Little Pink Slips

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
/>   paused for dramatic effect. “Scary is offering two years’ salary.”

  “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