by Sally Koslow
be noticed.
“He’s in there with Darlene and Bebe,” Sasha reported back, call
ing Magnolia from her cubicle ten minutes later. “Bebe was smoking
one of his cigars, and all three of them were whooping it up.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” Magnolia said, careful not to reveal an iota of
emotion. “Just as I thought.” Rats, rats, rats, Magnolia thought. De
spite the frost in the taxi less than a half hour ago, apparently Bebe
and Darlene had decided to mount a unified defense.
Magnolia began to pace. Given the diminutive proportion of her
new office, three steps equaled one good pace, and she found herself
racewalking straight to Sasha’s desk across the hall. Upon seeing her, Sasha quickly closed her Post, which reminded Magnolia that in her Hugh Grant afterglow, she’d neglected to even open her morning
paper. She could read it now. Anything for a distraction. As “Mind if I
borrow your paper?” slipped out of her mouth, though, Sasha dumped
the tabloid in her trash can and finished it off with the remains of a
Diet Coke.
“Aren’t we being a little hostile?” Magnolia asked. “What’d the Post do to you?”
“Nothing in it today,” Sasha answered, and offered a high-pitched
giggle.
“Sasha, there’s always something in the Post”—a body ID’d in a Brooklyn dumpster, a rat caught lounging in a Dunkin’ Donuts—
something.” Magnolia watched Sasha turn to tidying papers on her
already neat desk.
“Give me that paper, Sasha,” Magnolia insisted.
“You don’t want to see it.”
“God will punish you, Sasha Dobbs,” Magnolia said, walking
toward the elevator. “You are going to get the worst acne.”
Five minutes later Magnolia had returned from the newsstand
downstairs. She opened the Hershey bar she’d bought along with the
paper, settled herself at her desk, and flipped to the business pages
that announced industry news. Nothing. Maybe it was an item about
Harry. Had he catapulted into a photo-worthy relationship? She turned to Page Six, which today was on page fourteen. There was a
tragic-looking Julia Roberts photographed with five Bergdorf’s
bags—being elected to the Worst Dressed list could inspire the most
secure woman to shop—and an item declaring that a certain adorable
Hollywood couple was still together, in case you were up nights stress
ing over whether their marriage could be saved.
Then she spotted it. “Just asking,” the three lines began, “which glittering editor is no longer solid gold? A certain English-accented, topof-another-masthead lovely may soon be replacing the tarnished blossom taking orders from Hollywood’s lovable loudmouth.”
Magnolia dropped her candy bar, leaving a skid mark on her white
cashmere V-neck.
Her first impulse was to call Mike McCourt and let him know
he’d obviously been bamboozled by “a certain English-accented”
editor. But what if he hadn’t been? Manhattan was littered with UK
roadkill who snatched New York jobs when their Fleet Street careers
stalled. In their West Village tea shops, they privately laughed at
American executives awed by inglorious northern England accents.
Harry must be friendly with every one of those ex-pats, Magnolia
realized. What if, together, he and an ambitious Keira Knightley clone had crafted the tale and passed it on to the Post? Magnolia picked up the phone to call Harry’s office and sound off. She dialed
his number. One ring. Two.
What was she doing? Thank God, he hadn’t picked up. Harry might be a hothead, but even if he did have something to do with
this, what exactly was she going to say to him? Magnolia slammed
down the receiver just as she heard the recording of his painstak
ingly acquired, well-modulated BBC English announcing, “Good
afternoon.” Magnolia had no idea whether Harry’s studio’s land
line—his cell seemed too intimate at this stage of their extinct rela
tionship—had caller ID or whether he would hunt her down later with *69.
Talk about damage control. Someone’s got to gag me before I com
mit both social and professional suicide, Magnolia thought. I can’t be
trusted. Her next impulse was to phone Abbey, until she remembered that she’d flown to Los Angeles, where a number of Third Street bou
tiques were salivating at the prospect of buying her jewelry.
Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep breaths. Big news usually
blindsides people—nobody gets telegrams, she reminded herself.
Maybe the item is a scare tactic or someone’s idea of a joke.
For the remainder of the afternoon—and the rest of the short
workweek, because Thursday was Thanksgiving—Magnolia forced
herself to polish an issue’s worth of sentences to a gloss, even ghost
write Bebe’s editor’s letter on how to bond with a cat, to be run with a
portrait of Bebe and Hell. Yet all the while she was looking over her
shoulder, trying to pretend people weren’t gossiping about her. Was the
item planted by Darlene? Bebe? Elizabeth at Jock’s behest? Possibilities
ran through her mind like an Andrew Lloyd Webber ballad—graphic,
tragic, ultimately so relentless it made her want to howl—but she
proudly refrained from leaving drama-queen messages for Abbey. You
can handle this, Magnolia chanted. You’re thirty-eight!
On Wednesday, in honor of the holiday weekend, Scary closed at noon. At Lady, this wouldn’t have stopped Magnolia from working until eight, when—every year—she and Abbey would pull out their
fox trapper hats; pile on parkas, mittens, and tired Pashminas; and
spend hours on Eighty-first Street and Central Park West, watching
their favorite balloons come alive for Macy’s Thanksgiving Day
parade. But today she decided to go home early. After stopping to
buy the olives, cheese, cornbread, and pie that Cameron had care
fully specified for his Thanksgiving dinner—friends knew better
than to ask Magnolia to cook or bake—Magnolia lit a fire and
turned on her television.
As she channel-surfed, Bebe suddenly appeared. The show was
live—she’d seen Bebe in the identical orange mohair tunic that
morning, wondering if she’d intentionally tried to impersonate the
Great Pumpkin. Her guest today was Sharon Stone. The two of them
air-kissed, and Sharon slinked across the set and settled herself next
to Bebe. Sharon looked flawlessly young, another celebrity who pro
claimed that plastic surgery was great for other people, just not her. “This seems like an odd choice for you, Sharon,” Bebe began. “A
Western. You being such a rabid antigun slinger.”
You could all but hear the inner Sharon summon her agent with “Get
this crazy bitch off me—this wasn’t the talking point we agreed to.”
“Not sure what you mean, Bebe,” Sharon said, however, utterly poised. “Shoot isn’t just ‘a Western.’ It’s a Clint Eastwood movie.” “Clint might be the most popular guy in Hollywood, but that’s not
the point. What I want to chew over is that I understand you’ve
turned in your guns to the L.A.P.D., Sharon,” Bebe said. “What’s that
about? You one of those gun-hating nuts? I never knew.”
Magnolia dropped the channel changer. Bebe was leaning forward
in her chair, jumping
on Sharon the way Biggie would a pork chop.
Magnolia heard two phones ring—her cell and her phone next to the
couch—but she couldn’t tear away to answer.
“Guns, Bebe?” Sharon replied, still cool. “Why are we talking
about guns?”
“Well, don’t you believe that owning a gun can help prevent a mur
der, Sharon?” Now Bebe was practically out of her chair and in
Sharon’s face. Sharon fixed Bebe with her ice-pick stare and tossed off
a laugh.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Bebe,” she said. “Guns preventing murders? I suppose you think chocolate prevents weight gain and sex pre
vents pregnancy.” A few members of the studio audience tittered.
“Sharon, honey,” Bebe was saying. “Scotland and Ireland have
tougher gun laws than we do, and higher murder rates.”
Sharon rose to the bait. “I’m not tracking you,” she said, her mike
now unnecessary. “Bebe, are you saying we should all go out and buy
guns?”
“Well, I just did,” Bebe said, leaning back in her chair and putting
one of her chunky legs up on her desk. “Relax—it’s not an assault
weapon.” The audience laughed, a little more vociferously than before.
“That’s a relief,” Sharon said.
“Keep going, Bebe!” Magnolia shouted to the TV. “Make an utter
ass of yourself.” And Bebe did.
“I bought the cutest little handgun,” she declared. “Fits into my
handbag like a banana. Gives me a whole lot of peace of mind when
ever I’m walking alone at two A.M.”
“So now she’s armed,” Magnolia screamed—loud enough to rouse
the dogs.
“I suppose you think I’m a monster for owning a gun?” Bebe asked
Sharon with a jack-o’-lantern grin.
“People who own guns scare the crap out of me, I’ll admit it,”
Sharon answered. As she ground her perfect white teeth, delicate cords
appeared on the actress’s swanlike neck. “You people say you need
guns to protect yourselves, and the next thing you know you’re going
postal and your creepy kids are mowing down their friends at school.”
“‘We people’?” Bebe asked, glaring. “So now you’re blaming me for serial killers?”
Magnolia’s cell phone went off.
“I can’t believe it either,” Magnolia said quickly to Cam. “Bebe’s
trying to turn Sharon Stone into chopped meat. Can’t talk. Need to see
who’ll self-destruct first.” She clicked off.
“No one’s blaming you for anything, Bebe,” Sharon said wearily, as
Magnolia returned her attention to the screen. “Hey, I didn’t come on
this show to be ambushed. All I want is to talk about my movie.”
“Fat chance!” Magnolia yelled. “Strike back, Sharon! Attack!”
“So talk about it,” Bebe taunted. “Didn’t I read you have a genius
IQ? Change the subject.”
Sharon stayed mute, but her fingers pulled nervously at her hair.
Bebe picked up Hell and put him in Sharon’s lap. “Cat got your
tongue?” Bebe swiveled and looked into the camera. “You saw it here
first, folks—a friendly discussion about the merits of gun ownership.
I hope all you morally superior liberals out there have paid special
attention.”
“Who are you calling a ‘morally superior liberal’?” Sharon asked,
indignant. “Try law-abiding citizen who still has a brain.” Sharon
tossed a startled Hell onto the floor and stomped off the set.
“Guess we pushed her buttons,” Bebe said with a malevolent laugh as her bandleader keyed her theme song. It took a good twenty sec
onds for the credits to roll.
Magnolia looked at her AOL mailbox. Nine new e-mails ranged
from “that woman will do anything for publicity” to “call in the
National Guard.” On her phones she had messages from her parents,
along with Natalie, Ruthie, Phoebe, and Sasha.
Immediately after The Bebe Show, every major network ran news of Bebe sandbagging Sharon. The celebrity shows followed, which
left plenty of time for cable’s talking heads, with Larry King snagging
Sharon Stone, whose agent had wisely advised her to turn this into an
opportunity for continued exposure. Sharon was joined on the pro
gram by Robin Williams, who did a brilliant Bebe. From ten until
eleven there was more news, capped off by Jon Stewart, Stephen Col
bert, David Letterman, and Jay Leno. “Did you see the gun gals face
off this afternoon?” Jay asked in his monologue. “Man, I wouldn’t
want to be between those two cowgirls in a dark parking garage.”
Magnolia watched it all, flipping channels while she multitasked on
the computer and phone dissecting Bebe’s performance.
“What did you think?” Natalie asked.
“You first,” Magnolia said. “No, you,” Natalie urged.
There was no percentage in revealing to Natalie how over-the-top
thrilled she’d been by Bebe’s performance. How great it felt to have
the world see that Hollywood’s lovable loudmouth could be this vile
and off. How much she was identifying with Sharon Stone. She won
dered if Bebe’s behavior breached some don’t-act-insane clause in her
Scary contract and if Jock would ditch her. How maybe she, Magno
lia, would now get her sweet old job back and could return to the
office on Monday to strains of “Hail to the Chief.”
But then it occurred to Magnolia that if Bebe would self-destruct,
she would sink with the ship or be asked by Jock to salvage it.
“Well, this could be very bad for Bebe” was what Magnolia said to Natalie. “Our readers are divided on the gun issue, although the one thing they see eye to eye on is etiquette. They’re going to hate seeing
Bebe in attack mode.”
“They’re a well-mannered demo,” Natalie agreed. “You’re right.
They might turn against her.”
Would that be good or bad? Magnolia would have liked to know
what, exactly, Natalie would suggest as a next step, but Natalie sud
denly took another call, which left Magnolia alone with her alternat
ing worry and glee. Bebe was important and well-connected. Even if
the public responded to her behavior as a gaffe, she would survive it,
Magnolia finally decided as she turned off Conan O’Brian in favor of
sleep. But then the phone rang one more time. It was Scary’s spin mis
tress, Elizabeth.
“Stay calm,” Elizabeth said, although it was she who sounded fran
tic. “By the end of the long weekend, this Bebe fuss will all blow over.
Do. Not. Worry.”
“I wasn’t worrying exactly,” Magnolia said. “At least not about that.”
There was a long pause. “Oh, are you ruminating about that Post silliness?” Elizabeth asked. “Jock shopping your job?”
For a second Magnolia couldn’t follow Elizabeth. Then she remembered the Post, which Bebe’s performance had pushed out of her psyche for eight full hours.
“Well?” Magnolia asked.
“Well, silly goose, don’t,” Elizabeth answered. “Nobody believes the Post.
Elizabeth had promised that after the weekend the Bebe coverage would evaporate. She was partly right. The next bounce came in
the weekly celebrity magazines, which featured the stars inside their
issues. They invited readers to tak
e online polls declaring their loyalty
to either Sharon or Bebe, who did her best to keep the controversy alive, appearing on Larry King herself. In a slower news week—without a Midwestern ice storm of biblical proportions (Magnolia noted
that Fargo was once again the coldest spot in the nation)—she might have made the cover of Time or Newsweek. But by Thursday the ruckus had almost been forgotten. Except by the NRA.
“Magnolia, we’ve gotten the most fantabulous opportunity,” Felic
ity trilled as she walked into Magnolia’s office. “Beebsy could have
the cover of their magazine.”
Magnolia looked up from her proof. “What does Elizabeth have to
say about it?”
“What’s this got to do with Elizabeth?” Felicity asked, looking gen
uinely confused.
“A lot,” Magnolia answered. “Everyone at Scary runs requests like
this past Elizabeth.” Who will say no. Did you not hear me? No.
“Magnolia, dear,” Felicity said, her voice dripping with condescen
sion, “Bebe Blake is not ‘everyone.’ “
No argument there, Magnolia silently agreed.
“I’ll call her at the photo shoot and see how she feels about it,”
Felicity said.
“The photo shoot?” Magnolia asked. “What shoot?”
“Oh, didn’t Sasha tell you the cover shoot got moved up a day?”
Felicity asked, all innocence.
“Sasha’s at a press conference,” Magnolia said. “Why didn’t you
mention anything to me about the schedule change?”
“The photographer Fredericka booked was called to Paris for a
funeral, so I lined up the woman who did Bebe’s publicity stills. She’s
entirely capable. Magnolia, don’t you think that Bebe can handle a
photo shoot by herself ?” Felicity asked as she walked away. It was just
as well that Magnolia didn’t get a chance to answer.
She walked into the art department. “Fredericka, what do you
know about a rescheduled photo shoot?” she asked.
“Vich one?” Fredericka asked, looking up from the screen of her
giant Mac, on which she was designing a food story. The triple-decker
burger looked like it had escaped from the Sci Fi Channel.
“Cover,” Magnolia said.
“Vat cover?” Fredericka asked, looking perplexed.
“Something about Philippe being called to Paris for a funeral.” “But I just had lunch vit Philippe and ve nailed down all the
