Little Pink Slips

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