Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  dowsill and the bag next to the bed. She hugged Abbey and then

  Daniel. “How do you both feel?”

  “Surprised,” Abbey said, “elated, exhausted.”

  “Très content,” he said.

  “A long labor?”

  “C-section at three-ten this morning,” she said. “We got here at

  eleven. I thought it was a false alarm until my water broke—it hap

  pened fast after that.” In slow motion, Abbey shifted her position. “I

  want you to see her.”

  “She is in the front left corner,” Daniel said, “with the long, dark

  coiffure.”

  At five pounds, thirteen ounces, Amélie Charlotte Rothschild

  Cohen looked about as big as a Perdue oven-stuffer. She was sleeping

  peacefully in a tightly swaddled blanket, a curl escaping from a small

  pink cap. Already, she had a certain je ne sais quoi.

  “Welcome, little angel,” Magnolia cooed through the glass. “I’m

  your auntie Magnolia and wait till you see the layette I bought you at

  Barney’s. It’s at home.” Amélie yawned. “Okay, if you don’t like it, we

  can exchange. I’m telling you now—this is a promise—I will be your

  fairy godmother. We are going to explore New York together, and I

  plan to teach you everything I know.” Magnolia was fairly sure

  Amélie opened her eyes and held her gaze. Maybe one day I’ll pro

  duce a friend for you, she thought.

  She returned to the room. With Daniel’s help, Abbey sat up. “I’m

  duct-taped together,” she said and winced. “I can’t believe Nurse

  Ratched out there expects me to take a walk.”

  “This is for you,” Magnolia said, handing her the large box in the

  bag. Abbey opened it carefully. Inside was a peach chiffon bed jacket

  Magnolia had found two months ago on Portobello Road. “There,”

  Magnolia said, as she helped Abbey slip it on. “You look like some

  body’s very well-kept mistress, circa 1955.”

  “Thanks, Mags,” Abbey said. “For everything.” “Sorry those lessons of ours turned out to be irrelevant,” Magnolia

  said, puffing out a few shallow Lamaze breaths. “We were world-class.”

  “Thank you for being there,” Daniel said in his deep voice. “Now I

  stay in Manhattan for three months. And next week, Marie-France

  will arrive.”

  “She takes care of les enfants Rothschild,” Abbey said. “Don’t you love it?”

  “Abbey, I want your life,” Magnolia said, though both of them

  knew it wasn’t true.

  “I’m so sorry I have to leave this afternoon.”

  “As I recall, you have a plane to catch.”

  “Not for five hours, and I’m already packed.”

  “Which dress are you wearing?”

  “The Armani sequins. Definitely not the Dolce & Gabbana. I’m

  aiming for elegant, not ‘I work at Hooters.’ “

  “I loved you in the Dolce.”

  “Because you’re obsessing about nursing,” Magnolia said. “I just

  hope you aren’t one of those mommies who whips out her huge titties

  every chance she gets.”

  “Stop—it hurts when I laugh,” Abbey said, holding her stomach.

  Wind howled against the windows. “I really think you should get to

  the airport early,” she urged.

  “Unfortunately, I believe you’re right,” Magnolia said, as she stood

  to leave. “As usual.”

  It had been almost a year since Magnolia had become editor in chief of Dazzle. Her weeks of drafting and redrafting the Voyeur proposal allowed her to submit—almost overnight—a fully hatched vision of how she could attract new, younger readers to Dazzle and give it an edge.

  “Cookie, you nailed it,” Natalie had called to say the very day she

  turned in her pitch, complete with eight sample covers on which Mag

  nolia had worked with Fredericka, with the understanding that if she

  got the job, Fredericka would have one, too. “When can you start?”

  “Thanks, Natalie,” she said. “I’ll start as soon as Wally looks over

  my contract.” “Fair enough,” Natalie answered.

  A week later, she moved into Natalie’s old office, which Natalie

  agreed to let her redecorate—smart of Wally to ask for that, Magno

  lia thought, along with weekly flowers in lieu of the standard health

  club. Magnolia wasn’t ready to give up running with Abbey.

  The walls were now a whispery violet repeated on the soft, low

  mohair sofas that flanked the fireplace, which Magnolia had kept

  ablaze since Halloween. She was back to working at the same long,

  antique pine table—unearthed from Scary’s netherworld—that she’d used at Lady. There were big windows and huge bulletin boards layered with photographs and in-progress pages from the magazine. It

  was a spare, calming work space, which was good, since her days

  began before eight and ended after ten.

  True to Natalie’s prediction, Magnolia had been working seven

  days a week, including traveling at least once a month with the maga

  zine’s publisher, Malachy Jones. They’d made sales calls in San Fran

  cisco, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit (twice), Boston,

  Houston, and London. This trip would be their first to Los Angeles.

  There were two aspects of travel with Malachy Jones that Magno

  lia particularly appreciated. The first was that in every city he seemed

  to have a boyfriend, which meant her evenings always ended by nine.

  The second: he wasn’t Darlene Knudson; he was quiet and thoughtful.

  What had become of Darlene since the firing, nobody was certain.

  Some said she and Jock were selling condos in Queens, which they

  were marketing as “the new downtown.” Others declared that Dar

  lene had launched a tween girls’ clothing line with prices starting at a

  thousand dollars.

  Almost every day at Dazzle brought the rush of New Year’s Eve, minus the champagne. Magnolia had more than kept up her end of

  the bargain. The magazine wasn’t just Scary’s queen breadwinner—

  newsstand, subscriptions, and ads were all soaring. There were two

  good reasons why. First, a long overdue redesign by Fredericka. The

  second, Magnolia’s secret weapon, Sasha.

  “Do you want to work for me again?” she’d asked Sasha. “You’ll be

  my first hire.” “As your assistant?” Sasha asked. Magnolia could hear her disap

  pointment. “You know I’m applying to law school.”

  “You’d be a staff writer,” Magnolia said. Sasha accepted the posi

  tion on the spot, and every week generated headline-grabbing articles,

  like her exclusive on those nasty rumors about one of President Bush’s

  daughters.

  The rest of the staff, which she’d inherited from Natalie, wasn’t

  just efficient—she liked them. And the person she liked the best was

  Stella, her number-two geisha, whom Natalie had left behind. With

  her MBA from the Natalie Simon School of Office Protocol, Stella

  arranged every detail with what was once quaintly known as military

  precision. Before a trip, for instance, she anticipated Magnolia’s needs

  down to the location of each airport’s ladies’ rooms.

  Today, the moment Magnolia arrived home after visiting Abbey,

  Stella was on the line, assuring her that the car she reserved to take

  her to the airport was—amazingly,
considering the blizzard—on

  time. Magnolia thanked her profusely and opened the shiny black

  folder Stella had messengered over with its hour-by-hour itinerary

  amended with tickets, directions, and vouchers.

  What she looked at first, of course, was the large, square engraved

  invitation, not unlike the one she’d received last week for her cousin’s

  daughter’s Bat Mitzvah in Boca Raton. “The Academy of Motion Pic

  ture Arts and Sciences invites Ms. Magnolia Gold to the Academy

  Awards …” This year she would be watching the Oscars not from her

  living room but from the Kodak Theater, in one of the two seats traditionally accorded to Dazzle. Magnolia wondered if Malachy, her date, would actually wear socks with his evening shoes.

  Magnolia reached the airport with more than an hour to spare, but

  soon enough she settled into her seat—first class—and eyed her

  heavy bag of manuscripts. Usually, she couldn’t wait to read and com

  ment. Today she had other plans. Magnolia took out the bound,

  uncorrected galley of the book Stella had worked her contacts to

  chase down just the previous day. The cover showed the back of a couple embracing. A Friend Indeed. She was glad Cameron had won the war with his publisher over the name.

  She looked first for the dedication and acknowledgments, her heart

  racing, but they were TK—publisher’s jargon for “coming later.” She

  flipped to the end for the author’s bio: “Cameron James Dane was

  raised in Burlington, Vermont,” it said. “He received his bachelor’s

  degree from Williams College and a master’s in fine arts from Yale University. A Friend Indeed, his first novel, is being published in fourteen countries and made into a major motion picture. He lives in Mal

  ibu with his rescue dog, Mags.” The photograph showed Cam with a

  pup whose fur was the same dirty-blond as that of her owner, who was

  walking barefoot on the beach, his face hidden by sunglasses.

  Magnolia opened to the first page, telling herself she was just curi

  ous to see whether Cam’s editor had macerated his deceptively simple prose. “Jake Hawkins had loved Daisy Silver for four years. Five, if you counted the year when he only admired her from his desk in the office three doors down. He loved the way her laugh sounded like the charm bracelet that never left her slim wrist, and he wondered whether she kept it on, even when …”

  As she devoured the pages, she could see that the decorum com

  mittee at Cam’s publishing house had convened and blessed the sex

  scenes, which were now more fruitful and had multiplied. But, other

  wise, the book was as she remembered. Cam’s voice was still strong. In

  fact, she felt as if he were dictating into her ear and she luxuriated in

  every word. When the captain announced they were landing at LAX,

  she was only half finished, having—at strategic points—allowed her

  mind to swerve into territory no one would call virginal.

  Magnolia deplaned and found her waiting town car. The Four

  Seasons in Beverly Hills couldn’t be less like its forbidding Manhattan

  cousin. She was admiring its warm, old-world ambience, waiting for

  her room key, when she heard her name.

  “Mag-knowl-ya.”

  “Bebe!” she said, spinning around to face her. “Hello.” Bebe had

  lost a good fifty pounds and had dyed her hair black.

  “I hear you’re in town for the Oscars.”

  “And you’re making a movie.”

  “Don’t you think I’m perfect for the Elizabeth Taylor role?” Bebe said. “As soon as I started Hellcat—that’s my production company—I knew The Taming of the Shrew had to be our first release.”

  “Sorry Yentl closed so soon,” Magnolia said.

  Bebe dismissed the four performances with a wave of her hand.

  “Those Broadway audiences don’t get subtlety,” she said. Magnolia

  saw a fleet of Louis Vuitton luggage roll by. “Great, my bags are

  finally here. So, can I take you to dinner?”

  “Sorry, Bebe, but my publisher has us seeing a client,” Magnolia

  said. “But thanks.”

  “Breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Same.”

  “Drink then?” Bebe said. “The bar here, say about ten?”

  “I’d love to, but we’ll be meeting with other clients later,” Magno

  lia lied. “You know how it is—sell, sell, sell.”

  “Well, catch you later,” Bebe said, unfazed. “And think cover. I

  want a fabulous cover just like this!” she said as she put on white

  movie-star sunglasses.

  “Yes, I know,” Magnolia said. Bebe had been agitating for a cover on Dazzle since Magnolia had got her job.

  “Promise?” Bebe said, winking.

  She winked back.

  A bellman ushered Magnolia into her suite. She tipped him gener

  ously. On one table stood a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver bucket.

  “Cookie, enjoy the Oscars,” the card from Natalie said, “and thanks for your wonderful performance.” Magnolia hadn’t known what to expect of Natalie as a boss, but she quickly learned that as long as she kept Dazzle solidly in the black and favorably in the news, they’d get along famously.

  Two large bouquets crowded the coffee table. One was a tall stand

  of mango calla lilies, their bright orange a lightning bolt in the taste

  fully beige room. She ripped open the card. “Orange you glad we’re

  going to the Oscars?” Malachy’s jokes sometimes fell a bit short on the

  wit meter, but unlike Darlene, at least he tried. The second bouquet

  was an extravagance of peonies, hydrangeas, and full-blown red roses

  accompanied by a gardenia-scented candle and two pounds of dark Belgium chocolates. “Welcome to the town where more is more, Big

  smooch, BEBE,” the card read.

  Magnolia unpacked, carefully hanging her gown on a heavily

  padded silk hanger. She lined up her Cinderella-worthy sandals on

  the closet floor and stowed this year’s birthday present from Abbey—

  jade and moonstone drop earrings—in the safe. The Balenciaga

  evening bag, filmy wrap, and silky lingerie, still with their tags on,

  she slipped into the drawers.

  In fifteen minutes, she was due downstairs to meet Malachy. She

  considered—as she had, constantly, for the last few weeks—whether

  she should call Cameron. She hadn’t seen Cam at all since she aborted

  her trip to visit him the past spring and once her job started, their

  e-mails had dwindled to nothing. “Hi, there. Want to get together? In

  town for the Oscars!” Magnolia practiced saying the lines out loud,

  trying to imbue them with a blithe insouciance.

  She couldn’t do it. She’d make the call later.

  Later, however—after dinner with four obstreperous, twenty

  eight-year-old cosmetic clients who seemed to especially enjoy that

  the mojitos were on Scary—she fell dead into bed. Amélie’s arrival,

  the time difference, her months and months of fatigue … in two

  minutes, she was out cold. On Sunday, she nearly overslept, and before

  the nine o’clock appointment Malachy had lined up for them, barely

  had time for a swipe of lip gloss before meeting him downstairs. Mag

  nolia had scant conversation to share as they drove in their rented

  convertible to Doughboys on Third and La Jolla.

  As the group gorged on flaxseed pancakes, Magnolia discreetly

  checked her itinerary. After brea
kfast she’d be back at the Four Sea

  sons, at the spa. Eleven o’clock: manicure and pedicure; twelve o’clock:

  massage; and one o’clock: the house specialty, margarita body pol

  ishes: she’d be rubbed with juices from limes, oranges, and tangerines

  mixed with sunflower oil, salt, and tequila. Magnolia hoped she

  wouldn’t walk away, smelling like a Tijuana bar. After the spa, she’d

  return to her room to meet a hair and makeup stylist. Assuming no

  snafus, she and Malachy would connect at three-thirty.

  Which was how it worked out. Having been pummeled, exfoliated, and transformed by a team of dedicated Southern California profes

  sionals, slipping into her sequins and shoes was the quickest thing she

  did all day. As she fastened her earrings and admired the way they

  caught the light, there was a knock.

  “Flowers,” the bellman said. “Again.” She peeked through the

  chained door and saw a bouquet in each of his hands.

  “Kisses from the Cohens—Abbey, Daniel, and Amélie,” said the

  card attached to the lavender roses in a silver cache. The other blos

  soms were creamy white and starlike, on branches that appeared to

  have been recently cut from a backyard garden. She breathed in their

  unmistakable fragrance, as sweet as a June twilight on the delta.

  Magnolias.

  There was no card. Did she dare think they might be from Cam?

  They were probably from a publicist who would follow up later, per

  haps with skywriting promoting a miracle depilatory she wanted Dazzle to feature. Although they might be from Rabbi Hirsch. They’d gone out six times, and although Magnolia felt he was a good

  deal more appropriate for her than Tyler Peterson, she couldn’t see

  herself with a man who might expect her to bake a kugel every Fri

  day night.

  Magnolia locked her cell phone in the safe—her evening bag was

  barely bigger than a six-year-old’s hand—and checked her reflection.

  No one was going to mistake her for a best-actress wannabe, but a doc

  umentary short subject nominee perhaps. She went downstairs to

  meet Malachy.

  “You look lovely, Ms. Gold,” he said, offering his arm. Magnolia

  hoped she looked half as pretty as he did. Malachy-the-metrosexual

  had eyelashes she would kill for, not a pore in sight, and highlights so

  deceptively natural she wished she had the nerve to ask for the name