”

  “Really?” Magnolia asked. “Which, obviously, they didn’t get. Don’t you love it? God is in the

  details.”

  “So, is that our case?”

  “Magnolia, you’d think you were paying me by the hour. That’s

  just the beginning of our case. No check to cash just yet.”

  Her smile vanished.

  “Scary isn’t talking big enough numbers.” He quoted her a figure.

  “That’s almost my salary for the rest of the year, Wally,” she said,

  shifting to panic. “Can’t you just say yes, and stop the games?”

  “They said take it or leave it, so I said shove it,” he said. “Chump

  change.”

  Why did I ever get involved with Wally? Magnolia asked herself.

  Why? Was this what the psychic meant about not repeating mistakes?

  She rubbed her temples.

  “Stop stressing, Mags. Believe in Wally, who is pulling another

  card out of his pretty little deck.”

  “And that would be?” Magnolia said.

  “A little gem called quid pro quo sexual harassment.” Wally’s face

  lit up as if someone had offered him a blow job. “So, if you don’t mind,

  I’m going to turn on my tape recorder and ask you a few questions.”

  Magnolia suddenly felt dirty. She’d rather analyze her sex life with

  her own father than do a play-by-play with Wally. But there he was,

  wired and ready.

  “Did Jock Flanagan make sexual advances or requests to you, or

  otherwise engage in conduct of a sexual nature?” he began. At least

  his tone was quiet and professional.

  Magnolia nodded yes.

  “Speak up, please, Magnolia.”

  “Yes, he did,” she said. “Jock Flanagan did make sexual advances

  to me.”

  He nodded yes and smiled. “Was the sexual conduct welcomed by

  you?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” she said, looking at him as if he had the IQ

  of a matzo ball.

  “Magnolia, a simple yes or no?” “No,” she said, recalling Jock’s paw on her leg, his fingers running