by Sally Koslow
of their partnership agreement this very instant and exercising every
four-letter word he knew. Magnolia turned to Cameron. “You’re the
managing editor—how over-the-top are her costs?”
Cameron rolled his eyes and waved his hand above his head but
shushed Magnolia so he could fixate on Bebe, who’d moved to a vigor
ous defense of Felicity’s right to whip anyone she felt like in the pri
vacy of a boudoir.
“You and I can agree on that, Bebe,” Larry said, “but will your
readers? They’re a conservative crowd. Won’t they feel Miss Dingle is
an abomination?”
As the censors bleeped out Bebe’s response, Larry turned straight
to the camera. “On that subject, I wonder what tonight’s other guest
has to say? Dr. Laura Schlessinger, are you standing by in Los Ange
les?” The camera panned back to Bebe in time to catch the fury con
torting her face. Had she been unaware that a virtue-hawk was the
other guest? Bebe dipped into her décolleté, fished out her mike,
and—making a clatter—stood.
“Bebe,” Larry said. “Where you headed, girl?”
“Outta here, my friend,” Bebe snapped. “It’s been a pleasure, but I
know a setup when I see it.”
“C’mon, Bebe,” Larry said. “Let’s calm down.”
“Let’s not,” she said.
“Bebe, you’re a talk show host yourself—you know this is just … television,” Larry said, shaking his head. But Bebe had already
stomped off.
Cameron and Magnolia stared at the screen. “Did we just see what
we just saw?” she asked.
“Career annihilation in the making?” Cameron said. “Thought
our Bebe was a cooler cucumber.”
“Jock must actually be getting to her,” Magnolia said. “Can’t wait to see how she’s going to handle Letterman.”
Cameron looked at his watch. “Wish I could stay but,” he said,
“gotta write.”
“How’s that book coming?” Magnolia asked. As far as she knew,
Cameron had been writing the same book for the full four years she
had known him. Although maybe he already had a best seller or two
under a pseudonym. Maybe even a series. That’s how little he men
tioned this side of his literary life.
“On the home stretch. My agent e-mails me every day to make
sure I don’t have a minute’s fun.”
“What’s the book about?” Magnolia asked coyly, as she had many
times before. Cameron just laughed and gave her an amused look.
“Can you at least tell me what kind of novel it is? Mystery?
Thriller?”
“None of the above,” he said.
“You’re writing chick lit! God knows you could, working at a
women’s magazine. No, I’ve got it. You’re doing male chick lit. Yes!
Dick lit!”
“Pardon me, Ms. Gold,” Cameron said in an imperious tone, “but
even if all gentlemen do is reflect on their tiny penises and ample love handles, what we write are called books. Got that? Literature. Even if the title is The Unibrow Diaries.”
“The Devil Wears Tighty Whiteys?”
“He always does,” he said. With that, he gave her an unexpectedly
huge hug, grabbed his jacket, and left.
Magnolia walked back to her TV. Since her one and only current job prospect was Voyeur over at Fancy, she’d decided she needed to steep herself in pop culture and had been TiVo-ing every celebrity program, cable and network. The chuga-chuga-chuga of celebrity’s
gossip train was roaring through her brain. She might know diddly
squat about what river flows from the Allegheny and the Mononga
hela, or take a day to recall the name of the newest Supreme Court
justice, but she’d developed an encyclopedic knowledge of whose cel
lulite was the most cottage cheesy, which bride in a Vera Wang gown
was a lipstick lesbian, and what name of which star was caught in
flagrante delicto with his personal chef. Ask her anything, and Mag
nolia could lob back the answer faster than you could spit the word
“spin.” She wasn’t proud of this ability, but she knew it might eventu
ally pay her way.
Besides, celebrity shows passed the time, and when she became utterly brain-dead, there was always Jewels of Vegas. Magnolia had just bought her mother a pink sapphire and amethyst ring for only
$139 (there were only ten available—she had to act fast) when she decided to catch a tiny catnap so she could stay awake for Letterman. She opened her eyes at what seemed like ten minutes later, but
Dave was already finishing his “top ten” list.
“And the number one reason why no one should ever start her own magazine,” Dave said, “is that the swimsuit issue of Naked Dachshunds may outsell you.” To applause, he held up a cover featuring a pregnant dachshund posing with her belly proudly displayed like Demi Moore on Vanity Fair. “And now, welcome our next guest, my very good friend Bebe Blake.”
Bebe had changed out of her dress whites. In solidarity with seri
ous editors, she’d switched to black. Feathers, however, engulfed her.
She looked like Big Bird in mourning.
“Dave, you’re not going to ambush me, are you?” Bebe said, twin
kling a laugh.
“Bebe, wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.
“Would you mind if a friend joined me?” she said, smoothing her
feathers as she sat with a thunk on the couch.
“Not a dachshund, is it?” he said. “No stupid pet tricks tonight.”
“It’s my dear colleague, Felicity Dingle,” Bebe said. Felicity walked
out, carrying her infamous leather satchel. “In case you need to be whipped into shape.” Dave and the audience joined her in a roar of
laughter. The three of them chattered, every remark as sweet as
cherry pie, even a long yak that contrasted sexual habits of Americans
to those in the UK.
Magnolia was getting ready to turn off the show, when Dave
turned to Felicity, “Bebe seems content, doesn’t she? True, Bebe?” he
added.
“I am—now,” she answered, a grin splitting her face.
“How’s that?” he said.
“Now that I’m quitting the magazine,” she said, looking entirely
pleased with herself. She opened Felicity’s satchel and pulled out at least a dozen copies of Bebe, which she dropped on the floor, then punted off the set. “I made my decision earlier today. I don’t know
what happened to freedom of the press, among other freedoms, but
no one’s going to tell me what to put on the cover of my own maga
zine, or who to hire to run it. I can’t put up with any more abuse and
interference. You heard it here. My magazine is history.”
Dave’s eyebrows went up. “Now, Bebe—say it ain’t so. Bebe’s a mere babe, and you’re no quitter.”
“If something’s not working, don’t drag it out. I’ve been married
twice and when the relationships stopped working, I moved on. Men,
magazines—all the same. Ciao. Adios. Life’s too short for aggrava
tion.”
“Haven’t you been having fun, Bebe?” Dave said. “And that gun
cover—well, you were making quite a statement.” He held up the
gun cover issue, which had been conveniently placed on his desk.
“Do I have to spell it out, Dave?” Bebe said. “I quit. Q-U-I-T. Scar
borough Magazines can take their magazine and put it where the sun
&nbs
p; don’t shine.”
“Oooh, harsh, Bebe. Harsh.” Dave said, then looked into the cam
era. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. How about it?
Bebe Blake calling it quits to her beloved magazine. It will be dearly missed. Especially among gun lovers. It’s bye-bye, Bebe, bye-bye. Or shall we say bang-bang, Bebe, bang-bang?”
The next thing Magnolia knew, a car commercial replaced David
Letterman’s face. Magnolia immediately called Cameron, but his line
was busy—because he was dialing her cell.
“Didn’t I say that Bebe was going to quit tonight?” Magnolia
asked. “I knew it!”
“No,” Cameron said. “You didn’t say it, and you didn’t know it.”
“But I was thinking it,” Magnolia said. “I swear.”
“I don’t even want to imagine what goes on in that brain of yours,
Magnolia,” Cameron said. “Anyway, it’s probably Bebe’s idea of a
publicity stunt. Make Jock sweat and beg to take her back on her
terms.”
It occurred to Magnolia that what he said made sense—and that
she’d just displayed the sensitivity of a tank. If Bebe quit, Cam would
be out of a job. She better back down. “Thanks for stopping by this
evening,” she said. “You’re definitely right, as always.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “And, you know, I was wondering …”
The phone indicated another call. “Could you hold on, Cam? Just a
second …”
“Surprised?” Bebe said.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Magnolia answered. “But why
now?”
“Jock, Raven, Darlene, bunch of losers,” Bebe said. “Who needs
this shit? Nobody tells Bebe Blake what to do. I hope they’ll have fun putting out The Magazine Formerly Known as Bebe.”
“Bebe, if you weren’t serious about the magazine, why did you start it?” Magnolia said. And bomb my life?
But Bebe didn’t answer. She had already hung up. Magnolia went
out to walk her dogs and, when she returned, promptly fell asleep.
Only the next morning did she remember she’d never got back to
Cameron.
C h a p t e r 3 6
It’s a Hard-Knock Life
“My name is Magnolia,” she began, stepping into the inferno of a crowded subway car in July. “I know you hate people
interrupting your morning, but I just need a moment.” Most of the
commuters resolutely read religious tracts, swayed to their music, or
looked through her, their goal to avoid eye contact—and, if possible,
skin contact—with fellow passengers. “A short time ago, I had a good
job and benefits. Now I’m homeless.
“I don’t rob. I don’t steal. I don’t do drugs.” Technically true, if you
discounted the occasional joint at parties. “If you could find it in your
heart to help me—money, food, whatever—anything will be appreci
ated.” She walked the length of the car, her Tod’s tote open. “Just
thinkin’ about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow,” she
sang in her wobbly voice with its five-note range. One man yelled,
“Put a lid on it,” but as Magnolia hit “I love ya tomorrow—you’re
always a day away,” a woman opened her own Tod’s bag and tossed a
half-eaten box of Good & Plenty into Magnolia’s bag.
“Good luck,” the woman said with deep sincerity as she squeezed
Magnolia’s hand, her manicure impeccable in contrast to Magnolia’s
own ragged nail stubs. Magnolia kicked off her heavy comforter and woke in a puddle of
sweat, her heart throbbing like percussion at the MTV music video
awards. Damn—she shouldn’t have visited that storefront psychic
yesterday, but its handout beckoned: “Are you depressed, anxious, los
ing peace of mind?” All of the above, she decided. “Stop feeling sorry
for yourself. This gifted European spiritual adviser will remove nega
tive energy and help you achieve inner serenity.” The next thing
Magnolia knew, Svetlana of West Seventy-eighth Street was predict
ing “a dazzling future” but warning her, as she chewed what Magno
lia hoped was gum and not tobacco, to “not keep repeating mistakes
and put what happened yesterday behind you.”
Which psychic phenomenon from yesterday? Svetlana didn’t specify. Bebe abandoning Bebe? How could this touch her now that she was unemployed and possibly unemployable? Two months had passed, and
while she’d been feted at breakfasts, lunches, and cocktail hours, all
that happened was that she’d listened to no fewer than twenty-seven
editors bitch about their own work. Despite a five-pound weight gain,
after each date Magnolia felt a little emptier, exactly the emotion she
experienced handing the gifted Svetlana twenty bucks.
Svetlana may have exorcized energy all right. Magnolia collapsed
that night at 8:30. Now she stumbled into her shower and washed
away the dream. As she was getting ready to scrub off yesterday’s
mascara as well, her phone rang.
“Magnolia, she who snoozes loses,” Wally crooned. “Pick up, my
princess.”
She rushed, dripping, to the phone she’d left on the sink.
“Wally, I’ve been hoping to hear from you,” she said. For the last
six weeks, her case had progressed in slow motion, keeping pace with
the rest of her life. Wally split a hair. Scary split another. Every few
days he sent her an e-mail reporting that little had developed. Twice
Magnolia had been ready to ditch the whole exercise, but “This is
how lawyers show how big their dicks are,” Wally insisted. “When
the schmucks at your old company make a dumb-ass move, I just
laugh, let it sit for a few days, then go back for more. Not to worry.” If her dream was a barometer, however, she was worrying. “Any
developments on my case?” she asked.
“Tell you in person, kiddo. Can you be in my office in, say, an
hour?” he asked. “I’m leaving this afternoon for Aspen with Whitney
and the kids, but you and I gotta talk.”
“Good news?”
“Is my name not Wally Fleigelman?” he responded. Unfortu
nately, it was.
“See you soon,” she said.
For their ten o’clock meeting, Wally had ordered breakfast. He
carefully prepared a bagel for her, smearing it with chive cream
cheese, adding two glistening slices of Nova Scotia salmon, and top
ping it with a thick slab of Bermuda onion.
“Oops, forgot you hate onion on Nova,” he said. “Little hick. I’ll take
yours.” He plucked off the onion and placed the extra slice on his own
bagel tower. “It’s not like you’re going to kiss me—though you should.”
Magnolia glanced pointedly at the photo of Whitney and the twins.
“I deserve a kiss—I’ve been a champ,” he added. He poured them
each a large cup of coffee from a silver Georg Jensen pot.
“How’s that, Wally?” Magnolia asked.
“Let me first tell you that your old company’s legal department
should stick to copyrights and libel. What is it you call your com
pany?” Wally asked. “Scary?”
“Very,” she said.
“Okay. Scary failed to consider, when they switched you to deputy
editor and then corporate editor, that the term of your contract for
editor in chief was still in effect,” he began. “They screwed up royally
with that one.”
“Goody,” she said. “So, we have a case?”
“Patience, darling. It gets better,” he said. “Turns out your other
lawyer wasn’t such a putz after all. There was a clause in your contract
stipulating that in order for Scary to change your title, they needed
your written consent.”
“Really?” Magnolia asked. “Which, obviously, they didn’t get. Don’t you love it? God is in the
details.”
“So, is that our case?”
“Magnolia, you’d think you were paying me by the hour. That’s
just the beginning of our case. No check to cash just yet.”
Her smile vanished.
“Scary isn’t talking big enough numbers.” He quoted her a figure.
“That’s almost my salary for the rest of the year, Wally,” she said,
shifting to panic. “Can’t you just say yes, and stop the games?”
“They said take it or leave it, so I said shove it,” he said. “Chump
change.”
Why did I ever get involved with Wally? Magnolia asked herself.
Why? Was this what the psychic meant about not repeating mistakes?
She rubbed her temples.
“Stop stressing, Mags. Believe in Wally, who is pulling another
card out of his pretty little deck.”
“And that would be?” Magnolia said.
“A little gem called quid pro quo sexual harassment.” Wally’s face
lit up as if someone had offered him a blow job. “So, if you don’t mind,
I’m going to turn on my tape recorder and ask you a few questions.”
Magnolia suddenly felt dirty. She’d rather analyze her sex life with
her own father than do a play-by-play with Wally. But there he was,
wired and ready.
“Did Jock Flanagan make sexual advances or requests to you, or
otherwise engage in conduct of a sexual nature?” he began. At least
his tone was quiet and professional.
Magnolia nodded yes.
“Speak up, please, Magnolia.”
“Yes, he did,” she said. “Jock Flanagan did make sexual advances
to me.”
He nodded yes and smiled. “Was the sexual conduct welcomed by
you?” he asked.
“What do you think?” she said, looking at him as if he had the IQ
of a matzo ball.
“Magnolia, a simple yes or no?” “No,” she said, recalling Jock’s paw on her leg, his fingers running
