by Sally Koslow
didn’t pick up.”
“Magnolia, what’s gotten into you? You’re being a child—and
cruel,” Abbey said none of this kindly or quietly.
“Thank you,” Magnolia hissed. “I really needed to hear that and so
did the people at the next table.” The heavily pierced, tattooed recent
college graduates were looking at Magnolia as if she were wearing Mom jeans and sensible shoes. She glanced at her Pumas. She was wearing sensible shoes.
“If you don’t need my advice, then just pull the petals off your
daisies to decide.”
“I also don’t need your sarcasm.”
“But the answer is obvious.” Abbey sat forward until her face was
less than a foot away from Magnolia’s. “Follow your heart.” She did
that thing where she zipped her lips in a tight line and crossed her
arms, offering Magnolia an excellent view of the chunky diamonds
blinking from her wedding band.
“Abbey, you met Daniel, bells chimed, and now you’re married
with so many residences you need a new address book. You own vine
yards! Your heart knew what it wanted. Mine needs a fucking GPS! I
can’t trust it. It led me to Harry, to Tyler.” She wiped away tears with
her sleeve. “It led me to Wally!”
Abbey laughed. “Who may have been a keeper and you never
noticed.”
“Precisely. Why should I let myself believe a flirtation with
Cameron is passion in a flannel shirt? Actually, now he probably wears
Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. My instincts suck. I can’t run away.
What I need is a job—a plan—and then maybe I’ll start thinking
straight.”
“Didn’t Mark Twain say, ‘Life is what happens to you when you’re
busy making other plans,’ ” Abbey asked.
“No, but John Lennon did.”
“Whatever. ‘Love is the flower you’ve got to let grow,’ ” Abbey sang.
” ‘The more I see the less I know,’ ” Magnolia sang back.
“All I am saying is give Cam a chance,” Abbey said. “You owe him.
At least explain.” They finished their dinner, split the bill, and began
a painfully quiet ride uptown. Halfway there, Magnolia’s phone rang.
“Hello, dear,” Felicity said. “Bebe would love you to join us for an
impromptu fete. Her friend Mario is pulling out all the stops here at
Babbo. We have food for fifty. Quite a do.” In the background, Magno
lia could hear Bebe’s laugh maxxed out to top volume.
Magnolia put her hand over her phone and whispered to Abbey,
“Apparently, Bebe’s gotten over my testimony. Want to go to her cele bration party? You’ve got to admit that woman does know how to
move on.”
“Pass,” Abbey said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Felicity, I just stuffed myself. But have a great time. And thanks
for asking.”
“You sure? You’d especially like the piñata,” she said. “It’s Jock’s
likeness.”
“Tell Bebe to give it a good whack on my behalf,” Magnolia said.
Bebe carrying on as if she’d won Wimbledon? It made no sense, but
not much did today.
The taxi dropped off Abbey. Magnolia got out a few blocks later
and gave Biggie and Lola an extra long walk before she had the nerve
to see if Cam had called again. He had. She walked to her computer,
started to write, but decided only a candy-assed coward would e-mail.
He answered on the first ring.
“Cameron?”
“Mags.” He said her name with a glint of joy and intimacy she could
hear and feel three thousand miles away. “I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call back,” she said. “I got totally
in the zone with my proposal—you know how that happens—then
suddenly it was six-thirty and I’d promised to meet Abbey and then I
forgot my phone.” She was a terrible liar, spilling out her explanation
in a breathless gasp.
“Un-huh,” he said.
“I love the flowers,” she said. “Thank you.” Why hadn’t she gushed
her gratitude immediately?
“They’re thinking of calling the movie Daisy Chain. I hate it.”
“Movie? What movie?”
“The movie being made from my book. My agent did the deal. The
book’s optioned, and the studio wants me to collaborate here on the
screenplay.”
“Cameron,” she shrieked. “That’s incredible. This is huge. Huge!
Congratulations. I am so impressed. You, a Hollywood screenwriter.
You’re going to win an Oscar.” “Enough,” he said. He sounded neither happy nor excited. In fact,
at the other end of the phone she thought she heard him sigh, but the
sound might have come from her. “You’ve decided not to visit, haven’t
you?”
“Everything’s taken a turn for the complicated,” she said softly.
“Jock was fired.”
“Are there spontaneous outbursts of jubilation throughout the
city?”
“There’s one here in this apartment.”
“The people who despise that guy could fill Roseland.”
“Natalie’s getting his job.”
“Hmmm … Interesting. I can see that,” he said. “The woman turned Dazzle into an ATM.”
“She wants to have lunch Friday.”
“You have to take the meeting.”
Magnolia laughed. “Talking like an L.A. boy. You like it there?”
“I didn’t think I would,” he said. “But writers run around in T
shirts and cutoffs and work at the Coffee Bean. It has its charms.” As
if he’d selected a different font, his tone had downshifted to friend
ship. Magnolia wanted to get back what had already slipped away.
“I’m disappointed, you know,” she said. “About this weekend.”
“Me, too,” he said. The dead air hung between them.
“Tell me what I’ll miss.”
“Dinner on Friday at this tapas place. Saturday I thought you might
go house-hunting with me. Sunday morning, the Rose Bowl swap
meet, and then a drive to Malibu or those Santa Barbara wineries.”
“From Sideways?”
“From Sideways.”
“Roll back to house-hunting. Does this mean you’re going to be
there permanently?”
“No, but at least six months … It would be a rental—near the
beach or in one of those coyote-filled canyons.”
Cameron of California was beginning to come into focus and he
felt unknown and far, far away. There wasn’t much to say after that.
Except good night. She called her dogs. “You guys—bedtime. It’s an order.” Biggie
and Lola leaped up and settled in for a cozy snooze. The same could
not be said for Magnolia. She pictured Cam going from project to
project as Hollywood’s hot, new script doctor. Two years from now,
he’d be picking up an Oscar for best screenplay—looking cute in a
tuxedo. He’d accept with a wry comment, which would make most
people scratch their heads, but she would get it. She’d call to congrat
ulate him. His assistant would take a message. “We’ll return,” the
assistant would lie.
When the phone rang at two A.M., Magnolia welcomed the inter
ruption.
“The thing I want to know is,” he said, “after t
he screwing you’ve
gotten in magazines and the rodeo down at the courthouse, why
would you ever want to try to stay in that business and hang around
just to get beat up again? What’s that thing you always said to me—
it’s okay to make a mistake but just don’t keep making the same
mistake?”
Magnolia waited to see if there was more to the tirade. She won
dered if he’d been drinking.
“I’m asking as a friend,” he added. He sounded sober, too sober.
“Cam, you clearly have all sorts of talents,” she said. Even some
she only suspected, and would like to experience—in every way—
firsthand. “But working in magazines is what I do. I’m a monkey with
one trick.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “You’re just terrified. I’ll only say
this once. Forget about being an editor. Move in with me. We’ll dis
cover L.A. together. Fresh start. You got to Manhattan from Fargo.
How hard could this town be?”
“You think the movie business is any better than magazines?” Her
voice wasn’t sleepy anymore. “Film companies give themselves
names like Pariah and nobody blinks. L.A. is where people eat their
young. And speaking of young, by Hollywood standards, I’m not.”
“Magnolia, none of that matters. Goddammit, you are one stub
born woman.” He paused. “Is this why I love you or do I love you in
spite of this?”
C h a p t e r 4 4
The Devil’s Work?
“Congratulations.” Air kisses. “Perfect choice.” Hugs. “Can’t wait to see what you’ll do.” Big smooch. “Success becomes you.”
With Michael’s patrons genuflecting to Natalie as they arrived and
departed in their spiffy best, Magnolia’s lunch dragged into its second
hour. Finally, cappuccinos and cookies arrived on a small silver tray,
and Natalie beamed her attention toward Magnolia. “You must feel
vindicated,” she said. In her new role as Scary’s president and CEO,
Natalie had arrived on a crimson tide of a red suit and Christian
Louboutin T-strap heels.
“How’s that?” Magnolia wondered.
“Pundits are spinning the trial as a retroactive win for Lady.” “One pundit in one ultraconservative newspaper with a circulation
of 10,000.”
“Cookie, you’re not hearing what I’m hearing. Your stock is way up
on the magazine NASDAQ.”
“Well, thanks Natalie,” she said. “But the last time I looked I was
still unemployed.”
“I hear you may be starting a new celebrity magazine,” Natalie said.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” she said, smiling coyly. A
more accurate answer would be “fat chance,” since she hadn’t mas saged her Voyeur proposal to anywhere near perfection or even given herself a deadline to set up an appointment at Fancy. The editorial
director there had probably forgotten they’d ever met.
“We can’t have you working for a competitor now, can we?” Natalie
said, nibbling one of Michael’s decadent butter cookies. “You know, I’m going to be replacing myself at Dazzle.”
Two months before, Magnolia wouldn’t have felt the least bit qual
ified to lead a magazine that depended not only on being able to dis
tinguish Jessica Simpson from Jessica Alba but knowing what, exactly,
each was famous for; and, more important, the names of their butt
doubles. Yet after dedicating herself to nonstop celebrity watching,
she’d got it. She’d got it fine.
Magnolia was just about to say she’d be thrilled to discuss Dazzle when Darlene stopped by the table, grunted a hello to her, and
swooped down on Natalie. “I hope you got my flowers, Natalie,” she
said in a voice the whole restaurant could hear. “I am so thrilled for
you. I can’t think of a better choice for Scarborough, and I know the
two of us are going to work together famously and make a ton. A
ton!” Were those tears in her eyes or was Darlene just allergic to sin
cerity?
“Thank you, sweetie,” Natalie said, patting Darlene’s sturdy hand.
“The flowers are gorgeous.” She took a sip of cappuccino. “So, we’ll be
seeing each other today at four?”
Confusion blew over Darlene’s face. Magnolia thought she saw a
sign on her forehead say, “What the fuck?” but Darlene recovered.
“Of course,” she said. “Later!”
As soon as she had left, Natalie leaned her head close to Magnolia’s.
“She’s history,” she whispered without moving her lips. “I just
decided this very minute that we’ll have ‘the talk’ at four, and if I’m
lucky I will never see that loudmouth bitch again. She’s a walking
speaker phone.” Natalie picked up her BlackBerry and sent a message
to her assistant instructing her to set up an appointment with Dar
lene. “Those manufactured circ numbers … and does she think I
don’t know she’s had her nose up everyone’s butt for a new job?”
Natalie ate another cookie. “I think I am going to like being CEO.” “You’ll be brilliant,” Magnolia said and meant it. But why can’t we
return to the topic on the table before Darlene appeared? Natalie
looked at her watch.
“You were mentioning Dazzle,” Magnolia said. She hoped the desperation in her voice didn’t come across like ticker tape.
“Oh, right,” Natalie said. She pulled out her corporate AmEx card,
which was identical to the one Magnolia had to shred when her little
pink slip arrived. “Do you think you might be interested?”
“I think I would,” she said.
“Being a weekly, you pretty much have to be on call three hundred fifty-two days of the year,” Natalie said. You’ve never done a weekly—that’s what she was really saying. Or even worked on a
celebrity magazine or been an entertainment editor. Neither had Natalie when she’d talked her way into becoming Dazzle’s editor in chief. But Magnolia understood. Natalie wanted her to scrawl, “I will
die if you don’t hire me” on the white tablecloth in her own blood,
then jump on the chair, beat her chest, and declare undying love for Dazzle.
Dazzle led the media parade that revered fame. Op-Ed page critics could make a strong case for why it was the kind of scandal sheet that
made teenagers want to grow up to become stars of their own reality
TV shows instead of schoolteachers and pediatricians, but hadn’t
Anne Frank had photographs of celebrities in her hiding place? Working at Dazzle wasn’t the devil’s work, Magnolia told herself. It was just entertainment—and the most lucrative editor-in-chief job at
Scary.
She swallowed hard. “Natalie, I am shocked and flattered. I would be completely honored to lead Dazzle,” she said. “Of course, I would have very big shoes to fill …”—rats. Unfortunate choice of phrase,
Natalie being vain about her size-five, triple-A feet—“but especially
during my, uh, hiatus, I’ve become utterly enamored of the current
celebrity culture in the United States. Ask me anything! Brangelina’s
baby’s middle name. Jennifer Lopez’s preferred underarm deodorant.
Salma Hayek’s electrolysis technician …” Natalie was smiling beautifully, thoroughly enjoying the grovel
ing. “I think I could be a highly effective, energetic editor in chief of Dazzle,” Magnolia continued. “As far as
its being a weekly goes, you know how fast I am, Natalie. You know I never stop working for a
damn second. I am always ahead of schedule. ‘Anal retentive’ is my
middle name …”
“Okay, okay,” Natalie said. “You’re in.”
“I’m in? Great!” Magnolia said. She felt light-headed and thought
she needed water. Then the wires in her brain connected. What,
exactly, did “in” mean?
“I’d love you to be a candidate,” Natalie continued. “Several edi
tors on my staff have spoken to me about the job, and Raven, of
course. Plus, I’ve gotten calls from several other strong contenders from the company, as well as from Vanity Fair, People, Us, the Star, InTouch.” Natalie stood to leave. “Interest in the job is off the charts.”
“Understandable,” Magnolia mumbled.
“Anyone who wants to be considered needs to give me their vision
for the magazine, in less than thirty pages—including visuals—by
Monday at ten.”
C h a p t e r 4 5
Best Picture
“Amélie is here,” the voice said, sounding exhausted but happy. “She wants to meet you.”
“Oh, my God,” Magnolia said groggily. “I’ll get there as fast as I
can.” No one expected Amélie for several weeks. “How is she?”
“Beautiful.”
Magnolia scrambled into yesterday’s clothes, which she’d tossed
on the chair when she’d got home past midnight, and grabbed the
present hiding in her closet. She stopped on Columbus Avenue at the
posh new florist—they were overpriced, but she didn’t care—and
asked for four dozen tiny white tea roses packed tightly in a square
glass vase.
It was snowing and taxis were scarce. Snowflakes blew sharply in
her face as she stood, burdened with her gifts, looking for an empty
cab. After fifteen minutes, one found her.
“Mount Sinai Hospital,” she said to the driver. The taxi skidded
along the icy streets and through the park and, ten minutes later,
stopped on Fifth Avenue and 100th Street. A nurse directed Magnolia
to the room. She stood in the doorway and watched Daniel sitting on
the edge of the bed, stroking Abbey’s hair. He bent over and gave his
wife a tender caress. “Knock, knock,” Magnolia said softly.
“Magnolia,” Abbey said sleepily. “Have you seen her yet?”
“You first,” Magnolia answered, as she placed the roses on the win