Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

  Magnolia said, thinking out loud. When she was involved in the mag

  azine herself, Bebe’s risks seemed inane, but, now, who was going to

  be hurt by them—Jock? Darlene? Magnolia had a glimmer of guilt when she considered that the Bebe staff would suffer from Bebe’s missteps, but they were talented and versatile; she knew that if they

  floated their résumés, they’d be snapped up by other editors. “Hon

  estly, I think you should take on more of the hot-button issues, Bebe,”

  Magnolia said, her conviction growing. “The more controversial, the

  better. Let’s think. How about gay marriage?” She had no idea where

  Bebe stood on the subject. It didn’t matter. No matter her position, it

  would alienate half the country—and give Jock a coronary.

  “Interesting,” Bebe said. “Very interesting. It’s my magazine. Why

  not get political? I could start endorsing candidates in my editor’s

  letter.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Magnolia said.

  “Or run for office myself.”

  “Yes!”

  “Hey, I’ve got it,” Bebe said. “Abortion. We’ll do a special abortion issue.” She high-fived Magnolia.

  “Love it,” Magnolia said. “It’s genius, Bebe, genius.” Could she

  think of one advertiser who would want to be in any magazine’s spe

  cial abortion issue? She could not. If Magnolia was lucky, there would

  be picketers outside Scary. Maybe a televised riot and a Michael

  Moore documentary.

  “This was a hoot,” Bebe said as the elevator door closed behind her.

  “Why weren’t you this much fun when we worked together?”

  C h a p t e r 3 0

  An Offending Prepositional Phrase

  Magnolia had never visited the Human Resources department. In the past, HR always came to her. She wandered

  through Scary’s basement and finally found Howard’s pocket-sized

  office, where his assistant asked her to wait. Magnolia stared at a

  closed folder labeled with her name, hire date, and fire date. She was

  about to peek inside, when Howard entered and shook her hand with

  his clammy palm.

  “Before we sign off on papers,” he said without preamble, taking

  his chair, which was upholstered in purple squiggles, “it’s customary

  to conduct an exit interview.” Squarely in front of her, Howard placed

  a clipboard with a long, printed checklist. He cleared his throat.

  “Overall, Magnolia, how would you rate your experience here at Scar

  borough?” he read aloud.

  “Would that be before or after?” Magnolia asked.

  “Before or after?” Howard asked.

  “Before or after Lady?” Magnolia asked. “Before or after Bebe Blake and Bebe? Before or after my corporate editor job?” She could hear her voice rising. “Before or after I got axed?”

  Howard scribbled on the page. Probably identifying me as ready to go postal, Magnolia thought. “Start wherever you wish,” Howard

  said.

  “Being recruited as editor in chief of Lady was … terrific,” she said, remembering the gigawatt glamour of being courted and cos

  seted for months—the counteroffer from her existing job that Scary

  topped, the breathless press release announcing her hire, and the

  veddy-veddy proper reception in her honor at Le Cirque. “I was thrilled to join this company. Everything after Lady …”

  “Yes?” Howard prompted.

  Should she say “sucked”? “… was less satisfying,” Magnolia

  answered.

  “Do you care to elaborate?” Howard asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Then on to the next question,” he said,

  wearing the look of an ambulance technician trained to deal with

  trauma victims. “How would you describe Jock Flanagan, your super

  visor here at Scarborough Magazines?”

  “Aggressive,” Magnolia said, after a split second’s thought.

  “Do you care to elaborate?” he asked.

  Should she kick it up a notch? Magnolia settled on “inappropriate

  behavior,” letting her fingers wink as quotations marks.

  Howard raised both eyebrows and peered at Magnolia as if he were

  trying to imagine her naked—although maybe he was simply deter

  mining if she was an employee with a legitimate claim or a feminist

  who interpreted every innocent cheek peck as foreplay, and trying to

  recall a seminar he’d taken on how to know the difference.

  “Care to elaborate?” Howard said.

  “No,” Magnolia said. “I don’t.”

  “Nothing more you want to share?” This was like the moment in

  your appointment where the kindly gynecologist gives you the chance

  to reveal that your boyfriend is a drooling beast. But Magnolia couldn’t

  see the point of screaming harassment now, when Jock would surely

  deny it, and she was already fired.

  “Can we cut to the chase, please, and get to that?” Magnolia pointed

  to the bulging Magnolia Gold obituary folder. “As you wish,” Howard said, jotting a few notes on her form and

  putting it aside. “You have been a well-respected member of the Scar

  borough team,” he recited. Magnolia wouldn’t disagree. “In recogni

  tion of the contribution you’ve made here for the last few years, as

  well as your standing within the magazine community, Scarborough’s

  board, under Jock’s direction, has decided to give you more severance

  than you would, according to the employee guidelines, normally be

  accorded.” Howard smiled beneficently.

  Magnolia felt her heart beat a little faster. Jock must be feeling ter

  rified, guilty, or both.

  “We will double your severance,” he said.

  Her contract was good until the end of the year, and it was only

  January. She expected the silver lining of those eleven months’ wages.

  But double! Almost two years. Holy crap, this was delicious. Her

  mind raced. She could postpone job hunting for at least six months

  and travel—take her parents to Israel maybe, and then see the Pyra

  mids, and Turkey. She could finally visit Australia, then rent a flat

  in Paris. Magnolia pictured herself sitting at an outdoor café, wear

  ing something by that dreamy Nicolas guy of Balenciaga. She’d

  pass the morning in the Musée d’Orsay and the afternoons lost in

  a novel—a French novel, because she’d have gone to Berlitz. Two

  years!

  “So, if you’ll sign off here,” Howard said, opening the folder and

  offering Magnolia a pen.

  Several pages of boilerplate stretched in front of her. Whereas, yada, yada, yada, herewith, blah, blah, blah, hereafter, in consideration of the payments and entitlements … therein her employment

  relationship with Scarborough Magazines, thereinunder … the ter

  mination of that relationship …

  Whatever. Magnolia flipped to the final page. Gold shall receive

  monies equal to one month’s employment.

  Her brain flashed does not compute. Magnolia slowed down, and reread the last clause. A month? The words stood out like a tattoo.

  “Excuse me, there’s a typo,” Magnolia said. She pointed to the of

  fending prepositional phrase. “You said a minute ago that my payment would be doubled. I have a contract until the end of the year. So it

  comes to about two years, not a month.”

  Howard looked at the agreement. “No, it’
s correct. Perhaps there’s

  been a misunderstanding,” he added. “The contract you speak of was for when you were the editor in chief of Lady. That position ceased months ago. You’ve been corporate editor for a short time, with no

  contract. There was some discussion as to whether you were even

  entitled to two weeks of severance, but as I said, Jock has chosen to

  grant you a month. Now,” he said, “if you’ll sign.”

  The purple squiggles on the upholstery of Howard’s chair swam

  like snakes in front of Magnolia’s eyes. She wanted a glass of water,

  oxygen, Scotch. She wanted … a lawyer!

  “You’re right,” she said. “I agree. There has been a ‘misunderstanding.’ ” Magnolia repeated the winking finger gesture. She stood.

  “I’m not going to sign these. Now, if I may have those papers, please?”

  “Magnolia, you’ve already taken almost a week to meet with me,”

  Howard said, his patience having sprung a leak.

  “Howard, I believe we’re going to go in another direction here.”

  She put out her hand. “Those papers?”

  Howard handed them to Magnolia, who wandered into the hall, up

  the elevator, and out of Scary. She started walking blindly in the brac

  ing cold until she found herself at the Starbucks she’d avoided since

  her blowup here with Harry. As she sat down, tears detonated.

  Who could she call? Her professional support team consisted of a

  manicurist, a dog walker, a cleaning woman, Cam, and Abbey. The attorney who’d negotiated her Lady contract almost three years before was inconveniently incarcerated. The city was crawling with

  lawyers—that balding fellow at the next table, so engrossed in his

  phone conversation he didn’t notice she’d come unhinged, was proba

  bly one. She definitely couldn’t phone the environmental lawyer she’d

  dated two years ago. If you wanted to know about dog doo putrefying

  our water, he was your man, though. No, she’d need someone who

  could save her ass.

  She finished her coffee and walked uptown, drifting in and out of stores to keep warm. At 1:30, she took herself to the café at Saks.

  Around her, pairs of glossy women chatted about mother-of-the-bride

  dresses and whether a five-carat ring was too-too.

  Her phone rang. “Yes, I had the meeting,” she told Abbey between

  sniffles. “Trying to stiff me out of my contract.”

  “Yikes, Jock’s revenge,” Abbey said. “You’re not going to let him

  get away with it, are you?”

  “I was just about to call one of those lawyers who advertise in the

  subway,” Magnolia said. “1-800-SCREWED.”

  “Not funny,” Abbey said. “What’s plan B?”

  “Tell me if I’m crazy,” Magnolia said. “The person who keeps

  coming to mind to ask for help is Natalie.”

  “What makes you think you can trust her?” Abbey asked.

  “With the bouquet she sent me—which was the most fabulous one

  I got, by the way—there was a note that read, ‘Call me if you need

  help—with anything. I’m always here for you,’ ” Magnolia said. “I

  think that was code.”

  “Mags, I know this woman likes to find people furniture refinish

  ers and gastroenterologists, but she’s a card-carrying Scary person.

  You’ve lost your mind.”

  “You may be right,” Magnolia admitted. She left Saks, walked all

  the way home, and reread her contract three times.

  The next morning she flipped a coin, called Natalie’s office, and

  left a message, which Natalie returned early that evening.

  “Was hoping you’d call,” Natalie asked. “How are you doing,

  Cookie?”

  Natalie hated a whiner. “Pretty well,” Magnolia said. “But I need

  some advice, and no one would know better than you.”

  “Love to talk, sweetie, but I’ve got a car downstairs and I’ve already

  kept it waiting for ten minutes,” Natalie said. “Black-tie thing.”

  Was she saying I-can’t-help-you now or I-can’t-help-you-ever?

  “Shall I call you tomorrow in the office?” Magnolia ventured.

  “Don’t think we should be talking from office phones,” Natalie said.

  Strike two, Magnolia thought. “But if you swing by the apartment tomorrow at five-thirty, we’ll

  chat,” Natalie suggested. “I know what you’re going through.”

  I doubt that, Magnolia thought, thinking of Natalie’s unblemished

  bio—Stanford, Columbia School of Journalism, perched at the top of a

  masthead for decades. She hated needing Natalie. But just now, she did.

  “You’re on,” Magnolia said.

  C h a p t e r 3 1

  What About the Obvious?

  Upon close inspection a visitor could see that the volumes filling the mahogany shelves of the faux library lobby leaned

  heavily toward obsolete medical texts and encyclopedias. Still, the Fifth

  Avenue co-op building spoke of wealth, decorum, and an admissions

  board that subliminally whispered, “Are you kidding?” to 80 percent of

  its applicants.

  “Penthouse it is, Miss,” the elevator man said. Magnolia entered

  the private landing, wallpapered in a tangle of roses never seen in

  nature, and gently tapped a brass knocker.

  “Welcome, Miss Gold,” said the uniformed maid Natalie had

  employed at least since the era when mobile phones were as big as

  pound cakes. “Take your coat?”

  “Thanks, Imogene,” Magnolia said. “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Imogene said in a Jamaican lilt as she led Mag

  nolia past the orchid-filled solarium. She moved so briskly, Magnolia

  barely got a glimpse of Natalie’s newest collection, which covered the

  walls of a thirty-foot gallery tiled with antique limestone. When most

  people go to Australia, they return with kangaroo key chains. Not

  Natalie, who now owned at least a dozen aboriginal paintings taller

  than most aborigines. “What happened to the American folk art?” Magnolia asked. Not

  that she missed it. She could swear the eyes used to follow her from

  the portraits’ bony faces.

  “Mrs. Simon sold ‘em at Sotheby’s,” Imogene said. Natalie must

  again be in a state of decorating flux, but Magnolia was glad to see

  that the red den, where they’d arrived, was intact. Like a quartet of

  plump dowagers, paisley club chairs faced the fireplace. Magnolia

  chose a seat nearest the hearth.

  “Tea?” Imogene offered. “Cappuccino? A sherry?” The maid prod

  ded the logs with an iron poker, and they responded in a blazing

  salute. Everything and everyone at Natalie’s worked efficiently.

  “Tea, please,” Magnolia said, warming her hands by the crackling

  heat.

  “The missus called to say she’ll be here soon—make yourself at

  home.”

  Magnolia did. When Imogene left the room, she got up to scruti

  nize the vacation photos, framed identically in sterling silver. In each,

  Natalie was dead center—her husband, Stan, and three children flank

  ing her. Magnolia knew many women who loved clothes, but no one

  liked them half as much as Natalie. On the Simons’ recent Christmas trip

  to New Delhi, the family wore khaki—except for Natalie, a dead ringer

  for Princess of India Barbie in a billowing raspberry sari, matching tikka

&
nbsp; headdress, and a coordinating bindi glued to her forehead.

  Magnolia sat again and began leafing through an Architectural Digest. As she took in the carefully crafted whimsy of Diane Keaton’s kitchen, she heard Natalie’s throaty alto echoing in the gallery.

  “Magnolia,” she shouted, her charm fully loaded. “Let me hang

  my cape and I’ll be with you.” By the time Magnolia had moved on to

  photos of a Bavarian castle, Natalie glided into the room, lit a Rigaud

  candle, and air kissed both of Magnolia’s cheeks.

  “So?” Natalie said, replacing her gray suede boots with red velvet

  slippers waiting by the fireplace.

  “Hi, Nat,” Magnolia said. “Thanks for having me over.” She

  paused. Could this be more uncomfortable? “Anyway, without going

  into specifics, I need a lawyer,” she said. “For my contract.” “No details, huh?” Natalie said, pouting in amusement. “Let me

  guess. Age discrimination generally begins at forty. Are you preg

  nant?”

  “Definitely not, but can we not get into particulars, Natalie?”

  Magnolia begged. “And if this is awkward …”

  “Stop right there,” Natalie said, raising her hand like a traffic cop.

  “You know better than to take me for an obedient Scary stooge.”

  “Yes, but I was hoping you wouldn’t put me in a corner,” Magnolia

  said. “I just need the name of a smart lawyer … please.”

  “Because your contract, obviously, was written in invisible ink,”

  Natalie said, laughing. “I’m playing with you. Jock tries this every

  time, in one way or another. It’s a game. But I’m surprised you of all

  people are asking whom to call. What about the obvious?”

  “And that would be … ?” she said. “I’m coming up empty here.”

  “I say ‘married couple’; you say …”

  “My parents, Franny and Eliot Goldfarb.”

  “Try again,” Natalie said. “You and me doing the Macarena

  together at a wedding …”

  A smile blossomed on Natalie’s face as Magnolia began to remem

  ber. Centerpieces as dense as a tropical rain forest. A twenty-minute

  rendition of “Hot Hot Hot,” which the bride had specifically placed

  at the top of the no-play list. A lumpish best man declaring that the

  couple’s union would last forever. The groom telling 300 reception

  guests he looked forward to the bride’s being “a breeder.”