by Sally Koslow
and louder, like the horn of an approaching ocean liner.
“Gold!” it said. “Gold! Mags! How’s it going? Bebe! Oh, Bebe, you
look fabulous.” It was her publisher, Darlene, hurrying toward the
camera, her Prada suit a mess of wrinkles. “I was in the neighborhood
on the way home, and asked my driver to swing by,” she said. It was a
curious detour. She lived on Park and 80th and that wasn’t all. Publish
ers were never invited to photo shoots. An art director and photogra
pher would sooner extend an invitation to their archrival than to their
magazine’s publisher.
“How’s it going?” Darlene asked.
“Dandy,” Magnolia hissed, turning away from Darlene.
“Can I see the Polaroids?” Darlene asked in her pushiest tone.
“Please, Darlene,” Magnolia said. “Not now.”
“Frank here is one helluva photographer,” Bebe said. “I did a Janet
Jackson with my tit, and he didn’t even blink. But I guess you don’t
like girls, huh, Frank?”
Darlene plunged in Francesco’s direction. “I’m Bebe’s publisher,” she said to the startled photographer, picking up a Polaroid from
the table where his assistant had left them. “Mind if I look through
your lens?”
“Mind if I read your tax return?” Francesco responded.
It was close to nine o’clock. Magnolia had canceled a date with
Harry. She was starving, exhausted, and wanted to kick Darlene with
the pointiest stiletto in Ruthie’s collection. She regretted that Ruthie
hadn’t called in steel-toed work boots.
“Darlene, don’t even think about it,” Magnolia said. “This shoot
is over.”
C h a p t e r 1 7
Too Much Information
Several workdays later, at 6:45, Magnolia was relieved to see that Ruthie was still working with her assistant to account for the
clothing from the Bebe shoot which needed to be returned “Ready for
an intervention?” she said.
“Big date?” Ruthie asked with a smile, looking unwilted, even at
the end of the day, in a vanilla skirt and shirt and pale stilettos. Her
straight, shiny black hair framed her dark almond eyes. She looked
like a fashion editor doll.
“I wish,” Magnolia replied. “No, it’s a black tie, last minute, Wal
dorf hell.”
Every year Scary bought tables at the Bowel Bash, a favorite char
ity of the older Scary brother, the skinny one with irritable bowel syndrome. Bebe and Darlene were tapped to represent Bebe. At 6:30, however, Felicity sent word that Bebe was “indisposed”—taping her
TV show, Magnolia was to believe. She would be pressed into action to
replace her.
Usually, dressy events were excuses for Magnolia to wear real jew
elry. Maybe her sapphire chandelier earrings, her parents’ gift for her
thirtieth birthday. Or she might borrow one of Abbey’s pieces, like the coral and black jet Maltese cross from her short-lived Frida Kahlo
period. But today there would be no time for a trip home to root
around her jewelry box, hidden underneath the heating pad. There
would barely be time to see if Ruthie could lend her more appropriate
clothes and shoes than today’s plaid jacket; stretchy, butt-forgiving
Capris, and flats. Magnolia blinked away an image of her Chanel
sample sale dress sadly awaiting bright lights in the big city. The dress
would have to wait a little longer.
By standards of a legitimate fashion magazine, the Bebe fashion closet—an uncarpeted space roughly twenty-by-twenty, lit by fluo
rescent lights—was touching. To an innocent female bystander, though,
it was paradise. Shoes and boots filled shelves along every wall. Belts,
hats, and scarves dangled from pegs. Hosiery and socks were arranged
in drawers along with jewelry, sorted like fishing tackle.
In the middle of the room stood racks of clothing. Here was the
coat that had to be purchased because a model’s cigarette burned a
hole in the sleeve. There was the baby blue halter the talk show host
demanded because it matched her eyes, then refused to wear because
it exposed her ham-shaped arms. In a corner was the complete Target
line Isaac Mizrahi had sent one Friday afternoon with a challah and a
note that began, “Good Shabbas, Magnolia bubbe.”
A fashion closet was one of those giddy ties to glamour taken
advantage of by even the lowest of the low on the editorial masthead.
If an editor needed to replace rain-soaked shoes or swap her turtle
neck with a clingy Hoorywood top for a last-minute date, Ruthie and
her team always obliged. Like now.
Right now, however, Ruthie was fixated on Magnolia’s hair. “Let’s
not talk about it, okay?” Magnolia said. This morning she’d forgone a
shampoo, and tied her hair into a ponytail, which now hung like a
small dead rodent waiting for the taxidermist.
Ruthie shrugged and ducked behind a rack. She quickly emerged
and offered Magnolia a clingy black panther of an Armani dress.
Magnolia scowled and stuck out her rear end. “I’m not nearly skinny
enough for that.”
Ruthie nodded and returned with a black printed chiffon gown encrusted with beads. Magnolia stripped to her underwear and pulled
the dress over her head. The bell sleeves hung below her hands. She
was Morticia in a muumuu.
“Off, off,” Ruthie shrieked and disappeared again, mumbling
something about Valentino. The name warmed Magnolia’s heart,
until she saw a ruffled purple leopard gown in silk georgette. Obvi
ously, even Valentino had an off day.
“Please, anything but leopard,” Magnolia said, politely ignoring
the gown’s other faults.
“Even with this to cover it up?” Ruthie held out a gray fox stole.
“Ruthie, I’m not accepting an Academy Award.”
“Got it,” Ruthie said. “Glitz-lite.”
“And forget about décolleté,” Magnolia called out as Ruthie for
aged further. “Tonight’s about gastroenterology, not tits.”
Time dribbled away as Ruthie pulled out clothes and shook her
head. Finally, she emerged, bearing a pale pink sweater. Were it not
for a diamanté-jeweled neckline of the softest cashmere, it could have
been sold at Old Navy. Magnolia loved it. She pulled on the sweater,
which made her waist look tiny and her breasts ample but not
obscene.
“With this skirt,” Ruthie insisted. The sequined scalloped skirt, in
a darker pink, hit her legs right below the knee. The woman who
stared back in the mirror reeked chic.
“Stick this on,” Ruthie commanded. She handed Magnolia a white
gold ring showcasing a hunk of lemon quartz the size of a cherry
tomato. “And these for your ears.”
Magnolia fingered the dangly spirals that Ruthie was now proffer
ing. “Garnets?” Magnolia asked.
“Rubies,” Ruthie answered.
“Not too much with the sweater? Don’t want to look like a petit
four.”
“Trust me, you need to distract from the hair,” Ruthie said as she
handed Magnolia a small beige satin envelope bag.
“You’re right. They’re fabulous. But shoes, Ruthie?” They both
looked at the red flats s
he’d kicked off. Ruthie eyeballed the fashion closet’s size nines and tens. Models
might be skinny, but they were tall girls with enormous feet. Magno
lia was a seven. “Here,” she said, taking off her own bone Manolo
pumps.
“You have saved my life, Ruthie Kim, and I will be forever grate
ful,” Magnolia said, slipping on the shoes, which were only a little
snug. She gathered her work clothes and flats; dumped them back in
her office; stuck her cell phone, twenty dollars, and a lipstick in the
bag, and pinned her hair in a chignon with the help of an unidentifi
able hair product she found lurking in her desk.
Five minutes later she was in the elevator. As was Natalie Simon.
“What’s with the pink?” Natalie asked. “We’re doing bowels, not
breast cancer, right?”
“Cut me some slack here, Natalie,” Magnolia said, wondering why
a woman wearing the twin of the purple Valentino leopard dress
she’d rejected fifteen minutes ago had the temerity to be critical.
“You know I’m kidding, Cookie,” Natalie said. “You look adorable.
I’d like to rip that sweater off your back. Whose is it?”
“Honestly, haven’t a clue,” Magnolia answered, eager to change
the subject. “What’s going on?”
“Meaning to call you,” Natalie said. “I just shipped our cover and I
have you to thank.”
“Why is that?”
“Sarah Jessica Parker,” Natalie said. “Those pictures were knock
outs. As soon as I saw them, I postponed Angelina Jolie. She scares the
bejesus out of people anyway.”
Corporately, of course, it made sense. In the boilerplate of the standard Scary contract, the company had paid for the shoot, not Lady, and the embargo extended for months, so it was too soon for the photographer to resell them. Why not let Dazzle run the pictures shot for Lady? Still, it stung. Just as a courtesy, Magnolia wished Natalie would have at least asked her if she took advantage of the photos—
not that Magnolia owned them in any way beyond emotional.
“They’ve been lucky already,” Natalie grinned. “Online tests pre
dict that cover’s going to blow out of the newsstand.” Natalie Simon luck, Magnolia thought.
Natalie offered Magnolia a ride to the Waldorf, and the two chat
ted about other things—whether it was true that Jock was doing it
with Mitzi, Pippi’s sister, and the pissy e-mail they’d all got demand
ing that each magazine cut back 20 percent on color Xeroxes.
By the time the two of them arrived at the hotel, most of the cock
tail hour had passed. As they entered the room, Natalie got plucked
off by a Brooks Brothers type who Magnolia suspected belonged to
one of the three corporate boards on which Natalie sat. Magnolia
scanned the sea of overdressed humanity but, since it wasn’t an event
exclusively for the magazine industry, she didn’t recognize a soul. One
short man on the arm of a tall, willowy woman looked familiar, but
she couldn’t place the face. Was he a friend’s father? She started to
walk in his direction, but when she got close, several people cut in
front of her.
“Mr. Mayor, we’re honored you could be here,” they said.
Magnolia quickly reversed directions and grabbed a glass of cham
pagne from the nearest waiter. And then she saw her publisher, who
was eyeing her as if she’d come to the event dressed in sweats.
“Magnolia, only you could wear that!” Darlene said. “Interesting
hair.” Even in the din of the crowded reception room, Darlene’s voice
could be plainly heard. “Great that you’re here—there’s someone
I want you to meet,” she added, pulling Magnolia into a three-minute sales call to a pharmaceutical advertiser. “Of course, our readers would be interested in a new drug for premature ejaculation,” Darlene
insisted. But before the startled client had a chance to respond, the
lights blinked. Time to take their seats in the grand ballroom.
Magnolia looked for her place card, a touch Elizabeth Lester Duvall
always engineered; if she could help it—nothing in the Scary domain
was ever left to chance. When Magnolia arrived at her table, however,
she had the distinct feeling that the seating arrangement had been
reshuffled. Surely Bebe’s seat, which she was filling, would have been
next to Jock, or at least one of the Scarys. But, no, she was at the sec
ond table. To her right was the chatty wife of the production director.
To her left was the number two guy in circulation, a pudgy, bow-tied fellow who she knew would be only too happy to offer a letter-by-let
ter reprisal of his winning game at the regional Scrabble tournament.
Magnolia looked to the other table. There was Charlotte Stone, the publisher of Elegance, Natalie, Jock, Darlene, Elizabeth, the brothers, their matching blond wives, and the pharmaceutical executive. “Two
bottles of champagne to start,” she heard Jock say, snapping his fingers
at the waiter.
Throughout the evening, Magnolia seethed about the Lady photos gone to Dazzle. This was just as well, because her rage kept her awake, which the evening’s speakers might have failed to do. The
waiters removed her tuna tartare before she’d finished it, and quickly
replaced it with a leathery hunk of filet mignon.
“May I please have fish instead?” she asked.
“See what I can do,” the waiter snarled. By the time he returned
with a dry slab of salmon, the lights had gone dim for a fifteen
minute film. She fidgeted in her seat. There could be no discreet
escape hatch, not with Scary’s table front and center in the ballroom.
Six speakers followed, as did the skinny Scary brother, who began
handing out the annual Bowel Booster awards. Even an enormous
serving of chocolate mousse in a bittersweet chocolate shell—an
unfortunate choice, given the evening’s theme—couldn’t tempt Mag
nolia to stick around. As soon as the third of five awards had been
bestowed, she found her evening bag, stood up, and said to no one in
particular at the table, “You’ve got to excuse me,” she said. No one
even looked up.
As she listened to Comedy Central an hour later, Magnolia carefully folded her borrowed clothes, removed her makeup, and laid
out running clothes for the following day. She checked her office
e-mail and answered the phone twice—a short call from Harry, who
suggested she not get her knickers in a twist over the Natalie picture
heist, then offered a long monologue on knickers in general, and
Abbey, who patiently listened to an accounting of Magnolia’s day.
Just as she was starting to set her alarm for 6:15 A.M., Magnolia heard the intercom. She thought her doorman might be saying,
“Gentleman wants to see you.” The building’s system made the sub
way’s loudspeaker sound elegantly clear.
“What’s his name?”
“Harry,” the doorman said. At least she hoped that’s what he’d
said. Harry might have been in a cab on the way uptown when they
spoke and had called on his cell, not his landline.
Was there time to switch into the new black camisole set nestled in
her drawer? The thong had two tiny bows at the V above her butt
cheeks, which the top’s matching bows marched down to meet. She
&nbs
p; tossed off her SpongeBob T-shirt and pulled on her new underwear
just as she heard the knock.
“Be right there,” she said, hoping the outfit would cause Harry to
overlook her hair, which was not improved by the gel she’d used to
cement it into a chignon.
“Can’t wait to see you, gorgeous,” Harry said. Only it wasn’t Harry.
As the knocking got louder, Magnolia looked through the peephole.
“Magnolia, gorgeous, it’s me. Open up.”
There he was, catapulted from cyberspace. “Tommy O’Toole,
where the hell have you been?” Magnolia screeched through the door.
“You’ve been AWOL for months, and Abbey’s a twitching mess. And what in God’s name are you doing here?”
Since their postbreakup tryst, Tommy had been communicating
with Abbey, but only through e-mail. He’d last claimed to be in New
Zealand, though for all Abbey knew, he’d been holed up at the Hotel
Gansevoort in the meat-packing district.
“Gotta see you, Magnolia,” he answered. “Give a guy a break.
Open up.”
“One minute,” Magnolia said. She put on her robe—her ratty
one—and let him in. Tommy immediately pressed her to his chest
and covered her mouth with his. Magnolia pulled away quickly but
not before she smelled Scotch.
“Hey, Magnolia, you’ve never been such a tease,” Tommy said.
“Come to Tommy boy. You know I’ve always thought you were hot.”
He circled his arms around her again, then grabbed her wrists and planted her arms around his back, holding her tight. Magnolia
couldn’t escape his grip. His tongue probed her mouth.
“I want to see you naked, Magnolia,” he whispered.
“Too much information, Tommy,” Magnolia said, as he momentar
ily relaxed and she was able to push him away.
“You smell good,” he said, his blue eyes half-shut “You’ve got a
beautiful shape. I’ve always thought of you as a fine wine.”
A wine, she thought. I’m a wine? Did he think she was old ? Magnolia realized she didn’t have time to analyze Tommy’s train of
thought. She just needed to get him to stop this horseshit.
“I think about you all the time,” he said. “At work, at the gym,
when I’m with other women.”
“You don’t, Tommy,” she yelled. “You’re just drunk. My God, you’re
