by Sally Koslow
No one in the room said a word, so Magnolia went on.
“Bebe doesn’t stand for anything bigger than herself—she’s just a
collection of interests. Doughnuts, kittens, country music. Interests
change.”
She was definitely on a roll. She thought about the photo shoot
when Bebe wouldn’t wear the designer clothes they’d had specially
made in her size and relived the incident with Fredericka. Should she
mention that Bebe was notoriously difficult to work with? Nah, her
colleagues wouldn’t care—that would be her problem. Besides, when
ever you complained that someone else was a pain, people always assumed you were the difficult one.
She flip-flopped about whether to go on, fearing that the head of
Human Resources would crash through the door and haul her to P.C.
court. But Magnolia had to say it.
“Third, it’s pretty much an open secret that Bebe is …” She
searched for a delicate word. “… a player.” Who was she kidding?
She’s a slut. “This doesn’t bother any of us, but remember how our
clients refused to place their ads next to that story we ran about the
call girl who became a pediatric oncologist? They aren’t going to like it if Bebe and her latest boy toy get splashed on The National Enquirer, and many of Lady’s more conservative readers—you know we’re mostly read by red-state Republicans—may be upset by it, too.”
Magnolia took a deep breath. “Seriously, guys—you’ll rue the day
you sign a contract with Bebe Blake.”
She looked the table up and down, waiting for one of her col
leagues to see the wisdom of her impassioned homily. Silence.
“Okay, then,” Jock announced, grinning his beaver smile. “Meet
ing adjourned.”
Was there a clue she’d missed? Would a shrewder editor have seen
it all coming? Maybe. Somebody who slept with Jock, perhaps? Defi
nitely. Was the idea hatched by Darlene to make her suffer? Magno
lia, even in a spasm of paranoia, doubted it. Darlene was more
treacherously ambitious than pointlessly cruel; she cared about mak
ing money, the primary credential—along with the ability to avoid
getting bogged down in pesky introspection—for succeeding as a publisher. If Bebe could guarantee Scary the direct route to a bigger pile of cash than Lady did, the company might get behind it. If. Magnolia collected her thoughts, along with her boards, and
headed back to her office.
C h a p t e r 4
The Two Women Who Still Eat Carbs
When it came to running with Abbey Kennedy, Magnolia was what the United States Postal Service used to be. Neither snow nor
rain nor gloom of night—hangovers, insomnia, upstairs party
people—kept her from the appointed rounds. If the two made a date,
she’d show on the dot of 6:45 A.M. Running wasn’t all about protecting
her butt from gravity or a sincere interest in heart health—no matter how much Lady preached on the subject. A couple of spins around the reservoir was her Prozac.
Magnolia had returned home late last night; walked Biggie and
Lola, her Tibetan terriers; poured a glass of Shiraz, and promptly
crashed after three sips. She’d had every intention of returning
Abbey’s call, greased with apologies, but exhaustion triumphed. Guilt
trailed her as she ran a few blocks east and turned on to Central Park
West to pick up Abbey.
To run, Magnolia wore the usual—whatever was clean and a base
ball cap from a trip to the Golden Door, where for two days Julia
Roberts had been her best friend. “Mea culpa,” she said to Abbey as
she entered the oak-paneled lobby of her apartment building. Abbey
quickly popped on her big, black Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, but not
before Magnolia noticed she’d been crying. Next to Abbey, Magnolia was Babe, Paul Bunyan’s ox. Abbey could
shop in the teen department and barely looked twenty-four, though
she was ten years older. Crying jag or not, this morning she was
adorable in tiny black running shorts, an orange racer-back running
bra, and shoes that gleamed brand-new. Her dark brown ponytail
looked as sleek as always.
“Okay, tell me,” Magnolia pleaded gently. “Sorry I couldn’t return
your calls yesterday. Work tsunami. First, talk.”
Abbey started to run and stared ahead, her smile zipped into a tight
line.” It’s Tommy.”
“And?”
“Gone.”
As they entered the park, Seymour, a neighborhood golden
retriever who’d become Abbey’s surrogate canine child, bounded up to
them, Frisbee in tow. Normally Abbey would have given Seymour a
hug, and the Frisbee a long toss. But today she ran past him, pushing
uphill on her twiggy but powerful legs, leaving Seymour looking as
confused as Magnolia felt.
“When I got back from San Francisco Sunday night, I noticed
Tommy had made brownies. They were arranged on that stainless
steel platter he’d got for me at Moss on Valentine’s Day.” Magno
lia remembered how annoyed Abbey had been—she was romantic
to her last cabbage rose print—when she’d received a serving dish
as a gift from her husband of three years. And from SoHo’s bas
tion of ultramodern design, when she was the countess of the flea
market.
“I went to cut a brownie in half and the knives were gone.”
“Huh?”
“It took me a few minutes until I saw the note taped to the fridge.
‘Abbey, I will always love you, but it wasn’t meant to be.’ It took a
few minutes to sink in. I kept looking for a P.S.: ‘I’m outta here and
you’re outta eggs.’ What kind of bullshit way is that to leave your
wife?”
Tommy bullshit. “I was out all night working on a story” bullshit.
“I’ve stopped seeing Stephanie” bullshit. “The trip to Turks & Caicos is for work” bullshit. The kind of bullshit Abbey chose to
believe.
Magnolia disliked Tommy O’Toole, deeply. She guessed the feeling
was mutual, as it is when someone knows you’ve got their number,
although she could understand why Abbey fell for him. Two years
younger than Abbey, a model turned anchorman for the local news,
broad shoulders, no waist, that faint shrimp-on-the-barbie accent,
curly brown hair, terrific piano player. Also quite the baker boy and,
according to Abbey, extraordinary in bed. But ever since Tommy came
on to her, a month before his wedding, Magnolia wanted to snarl at
him whenever he entered the room.
“I’ve been hysterical,” Abbey said. “Blindsided. Haven’t been to
my workshop once. Or eaten a thing except for a whole pint of
Chunky Monkey last night between three-thirty and four.”
What were Ben and Jerry putting in ice cream? Abbey picked up
the pace and kept talking. “I feel like such a fool. I want to claw his
eyes out. I miss him. I’m embarrassed. I feel pathetic. I’m in disbelief.
I hate him. I love him. I’m exhausted from all this emotion. How can
he really be gone?”
What do you say to a friend who hurts everywhere? “Tommy is an
asshole.” Why state the obvious? “He tried to kiss me once, but I said,
‘Fuck off.’ ” Instead Magnolia said, “Abbey, he’ll be back.” As so
on as
she heard her voice, she realized any devotee of Dr. Phil could have
done better. Plus, she doubted it was true.
“Magnolia, you’re wrong. This time I know he’s never coming
back. He took his cell phone charger, that navy Asprey blazer we had
the fight about. Nineteen hundred dollars for a jacket that looks like
Brooks Brothers? I’m still pissed. And the good knives. What kind of a
man takes knives? Oh, and his passport. At least I never have to look at
that Vuitton case again.”
Abbey and Magnolia had bonded long ago over how much they
loathed Louis Vuitton anything, and now that Magnolia thought
about it, she was suddenly convinced that Tommy’s passport case was
probably a gift from a woman with whom he’d had an adventure,
probably in a humid place in a faraway time zone. “Do you have any idea where he went?”
“No clue.”
They ran in silence, completing their laps. This was the first time
Magnolia remembered a lull in their conversation. She and Abbey
were perfectly matched as two of the slower runners around the
reservoir—although today’s shock appeared to be propelling Abbey
to a speed that Magnolia had to work hard to match—and their
chatter always made the runs seem more like a phone call than exer
cise. Whether they were discussing if Abbey should use citrines
or garnets in one of her designs—her jewelry line, Abbey K, had just been shown in a recent W (“worn by Hilary Swank to the Oscars”)—or analyzing last night’s dream, talk carried them
through.
After finishing their run, they headed to a nearby coffee shop for
the fifteen minutes of breakfast Magnolia allotted herself on a work
day. Not only were she and Abbey the only two women on the Upper
West Side who still ate carbs—they shared a scone whenever they
ran—she guessed they might also be the neighborhood’s sole adult
females who got through the day without antidepressants, although
Magnolia was thinking that it would be handy right now for Abbey to
have some pharmaceutical voodoo.
“Tommy will be back,” Magnolia insisted. “He adores you. You’re
his life.” Where was this drivel coming from? Abbey burst into tears.
Magnolia grabbed a stack of napkins, handed them to her friend, and
hugged her hard.
“Forget me,” Abbey said through her heaving, Italian widow
moans. “What’s going on with you?”
“If I start venting, I will never stop,” Magnolia said. “I’ll give you
two words. Bebe Blake.”
“She walked off another photo shoot? What do you care? She sold,
what, eleven copies for you last time.”
“Oh, that it were so simple. I’ll call you tonight and give you the
whole deal.” Magnolia got up to leave, remorse pulsing. She wished
she could take off the morning, tuck Abbey under a downy duvet in a cool, air-conditioned room, and hold her hand while they listened to
Harry Connick Jr. But there was rarely a day to be late for work, and
this was definitely not it. Scary was the court of Henry VIII—make a
mistake and you could be beheaded.
They said their good-byes. Magnolia raced home and rushed into
the shower for a quickie shampoo. She went over her clothing options.
Today called for skyscraper heels, definitely, and the confidence
building Stella McCartney dress she’d been saving for a very impor
tant occasion. With water dripping across her pale gray carpeting, she
checked her schedule. Did she have a lunch? Yes, Natalie Simon for
their monthly sushi pig-out.
Magnolia could use a dose of Natalie just now. A sit-down with
Natalie could be better than finding money in your pocket: her advice
was that astute. The vox populi was that Natalie was the cagiest editor
in town, having earned her chops over the course of thirty years. The
only problem was that Natalie seemed to have a selective memory and
so many industry friends sucking up that you couldn’t always count on
her to recall promises she’d make to you, even if your discussion was
yesterday.
Thirty-five minutes later, Magnolia was out the door. As she left
the elevator downstairs, she collided with a delivery boy. “For you,”
shouted the day doorman. A magnificent white orchid—pale, perfect,
a botanical Uma Thurman—was on its way up.
Magnolia accepted the present with curiosity. Flowers at Lady were routine, although it was usually the beauty and fashion depart
ments that cleaned up; you could barely walk to the bathroom with
out seeing a glorious floral tribute. The untrained observer might
think someone on the staff got engaged every day, but, no, the deliver
ies were almost always attached to press releases for, say, a new ultra
hydrating, pro-vitamin hair complex a publicist wanted mentioned in
the magazine.
Could the orchid be a guilt gift from Darlene? Unlikely. She’d
never given Magnolia a present, not even at Christmas. She opened
the card. “Can’t wait to see how yesterday went.”
Uma was from Harry James, the designer who’d worked so hard on Lady’s potential facelift. Their months of late nights had been all business but not unpleasant. Harry. What a lovely thought.
Magnolia checked her watch. She realized that for a full five
minutes she’d forgotten about Bebe Blake hovering on the horizon, ready to turn Lady into a caricature of a magazine and her job into something worse.
That is, if she still had a job.
C h a p t e r 5
The Corner of Grapevine and Yenta
“Make yourself at home,” Natalie Simon mouthed to Magnolia, a phone to her ear.
That wasn’t hard. Except for a computer Natalie used as little as
possible, her enormous space—twice that of Magnolia’s, although
both of them were editors in chief at Scary—was more a salon than
the hub of a working journalist. As Mozart hummed in the back
ground, a sea of azure prints, chosen by Natalie’s decorator to set off
her blue eyes, enhanced an effect of unhurried calm. Flanking the
sole fireplace in the building were twin love seats. One featured a needlepoint pillow begging the question, “What part of meow don’t you understand?” while the other observed that “Many complain of their looks, few of their brains.” The pillows were gifts to Natalie from her mentor, the famously silver-haired Hearst editorial director Ellen
Levine.
Natalie loved to dress as if she were still the 100-pound sylph she
was in 1975. Today she wore an olive military coat and periwinkle
blue polka-dot shirt over a knee-length yellow satin bubble skirt, a
mix of vintage and, as Natalie—an Anglophile from Scarsdale—
liked to put it, the high street. Her tangled, blond hair balanced like a
cumulus atop her head, and stacks of turquoise and silver Navajo bracelets jangled at her wrists. One finger sported a substantial sap
phire ring, another bands of lapis lazuli and gold.
She looked like a homeless woman who’d robbed a jewelry store.
One of Natalie’s many talents was to attract people, and Magnolia
thought of her office as being located on the corner of Grapevine and
Yenta. Like a cat presents mice to her mistress, New Yorkers on their
way up and
/or on their way down liked to reward Natalie with juicy
tidbits, and her phone fairly vibrated with this-just-in innuendo, deep background, and the occasional fact. This not only benefited Dazzle, Scary’s cash cow, but made Natalie very good company when she was
in the mood to share, which was often. To show her appreciation for
information that sustained her place as the magazine world’s reigning
queen bee, Natalie liked nothing better than to find people jobs,
doctors, and dates.
More than once, Magnolia had benefited from Natalie’s aid. She had given Magnolia her first job, as her assistant at Glamour. She’d recommended the dermatologist Dr. Winnie Wong, who never let a
little thing like FDA approval deter her; because of Dr. Winnie’s signa
ture glycolic acid potions, Magnolia hoped to forestall cosmetic sur
gery for decades. Natalie had also introduced Magnolia to her cousin
Wally Fleigelman, who except for his name turned out to be a perfect
first husband.
Magnolia didn’t hold it against Natalie that she and Wally stayed
married for only one year. For all of their hasty courtship, Magnolia
was crazy in love, but unfortunately, after the wedding, she and Wally
realized they were from different solar systems. He was an unabridged
New Yorker, from his accent to his out-there sarcasm, and ten years
earlier, she had yet to understand what was funny about a Woody
Allen movie and buttered a roast beef sandwich. And how was Magno
lia to know that her bridegroom’s idea of foreplay would become
watching the Golf Channel side by side? Recognizing a youthful
folly—they were both only twenty-four at the time—the newlyweds
parted amicably, not so difficult when the bride gets the real estate.
“Magnolia, sit.” Natalie pointed to one of the love seats. Their
sushi waited on delicate bamboo trays. They might be eating takeout from Yamahama Mama, but Stella, Natalie’s number-two geisha—the
one in charge of food, travel, and expense accounts—made sure the
presentation was up to Natalie’s specs.
“A shame about yesterday,” Natalie offered, as she popped a piece
of unagi into her mouth, careful not to smear her plum lip gloss.
Magnolia avoided Natalie’s eyes. She’d pretend the possibility
didn’t exist that Natalie and others might be feeling sorry for her.
Magnolia knew pity was the first symptom of a swift but fatal corpo
