by Sally Koslow
lia hated the sound of her own voice, although she wasn’t surprised
Bebe would be taking this step, with her ratings slip-sliding away. She hadn’t made the list of Fortune’s wealthiest women in the universe for the last four years by being a pea brain.
“We’ll see,” Bebe said, popping the last raspberry in her mouth.
“I’m looking at a lot of opportunities. Maybe open my own ashram.
Or a chain of foot reflexology salons.”
“If we’re lucky enough to get you on board, is there anything you like and would want to keep from the current Lady?” Magnolia ventured, hearing her voice squeak, but feeling incapable of lowering it.
“Well, it’s clever the way you do the product endorsement thing,
your seal of approval.”
“That’s Good Housekeeping.”
“And I like that column, ‘Can This Marriage Be Saved?’ Read it all
the time at the podiatrist’s.
“That would be Ladies’ Home Journal.”
“You ladies, you’re all alike.” Bebe snapped, although Magnolia had
to admit that she’d heard the exact remark many times in focus groups. Which was why she’d planned a redesign of Lady with Harry James. She could feel her temples throb at the epic injustice of the
whole situation.
“I’m sure we can work out any little details later,” Darlene broke
in. “This is just get-acquainted time. Felicity, do you have anything
you want to ask?” Felicity’s voice was low, her manner confident, and her accent,
decidedly northern English.
“Only if Magnolia thought there would be anything unusually dif
ficult about doing a magazine this way?”
Magnolia wasn’t entirely sure what answer she could cough up,
other than that handing over the magazine to Bebe and/or Felicity
was the worst idea since bald guys with ponytails. “Typically, a maga
zine’s editor in chief is a benign dictator,” she responded. “What she
says, goes. For better or worse, it’s her vision, her success if the maga
zine’s a hit, her disaster if it bombs. In this case, the vision would be
Bebe’s. It’s an unorthodox arrangement, but I’m sure there’s a way to
work it out.”
“Dictator?” Bebe said. “Sweet.”
C h a p t e r 7
Marshmallow and Mademoiselle
Manhattan offered far posher nail salons than Think Pink, where the only frills were a bowl of miniature Snickers and two
jade plants in the jaws of death. What the establishment lacked in lux
ury it made up for in location, which was equidistant from Magnolia
on West End and Abbey on Central Park West. The real draw, though,
was its owner, Lily Kim, the mother of Ruthie Kim, Magnolia’s fash
ion director.
In Korea, Lily had been a midwife. Here, she labored seven days a
week in her shop, her real mission being to make sure that her daugh
ter Ruthie achieved profound success. The tutors who helped Ruthie
get into Stuyvesant High School—the Ferrari of New York City pub
lic education—paid off when Wellesley gave her a full scholarship.
While picking clothes and arranging fashion shoots wasn’t quite what
Lily had projected for her daughter—her ambition ran along the
superhighway of concert cellist–Olympic skater–McKinsey consult
ant—Lily had accepted Ruthie’s choice. Now she made it her business
to know Nina Ricci from Narciso Rodriguez, and she never hesitated
to offer fashion advice or to comment on the appearance of Ruthie—
or anyone else. “Maggie, you look tired,” Lily announced, as she arranged Magno
lia’s polish shades: Marshmallow and Mademoiselle, one coat of each,
to create the subtle pink of a blushing bride.
“Week from hell,” Magnolia responded. She had to be careful what
she said, since every detail would bounce back to Ruthie. “But it’s been
worse for Abbey.” She turned to her friend. “What’s the late-breaking
news?” she asked. This much Magnolia knew: as of 11:30 last night,
Tommy was still MIA.
Magnolia thought it a testament to the donation of her precious
Ambien stash that Abbey had even shown up today for their weekly
manicure. She’d bombarded her with calls to make sure she wasn’t still home in her nightgown on a sunny afternoon watching You’ve Got Mail, which every single woman in Manhattan could lip-synch.
“Got a message last night,” Abbey said. “The prick’s alive.”
Anger, Magnolia thought. Excellent. Abbey’s still alive, too. “Where
is he?” she asked.
“Hiding in cyberspace,” Abbey reported. “That’s all I know.” She
blinked away a tear. Clearly, wrath was only a topcoat on a fragile base
of fear, hurt, and anxiety.
“What did he say?” Magnolia pressed on, while Lily quietly began
filing her nails, not too long, square with rounded edges. The Satur
day afternoon opera played quietly on a boom box.
“Needs time to think,” Abbey reported.
“Code for ‘I will take my own sweet time to fuck around while you
squirm and writhe,’ ” Magnolia said. She couldn’t remember the last
time any woman benefited when a man got to thinking. “What are
you going to do?”
“Throw myself into work,” Abbey said. “Become the world’s most
prolific jewelry designer. I was up all night sketching. I’m seeing
lizards, lizards everywhere. Lizards with slinky diamond bodies.
Lizards with cowardly topaz stripes. And strangely, these lizards have
no balls.”
While Abbey and Lily debated the anatomy of scaly reptiles, Mag
nolia tried to ignore the fleeting thought that Abbey might actually produce one of these critters for her birthday—preferably in a size big
enough to make a statement around her wrist. “Did you read your
husband the riot act?” Magnolia asked.
“My estranged husband?” Abbey asked. “Not in so many words. I’m such an ass. I was actually relieved to hear from him.”
“Did you e-mail back?”
“Told Tommy to get his butt home,” Abbey admitted.
Magnolia thought Abbey might have asked a few more questions.
Like where was he? Who was he with? What were his intentions?
Why did he think he could treat her this way? She knew it would be up to her to play rottweiler. “If he writes back—correction: when he writes back—give him a deadline.”
“I hope you never put his name on the lease,” added Lily, ever the
pragmatist, as she warmed Magnolia’s hands with a steamy towel.
When they married, Tommy had moved into Abbey’s rent-stabilized
apartment. For the cost of a Queens studio, the couple luxuriated in six
rooms and nine-foot ceilings capped by dentil moldings, a butler’s
pantry, enough closets to hide a family of fugitives, and a view of the
park. The desire to keep a real-estate jewel of this caliber had kept
many a faltering New York marriage together forever. Lily had clearly
hit a nerve, and Abbey gave both of them her look that telegraphed:
“Back off. This isn’t a drug intervention. I am not the idiot wimp you
think I am.” Directed toward Magnolia, the look seemed to also say,
“I’m married, even if my husband’s not exactly around. You, on the
other hand, are single. Perhaps terminally.”
“Enough,” Abbey said.
>
“Natalie loves your jewelry—especially the pieces she heard
Bergdorf’s commissioned” was all Magnolia could think to say.
“But of course Mrs. Simon would know this,” Abbey said. “Is there
anything she doesn’t know?” She could not forgive Natalie for never
remembering her name.
“She doesn’t know who I am bringing to her party next week,”
Magnolia said. “Because I don’t know myself.” Magnolia’s social life
had gone into remission five months before when she broke up with
Alec the architect, who had long black hair and an inability to hit an ATM. When he asked for her to pay his car leasing bill, Magnolia
ended it, finally accepting the fact that he’d been as stingy with emo
tion as he had been with cash. “If I don’t come up with someone—
and you know she’ll harass me about it all week until I do—Natalie
will remedy the situation herself.” As a matchmaker, Natalie believed
in the classic combination of beautiful women and rich, ugly men,
although for her, another rule applied: Natalie’s husband happened to
look like Jeremy Irons’s baby brother.
“In that case, we need to be creative,” Abbey said. “What about
Cameron in your office? I’ve always loved him.”
Everyone did. “Next,” Magnolia said.
“J-Date,” Lily insisted. “You need Jewish man.” She gave the same
advice to her own daughter.
“Find a guy online?” Magnolia responded. “What kind of loser do
you think I am?”
“The kind who got no man,” Lily said with a laugh. Lily and her
manicurists were always cracking up. Either they found the world
infinitely amusing or their customers, imbeciles.
“You shrews take it down a notch,” Magnolia said. “What you
don’t know is that this week a gentleman sent me flowers.”
Abbey and Lily swiveled their creaky vinyl chairs to face Magnolia. “The designer I worked with on the Lady redo sent me a magnificent orchid in a tasteful white china pot.”
“He’s looking for more work,” Lily said. “Doesn’t count.”
Magnolia hated that Lily might be right.
“Is he interested in Magnolia the delightful divorcée, or Magnolia
the on-the-rise editor?” Abbey asked.
“I’m trying to decide whether I should find out. When we finally
spoke last night, he suggested meeting for a drink.”
“You accepted?” Abbey asked.
“Gave him the ‘I’m on deadline.’ “
“Technically, he’s not your employee,” she pointed out. “You
should have said yes.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him to join me at Natalie’s party. It’s a business thing,
so I can’t embarrass myself that badly.” In fact, bringing along Harry, who’d only recently moved here from London, might even elevate her
stock. He was a hot design consultant, and Americans always thought
anyone who sounded like Ralph Fiennes was profoundly intelligent.
Lily gave Magnolia’s fingertips a final coat. Abbey’s nails were now
a shiny crimson, as they sat at the dryers at the far end of the shop. Magnolia noticed the latest Lady, along with any number of tattered Peoples. “Good, we’ve escaped Lily,” Magnolia whispered, as she began thumbing through her own magazine. As soon as Lady was printed, she always found at least two dozen things she wished she’d
done differently. “I’ve hit a little, ah, speed bump at work.” She filled
her in on the Michael’s breakfast.
“She brought a cat to a midtown restaurant?” Abbey asked.
“That was the highlight. This whole Bebe thing is spiraling out of
control. Very soon it’s going to be the cheese stands alone, and I will be a
piece of very stinky Limburger.” Magnolia tried for breezy, but she
knew Abbey would see straight through to the hollow spot inside of her
that exposed her worst-case scenario. Humiliation! Loneliness! Finan
cial ruin! That’s what she saw for herself if Jock pulled the plug on her
magazine. Working didn’t just pay the bills—it made her whole.
“You’ve got to talk to Jock,” Abbey insisted. “Get him to see reason.”
“Natalie thinks that’s a vile idea.”
“Natalie? The only good advice she ever gave you was never to
incriminate yourself in e-mail. If your magazine turns into Bebe
Blake’s Christmas letter, Natalie has nothing to lose. Fight!”
“Jock’s totally dollar-happy,” Magnolia said. “I’m afraid his mind
is made up. He thinks going with Bebe is a blue-chip deal.”
“How can you be sure?” Abbey asked.
Magnolia didn’t know whom to believe. Her friend’s love was never
in dispute, but she thought like an artist, not a corporate strategist,
while Natalie had stayed at the top of her game for close to twenty-five
years, when some colleagues as young as forty were already roadkill.
“I say, ‘Feed me,’ ” Magnolia said. “Omelets at Nice Matin?”
“Bye, Lily,” they shouted. “See you next Saturday.”
“Don’t forget your newspaper,” Lily called out.
Magnolia had almost left her Post behind. “Hold up, guys. Let’s see what Miss Universe has in store for me today.”
Can you trust other people’s advice? Today’s stars warn that not even close colleagues and confidants can be relied upon to share good information. They may not be trying to deceive you, but how do you know that they themselves have not been deceived?
Always with the questions, that witch. This mess, she could see,
she’d have to figure out on her own.
C h a p t e r 8
Cleavage Never Hurts
Magnolia had forgotten how much effort a woman needed to look good, really good.
The week had been too busy for a fake-and-bake at Brazilian
Bronze, so the night before Natalie’s party on Saturday, starting at
midnight, she anointed herself with self-tanner, which dried while
she fell asleep right before Ingrid Bergman discovers Cary Grant was actually single in Indiscreet. Fortunately, the next morning she awoke even and bronzed, not like the mutant tiger she’d feared.
Magnolia ran at eight, the earliest hour Abbey deemed civilized for
weekends. Her shiatsu massage guy, Eli Birdsong, showed up at 9:30
for an hour of bliss-by-kneading. After a quick shower, she had just
enough time to cab it to Frédéric Fekkai for an eyebrow shaping and
blowout. Satisfied that her stylist didn’t completely obliterate the
body in her hair—the ramrod-straight look made her nose look the
size of a muffin—she tipped handsomely and walked up Madison
Avenue, scoping out shops to see if she could improve on the clothes
she’d laid out. So, of course, she was late for this week’s manicure.
It was 4:30 by the time Magnolia got home. Biggie and Lola
assaulted her, hyper and indignant—they’d been deprived of Saturday
afternoon’s usual rampage at the dog run. One short whip around the block was all the time Magnolia could spare if she was going to detox
even a little, look over a bit of work, and do her makeup right. She’d
drawn the line at a professional job, even if Natalie’s guest list would
feature a column’s worth of boldfaced names. In fact, now that she
thought about it, she’d have to scratch the work. Harry was picking her
up at 6:45.
As she poured the last of her precious a
nd now extinct Ralph Lauren
Safari bath beads into the tub, the phone rang.
“Running a tad late,” Harry said. “I’ll bring round the car and
have the doorman ring up. Will you forgive me for being the kind of
cad who expects a lady to meet him on the street?”
I am such a sucker for a proper Brit accent, Magnolia thought. Give
him a Hugh Grant stutter and I’d marry him even if he were a televi
sion evangelist. “Take your time, Harry,” Magnolia said. “We’ll make
an entrance.”
She poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, switched on a Norah
Jones CD, and let the glorious bubbles wash off the week, which she
gave a B plus. On the upside, she, Cam, Fredericka, and the gang
had—as of 10:59 the previous night—shipped the September issue.
They’d needed to work late every night. September was always a
monster—three-minute makeup, fall fashion must-haves, a sixteen
page parenting section underwritten by Toys “R” Us, and one article she knew each Lady reader would memorize: the five secrets to getting a good night’s sleep. That last coverline alone would sell the
issue. The women in America may as well have a big pajama party
between three and five in the morning—the adult female half of the
country was all up, ruminating.
But the best part of the September issue was Magnolia’s off-the-charts
cover girl: a sweeter-than-Krispy-Kreme portrait of Kate Hudson and
her adorable, hipster toddler. Home run. Eighty percent newsstand
sell-through, at least, maybe 85, plus she’d be the envy of every other
editor.
Magnolia had had to wait almost two years for that photo shoot,
performing due diligence with Kate’s celebrity flack by featuring sev
eral of her less fabulous stars—actresses way past their sell-by dates or no-name wannabes. It was a form of blackmail the industry
shrugged off and accepted. The cabal of publicists who controlled
celebrity coverage put all the magazines in a rotation. This meant that
it would be at least nine months—when Kate’s next movie premiered—until one of Lady’s competitors would be allowed to feature her on a cover. That’s if the publicists were true to their word. Some
times a promise was a promise, and sometimes just a suggestion. An
editor could think her cover was locked, only to be told there were
“extenuating circumstances” … which turned out to be that the celebrity preferred to be on Vanity Fair.
