Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

“Sixteen inches of powder last night,” he said. “Drifts up to my

  tuches. Which is where I spend my time here. It’s Whitney who can

  ski like a movie star. She did a double black diamond with Goldie

  Hawn.” He nattered on about nine-hundred-dollar-a-night rooms

  and steaks the size of thighs. “What can I do for you?” he finally

  asked. “If you’re wondering when we’ll work through your contract,

  hold your water, doll face.”

  “Wally, I’m sure it’s nothing, but this morning I got a peculiar let

  ter.” She speed-read it to him. “I just wanted to know what this has to

  do with my case?” “Absolutely nothing,” he replied. “Was that letter delivered by a

  greasy little troll in a bad suit?”

  “More or less,” she said.

  “Your company is deposing you in their claim against Bebe Blake.”

  Wally explained. “Standard procedure. No big whoop.”

  “I have to do it, even though they’re trying to stiff me out of my

  money?” Magnolia asked. “This seems so unfair. Jeez.”

  “I love when you talk all Fargo,” Wally said. “God bless America,

  darling. This is what they call justice.”

  “And Bebe’s lawyers can ask me, too?”

  “Now you’re getting ahead of yourself. It’s Scary suing Bebe. She’s

  the defendant.”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? That’s right. I forgot. You couldn’t have

  heard. Because nobody knows yet. She’s going tit for tat. Suing back.”

  Wally laughed. “That Bebe is my kind of broad! So now she’s a plaintiff, too?” he said. “Must be a Law & Order junkie. I’m only sorry she didn’t hire me to represent her.”

  “Wally, my question?” Magnolia asked.

  “Oh, sure, speaking of asses, I’d expect that both sides will want a

  piece of that pretty little butt of yours.”

  C h a p t e r 3 8

  Blue-Blooded

  Butt-Head vs. the

  White-Trash Nympho

  “Good morning,” croaked the wrenlike receptionist in a surprisingly low voice. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Magnolia Gold—for a meeting at ten,” Magnolia said. “My

  attorney, Walter Fleigelman, will be joining me.”

  The woman looked down at her desk. “According to our schedule,

  your appointment is for eleven,” she said before she returned to her

  Mary Higgins Clark mystery.

  Magnolia had been sure about ten. “Could you double-check

  please?”

  The receptionist looked up briefly and shook her head. “No, no

  mistake. If you’d like to make yourself comfortable …”

  To even their score with Bebe Blake, Scarborough Magazines and

  John Crawford Flanagan Jr., its CEO, had engaged Cromwell, Adams,

  and Case, one of the whitest, white-shoe law firms in all Manhattan.

  Magnolia entered their burnished mahogany offices on the fifty-fifth

  floor of Rockefeller Center. Magnolia breathed in. Her nose picked up

  a delicate bouquet of Shalimar wafting from the receptionist, an undernote of Murphy’s Oil Soap, and the slight rankness of uphol

  stery dating from 1972. Ah, WASP incense, she thought; the scent of

  old money.

  After selecting the least worn sofa in the cavernous reception area,

  Magnolia pulled out her newspapers and a fresh batch of celebrity

  tabloids. In early press reports of their mutual sniping, Jock and Bebe displayed a certain dignity. “We couldn’t permit Bebe to migrate into a manifesto for its namesake’s personal views,” Jock stated in a

  haughty tone Magnolia knew well. “I wouldn’t abide Jock Flanagan’s

  interference,” Bebe replied with surprising restraint. But as each side

  began leaking succulent morsels about the other, Jock’s suit and

  Bebe’s countersuit began pulsating beyond the business section. Every

  newspaper and all of the blogs were covering the story. Yesterday

  Bebe referred to Jock as “that blue-blooded butt-head with the over

  bite and pruney moneybags wife,” and he called her “a white-trash

  nympho with the talent of a Dorito.”

  As Magnolia read today’s smears—the Daily News reported Jock’s wife’s affair with his twin brother—she didn’t realize she was laugh

  ing aloud until she heard Darlene. “You think this is funny?” her for

  mer publisher asked, crossing her arms atop the mountain of her

  pregnant belly.

  “Darlene,” Magnolia said. “You’re looking well. Finally having a

  boy?” The two of them hadn’t spoken since Darlene’s sympathy call

  after Scary ditched her, when Magnolia matched Darlene’s mock sin

  cerity with her own feigned serenity.

  “A boy? That’ll happen when pigs fly,” Darlene said, sitting heavily

  in a chair across from Magnolia. She patted her Lycra-bound tummy.

  “No, Georgina here is a little clone of her three big sisters. And based

  on her kicking, she’s an animal just like her mama.” Darlene con

  sidered it high praise when Jock described her as being the sort

  of publisher who would happily wrestle clients to the ground on

  Madison Avenue to land the last Cool Whip ad. Darlene tapped out a

  few messages on her BlackBerry, but soon enough Magnolia felt her

  stare.

  “I hope you’re on our side,” she said.

  “How’s that possible?” Magnolia answered, looking up from Us. “I’m sworn to tell the truth.”

  “Bebe sabotaged the magazine,” Darlene said.

  “She got as good as she gave,” Magnolia said.

  “Try selling ads with the pervert twins hogging the headlines and

  covers that frighten small children,” Darlene harrumphed. “I’ve been

  a miracle worker.” Magnolia noticed Darlene’s eyes downshift to her

  wrist. “Why are you wearing that red string?” she asked suspiciously.

  Magnolia was about to explain the bracelet when she heard a

  racket at the other end of the room. Wally. He checked in with the

  receptionist and hobbled over to Magnolia on crutches, his right leg

  in a blazing orange cast.

  “Good God—what happened?” Magnolia said, rising to kiss his

  sunburned cheek.

  “Schmuck here tried to show off on his last day in Aspen,” Wally

  said, and shrugged as well as a man on crutches could. “From now on,

  golf, period.” He sat on the other end of the love seat. “You ready, kid?

  Anything you want to go over?”

  Magnolia cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly toward

  her former publisher. “Darlene,” she said, “I’d like you to meet

  my … attorney,” she said. “Walter Fleigelman.”

  As Darlene looked up, Wally assumed an expression of hangdog

  sadness. “And former husband,” he added, extending his hand to

  shake Darlene’s

  “Magnolia, you sneak,” Darlene said. “How long were you mar

  ried?”

  “We were madly in love for eleven minutes,” Magnolia said.

  Both of them turned to Wally. With his raccoon tan, he looked like

  a masked sidekick—Slalom the Blind Skier perhaps. “Happy to meet

  you, Walter.” Darlene gave him one of her billboard-big publisher’s

  smiles.

  “Darlene, I’m sure when we worked together, you remember that I

  talked about Wally,” Magnolia said. “Maybe you don’t recall.”

  But Magnolia was saved from further
discussion. The reception

  ist announced that Darlene’s appointment would be starting, and she walked swiftly—considering the bulk she was balancing on stilet

  tos—into the bowels of Cromwell, Adams, and Case.

  Magnolia and Wally sat side by side. ” ‘I don’t recall,’ ” she repeated. “I’ve been practicing that line.”

  “Good girl,” Wally said. When he’d rehearsed Magnolia for today’s

  deposition, he’d browbeaten her with a careful instruction. “When

  ever you cannot exactly remember an event or incident that the

  lawyer deposing you describes, you are allowed to say, ‘I don’t recall.’

  For example, let’s say every workday at precisely three o’clock you had

  the habit of going down to the lobby for a Diet Coke. The lawyer asks

  ‘On June 1, did you get yourself a Diet Coke at three o’clock? Unless

  you can actually remember the details of buying that can of soda on

  that specific June 1, you are allowed to say ‘I don’t recall.’ “

  “Sweet,” Magnolia had replied. “Got it.”

  “The deposition was supposed to be on for ten, right?” Wally asked.

  “So I thought,” Magnolia answered.

  “Keep us waiting—oldest trick in the book,” Wally said. “Don’t let

  it rattle you. Here—look at my pictures.” He pulled a digital camera

  from his briefcase and showed her a good hundred images of Fleigel

  mans squinting into the sun. Nearly an hour later, she and Wally

  entered the Cromwell, Adams, and Case conference room.

  “Walter, good morning,” boomed a tall, broad-shouldered man in

  gray pinstripes that appeared to be cut from the same cloth as Wally’s.

  Wally’s suit, however, was a 38 short; the other attorney’s, 44 long.

  “Sky,” Wally boomed back. “Let me introduce my client, Miss

  Magnolia Gold. Magnolia? James Skyler, Esquire.”

  James Skyler looked like an aristobrat born to scull at Choate and

  Harvard. He locked eyes with Magnolia. When he smiled, his per

  fectly straight teeth sported a God-given gleam that bleaching can

  never mimic. “Mind if I take off my jacket?” he asked, rhetorically. In

  shirtsleeves, his shoulders looked as broad as a superhero’s, and Mag

  nolia could see that his waist, encased in fine lizard, was no wider

  than thirty-two inches. He slowly rolled up each cuff. The golden hair

  on his arms matched the thatch on his head. Magnolia took in the performance which, she guessed, was for her

  benefit. If the lawyer had been a woman, by now she’d be playing

  with her hair and licking her lips. “The attorney is going to try to

  seduce you,” Wally had warned. “Remember, he is not your next

  boyfriend. Don’t fall for his schmaltz.”

  “Miss Gold, could you give me your full name, please?” James

  Skyler asked.

  “Magnolia Gold.” Had she just perjured herself ? She’d never for

  mally changed her name from Goldfarb. And what about Fleigelman?

  Did she have to say that for less than a year she was Magnolia Gold

  farb Fleigelman?

  “Magnolia, charming name. Has it been passed down in your

  family?”

  As if—and what did this have to do with Scary’s case? Magnolia

  wondered.

  “No,” she said. Stay cool, Magnolia, she reminded herself.

  Skyler had her résumé in front of him. “Could you briefly describe

  your work history?” he asked.

  Magnolia compressed thirteen years into three minutes.

  “So, you were effectively demoted when you were switched from Lady’s editor in chief to deputy editor of Bebe?”

  Magnolia felt Wally’s leg. Don’t let yourself get pissy, the cast

  seemed to say. “Yes,” she answered, evenly.

  “Did Bebe Blake make all of the key decisions at the magazine?”

  the attorney asked.

  Magnolia looked at Wally. “Am I allowed to ask what a ‘key deci

  sion’ is?” she said.

  “Could you please rephrase the question for my client?” Wally

  asked.

  “Certainly,” he said. “Let me be more specific. Who selected the

  image for this cover?” He held up the premiere issue in all its leopard

  splendor.

  “Bebe did,” Magnolia said.

  “This one?” “Bebe.” He must be trying to rankle her by showing covers she

  didn’t get to choose herself. It wasn’t going to work. Magnolia stayed

  steady while the lawyer ran through every one of the issues and

  moved on to stacks of proofs and headlines.

  “Do you recognize this signature?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Mine.”

  “Do you remember signing this?”

  Every month she okayed hundreds of proofs. “I don’t recall,” she said.

  Next he pulled out a school photograph. “Can you, please, identify

  this person?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s Nathaniel Fine, our former intern.”

  “Did you see Bebe Blake, uh, make sexual advances to Mr. Fine?”

  Magnolia stretched her mind back to December. She remembered

  going into the fashion closet. She recalled hearing a rustle and a con

  versation between Bebe and Polo. But did she actually see Bebe do

  anything to him? The fashion closet had been filled with racks of

  clothing which stood between her and the couple like size-four

  artillery. Had she simply, based on the conversation she’d overheard,

  imagined the worst?

  “Miss Gold?” the attorney asked.

  “I don’t recall,” she said—and said again, and again, and again.

  “As a decision maker, how would you describe Bebe Blake?”

  Wally broke in. “I object.”

  “I’ll rephrase. Do you think it’s fair to describe Ms. Blake as unpre dictable?”

  Magnolia thought it over. “Yes.”

  “Did Ms. Blake have a clear vision for her magazine?”

  Magnolia ruminated and shook her head. “No.”

  “Did the staff like Ms. Blake?”

  Did some of the staff like Bebe? Probably, considering how Ameri

  cans devoured celebrity gossip as if it were hot-buttered popcorn. “I

  honestly don’t know,” she finally answered. The questions bombarded her until she wanted to crawl under the nineteenth-century confer

  ence room table. The next time she had insomnia, she would recon

  struct this legal snooze.

  “Thank you, Ms. Gold,” the attorney said. “That will be all. I

  appreciate your help.” James Skyler, Esq., smiled coolly at Magnolia

  as he put down his pen and legal pad. She and Wally walked to the

  street and his waiting car.

  “You did good,” he said.

  “Really?” She sighed. “Scary won’t call me as a witness, will they?”

  Wally threw his arms up in the air, then caught his crutches before

  they fell. “Don’t think about it,” he said. “Compartmentalize.”

  “I can’t,” Magnolia said as the two of them started driving uptown.

  “My mind is a big, open loft, which is currently a mess.” She turned to

  look at Wally. “Will you come to the trial—for moral support?”

  “C’mon, you’ll be fine,” he said. “Bebe’s lawyer will try to get you

  to admit Jock attempted to cramp her style, usurp her good name,

  force a different editor on her, and make her life
unadulterated hell.

  You decide if it’s true or not. I don’t need to be your little pit bull.”

  “You do!” Magnolia said.

  “Okay, Mags. Then you and I are breaking up before the Mrs.

  changes the locks.”

  C h a p t e r 3 9

  Guts and Roses

  “You must be Magnolia,” said a tall, thin man with black hair curling over his collar. He kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Abbey was right. You are beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Magnolia said, standing in Abbey’s foyer. “Abbey for

  got to mention your eyes. Not many of us have green eyes.” His were

  like olives, lightly flecked with caramel. If you took his face apart,

  feature by feature, you wouldn’t expect it to be reassembled in such a

  handsome fashion. His nose was long. Under his eyes were slight

  shadows, faintly lavender, like matching bruises. But it all worked,

  especially the smile, which fanned a delicate web of early lines

  toward each silver-laced temple.

  “When the Moors invaded France, they left behind green eyes,” he

  said. “In Brazil, with all their mixed bloodlines, green eyes exist in

  the most exotic medleys of skin and hair. Green eyes come when

  opposites attract.” His accent was heavy, and his voice low. “Daniel

  Cohen,” he said. “I am so happy we finally meet.”

  “I see you’ve found each other,” Abbey said, linking her arm

  through both his and Magnolia’s. Next to Daniel, she looked even

  more fragile than usual. She wore a white lace minidress, its high neck pinned with a garnet and diamond bumblebee Magnolia had

  never seen.

  “From Daniel,” Abbey said, touching the brooch. “His great

  grandmother’s.”

  “Because Abbey reminds me of a bee—small, busy, making sweet

  ness and beauty wherever she lands.”

  If an American man had said this, Magnolia would have wanted to

  stick a finger down her throat. From Daniel, the sentiment sounded

  poetic.

  “The dress suits you, Magnolia,” Daniel said.

  “I knew it would,” Abbey added. “I found it in the Paris flea mar

  ket and wanted you to have it for tonight.”

  That morning a messenger had delivered a large, white box tied

  with a silky bow and filled with layers of chartreuse tissue paper.

  Magnolia pulled out a chocolate brown velvet dress, cut deep at the

  décolleté, which was frosted with lace and beads. The skirt, layered