by Sally Koslow
vile. And what are you doing with other women anyway? You’re mar
ried!” The loudness of Magnolia’s voice appeared to penetrate his
psyche. He sat down on the bench in her foyer, cradling his head in his
hands. Biggie and Lola, awakened by the ruckus, circled around,
barking.
“You’ve hijacked my heart, Magnolia.”
“The hijacked organ is your brain, Tommy,” Magnolia said from
the other end of the foyer. “No, you have no brain. It’s your prick talk
ing. And to think Abbey’s been carrying on about you. She’s down to
ninety-eight pounds.”
“My sweet Abbey,” he said, as he started to whimper. “I love my
little wife.”
“Of course, you do, Tommy,” Magnolia said. Maybe Tommy wasn’t
vile. Maybe he was just an idiot drunk. Abbey deserved better, of
course, but he wasn’t a total villain. Definitely not. Magnolia walked
over to him and began to stroke his arm as if he were a child. “Now
I’m going to make you some coffee, and then you’re going to get out
of here, go see Abbey, and figure out your life.”
He looked up with tears in his eyes. “Magnolia, I love Abbey, but I
love you, too. You’re a wise, sexy woman.”
Magnolia pretended she didn’t hear him. She walked into her
kitchen, thinking how it would be at least ten minutes until the coffee would brew, and she would force Tommy to drink a cup and start to
sober up. Then he’d leave, and she could fall into her bed.
Magnolia made the coffee, superstrong. “You’re going home,” she
said, handing him a mug. “I’m going to take you down in the elevator
myself.” Just to make sure he didn’t hang around the lobby like a lost
shoe. She let him almost finish the coffee, then yanked his arm.
Tommy put down the mug, spilling coffee on her rug, and followed
her out to the hallway. They stepped in the elevator, Tommy first.
The doors closed. Magnolia faced forward, pressed the button, and
started to tell Tommy they were both going to forget this ever hap
pened. But when Magnolia turned, Tommy was at it again. He
embraced her from behind, pressing his frame tightly against hers.
She tried to ignore the sensation of his well-muscled body close to her own. He had been going to the gym! Struggling to free herself from his embrace, she started to groan.
“Oh, Tommy,” she said. “This is just too much.”
She heard the elevator open, and sensed that someone was in the
doorway. Let it be Manuel, the night doorman, she prayed, worried
about her because a neighbor had reported a ruckus. Thank God she’d
overtipped him last Christmas—and thrown in a Burberry scarf.
It was not, however, Manuel. When she twisted around and looked
up, she could see the doorman at the far end of the lobby, and hear him
laughing uproariously at a Spanish television program playing on the
small set he hid behind the concierge’s desk. But she knew the man
waiting to get into the elevator, the man who’d taken in everything
and was now observing Tommy wrapped around her like a tortilla.
It was Harry. “Well, Magnolia, aren’t we the lady of the evening?”
he said.
“It’s not how it looks, Harry,” she said.
“It never is, luv,” he snickered.
“Yeah, man,” Tommy added, as he swayed to keep his balance.
Harry shook his head. On his forehead she noticed small beads of
sweat. “Magnolia,” he said, “you have really disappointed me. Did
the last few weeks mean nothing to you?”
“Harry, this is Abbey’s husband—” she started to say. “How does that make it better?” he said. “Whoring around with
your friend’s man?”
“You scumbag,” Tommy said. “Don’t insult Magnolia,”
Harry straightened his shoulders and turned. “Sod off, the both of
you,” he said as he stomped out of the building.
C h a p t e r 1 8
Mistress Tortured
It was past midnight. Magnolia returned to her apartment and tried Harry’s cell phone five times, hoping he’d turn it on.
He did not. She tried sleeping, unsuccessfully, and couldn’t even take a
sleeping pill, since she’d given her stash to Abbey. So she attempted to
organize her closet, a task so tedious that whenever she started it, she
fell into a coma.
Magnolia began with the suits, wondering if she should hang on to
a gray pinstripe Max Mara, just right for the job she would never
want or get at a Fortune 500 company.
“The suit stays—it cost over $2,000,” argued one voice in her
head—her mother’s, to be exact.
“You haven’t worn it in three years,” the other voice answered.
“Dump it.”
“It’s a classic,” retorted Mom. “You can keep it forever!”
“What a crock” came the answer. “Classics are cauliflower.”
“Hang on to that suit—you might need it for a funeral.”
She dropped Max Mara onto her chaise and walked into the bath
room to draw a hot, sudsy bath. Just as she slid into the tub, the phone
rang. She bolted upright, ran across her tile floor to the bedroom, and
grabbed the receiver. “Hello,” she said, trying to disguise the fact that she was out of
breath. She could hear loud, labored breathing on the other end. The phone display indicated a restricted number. “Who is this?” The creep clicked off. Magnolia gave up on her bath. She wrapped
herself in a towel, lay down on her bed, and pulled the duvet to her
chin. “This is not happening,” she repeated.
The next thing she knew, she’d overslept for the day of Bebe’s launch party. Magnolia checked her phone log. She’d managed to
snooze through a second call, but again the number wasn’t identified.
Tommy or Harry—which was worse?
Magnolia grabbed the garment bag of clothes she’d laid out the
previous day for this evening and—lucky break—found a taxi to take
her to work. Luck’s a commodity I could use a little more of, she mut
tered as she settled herself in the cab. Her cell phone rang. Let me not
get hang-ups on this phone, too, she prayed. But the caller offered a
cheery hello.
“Ready for the big freak show?” Abbey asked.
“Not my night,” Magnolia answered. “I just need to show up and
hope for a cataclysm. Any locusts coming our way? You’ll be there
tonight, right?”
“Well, the thing is, Mags, I’d love to—give you moral support and
all—but something’s come up, and, well, will you hate me if I miss
the Bebelicious party of the year?”
“You won’t be missing much. But what’s up?” she asked, working
to sound casual.
“Tommy,” Abbey said.
“Oh, really? Tommy?”
“Magnolia, don’t jive me. I know.”
What did she know, and when did she know it?
“Yeah, I know,” Abbey said. “And thanks, you’re the most wonder
ful friend.”
Magnolia didn’t know how to respond.
“You there?” Abbey said. “I know that you convinced Tommy to
try and reconcile—he told me all about how you insisted he stop by
my—make that our—apartment. He was here till two A.M., a perfect gentleman, full of unexpected ins
ights. God, I forgot that’s one of the
things I love about that man.” If Abbey were angry, she was disguis
ing it with enormous bravado.
“Abbey, you have nothing to thank me for,” Magnolia said, relief
breaking through like sweat. “I hope you guys work things out—if
that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want,” she admitted, “but we’re having din
ner tonight. He was sweet yesterday but seemed kind of strung out.
I think he’s got a lot on his mind.”
Could she ask Abbey if Tommy had made calls during his visit?
Magnolia could not.
As Magnolia entered the lobby of her office building, she stopped
at the newsstand to pick up some magazines. That’s when she saw him, pretending to read The Wall Street Journal. Magnolia wondered what story he’d fed the security guards to skulk past the front desk,
but then a handsome Englishman in a long, black cashmere coat isn’t
ripe for profiling. To get to her office, Magnolia would need to pass
him, and she was too late to duck out and return later. May as well
swallow the big pill, she thought, even if I gag.
She walked over to Harry. “I can explain,” she said.
“Fine,” he said. “Go ahead.”
She looked around the crowded lobby. “Magnolia, I’m back!” she
heard someone say. “I’ll stop by your office later.” It was Phoebe,
returned from a brief maternity leave and already fitting into her
jeans, as if she’d produced a Barbie, not a nine-pound baby. Magnolia
noticed that motherhood hadn’t prevented her beauty editor from
finding time to color her hair the perfect caramel, or that Harry
wasn’t too upset to give Phoebe an approving glance.
“Obviously, this isn’t a good place to talk,” Magnolia said to Harry.
“You want to come up to my office?”
The scowl on his face said no.
“There’s a Starbucks across the street.” She had no business arriv
ing late to the 9:30 production meeting. Cameron wouldn’t be happy
having to deal with Felicity solo. But she followed Harry across the
street. They stared at each other over their coffees.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Harry said. “You’ve really disappointed
me. I couldn’t sleep all night and I doubt I can work today until you
explain yourself. The last thing I need in my life is a woman I can’t
trust—I’ve had a string of those.”
Magnolia’s mind flashed to their last long, luxurious day together
over the weekend. It began at MoMA, the Barney’s of museums,
where she always found the art lovers—with their fine fabrics and
well-cobbled shoes—as inspirational as the paintings. After a late
afternoon stroll through a few galleries in Chelsea, they walked in the
soft rain to Harry’s, where he cooked a perfect dinner—grilled tuna,
risotto cakes, and snap peas. For dessert, he made crème brûlée. Not
only did he own the cute ceramic dishes, he burned the sugar with his
own blowtorch.
“You’re going to be Torch from now on,” Magnolia had said. “Sub
Zero no more.”
“Then you’re Mistress Torch,” he had said. But she wasn’t feeling
like Mistress Torch right now. More like Mistress Tortured.
“You’ve got to believe me when I tell you the man you saw was my
friend’s husband, Tommy O’Toole.” Magnolia said, fatigue draining
her voice. “He dropped in, shitfaced. There’s never been anything
between us and never will be.”
“The thing is, I wasn’t seeing a whole lot of resistance going on
there,” Harry said. “Close friends? And the look on your face …”
Harry gulped the last of his coffee. His face was red and his knuckles,
white.
“The look on my face?” Magnolia asked. “What do you think my
face is saying now?”
“You’re angry,” he said.
“You got that right,” she said, “but I’m feeling disappointed, too.
Didn’t these past two months teach you to trust me? Can’t you just
cool off and realize that what you thought you saw wasn’t what you
thought you saw?” She put her hand on his. He didn’t pull away.
Harry gave her an inscrutable look. But at least he said, “I’ll try.”
He got up from the table, leaned over, and gave her a kiss, more of politeness than passion, but a kiss. “I’ll think about it,” he said as he
got up to leave.
Magnolia watched him walk away. Should she ask whether he still planned to come to the Bebe launch party? She decided she could live in suspense.
C h a p t e r 1 9
Not Great, Not Grateful
The Mandarin Oriental was in a glitzy tower that in any other city would rightly be called a vertical mall. Bebe stood in
one of its ladies’ rooms and twirled, showing off her new dress, which Magnolia recognized from Harper’s Bazaar. “Magnolia, opinion!” she said. Magnolia remembered the “price available upon request” cap
tion, magazinespeak for “Don’t even think about it.” In the photo, the
ruffled pouf skirt and balloon sleeves made the model’s waist even
waspier. But Bebe had no waist. She looked like a bundt cake.
“Magnolia?” Bebe repeated, and struggled to undo the tiny buttons
the designer had clearly intended to stay fastened up to the wearer’s
neck. Apparently satisfied with her deep cleavage now on display,
Bebe smiled in a way Magnolia had never seen before. My God, she
thought. That smile isn’t the least demonic. She’s not slicing and dic
ing a soul in sight. If I’m reading her right—Bebe was now shifting
from side to side—Bebe Blake is anxious about her launch party and
she’s insecure about the way she looks. The woman is human!
But she stayed that way only for a second.
“I look fabulous,” Bebe declared. “Felicity, have I ever looked bet
ter?” She turned to Felicity, who was perched on the ledge of a marble sink. She was trying to attach a brooch to her suit, whose skirt and
jacket had rhinestones the size of thumbtacks circling the cuffs and
hem like neon bulbs announcing a Times Square attraction.
“Beebsy, you are ravishing, and Magnolia—” Felicity said, talking
to Magnolia’s reflection in the mirror while she applied coral lipstick,
“—you look sweet.”
Weeks before, Magnolia entrusted herself to Ruthie and Elizabeth
for tonight’s styling. “Not too showy,” Elizabeth insisted. ‘Cause it
wasn’t Magnolia’s show. For the occasion, Elizabeth was wearing a
simple gray suit that matched her hair. For Magnolia, Ruthie had
come up with an homage to Twiggy—a short, black mink pullover;
tight, cropped pants; and black kitten heels. A shame the getup had to
be returned the following day, because Magnolia thought she looked
quite the minx. A perspiring minx, however. There didn’t seem to be
air-conditioning on at the hotel. It was October but unusually hot.
“Thanks, Felicity,” Magnolia said. She was saved from returning the
compliment by Elizabeth’s charging into the bathroom with Darlene,
whose look for the party recalled Pocahontas. She wore a rust-colored,
shearling-lined coat. On her feet were snakeskin sandals whose heavy
soles made Darlene app
ear to be walking with snowshoes.
“Darlene’s finished with hair and makeup and they’re ready for
you two, Bebe and Felicity,” Elizabeth barked. “Magnolia, come back
in forty-five minutes.”
Magnolia walked to the lobby outside the ballroom. On an ebony grand piano, red roses spelled out the Bebe logo in an arrangement that might well have been sent by Staten Island’s leading crime fam
ily. She peeked inside the ballroom. A caterer’s assistant was construct
ing a tower of glazed doughnuts. “One, two three, testing,” blasted
through the empty room, as the sound crew checked the mikes, while
in the back of the room a DJ who called himself Slow Mo—he ruled
Williamsburg—was setting up equipment.
“Smile, Foxy,” Slow Mo shouted, taking off his earphones. “Life
can’t be that bad.”
Magnolia shot him a grin. “What’s this party for?” Slow Mo asked. He was in his late twenties,
had wavy auburn hair, a closely trimmed beard, and a high-voltage
smile.
“Just a bunch of magazine people pigging out on free food,” Mag
nolia shouted back.
“No dancing?” Mo said. “You’re breaking my heart, Foxy.”
Magnolia considered continuing the volley. She’d dated younger,
a run of T-shirt designers, aspiring filmmakers, and so many law stu
dents she could pass Contracts. But now? She was in a mature relation
ship. Or was she? Her life was messy enough, she decided, with no Mo.
She waved him good-bye, exited the ballroom, and walked down the
winding stairway to the blissfully cool lounge on the thirty-fifth floor.
Magnolia settled herself in a buttery leather armchair and took in
the Central Park view. Location, location—that was the point of this
hotel. Autumn leaves clung to the trees in a medley more opulent
than anything the Mandarin Oriental’s decorators had imagined. I
should be happy to be here, she thought, as she began to sip her martini. Grateful. I could still be writing obits for the Fargo Forum, spending my days on the phone to funeral directors.
She was feeling her drink’s first tingle of relaxation when she over
heard familiar voices. Magnolia turned. Across the room, Jock and
Darlene had their heads close and appeared to be making a toast.
“Magnolia” was all she could pick up of their conversation. There
was no way to leave without passing them. She paid her tab, and
