by Sally Koslow
Europe? A subtly different hair color? “Your face looks softer,” she
decided. “Is this what happiness looks like?”
“This is what five pounds looks like,” Abbey said, puffing her
cheeks and patting her tummy, which—to Magnolia—looked as con
cave as ever. “And at my height, my five is your ten. Great food, great
wine–that was my honeymoon. Well, not quite.” She paused, appar
ently to recollect a moment she didn’t care to share.
As they ran, Abbey reviewed every four-star restaurant they vis
ited. “And by the way, forget the hype—the real reason French
women don’t get fat is that they smoke.” She stopped as they finished
their second loop. “But enough about me. Your settlement! You must
be crazy happy.” They walked briskly toward their coffee shop. “Oh, I am,” Magnolia
said. But she considered herself an ingrate not to be radiating ostenta
tious glee. “Wally’s a prince, and my financial adviser—I have one now,
can you believe it?—put almost all the money in something she insists
I don’t touch for years. Except for the pittance I plan to live off, I’m
pretending my windfall doesn’t exist. This is what good Fargo girls
do—hoard.”
“Come on,” Abbey said. “Indulge yourself. At least a little
bauble?” Their regular waiter appeared as they grabbed the prime
corner booth. “Just tea for me this morning, nothing to eat,” Abbey
said as the waiter welcomed them back.
“The usual, please,” Magnolia said, then turned back to Abbey. “I
wrote checks to ten charities, and I’m sending my parents on a cruise
of the Greek islands.”
Abbey raised her eyebrows. “That’s noble, but what about you?”
“I’m replacing my kitchen countertops.” Magnolia brushed poppy
seeds from her bagel into a tiny black pyramid. “What do you think of
white marble? Not practical, huh?”
“Magnolia?” Abbey sounded dubious.
“Truth? I’m too agitated to spend a cent,” she said, staring at the
table. “My inner bag lady is shouting, ‘Watch out—you’ll never work
again.’ I’m beginning to feel this firing is The End.”
“C’mon—it may take a while to find a dream job—you told me
that yourself,” Abbey said. “At least plan a trip while you’re waiting. You can use Daniel’s apartment in Paris.” She stopped herself. “Our apartment.”
“I don’t feel like traveling alone,” she snapped and immediately
regretted it. Throwing guilt bombs at Abbey hadn’t been her plan.
“Forget I said that. I couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to—still
polishing my Fancy proposal.”
“You were working on that before I left.”
“Every time I think I’m finished I start over. Maybe I have a learn
ing disability.”
“Clinical ambivalence,” Abbey said and gently poked Magnolia’s
arm. “Do you even want that job?” “I’m not sure there even is a job,” she said. “Fancy might just be
picking my brains.” Magnolia put her hand in the pocket of her
windbreaker and pulled out a $10 bill, which she laid on the table.
“This one’s on me. Welcome back. Movie tonight?”
“Whatever you want to see,” Abbey said. They stood up and lay
ered on their scarves, gloves, and hats. The calendar read April, but it
still felt like the winter of Magnolia’s discontent.
She walked west, toward her apartment. While Abbey had been
away they’d e-mailed every few days, so Abbey was up to speed about
the trial and the sale of Cam’s book, though not its plot, and definitely
not the kiss. What else was there to tell, really? That she and Cam had
each made a move but ultimately retreated to their passion-free com
fort zones? True, they’d been talking, e-mailing, and IM-ing since
he’d returned to Los Angeles for more meetings. Yet in every way
there was a continent between them.
Now Cam wanted her to visit. She’d been telling him she couldn’t leave town because of her Voyeur proposal. Magnolia knew she was a freeze-dried liar.
“You’d love running on the beach,” he’d said last night. His pub
lisher, or maybe it was his agent—Cam was vague on this point—was
putting him up at the Shutters in Santa Monica, and his room had a view of the Pacific. He hadn’t exactly said that he wanted her to share that room, however, and Magnolia felt uncomfortable asking.
Maybe Abbey was right, though. She should get out of town. What
would be the worst that might happen? She and Cam would laugh at
the absurdity of thinking they could hook up, then buy a movie star
map, rent a red convertible, and prowl the city.
Every trip she’d ever made to L.A. had been in tandem with a pub
lisher for the sole purpose of selling ads. Magnolia associated the city
with predawn wake-up calls, six meetings per day, and ten P.M.
exhaustion. As pure R&R, it might be different. She and Cam could
gorge on overpriced sushi, go to comedy showcases, and visit the
wineries in Santa Barbara. When Cam was busy, she’d dress in aggres
sively casual left coast clothes and get some practically iridescent
highlights or do a Pilates class and rub shoulders with celebrities she’d been scrutinizing ad nauseam on television and in magazines.
Maybe she’d even discreetly check out plastic surgeons; by L.A. stan
dards, surely thirty-eight was past the legal limit to be walking
around with a face and body that hadn’t been reengineered. On the
weekend, the two of them could stop by that enormous swap meet at
the Rose Bowl or wind their way up the coast, stay in Big Sur, and end
in Napa, where they’d drink even more wine.
It could be chummy—or better than chummy—and at the very
least shake her out of the New York blahs. Anyone could get cranky
living through a damp Manhattan winter. She always felt far more
shivery here than in the arctic desert of North Dakota.
By the time Magnolia arrived at her apartment, she’d decided to
call Cam and announce her plans to take the trip. She looked at her
watch. Five o’clock in the morning in California. Better wait. She left
her running clothes in a heap on her bathroom floor and hopped in
the shower. In the steam, she let herself imagine a second kiss with
Cam. And more. Much more. She heard the phone ring. As the fan
tasy flowed into every tributary of her unloved body, she let it ring
and ring.
After drying herself with a towel she’d warmed on the radiator,
Magnolia found her most extravagant lotion—no Vaseline Intensive
Care today—and lovingly massaged it into her skin, inch by inch. She
stood in front of the opened armoire and reached for a variation on
her ongoing work uniform—flannel pajama bottoms and a baggy
T-shirt. No thanks, she decided. From a drawer, Magnolia unearthed
some excellent underwear and pale blue cashmere sweatpants with a
matching hoodie. The unworn set was still wrapped in tissue paper
from last Christmas and felt like kitten fur against her newly silken
skin. Her fantasy intact, she logged on to her computer and, using
miles to upgrade to first class, made an airline reservation for two
days later. With
in ten more minutes, she’d booked a car to take her to
the airport and arranged for Biggie and Lola to be kenneled.
Magnolia felt better already.
Yet it was still too early to call Cam. She decided to e-mail. “In the
mood for sushi after all. See you Thursday at LAX,” she wrote. “I’ve missed you,” she added and immediately substituted the sentiment
with “Talk later. M.”
Magnolia thought through what else she’d need to do before she
left. A haircut and root job, definitely. Maybe someone would already
be at Frédéric Fekkai and be able to book an appointment. She got to
her phone and noticed she had a message that must have arrived
when she was showering. “Turn on your TV pronto, Magnolia,”
Natalie’s recorded voice said. “The verdict’s in. Call me. ASAP.”
Magnolia ran to her TV. She’d missed the last round of news, so she
checked online. There were no postings she could locate. She returned
to channel surf.
Throughout the trial, Judge Tannenbaum made no secret that she
had bigger legal fish to fry and that the plaintiffs, defendants, and all
their lawyers were wasting her precious time. “This trial never should
have happened, and these two are just a pair of playground bullies,”
she’d carped about Jock and Bebe, “but there’s no client like a rich,
angry one.” Nonetheless, everyone Magnolia knew was betting that
Bebe would clean up—big. As she continued to flip channels, Magno
lia started pacing as if she were waiting to see whether a pregnancy
test would turn blue.
“… and the victor in the infamous trial between talk show person
ality Bebe Blake and Scarborough Magazines, the publisher of her eponymous magazine, Bebe, is …”
Why did she care? Strictly speaking, was she even in the magazine industry anymore?
“… absolutely no one,” the newscaster said. “That’s right, folks.
Judge Margaret Ruth Tannenbaum of the Supreme Court of the
State of New York has essentially said a pox on both your houses.”
The screen flashed to footage of the judge. “There is no proof that Bebe magazine would ever have made a dime,” the judge lectured, “so neither side deserves monetary damages.”
“In further comments,” the reporter continued, “Judge Tannenbaum stressed that she thought it was ‘a crime that Lady magazine was sacrificed to a narcissistic celebrity so she could be the hood orna
ment for a pointless magazine.’ Both the judge and her mother had been longtime Lady subscribers. ‘I miss their recipes,’ said the judge, who is widely known for her home-baked biscotti, ‘and the article on
pet psoriasis saved my Max from considerable heartbreak.’ “
Magnolia switched to other channels, searching for more coverage.
Bebe popped up.
“Viewers,” she heard Matt Lauer say, “Bebe Blake is standing by.
How do you feel about the verdict on your lawsuit, Bebe?”
Bebe’s face looked terrifyingly large as it filled Magnolia’s TV
screen. “This is a huge victory,” Bebe said. “Huge.”
“But, Bebe, you didn’t get a dime,” Matt countered.
“That’s not the point,” Bebe said. “Justice has prevailed. I don’t
care what it cost—I care about the principle, and the important thing
is that Scarborough Magazines didn’t win a dime. And,” Bebe contin
ued, pausing for a split second to catch her breath, “we’re going after
those suckers to recover legal fees, which are substantial.” She raised
her arm in a victory salute. “They started this war!”
“You did quit your own magazine,” Matt pointed out. “And weren’t
there some improprieties on the part one of your editors, Felicity Din
gle—and a few other, uh, bumps along the way?”
Bebe failed to respond, which caused Matt to catapult another
question into the dead air. “Your future plans, Bebe? What can your fans look forward to now that Bebe magazine is over? Are the rumors true that you are also quitting your television show?”
“You nailed that one!” said Bebe, who made a gagging sound and
motion. “I’m sure you can relate.”
Matt ignored the comment and sound effect. “So tell our audi
ence—what’s up?”
“I’m starting a business,” Bebe said. “The Slut Hut.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Got ya, Matt,” Bebe said. “Ha. For real? My friend Barbra wants me for the lead in Yentl, which she’s bringing to Broadway. Plus my new blog.”
“Boy, everyone’s a blogger. What’s yours called?”
“Bebe’s Bull—” Bebe’s face disappeared as the censors bit off the
end of the name. Magnolia had seen enough. She returned the call to Natalie, who
was in a meeting, so she dived into her newspapers. The trial story was too new for the morning editions, but in the Post there was Jock’s face, his mouth agape. The article reported that Jock’s wife was leaving
him. Pippi wanted $57,000 a month for alimony and child support,
which included $14,000 for Little Jock’s rented horse, even if it meant
that Big Jock had to abandon his $10,000-a-month pied-à-terre.
The phone rang. “So, Cookie,” Natalie trilled. “What do you think?”
“I’m loving it!” Magnolia admitted. “Both sides got what they
deserve. Oops, rewind,” Magnolia said. “How insensitive of me.” She
realized Scary’s ignominious loss would be bad business for a com
pany where Natalie continued to work.
“Good God, Magnolia,” Natalie said. “Don’t apologize. Everybody
here thinks Jock’s the most arrogant scum-bucket who ever lived.
There’s a special circle in corporate hell for a CEO who squanders
millions on an embarrassing trial, tops it off with sexual harassment
problems and his puss splashed over the papers for his divorce, and
tries to drag his peers down with him.”
“So you think the Scary boys will have him eat dirt for a while?”
The very thought made her want to stand up and sing, “I’m Gonna
Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”
“Are you kidding?” Natalie said. ” ‘Eat dirt?’ He’s over.”
“Define ‘over.’ “
“Fired, finished, decapitated. If the Scary boys could waste him,
they would.”
“Really?” Sweet, she thought. “What’s going to happen now?”
“Well …” Natalie abandoned all dignity. It was fair to say she
squealed. “You can congratulate me, Natalie Simon, the newly
appointed CEO of Scarborough Magazines!”
Magnolia screamed.
“Thanks—I’ll take that as mazel tov. And if you can clear your
busy schedule, Miss Gold, Chairman Simon would like to take you to
lunch. See you Friday at Michael’s.”
C h a p t e r 4 3
Passion in Flip-flops
An enormous bouquet of orange gerbera daisies arrived as Magnolia left to meet Abbey at a downtown theater. “To my Daisy
Silver,” Cameron’s note said. “You finally made the right decision.
Looking forward, C.”
Throughout the movie, Magnolia deliberated on those daisies,
which now filled her three tallest vases and every corner of her brain.
“Keanu Reeves’s kiss—did you have the feeling it was the begin
ning of the end or the end of the beginning?” Abbey had to repeat the
question twice
before Magnolia answered.
“Hmmm …” Magnolia answered, as they walked into Lil’
Frankie’s. “Not sure.”
“Did that plot work for you?”
Magnolia could barely remember it. “Uh, yeah,” she said.
“Fascinating,” Abbey said, picking up a menu. “Okay, what kind of
pizza should we order?”
“Whatever,” Magnolia said. “You know what I like.”
Abbey thwacked her with a stare. “Magnolia, you’re phoning in
this whole evening. Hardly said a word in the cab. Forgot to pick up
our Raisinettes. What’s up?”
“I’m … preoccupied.” “Your ‘preoccupied’ is not an orgy of fun, my friend,” Abbey said.
“Is it that you think the verdict wasn’t fair?”
Magnolia leaned her head on her arm. “Judge Tannenbaum’s ver
dict was eminently fair,” she said, “but it’s put me in a corner, that’s
all.”
“You’re going to have to connect the dots for me,” Abbey said. “I
know I’ve been out of the country for a few weeks, but… .”
“Okay,” Magnolia said, and launched into a short, sweet synopsis of
where she and Cam stood or didn’t stand, that she was looking for
ward to visiting him and he apparently felt the same way, but how
Natalie had thrown a monkey wrench into her plan by scheduling a
command performance for Friday.
“Now that’s a story line,” Abbey said, looking appropriately flab
bergasted. “You and Cam!” She squeezed Magnolia’s hand. “I was
wondering when you’d notice you’re perfect for each other. It seemed
quite apparent to me when he couldn’t stop talking about you.” She
was grinning. “So, what’s the big deal?” The pizza arrived and Abbey
bit into a hot, cheesy slice. “You just reschedule Natalie.”
“People don’t ‘reschedule’ Natalie,” Magnolia said. “Certainly not
now that she’s CEO. You’re not getting how important this might be.
She’s invited me to Michael’s. In practically her first public act. It’s
living theater.”
“I don’t know,” Abbey said. “She might just want to gloat before an
adoring audience. Put her off. By the way, what have you told
Cameron?”
Magnolia sucked in a big gulp of air. “Nothing,” she admitted.
“There, I said it. I’m dodging. He called at ten, and twice later, and I