by Sally Koslow
“Enough words, don’t you think?” Abbey asked. “Guys really don’t
read that much.”
“Or that carefully,” Magnolia said. “You could write ‘Man-hungry
hussy from hell looking for warthog to eat flesh’ and you’ll get
responses if your picture’s hot enough. Show me what you’ve got.”
Abbey pulled out her album. Many of the photos were neatly cut
in half, Tommy having been burned at the stake of Abbey’s fireplace
the first night of Stage Two. Much of what remained was Abbey
snapped at black tie functions, where, given her love of vintage cloth
ing, it was hard to tell if she was wearing bag lady rejects or Yves
Saint Laurent.
Magnolia flipped through the album twice. “I think we have a
winner,” she said when she got to one of Abbey in her Audrey sun
glasses and bikini top. “Can’t wait to see who comes panting. If you
get a good response, I may run an ad myself.”
“So are you still getting e-mails from Tyler?”
“Daily,” Magnolia admitted. “They’re dear. It’s the purpose-driven
romance.”
“Could it ever be the real thing?” Abbey asked. “He sounds awfully
sweet.”
“Are you kidding?” Magnolia said. “He’s a Lutheran minister in
Wild Rice, North Dakota, with a wife and two kids. I’m an ambitious,
divorced, Jewish Manhattan magazine editor who spends too much on
clothes. Do the math.” She hugged Abbey and ran home.
The truth was, Magnolia had been enjoying their e-mailing more than she cared to admit. When she dated Tyler in high school, her father tried to discourage the relationship by quoting Fiddler on the Roof: “A bird can love a fish,” he’d say, in his best Tevye imitation, “but where will they live?” Now, Magnolia could answer him. In
cyberspace. Every morning Hotmail would deliver a missive from
Preacherman8. She was getting as addicted to them as to cashews.
When she’d written him about her counterfeit promotion—
conveniently skirting what had inspired Jock’s spite—he’d responded
with “If your boss doesn’t know by now what you are capable of, he must
be blind or stupid or both. Don’t try too hard to make sense of some
thing that is illogical.” She wondered what Tyler would think of the
latest, which she’d e-mail him about tonight. Raven KensingtonWoods was replacing her at Bebe.
And what would he think of her publisher Darlene’s slobbery
send-off ? “Magnolia, I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all
your hard work,” she’d said in an audition for insincerity. “I’ve really
enjoyed working with you these past few years.” So much that you
pushed me under a bus, Magnolia thought, her teeth grinding at the
other end of the phone. You probably flew to London and lured Raven
here with a trail of Prada.
Natalie—who’d been dodging Magnolia’s calls—phoned yesterday
as well. “You’ve got to approach the new job with pluck,” she advised
from her lookout atop Mount Success. “I’ve always believed power is for
the grabbing.” This philosophy had sustained Natalie for decades, along with you’ve got to be a little bitchy to be interesting. “Bebe—let that be Raven’s problem,” Natalie added. “Has Bebe called you, by the way?”
“Not a peep, not a cuss.”
“Felicity?”
“She’s still smoking over Polo. And, hey, what’s happening with
that?”
“They’re settling out of court,” Natalie said. “Let’s just say that it’s
likely Nathaniel will have his tuition and therapy paid for through
out the rest of his life, and still have plenty left over for beachfront
property.”
Magnolia felt awful that Polo had been traumatized, which shouldn’t happen to anyone, but she still couldn’t help feeling she’d
pulled the short straw, especially on Monday, when she opened the
door to her corporate editor office. The walls hadn’t been painted in
years, and she was greeted by two roaches, one dead, the other in vig
orous health. The office was tucked into the side of the executive floor
where people never wandered unless they were lost. Sasha helped
unpack her. Raven, Sasha’s new boss, would be starting tomorrow.
“I’m never going to forget that you’ve kept my secret about the Post, Magnolia,” Sasha said. “Good luck in this new job.” Sasha surveyed the bleak surroundings. She didn’t press Magnolia on what
she’d be doing, exactly, in her new job. The e-mail announcement had
been vague, though perhaps by now Sasha had learned to read sub
liminal messages whispered in corporatespeak.
Her second visitor was Cameron, who arrived with three dozen
pale pink roses. “It’s going to be damn odd not working for you,” he
said as he handed her the flowers and enfolded her in an enormous,
long hug.
“You, too, but you’ve got to be my lifeline to reality, promise? A
woman needs gossip to live.” Isolation scared Magnolia as much as Fargo.
“Promise you will be my personal eyewitness and prognosticator?”
“Lunch, e-mail, hanging out whenever,” he said, “I’m your man.”
“There’s no one left at Bebe who’s going to appreciate how you keep that magazine moving, Cameron,” Magnolia said. “You’re its
central nervous system.” She started to cry, had no idea where her tis
sues were, and wiped away the tears with her hand.
“I’m going to try not to feel too sorry for myself,” Cameron said in
a serious voice Magnolia rarely heard. “Buck up. Keep your perspec
tive. It’s just a job.”
She wondered if he’d give her a hug—or at least a tissue. He did
not. Cam was halfway out the door when he turned. “I almost for
get—what’s up with your friend Abbey? I read her personal online.”
“You read the personals?” she asked, surprised. “I thought you had
a girlfriend.”
“Katya moved back to Prague.”
“Which one was Katya?” “Filmmaker. Leggy, blond. Not important. Not anymore.”
For no reason she could explain to herself, Magnolia felt intrigued
to know this detail about Cameron. They were close, but only profes
sional-close. They’d often spent fourteen-hour days together. She
knew how he took his coffee and that he’d rather drink beer than
wine. Magnolia could predict what he’d wear to work the following
day and which movie he wouldn’t see even if you tried to bribe him.
But Cameron cruising the personals? What kind of woman would he
be looking for? That she couldn’t say.
“Who’s your dream girl, Cam?” Magnolia asked.
“Maureen Dowd.”
Shows you how little I know went through Magnolia’s mind. “So what do you think about Abbey? You’ve met her—she is adorable.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m either the Paris flea market or
Bergdorf’s.”
Magnolia could hear him chuckling as he walked down the hall.
She logged on to her personal e-mail. Anything from Preacherman8?
Just spam ads for drugs to make her penis bigger and a new diet pill
that promised to pop cellulite like a bubble and burn an extra 937
calories per day.
Where was her radio? This office was a tomb. Pluck sucks.
C h
a p t e r 2 7
Angel Girl
“He asked for you again, Miss Gold,” Manuel, the doorman said. “The gentleman from yesterday.”
“Any message?” Magnolia asked.
“No, said he’d be back. Tried to get me to say when you’d be around
but my lips are zipped.” The doorman pulled his fingers across his lips
in an exaggerated gesture.
“By any chance,” she asked, “did this man have an accent?”
Manuel considered Magnolia’s question as if the grand prize depended on it. “Sí. Sí. He did talk kinda funny.”
“Thanks, Manuel,” she said.
“One more thing.”
“Yes, Manuel.”
“I think I seen this guy hangin’ around during my shift a few days
ago.”
She wondered whether she was getting an extra helping of atten
tion because it was Christmastime, and her doorman pictured his
hundred-dollar tip enjoying some jolly inflation. “Thanks again,
Manuel,” she said. “Don’t work too hard.”
Magnolia let herself into her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and
returned her dogs’ affection. Could the gentleman caller once again be Tommy? He’d phoned last week, eager to meet for a drink “now
that Abbey and I are finished.” Magnolia thought she’d spurned him
with exquisite clarity, but Tommy was a no-means-yes guy—maybe
he saw her exclamation-point rejection as a flirtatious semicolon beg
ging for a repeat invitation.
Or was the visitor Harry, intoxicated with holiday spirit? Less than
two months had elapsed since their split—he might consider their
relationship under warranty, available for free repair. Harry swooping
into her life was not beyond her imagination; the nonstop Christmas
music everyone had to suffer through could wig out even the most
stable person, subliminally programming him to find a mate, wait for
Santa, and have compulsory intercourse.
She blinked away the thought. Magnolia was feeling doubtful of
her resolve to turn away Harry—especially if he returned, bearing
the Magnolia bracelet, although she knew she’d pay for it eventually
when old St. Nick replaced it with a lump of disappointment.
Dogs fed, she settled at her computer to dash off the last of her
holiday e-mails. But first she reread yesterday’s message from Preacherman8: Angel Girl, I hope u gt yr heart’s desire. U 2, she’d responded, in the language of the teenager she regressed to with Tyler.
She hadn’t heard from him today. But it must be a pastor’s busy season.
She glanced outside. Like tiny doilies, snowflakes were beginning
to fall, reflected in the high-intensity haze of yellow-white street
lights. The holiday messages could wait. Best to take the dogs for their
long walk.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the stock of the trees on
Broadway had dwindled to the last lopsided orphans, although the
scent of pine and balsam lingered, as did a gemütlichkeit that perme
ated the entire city. Magnolia walked south, down to Lincoln Center
awash in twinkling light, then back again, enjoying the mood-elevating
sociability that comes with being escorted by a matched set of canine
extroverts. She could never walk a whole block without someone’s
stopping to converse, nose to nose, as if her animals were short, intel
ligent children. “Hello, sweetheart! How are you today?” And occa
sionally people talked to her, too. Starbucks was as packed as on a Saturday morning, especially the
tables favored by laptop users who turned them into private offices.
Magnolia thought she saw a woman wave, and peered inside. It was
Sasha, gathered with friends. Magnolia waved back—if she didn’t
have Biggie and Lola, she might have joined them—and as she
turned, her eye caught the back of a man with a blue ski hat, sprint
ing uptown. Another Tyler doppelgänger—same long legs, same lop
ing gait. What would Preacherman8 be doing now? Sledding with his
kids under the endless black velvet of a starry prairie sky? Writing an
antiadultery sermon? Arguing with little Jody Sunshine about
whether to serve goose or turkey for Christmas dinner?
“Tyler—A Retrospective” had become Magnolia’s favorite playlist
on the iPod in her brain. When she left him in Fargo, she’d been
relieved to escape into her real life, even if it was ruled by Jock and his
harem of amped-up harpies. She knew there could never be anything
real between her and Tyler Peterson; he’d hate the MTV-metabolism
world she lived in, and she’d never find her place in a state with more
cinnamon buns than bialys. In the absence of a flesh-and-blood
boyfriend, however, she loved Tyler’s attention. If this was twisted
and pathetic, well, a therapist could make of that what she might.
She told herself their harmless cyberflirtation would—out of mutual
boredom or his fear of getting caught—soon fade.
Once home, she rubbed the salt off Biggie’s and Lola’s paws and
took out her present for Abbey. The box was wrapped in shiny scarlet
paper and a white silk bow, the tissue paper inside blanketing a
bracelet-sleeved gold brocade jacket—circa 1962, but pristine—that
Magnolia had found months ago in a downtown shop. She and Abbey
planned to indulge tonight in many movies, spaghetti alla carbonara,
a garlicky Caesar salad, Chianti, and—depending on the strength of
their willpower—chocolate mousse cake.
“Let’s make it a yearly ritual,” Abbey had suggested. “Food and
presents.”
“You expect us to always be single forever?” Magnolia asked.
“I expect us to toast our friendship no matter what male baggage
we trip over,” she said. As she turned into Abbey’s building, she thought she saw the back
of Blue Hat again. It probably wasn’t the same guy—hard to tell in
the dark. This man’s hat might be navy or black or purple. As Magno
lia rode up Abbey’s elevator, she played the stranger game and began
to weave stories about him.
Blue Hat was hurrying home to his wife for their twins’ first birth
day, an engraved silver spoon for each tot in his deep pockets. Blue Hat
worked the Aspen ski patrol but flew in to see his widowed mother,
who was on life support after a horse had bucked her in Central Park.
Blue Hat owned a restaurant in Vermont and came to Manhattan to
buy truffles for New Year’s Eve. Blue Hat had got a glimpse of her on
the subway and was traversing the streets, searching for his goddess.
He would run, run, run until he found her.
The evening melted away with comfort food and Katharine Hep
burn. Abbey danced around in her jacket, and Magnolia opened
Abbey’s gift to her, pale lilac crystals strung with tiny pearls in a lariat
that would dangle enticingly between her breasts had she not been, at
the moment, wearing a bulky cable knit. “I can see you in this with a
low white dress,” Abbey said.
“Something to look forward to,” Magnolia said.
“Something to look forward to,” she repeated to herself as she
walked the ten blocks back home at one A.M. Manuel opened the door
for her.
“You missed him,�
� he said, excited. “The guy. Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Did he leave a note?” Magnolia asked.
“Nothing.”
“I’ll live in suspense, Manuel,” Magnolia said. “Thanks for the
update.”
Earlier in the evening, she’d shared the news of the visitor with
Abbey. “It’s getting a little unnerving,” she said.
Abbey convinced her the guy was Harry. “He needs closure, Mags,”
she said. “The last word.”
Upstairs, she decided to buttress the good mood the evening had
brought by slipping into her white Jean Harlow nightgown and try
ing on her beads. Abbey was clairvoyant about trends. By next summer, when Magnolia would probably live in the pale lavender trea
sure, compliments would rain. She returned the necklace to its silk
pouch and started to shut down her computer as an IM popped on the
screen.
“Angel Girl,” Preacherman8 said. “Did u hav a gd evning?”
Magnolia smiled. “Lovely. U?” she wrote back. It did feel lovely to end the day with someone who asked nothing of her and who made her A and LOL.
“Brrrr. What did u do?”
“Party.”
“Who with?”
“Aren’t u being nosy?”
“Jealous type. Miss u. Visit?”
E-mail was Archie and Veronica, chaste and juvenile. An actual
visit? Nightmare. Magnolia stared at the screen.
“Cat gt yr tung?” he wrote.
“I hve dogs.”
“Duh. I repeat. Visit?”
“When?” she wrote, regretting the word as soon as she hit SEND.
“Now.”
How slow could a woman be? He must be talking about cybersex.
Was a semirepressed Midwestern preacher really capable of pound
ing out wet pussies, throbbing dicks, hot rods, tell me, higher, lower,
there! Sucking trembling fondling licking slippery climaxes, oh oh oh yes yes yes!!!!!!! Ahh… . was it good for u, 2? Or would it be the equivalent of an electronic dry hump?
Cybersex is definitely on my list of things to do before I die, Mag
nolia thought, but not tonight, not with Tyler. She wasn’t going to
peck away, pretending her keyboard was his pecker when it belonged
to another woman, not to mention the Lutheran church.
“Gotta headache.”
“Aw, let me make it better.”
“Aren’t u worried about J catching u?”
“Impossible.”
“Anything’s possible.”
