by Sally Koslow
right,” she blared.
“Now let me understand,” Arthur Montgomery said very slowly. “I
am reading from the joint-venture agreement.” He quoted a jumble
of legalese. Magnolia leaned forward in her chair and listened care
fully, which wasn’t hard, because the courtroom had become silent as
a cave.
She turned to Cameron. “Are we hearing what I think we’re hear
ing?” she said, getting close enough to smell the clean sweetness of
his skin. “It sounds like Bebe was allowed to walk away from the mag
azine if it sold fewer than 350,000 copies per issue.”
“That’s exactly what it says,” Cameron whispered back. His breath
in her ear made her tingle.
“And could you explain this?” the attorney asked. On the screen an
e-mail appeared to Darlene from Jock, who directed her to “manage
the financials.”
Cameron and Magnolia looked at each other and just as she was
saying, “Scary goosed the numbers,” he noted, “They’ve been caught
red-handed cooking the books.” As everyone reached the same con
clusion, the courtroom came alive like an Italian soccer game. Felicity
dropped her knitting needles, stood up, and high-fived Bebe, who
whooped, “Hot damn. I knew it. Hot, fuckin’ damn!”
“Order in the court,” the judge said. “Order in the court.” Magno
lia got to hear the crash of a gavel after all. “Court will convene
tomorrow at ten,” Judge Tannenbaum said, finally, in disgust.
As they left Supreme Court, Magnolia and Cam stopped and lis
tened to Jock giving an ad hoc press conference. “It’s common indus
try practice to estimate the sales of a magazine before final numbers are in, and occasionally the two figures differ,” he said to a growing
audience of reporters. “Scarborough Magazines didn’t do anything
that every other magazine company doesn’t do all the time.”
As the statement leaped out of Jock’s mouth, Magnolia knew it was destined to become the caption for tomorrow’s picture in the Post— perhaps even the epitaph on his professional tombstone. So much for
damage control. Elizabeth would probably return to her office and fax
her résumé to every other publisher in the country.
“Don’t you just love magazines?” Cam said to Magnolia.
“I do,” she said. “In any other industry, if the president of a com
pany stood up and said, ‘I cheat. We all cheat. We’re an entire industry
of liars and cheaters,’ he’d be found with two broken legs, groaning
and bleeding, in a New Jersey garbage dump.”
Magnolia and Cam watched Bebe walk past Jock. She didn’t say a
word but gave him her most high-voltage smile as she swirled her
boa, which almost tickled his face.
“Smile all you want, Bebe,” Jock snarled at her. “It’s never over till
the fat lady sings.”
C h a p t e r 4 1
The Curse of the Perfect Memory
“I’d sooner miss the Oscars than this,” Natalie said airily as she took the seat next to Magnolia. The trial had become a
spectator sport for every key Scary employee. As always, Natalie
looked camera-ready. Velvet peep-toe pumps showed off her elegant
feet and dark red pedicure. Magnolia was fairly sure, however, that if
Natalie were photographed in the plaid coat she was wearing today,
she’d wind up captioned in one of the Fashion Police columns with
“Woof! I liked this better on my basset hound’s bed.”
Judge Margaret Ruth Tannenbaum had turned out to be a no-non
sense jurist. She was moving along the trial at a whirlwind clip, whack
ing lawyers’ statements in midsentence. Yesterday, to the amusement
of another full house, Felicity got her turn as a witness, and today
Magnolia expected that Big Mama herself would take the stand. She
could imagine no other reason for Bebe to sport a Miss Marple fedora.
The court officer stepped forward. “The plaintiffs call Magnolia
Gold,” he said. Magnolia froze. “The plaintiffs call Magnolia Gold,”
he shouted out again.
Natalie nudged her. Magnolia knew her name was on the list of
witnesses who would be required to testify. By now, however, well into
the trial’s second week, she’d convinced herself that neither side must feel she could fuel their arguments and maybe she’d be granted a pass.
She got up out of her chair and sleepwalked to the front. From a remote
brain cell the thought occurred to her that at least she was wearing a
sober black suit, not a ruffled cancan dress. On her way to the bench,
from the corner of her eye, Magnolia saw Bebe offer a thumbs-up.
Magnolia lifted her right hand and swore her oath.
“What is your relationship to Scarborough Magazines?” asked
their lead attorney.
Magnolia doubted adversarial was the answer they wanted. “Could you clarify the question, please?” she asked.
“I believe Counsel wants to know your work history and current
association with the company,” the judge said.
“Currently, I am no longer employed at the company, but before it was turned into Bebe I was the editor in chief of Lady magazine,” Magnolia began.
“Solid magazine,” Judge Tannenbaum interrupted. “My mother
always subscribed, and so did I.”
“We had four million readers,” Magnolia said.
“I liked those little paper dolls.”
“That was McCall’s,” Magnolia pointed out but continued to beam. “I get them all mixed up.”
“Everyone does.”
As this homey banter continued, the Scarborough attorney glow
ered. Judge Tannenbaum eventually gestured for him to continue.
“Can you, please, explain why Lady was turned into a magazine for Bebe Blake?” he asked.
“No,” Magnolia answered.
“Shall I clarify? Can you explain why the failing financials of Lady paved the way for Bebe?”
“I can’t,” Magnolia said. She looked at the judge to see if she was
allowed to continue. Judge Tannenbaum nodded. “You see, the maga
zine wasn’t failing. Our newsstand sales were reasonably strong, and
according to the business meetings I was invited to, we were prof
itable.”
“Then can you explain this?” the attorney asked. A document appeared on the overhead screen showing that Lady, in the last year of her life, clearly belonged in a financial hospice.
“No,” she said. “I can’t.”
“Shall we call an expert witness to interpret these figures?”
Magnolia was quite certain no one missed his tone of condescension. “I understand them,” she said. “I can’t explain them.”
“Why not?” the attorney asked petulantly.
“Because they conflict with these,” she said. From her Tod’s tote,
Magnolia pulled out her own white rabbit, Darlene’s update from the final Lady business review. It was Wally who insisted she open and sort the tower of boxes sent from Scary that had been collecting dust
in her foyer. With Sasha’s help, she spent the better part of the previ
ous weekend digging through them.
“According to this memo,” Magnolia said, handing it to the attor
ney, “the magazine wasn’t losing money.”
Scary’s lawyer put on his reading glasses and examined the memo.
As he huddled with Jock, Darlene, and the other Scarbor
ough law
yers, Magnolia strained, unsuccessfully, to hear their conversation.
There were several minutes of animated discussion after which Mag
nolia’s memo was labeled and entered as evidence. Then the lawyer
looked at the judge and said, “We are finished with this witness.”
Magnolia’s hands were trembling so obviously, she grabbed both
sides of the chair. Under her jacket, her starched white shirt felt
damp.
“Mr. Montgomery, do you care to cross-examine?” the judge asked.
“Thank you,” he said in his courtliest Southern accent. “I do.”
Arthur Montgomery stood in front of Magnolia and clasped his hands
behind his back. His genial smile revealed his large teeth. “Miss Gold, did you support the concept of turning Lady into Bebe?”
Magnolia thought back to the previous June’s original meeting, the
lunacy of which she could recall as if it had happened the day before.
“No,” she replied, “I did not.” As she spoke the words, she could feel
the blitzkrieg of Bebe’s menace roll toward her like World War III.
“When Scarborough Magazines presented the idea to you, what,
exactly, did you say?” Magnolia hesitated. She reminded herself she was obligated to tell
the truth.
“I said that Bebe didn’t stand for anything bigger than herself, that
she was a collection of interests that didn’t add up to a clear vision for
a magazine.” The courtroom had become quiet except for Felicity’s
saying, “That little ferret.”
“Was there anything else you said about my client, Miss Blake?”
the attorney asked.
There are times in life when a perfect memory is a curse. “That
she could be a player,” Magnolia said. She was certain she’d used that
word instead of nympho, slut, or child molester. “And difficult to
work with.” Magnolia began to hear laughter, which started lightly
and multiplied with such volume that Judge Tannenbaum got
another chance to exercise her gavel. “Order,” the judge demanded as
she crashed it on the bench. “Order.”
The room complied.
“Did you become an editor on the magazine?”
“Yes,” Magnolia said.
“Mr. Montgomery, is there a point here?” the judge asked.
“Yes, your honor.” A smile broadened on his sharp, lupine face.
“Miss Gold, given your distaste for Miss Blake’s idea,” he articulated
loudly, as if he were trying to communicate with a mute, “is it not fair
to say that you may have undermined Miss Blake in her best efforts to
publish her magazine?” Montgomery pronounced “undermined” as
if it were in boldface.
“No!” Magnolia said, more emotionally than she intended. “I was
always professional.”
“Did you resent that you had to take direction from Bebe Blake?”
he asked with forced casualness.
Do you resent that you are an ugly little man with hair sprouting
from your ears, Magnolia wanted to ask back. Do you resent that
ninety-nine women out of a hundred would rather clean a toilet than
sleep with you?
“Miss Gold, answer Mr. Montgomery’s question,” the judge
demanded. “Yes,” she said, a nasty bile rising in her throat.
“Thank you, Miss Gold,” he said. “That will be all.”
Magnolia wanted to let out a primal scream. She turned to the
judge with a pleading look.
“Miss Gold, you may return to your seat.”
She walked back, willing herself to stand straight and tall. How dare he? Without her sweat equity, Bebe never would have happened. Magnolia sat on the hard bench. Natalie took her hand and stroked it.
She wished the stroking were coming from Cameron, but she hadn’t
seen him anywhere in the courtroom.
“Relax, Cookie,” Natalie said. “That ambulance-chasing jackass
isn’t worth getting worked up about. Anyway, you look gorgeous when
you’re pissed. That’s all anyone will remember.” From a black patent
Gucci bag large enough to carry a cocker spaniel, she pulled out a tis
sue which she handed to Magnolia, who flicked away a tear.
“The court calls Bebe Blake,” Magnolia heard the words from a
far-off place. Bebe marched to the witness stand for her swearing-in.
“Finally!” Bebe said, straightening her hat.
“May I remind you that you will speak only when called on,” the
judge said.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” Bebe said. Scary’s attorneys started in on her,
and Bebe was thoroughly engaging—even when the gun cover was
shown, bigger than life, like an advertisement for mental illness.
Magnolia wondered if the attorneys would try to nail her as a sexual
deviant, but it appeared that they were steering clear of that line of
questioning.
“Before a business trip, did you have one of the Bebe assistants show you Polaroids of hotel suites so you would pick the best one?”
the attorney asked.
“Yes, doesn’t everyone?” she answered. The courtroom laughed.
“At the Bebe sales conference in Palm Beach, is it true that you had a silver Corvette driven all the way from Atlanta and that when you
didn’t like it, you had the same automobile brought in from Sarasota
in red?”
“I don’t recall,” Bebe said with a big grin. At one o’clock, after Bebe had much of the courtroom chuckling
along with her, the court officer announced a lunch break.
“Want to grab a bite?” Natalie said.
“I’m fried,” Magnolia said. “Going to head uptown and work.” She hadn’t written so much as a sentence of her Voyeur proposal in more than a week.
“Work?” Natalie said.
Natalie would be the last person she’d tell about her Fancy meeting.
“Oh, you know, letters, basic drudgery,” Magnolia said. “Have to
beat the bushes.”
She walked to the checkroom to retrieve her phone and put on her
Chanel sample sale raincoat, which she was wearing for the first time
that day. Outside, she caught her reflection in the glass front of a
restaurant she passed on the way to the subway. This coat makes me
look like a heifer, she decided. Tomorrow, I’ll ship it to Mom.
Magnolia played back her messages. There were two—the first
from Wally; the second, Cameron. An empty cab passed, its yellow
light a taunting reminder not to splurge on a $25 fare.
She dialed Cam’s number. He was back in California, his message
had said, but all he shared was that negotiations on his book had got
complicated. He didn’t answer his telephone.
“It’s the person who’s probably just handed Bebe a two-hundred
million-dollar victory,” she said in her message. “Call if you want to
make fun of me.”
She pressed the buttons on her phone for Wally, who was now on
speed dial. “Mr. Fleigelman, please?” she said to his assistant. “It’s
Magnolia Gold.”
Wally got on the line right away. “Hi, gorgeous,” he said. “In the
mood for news?”
“Only if it’s good,” she said.
“Well, in that case …” Wally said solemnly.
“Oh-h-h,” Magnolia groaned. “No!”
“Just kidding,” he said and laughed loudly. “Listen to this.” He
“Wally!” Magnolia said. “That’s amazing. Beyond amazing! Tell me everything!” She was screaming so loudly, people were turning to
stare.
“They came around yesterday,” he said. “Turns out, you weren’t
the first woman to charge sexual harassment. Your Mr. Flanagan had
a history.” Wally switched to his serious lawyer voice. “Employers are
liable for sexual harassment of employees by their managers and
Scarborough had done nothing to reprimand Jock, despite numerous
complaints.”
“Dickheads,” she said.
“You’re right on that one. And the Scary dickheads are not too
pleased with their boy now that the world knows he cooks the books
and, you’ll pardon my French, he’s basically accused the whole indus
try of being a lying sack of shit,” he said. “But back to you. At first
Scary was only going to come through with one year of salary. Then I
let them know you were planning to sue.”
“I was?”
“You were.”
“I am one ballsy chick, aren’t I, Wally?”
“I’m afraid I’m not done yet, Mags,” Wally said. “There’s a bit
more to it.”
It had sounded too good to be true, Magnolia thought.
“I let Jock’s attorney know you were planning to sue Jock person
ally, which—by the way—is perfectly legal. And, an hour ago, the
damnedest thing happened. The attorney found $200,000 for you.
Funny how that happens. Guess Mr. Flanagan sold a painting.”
Magnolia gasped.
“You there, Mags?” Wally shouted. “I’ve got to know if these
terms sound acceptable, or you want to go back for more.” There was
only breathing from Magnolia’s end of the phone. “Magnolia?”
“I’m here, Wally, talking to you from euphoria,” she said. “Magno
lia Gold accepts—with pleasure.”
C h a p t e r 4 2
Fired, Finished, Decapitated
“I missed you.” “I missed you, too.”
After two weeks in Italy and one in Paris, Abbey had returned.
Daniel wouldn’t be visiting for several more weeks, and Magnolia was
just slightly ashamed of being elated to have the new Madame Cohen
all to herself. “I can’t figure out what’s changed about you,” she said
as they began their early morning run. A moisturizer sold only in