by Sally Koslow
walked toward the lounge’s entrance, hoping Jock and Darlene were
too involved to notice her.
“Ms. Gold,” Jock called out. “Magnolia. We were just saying how
this night would never be happening without you.”
Right, Magnolia thought. And I am Jackie Onassis’s love child.
“You look fabulous, Mags,” Darlene said. “Love the fur.”
More fabulous than I looked twenty-five minutes ago when you
saw me and didn’t say a word, Magnolia wondered? “You flatterers,”
Magnolia said. “Thanks, guys, but you’ll have to excuse me.”
“No time for a cocktail?” Jock asked.
“Hair,” Magnolia tugged a few locks. “And makeup. Elizabeth will kill me if I blow it off.” She bolted to the elevator and rode to the
ground floor. Breathing heavily, Magnolia walked outside and ducked
into Pink, the shirt shop, simply because it was nearly empty.
“May I help you?” said a salesgirl.
If only you could, Magnolia thought. If she were being honest—
which in regard to her mental health Magnolia often viewed as an
overrated policy—she had to admit that until tonight she hadn’t real
ized how depleted she’d become by the last few weeks. Bebe! Let her
jump out a window. With Jock. And forget grateful. In her heart,
Magnolia knew what she really wanted was to be great. All-on-her
own, sweat-equity, toast-of-the-town, Englishman-optional great.
She walked out of the store. Dusk was falling. Soon klieg lights
would be shooting a loop of comets into the Manhattan sky, and a
thousand of Bebe’s nearest and dearest would descend from limos and
walk the red carpet past flashing cameras into the hotel.
Magnolia rode back up to thirty-six. Elizabeth was pacing.
“Magnolia,” Elizabeth said briskly, her face flushed and her silver
crew cut as motionless as ever, “Alessandro and Akiko are waiting. You
don’t want to grace that stage all mousy and shiny.”
Elizabeth directed Magnolia to the hair and makeup station, where
Akiko was powdering Bebe’s face with a big, pink poof. Alessandro
looked on, horrified, while Felicity bombed her hair with spray. Bebe
and Felicity left the room, and twenty minutes later, Magnolia had
been buffed to a gloss.
She walked into the ballroom, which was filling rapidly each time
the elevators opened. Waiters circulated with dark red drinks, heavy
on the pomegranate juice, which they were forced to call Bebepoli
tans. There hadn’t been a major magazine launch party for at least two
years, and tonight’s invitation, which arrived in a red leather, leopard
lined box, turned out to be as coveted as a ticket to next week’s Yan
kee-Red Sox series. Bebe, Felicity, and Elizabeth had spent weeks
planning the party, including a forty-eight-hour standoff until Bebe
abandoned the idea of a stripper pole. Only when Magnolia saw the
list of the final invitees two weeks before, did she get a chance to open
her mouth. “You forgot to invite the staff,” Magnolia pointed out.
“The whole staff ?” Bebe hooted. “I don’t even know most of them.”
“Bebe, they made the magazine,” Magnolia pointed out. “And it’s
just forty people.”
“Forty people! What do they all do, forty people?”
“Now that I think of it, closer to seventy-five with sales and mar
keting,” Magnolia added. “It’s only fair.” She heard herself whine ever so slightly. “You’re inviting your whole staff for The Bebe Show.” She decided not to bring up the fact that Bebe’s maid, driver, herbalist,
veterinarian, cook, tarot card reader, and broker also made the cut.
“Okay, no squabbles.” Elizabeth said. “We’ll squeeze in the staff.
But no dates.”
“Fair enough,” Magnolia agreed.
“Except Magnolia’s hottie,” Bebe said. “We need guy candy.”
Tonight, as she began to roam the room, Magnolia realized that on
that count Bebe had been correct—available heterosexual males were
in seriously short supply. It was a sad day when Mike McCourt from the Post was one of the hotties. He was walking toward her now. “What do you think of the new issue?” As Mike took a gulp of his
drink, a drizzle of red slid down the lapel of his tan corduroy jacket. “Is Bebe going to march toward world domination?”
“What do you think?” Magnolia responded, kissing him on the
cheek. “Oh, that’s right. You won’t see the magazine until you leave.” Bebe’s premiere issue would be handed out with tonight’s goody bags. “You’re not sounding over the moon,” Mike said. “Shall I take your
tone as a critique?”
“Critique-wise …” Magnolia cleared her throat. Elizabeth had re
hearsed her, knowing she’d be questioned again and again at the party. “I think we’ve done a superb job of defining Bebe’s unique perspective.”
“Magnolia, you’re talking to me,” Mike said. “En inglés.”
“It’s … interesting.” Magnolia gave Mike a little smile.
“What does Miss Understatement think is ‘interesting’ about it?”
“You’ll see,” Magnolia said. “I’d love to schmooze, Mike, but I
think I see Darlene,” she added as the crowd thickened. Darlene
would be one of the last people she’d want to hang out with tonight, but she didn’t trust herself to play at pro level this evening, and she’d
be damned if Mike would corner her into a quote she’d regret. She
found Fredericka instead.
“I rode up vith Paris Hilton!” Fredericka said. “And isn’t that Rosie
O’Donnell? Are she and Bebe bosom buddies?”
“Maybe Rosie’s her hair and wardrobe consultant.”
“This is the oddest crowd,” Fredericka said. “That’s Bruce Villis,
talking to Samuel L. Jackson, no? And that little person? Danny
DeVito in drag?”
“Dr. Ruth.”
“I think I’ll introduce myself to Lindsay Lohan,” Fredericka said,
and walked off.
Magnolia took stock of her conversational options. The WWD reporter circled Bebe, who was draped over Jock. Two major players
from Lancôme had caught up with Felicity. Some car magnates flown
in from Detroit eyeballed the girls from the art department. Natalie
Simon was chatting with Charlotte Stone. Magnolia made the round
with each group. An hour later, hoarse from shrieking over Slow Mo’s
earsplitting sound, she gravitated toward a group from her staff as if
it were running a halfway house.
“To our queen in exile,” said Cameron, lifting a glass. “Long may
she reign.”
“Here, here,” the others said, clinking. “To Magnolia!” Cam got
grabbed by one of the publicists. This left Magnolia with the women.
“There’s a serious dearth of straight men here,” Ruthie observed.
“Except that one over there talking to Phoebe. It’s not fair. Why does
our staff’s only wife and mommy attract the best-looking guy?”
Magnolia swiveled to see Phoebe. In tonight’s four-inch heels the
beauty director, who was almost six feet tall barefoot, loomed not just
above most of the other women but a good number of the men. This
included the object of Ruthie’s praise, who Magnolia couldn’t see in
the crowd. She extricated herself and walked toward Phoebe, who
&nbs
p; smiled and waved.
“You look super!” Phoebe shouted over heads as Magnolia ap
proached. “Terrific party. I just saw Kelly Ripa. And isn’t that Barbara Walters? She’s my nana’s age, but she looks amazing. Don’t you
think?” She directed her question to the person who was hovering
near her, whose back was still toward Magnolia.
Magnolia got to within eight feet of Phoebe and froze.
“I’d love for you to meet my boss, Magnolia Gold,” she said to her
admirer, motioning Magnolia to move closer.
“Actually, Magnolia and I are acquainted,” the man said, leaning
closer to Phoebe than was necessary. “Rather intimately.”
“Ah, okay,” Phoebe mumbled, and looked from the man to Magno
lia. “I’m going to grab another Bebepolitan. Lovely to meet you,
Harry.” Phoebe glided away on her elegant stork legs.
“See you later, luv,” he said. “Saucy girl, your Phoebe,” he said to
Magnolia.
“Glad you could make it,” Magnolia asked. She suddenly felt so hot
she wanted to rip off her mink top and stomp on it.
“Did you really think I’d miss this little drinks party?” Harry said.
“Seasonal highlight and all.”
“So you’re still not over last night?” she said.
“I don’t know that I am,” he said. The face that looked so hand
some just days before was twisted in a snarl, and Magnolia could
swear that his hairline had receded by another half inch.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” Magnolia said. “I want to talk,
but our conversation is going to have to wait, Harry. This isn’t an easy
night for me. I’m sure you get that.”
“But what could be more important than us?” he said.
From a distant place in the densely packed ballroom, Magnolia
could hear a heavily amped country western artist—LeAnn Rimes?
Faith Hill?—singing an upbeat ballad over the room’s noise. Out of
the corner of her eye, she spotted Jock and Darlene, who were now
standing only four feet away, and if she wasn’t being paranoid, she
could swear they were listening to her with Harry.
“Magnolia, you’re not answering me,” Harry was almost shouting.
“We still need to talk about you and that asshole ripping each other’s
clothes off.”
Just as she had the impulse to throw her Bebepolitan in his face, Magnolia saw someone loping in her direction. Elizabeth all but tack
led her and simultaneously gave Harry a chilly look. She had that gift.
“Magnolia, stage!” she snapped. “We’re starting the presentation.”
Leaving Harry standing with his mouth half open, Elizabeth cor
ralled Jock and Darlene and steered them, along with Magnolia,
toward the front of the room, where Felicity was already waiting.
“Don’t move a muscle, any of you, while I find Bebe,” Elizabeth said,
signaling for the Nashville singer to continue.
Jock and Darlene stood aside while Magnolia tried to calm herself
with breath after deep breath. “That asshole Harry, that asshole
Harry,” she repeated silently as she followed Elizabeth.
Ten minutes later Elizabeth returned, frowning. “Has Bebe swung
by here?” she said. “Where could that woman be?” The party was
called for seven to ten, although it hadn’t got rolling until eight. It was
now past nine, and Magnolia knew that Elizabeth was worried that
guests would soon start to leave.
“Let me check around for her,” Magnolia answered, just to be able
to break away from Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. She’d passed Bebe
more than twenty minutes before, holding court by a photograph of
Frank Sinatra. Magnolia stopped there first. No Bebe. She walked
down the stairs to look in the lounge. Bebe was sitting on the floor
next to a glass sculpture that appeared to have been liberated from an
ice carnival.
“What’s up, Magnolia?” Bebe’s head was in Slow Mo’s lap, an
empty champagne bottle next to the two of them.
“Foxy!” Mo said. “Bebe here knows how to party.”
“Bebe here has a speech to give,” Magnolia said. “Enough with the liquid courage, Bebe. Achtung.”
“Magnolia, Magnolia,” Bebe said. “Calm down. Itsabeautifulnight.”
She drained the champagne like a bottle of Snapple.
“Mo, help me get her upstairs,” Magnolia said. Mo stood up, and
Bebe—still joined to him—did the same. As they began to walk, Bebe
tripped. Magnolia got on her other side, and the three of them stag
gered to the elevator, Bebe hiccuping loudly.
“Gotta tinkle,” Bebe said when the door opened on thirty-six. Magnolia walked her to the ladies’ room. As Bebe left the stall, she
pulled up her skirt, took off her thong, and dropped it on the floor.
“Can’t stand this damn string up my butt,” she said.
Magnolia waited for Bebe to put her undies in the trash, which she
did not do. Magnolia decided not to rise to that occasion. She took
Bebe’s arm, and together they walked into the ballroom and over to
Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. Elizabeth motioned the singer to finish
her number and lined up the five of them to go onstage. Jock wel
comed the crowd and handed the mike to Bebe, who took center stage.
Elizabeth had written a seven-minute speech for Bebe, who was
supposed to thank Jock, Felicity, and Magnolia, then hand the mike to
Darlene, who’d cue the start of a $75,000 video that featured behind
the-scenes shots of Bebe “working” on the magazine. They’d rehearsed
this drill six ways to Sunday. At the end, a velvet curtain would rise,
revealing the cover of the premiere issue’s cover.
“Hello, out there,” Bebe said to the crowd. “We having fun yet? All
I can say is you’re going to love my magazine and… .” She stopped.
The crowd waited. “All I can say is …” She stopped again. The room
became still. “All I can say is—” this time she found words to finish
the sentence—“we have a great goody bag.”
This wasn’t the script.
“I’m not shitting you,” Bebe continued. “Hey, I want to show you.
Jock, where’s a fucking bag?”
Jock looked confused. Elizabeth rushed to the stage with one of the red Coach Bebe totes. As the video started to roll, Bebe pulled out the gifts, one by one, and announced each. “Here we have a Bebe doll.
Great knockers, huh?” She pointed toward her own. “Leopard cash
mere slippers!” She threw her stilettos into the crowd and put the slippers on. “A stuffed kitten wearing a Bebe T-shirt! Looks like Hell! Bacardi raspberry rum? By the way, did everyone here have enough to
drink? An itsy-bitsy red Canon camera! A sterling silver choker …”
To appreciative howls from the crowd, who were now chanting,
“Be-be. Be-be. Be-be,” she held up every piece of loot. Someone cued
the video, but no one even noticed it or heard its worshipful voice
over, which was drowned out by the shouts. Bebe was still unsteady on her feet. Magnolia considered the
outcome if Bebe, now going commando under her dress, slipped.
Magnolia tried to get her eye, to tell her to stop.
“‘Scuse me, but Deputy Gold has something to say to all of you.
Magnolia, you adorable thing, get your rear up here.”
Magnolia walked forward and took the mike. “The magazine, Bebe.
Don’t forget to show everyone the issue! Hold it up!”
“Oh, the magazine,” Bebe said, emitting an audible belch as she lifted a copy of Bebe. But by this point, the crowd—Harry included, arms linked with an assistant to one of the Access Hollywood reporters—was stampeding toward the door to receive goody bags.
“Stay, everyone,” Magnolia implored, shouting as loud as she could.
“We’d love to show you the magazine.” But no one was paying atten
tion to her. Not even Jock, Darlene, or Elizabeth. They were all glaring
at Bebe.
As the ballroom emptied, Bebe linked arms with Magnolia. “I think
that went rather well, Gold,” she said. “Don’t you?” Bebe’s makeup
was smudged and her dress, slightly ripped. At that moment, Magno
lia wished she could dig deep and find some motherly instincts. What would her mother advise? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. Maybe the advice was from Thumper in Bambi and not her mother. No matter.
She put her arm around Bebe’s ample waist, and together they
walked out the door, Bebe’s leopard cashmere slippers padding softly
on the empty ballroom floor.
C h a p t e r 2 0
Cupcake? I Don’t Think So
“What’s the latest from Planet Bebe?” Abbey asked. Given the trifecta of her and Tommy breaking up again, Harry’s dwindling
attentions—apparently holding a grudge, he hadn’t called in a
week—and Magnolia’s thirty-eighth birthday, Abbey had decided to
underwrite a beauty blitz in her honor. They were starting at the
Exhale spa on a sunny November morning, waiting for massages in a
dim Japanese-serene room.
“The technical term is, ‘It sucks,’ ” Magnolia replied. “Bebe and
Felicity flew to the West Coast, and Cam and I have been closing the
issue through fax, phone, and e-mail. When it’s just the two of us, for
whole minutes it’s bliss. Then I snap back to real life.”
“Is Bebe still in the crosshairs of the columnists?” Abbey asked.
“Not at all,” Magnolia said. “You’d think it would work against you
to go full moon wacky at your launch party, but the magazine indus
try’s collective memory has the depth of a pore. Bad behavior and bad results rarely correlate. Elizabeth had her send tickets for The Bebe Show to all the reporters—everyone’s mother’s a groupie. Since then it’s been a big, wet kiss. She wound up on the cover of Us, and now the premiere Bebe’s almost sold out.”
