by Sally Koslow
company” was the only reaction Magnolia could pry out of Cam, but
on the subject of Cameron, Abbey was starting to sound like a 24/7
news network: how witty he was, how well-read, and how talented in
the kitchen—on their second date he’d roasted a chicken for their
dinner. Frankly, Abbey’s oral reports were beginning to grate.
“Why didn’t you ever hit on him, Magnolia?” Abbey had asked just
the previous day.
“We’ve gone over this before,” she said. “Did you forget that until
five minutes ago I was his boss?” Not that the thought wouldn’t have
occurred to her—at least a hundred times.
As Magnolia was scrolling through her BlackBerry to see which
neglected friend she could persuade to go to a movie with her this
weekend, Natalie walked through her door. Today she was a gypsy
queen in a flamenco skirt and a hip-slung leather belt heavy enough
for a carpenter. Magnolia was surprised to see her—she and Natalie
hadn’t been talking since the Bebe-Polo dustup: She resented that
Natalie’s coolness suggested that she believed Magnolia was the one
who tattled to the tabloid.
Yet she asked, “How you doing, Cookie?” as if they’d just chatted
yesterday. “How does it look like I’m doing, Natalie?” Magnolia said.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said, sizing up Magnolia’s office. “Anyway,
I knew I wouldn’t be seeing you this weekend—bonehead move on
Jock’s part to exclude you, if you ask me—and I wanted you to hear
something.” Natalie put on her glasses. The minute she saw it, Magnolia
recognized the Smythsons of Bond Street envelope, from which Natalie
withdrew a piece of paper of the sort used in the copying machine.
“Dear Mrs. Simon,” Natalie read. “Magnolia Gold does not know I am writing you, but since she left Bebe, I can no longer live with my guilt. In case you are wondering, it was not Magnolia who informed
the newspaper about Bebe Blake and Nathaniel Fine. I watched the
whole thing, and I and I alone am responsible for disclosing this infor
mation to the press. I cannot reveal my identity, only that I am a member of the Bebe editorial staff and that I am sorry indeed for getting Magnolia in trouble.” Natalie put the letter down. “It’s signed, ‘A
friend.’ “
Silence hung between them like a blast of drugstore air freshener.
Magnolia hoped Natalie wasn’t looking for a name to prosecute. “If
you’re wondering who Deep Throat is,” she said, “I don’t know, but it
was big of her.”
“Magnolia …” Natalie spoke in a voice usually reserved for guilty
three-year-olds.
“You don’t actually think I composed that letter and mailed it on
my own behalf ?” Magnolia asked incredulously.
Natalie stared at her while she ceremoniously removed her glasses.
“Think about it,” Magnolia said. “What point would there be? I’m
already so off the radar, no one would hear me if I sang grand opera.”
“True,” Natalie said, taking a moment to consider Magnolia’s
logic. “So, I guess …”—she walked around the desk to give Magnolia
a hug—“you deserve an apology. I owe you.”
“Well, actually, now that you mention it,” Magnolia said, “there’s
something I want to run by you.”
“Oh?” Natalie said.
“You’re my second surprise today,” Magnolia said. “Bebe was here
a few minutes ago. Odd as it may seem, she wants me back.” “Extraordinary,” Natalie said. She took a moment to let it sink in.
“But what does this have to do with me?”
Magnolia put it out there: “I wouldn’t mind returning to Bebe. Anything you could do to make that happen? Plant a seed with Jock at
your think weekend, let’s say?”
“And where would Raven fly off to?” Natalie asked.
“I haven’t thought it through, but you’re so much better at those
moves than I am,” Magnolia said.
Natalie put her chin in her hand and leaned forward on Magnolia’s
desk, which she tapped nervously with her three middle fingers while
she appeared to weigh the request. The light on her biggest ring
reflected the afternoon sunlight. “Okay,” Natalie said, after a moment.
“If an opening presents itself, I’ll run it by him. But I can’t make any
promises.”
“Fair enough,” Magnolia said.
She could hear Natalie’s flamenco skirt rustling as she walked
down the hall. The weather forecast for the weekend was suddenly
looking partly sunny.
Shipwrecked on Fantasy Island, Magnolia imagined a reversal of fortune. If Bebe wanted her, seconded by Natalie, Jock would let
her return. One week drifted into the next, though, and she never
heard from him. The closest she got was a collision with Darlene.
“We missed you at the retreat,” her former publisher boomed,
swooping down on her in Scary’s lobby and kissing her on the right
cheek and then the left, a habit she kept going for a month or two
after her annual Alpine ski holiday. “No one understood why you
weren’t there, especially since we discussed new magazine ideas.
They’re your thing now, right?”
Good of you to point that out, Magnolia thought. “And how are
Bebe and Raven hitting it off ?” she said. “Bosom buddies?”
“Advertisers drooling over them,” Darlene said, grinning.
“Must be quite a performance,” Magnolia said. “Who gets the
Oscar?” “Oh, you do,” Darlene said, turning away from Magnolia and talk
ing loudly into the Bluctooth as she disappeared into a town car, her
long black Prada coat flapping behind her.
The next day, Elvira called. Jock wanted to see her. The following
day—Thursday—at ten A.M.
Now that she had the appointment, she invited Abbey and
Cameron—who were going to be together that evening—for dinner.
She wanted to poll them on how they thought her meeting would
play out.
“He’ll send you back to Bebe,” Cam said, over grilled flank steak, a cut of beef Magnolia had learned that she couldn’t destroy. As soon as
he said it, Magnolia discounted his opinion, which she realized was
more inspired by contempt toward Raven than his usual reliable logic.
Cam had just spent the last ten minutes mimicking his new boss in a
tweedy accent. “Hell of a bother to make the changes from those fact
checking cows,” he’d quoted Raven as saying. “They seem to think readers give a damn whether the magazine is true. You’ve got scads too many people here anyway—in London we get a magazine out with
half.”
Abbey weighed in with “Jock? Admit he’s wrong? No chance.”
Magnolia reminded herself that Abbey was an outsider, unaware
that far more curious developments took place regularly in the
magazine industry; just last year a publisher bit a subordinate’s nose;
after an out-of-court settlement, the guy received a promotion and a
raise.
“Maybe Jock has actual work for you,” Abbey suggested. “Make
you sweat for your paycheck.” She decided Abbey was right. Jock prob
ably wanted to hand her an endless, truly mind-numbing project—
analyzing why Scary’s postage costs were through the roof, let
’s say,
which would require her to create enough Excel spread sheets to wall
paper her whole apartment before she blew her brains out.
At five minutes before ten on Thursday, Elvira phoned to say Jock
had been delayed and moved the meeting to eleven, then two, then
4:30, and ultimately to the next morning at ten. With each postpone
ment, Magnolia felt increasingly like a force was at work to wring away every last drop of her composure, but when she walked into Jock’s
office, she faked a cheery smile—which he didn’t return, motioning
her to close the door. Magnolia sat in one of the armless chairs, facing
him. He cleared his throat.
“Magnolia, I’ve reconsidered,” he said.
“Really?” Relief surged through her like a current.
“Yes,” he said, his face bleached of expression. “I’ve decided that
with regard to the corporate editor position, we will go in another
direction.”
“What direction is that, Jock?” she asked. This time her smile
wasn’t entirely faked, though she did pray that the direction not lead
to Excel spreadsheets.
He hesitated. “We will eliminate the position,” he said.
“I see,” Magnolia said, restraining herself from shooting Jock a
high five. She wanted to get to the next bounce, when Jock would tell
her—perhaps garnished with a compliment—either that she was headed back to Bebe because Bebe herself had demanded it, or that she would take on some sort of complex assignment that would make
use of her unique talents.
“This hasn’t been an easy decision,” he added.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Magnolia thought. Of course, it’s hard—because he has to admit he’s made a mistake—taking me off Bebe, even in starting the magazine in the first place, and not letting me renovate Lady. But does he think it’s been a stroll on the beach to play the role of company loser? Let’s get moving here, on to dessert.
“I respect that, Jock,” Magnolia said, the only thing she could think
of to say.
“Thank you, Magnolia,” Jock said. “You’re taking this well.”
What an odd remark, Magnolia thought. What other way was there
to take it? Does he actually think I’m going to miss being a corporate
editor who does nothing?
She heard someone tapping softly at the door. Through the glass
wall, Magnolia could see a man who worked at the other end of the
executive floor. She remembered him as the dancing fool at the last
Christmas party. Jock motioned for him to enter. “Howard from Human Resources will explain everything you
need to know,” Jock said, as the man stood and stretched out his hand
to shake Magnolia’s. He wore a suit fit for an undertaker and an
expression to match. Magnolia took it in and looked back to Jock.
Her stomach lurched. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Please don’t make this difficult,” Jock said.
“But, but,” she sputtered, “what about my return to Bebe?” “Excuse me?” Jock answered, and it was fair to say he snarled.
“Bebe …” Magnolia said. “She wants me to—”
Jock interrupted her. “That decision is mine and mine alone,” he
said, his voice rising. “Not Bebe Blake’s. It’s in the agreement she
apparently never took the time to read. If that woman wanted to veto
having Raven replace you, she had her chance months ago.”
Whenever someone referred to that woman, Magnolia knew it wasn’t good. A minute passed, or it could have been five. “Are you
telling me I’m f-f-fired?” she asked, never remembering having stut
tered in her whole life.
“No one is being ‘fired,’ ” said the human resources representative,
who had never sat down. “Your position is being e-lim-i-na-ted.” He
enunciated the word as if he were a speech therapist.
Magnolia’s brain didn’t seem connected to her mouth, if it had
been connected at all for the last five minutes. “What are you saying?”
Jock and the HR heavy exchanged a glance. Magnolia now realized
the reason she’d never had much contact with this man was because
his primary job must be to show employees the door. When a com
pany appoints fire marshals, is this what they mean?
“I think we’re finished here,” Jock said, evenly enough, though the look on his face read Please, remove the dead rat from my rug. “Let’s not make this any more painful than it has to be.”
Painful for whom, Magnolia wondered. Why did people who gave
subordinates a pink slip suggest that the hurt was mutual? If her eyes
had bullets, the men in the room would be on their way to the morgue.
When they were fired, some employees, Magnolia suspected, burst
into tears or ran to the bathroom to vomit. Those must be people who could identify their emotions; she, however, didn’t have a nerve end
ing in her body. All Magnolia could do was stand and meekly follow
Howard-from-hell into the hall.
“Magnolia, don’t worry,” Howard said in a there-there-now-dear
voice. “Someone will pack up your office. We’ll send everything to
your apartment. You can come to my office now—I’ll explain your
severance and you can sign off on the paperwork.” He placed his hand
on Magnolia’s arm.
Magnolia shook it off. She stared at the man’s moving mouth with
its thin, colorless lips, and she began to come alive. Does he actually
believe he’s making this easier by telling me to get the hell out, she
wondered? That packing my office is my highest concern? That I
want my apartment littered with the residue of the last sixteen years
of my work life? Does he think I plan to steal toilet paper, dozens of
little green Post-it pads, a file cabinet of circulation records, perhaps.
Was this Howard going to whistle for a police escort?
Magnolia straightened her shoulders and activated her voice to
TAKE CHARGE mode. She’d be damned if, from this second on, anyone
else at Scary would see her sweat or flinch or shed a tear.
“Howard, I think not,” Magnolia said. “Those papers? I’ll let
you know my plans about them next week.” She walked away before
Howard could answer.
Magnolia returned to her office. She locked the door, blasted a rock
station on her radio, and howled. It was a primal scream of rage, of
frustration, of pain. Damn that spoiled pig Bebe for ever having con
vinced Jock that her magazine deserved to exist. Damn that loud
mouth Darlene for leading Bebe’s charge and, most likely, working
behind the scenes to assassinate her. Damn every boneheaded cretin at Scary for killing off Lady instead of letting her transform it into something special.
Magnolia moved to the next level of damnation—cursing herself
for ever having got into such a vulnerable position, and for being
deluded enough even as recently as ten minutes before in Jock’s office
to imagine her situation would improve. Instead of standing like a turkey in a shit storm, she should have had the guts to walk away
from the money and quit months ago, to have already reinvented her
self as a movie producer or the writer of a beach book.
But, mostly, damn Jock, for taking away the work she excelled at
and adored. For coming on to her as if she were a happy little ho.
Damn Jock for having the
power to yank out her heart. Damn damn
damn damn that asshole Jock.
Magnolia gasped, then laughed. She’d screamed for minutes and
no one had even noticed. That’s how important she wasn’t.
She quickly changed her voice mail to give callers her cell phone
number, sent out a mass e-mail to a select group of friends, and threw
her BlackBerry into her bag. Magnolia took a look around her office,
which she was still waiting for Scary to repaint even though she had
moved in two months ago. I’m not going to miss this pit, she thought.
Let the evil elves from Human Resources pack her.
She phoned Cameron.
“You’re taking the afternoon off,” she said. “I’m calling Abbey, and
both of you are going to get me more drunk than I have ever been.
Just name the place and don’t ask why. I have only one requirement.
Pick something obscenely expensive. Scary is paying—with your
expense account. “
Cameron didn’t skip a beat.
“The lounge at the Four Seasons?” Magnolia repeated, slipping
into her coat. “Total rip-off. I love it. Meet you downstairs in five
minutes.”
C h a p t e r 2 9
A Persistent Vegetative State
Magnolia awoke on Monday, and, with no compelling reason to get up in the cold, dim dawn, listened to the debate in her
head. A kindly social worker’s voice tried to soothe her back to sleep.
“The dogs can wait,” the voice said.
“Rise and shine, Missy,” barked Drill Sergeant Haul Ass. “Run four
miles. Blow your hair. Put on makeup. Dress up. Everyone hates a sloth.”
“Ignore her,” whispered the social worker, who had the voice of a
yoga teacher. “Be good to yourself.”
“Up, up,” said Haul Ass. “Read your newspapers. Do a crossword.
Rewrite your résumé. Sign up for Habitat for Humanity. Network.
Visit a shut-in. Learn a language… .”
As the commands echoed, Magnolia buried her face in a pillow.
Inertia sealed her eyelids and muffled any urge she might have had to
mumble so much as a word. Suspended where disinterest meets disbe
lief, she surrendered to a lethargy one degree too tense to be called
slumber.
As a four-year-old, Magnolia was the itty-bitty grandstander who
relentlessly waved her hand in front of the nursery school teacher so
