Little Pink Slips

by Sally Koslow

Europe? A subtly different hair color? “Your face looks softer,” she

  decided. “Is this what happiness looks like?”

  “This is what five pounds looks like,” Abbey said, puffing her

  cheeks and patting her tummy, which—to Magnolia—looked as con

  cave as ever. “And at my height, my five is your ten. Great food, great

  wine–that was my honeymoon. Well, not quite.” She paused, appar

  ently to recollect a moment she didn’t care to share.

  As they ran, Abbey reviewed every four-star restaurant they vis

  ited. “And by the way, forget the hype—the real reason French

  women don’t get fat is that they smoke.” She stopped as they finished

  their second loop. “But enough about me. Your settlement! You must

  be crazy happy.” They walked briskly toward their coffee shop. “Oh, I am,” Magnolia

  said. But she considered herself an ingrate not to be radiating ostenta

  tious glee. “Wally’s a prince, and my financial adviser—I have one now,

  can you believe it?—put almost all the money in something she insists

  I don’t touch for years. Except for the pittance I plan to live off, I’m

  pretending my windfall doesn’t exist. This is what good Fargo girls

  do—hoard.”

  “Come on,” Abbey said. “Indulge yourself. At least a little

  bauble?” Their regular waiter appeared as they grabbed the prime

  corner booth. “Just tea for me this morning, nothing to eat,” Abbey

  said as the waiter welcomed them back.

  “The usual, please,” Magnolia said, then turned back to Abbey. “I

  wrote checks to ten charities, and I’m sending my parents on a cruise

  of the Greek islands.”

  Abbey raised her eyebrows. “That’s noble, but what about you?”

  “I’m replacing my kitchen countertops.” Magnolia brushed poppy

  seeds from her bagel into a tiny black pyramid. “What do you think of

  white marble? Not practical, huh?”

  “Magnolia?” Abbey sounded dubious.

  “Truth? I’m too agitated to spend a cent,” she said, staring at the

  table. “My inner bag lady is shouting, ‘Watch out—you’ll never work

  again.’ I’m beginning to feel this firing is The End.”

  “C’mon—it may take a while to find a dream job—you told me

  that yourself,” Abbey said. “At least plan a trip while you’re waiting. You can use Daniel’s apartment in Paris.” She stopped herself. “Our apartment.”

  “I don’t feel like traveling alone,” she snapped and immediately

  regretted it. Throwing guilt bombs at Abbey hadn’t been her plan.

  “Forget I said that. I couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to—still

  polishing my Fancy proposal.”

  “You were working on that before I left.”

  “Every time I think I’m finished I start over. Maybe I have a learn

  ing disability.”

  “Clinical ambivalence,” Abbey said and gently poked Magnolia’s

  arm. “Do you even want that job?” “I’m not sure there even is a job,” she said. “Fancy might just be

  picking my brains.” Magnolia put her hand in the pocket of her

  windbreaker and pulled out a $10 bill, which she laid on the table.

  “This one’s on me. Welcome back. Movie tonight?”

  “Whatever you want to see,” Abbey said. They stood up and lay

  ered on their scarves, gloves, and hats. The calendar read April, but it

  still felt like the winter of Magnolia’s discontent.

  She walked west, toward her apartment. While Abbey had been

  away they’d e-mailed every few days, so Abbey was up to speed about

  the trial and the sale of Cam’s book, though not its plot, and definitely

  not the kiss. What else was there to tell, really? That she and Cam had

  each made a move but ultimately retreated to their passion-free com

  fort zones? True, they’d been talking, e-mailing, and IM-ing since

  he’d returned to Los Angeles for more meetings. Yet in every way

  there was a continent between them.

  Now Cam wanted her to visit. She’d been telling him she couldn’t leave town because of her Voyeur proposal. Magnolia knew she was a freeze-dried liar.

  “You’d love running on the beach,” he’d said last night. His pub

  lisher, or maybe it was his agent—Cam was vague on this point—was

  putting him up at the Shutters in Santa Monica, and his room had a view of the Pacific. He hadn’t exactly said that he wanted her to share that room, however, and Magnolia felt uncomfortable asking.

  Maybe Abbey was right, though. She should get out of town. What

  would be the worst that might happen? She and Cam would laugh at

  the absurdity of thinking they could hook up, then buy a movie star

  map, rent a red convertible, and prowl the city.

  Every trip she’d ever made to L.A. had been in tandem with a pub

  lisher for the sole purpose of selling ads. Magnolia associated the city

  with predawn wake-up calls, six meetings per day, and ten P.M.

  exhaustion. As pure R&R, it might be different. She and Cam could

  gorge on overpriced sushi, go to comedy showcases, and visit the

  wineries in Santa Barbara. When Cam was busy, she’d dress in aggres

  sively casual left coast clothes and get some practically iridescent

  highlights or do a Pilates class and rub shoulders with celebrities she’d been scrutinizing ad nauseam on television and in magazines.

  Maybe she’d even discreetly check out plastic surgeons; by L.A. stan

  dards, surely thirty-eight was past the legal limit to be walking

  around with a face and body that hadn’t been reengineered. On the

  weekend, the two of them could stop by that enormous swap meet at

  the Rose Bowl or wind their way up the coast, stay in Big Sur, and end

  in Napa, where they’d drink even more wine.

  It could be chummy—or better than chummy—and at the very

  least shake her out of the New York blahs. Anyone could get cranky

  living through a damp Manhattan winter. She always felt far more

  shivery here than in the arctic desert of North Dakota.

  By the time Magnolia arrived at her apartment, she’d decided to

  call Cam and announce her plans to take the trip. She looked at her

  watch. Five o’clock in the morning in California. Better wait. She left

  her running clothes in a heap on her bathroom floor and hopped in

  the shower. In the steam, she let herself imagine a second kiss with

  Cam. And more. Much more. She heard the phone ring. As the fan

  tasy flowed into every tributary of her unloved body, she let it ring

  and ring.

  After drying herself with a towel she’d warmed on the radiator,

  Magnolia found her most extravagant lotion—no Vaseline Intensive

  Care today—and lovingly massaged it into her skin, inch by inch. She

  stood in front of the opened armoire and reached for a variation on

  her ongoing work uniform—flannel pajama bottoms and a baggy

  T-shirt. No thanks, she decided. From a drawer, Magnolia unearthed

  some excellent underwear and pale blue cashmere sweatpants with a

  matching hoodie. The unworn set was still wrapped in tissue paper

  from last Christmas and felt like kitten fur against her newly silken

  skin. Her fantasy intact, she logged on to her computer and, using

  miles to upgrade to first class, made an airline reservation for two

  days later. With
in ten more minutes, she’d booked a car to take her to

  the airport and arranged for Biggie and Lola to be kenneled.

  Magnolia felt better already.

  Yet it was still too early to call Cam. She decided to e-mail. “In the

  mood for sushi after all. See you Thursday at LAX,” she wrote. “I’ve missed you,” she added and immediately substituted the sentiment

  with “Talk later. M.”

  Magnolia thought through what else she’d need to do before she

  left. A haircut and root job, definitely. Maybe someone would already

  be at Frédéric Fekkai and be able to book an appointment. She got to

  her phone and noticed she had a message that must have arrived

  when she was showering. “Turn on your TV pronto, Magnolia,”

  Natalie’s recorded voice said. “The verdict’s in. Call me. ASAP.”

  Magnolia ran to her TV. She’d missed the last round of news, so she

  checked online. There were no postings she could locate. She returned

  to channel surf.

  Throughout the trial, Judge Tannenbaum made no secret that she

  had bigger legal fish to fry and that the plaintiffs, defendants, and all

  their lawyers were wasting her precious time. “This trial never should

  have happened, and these two are just a pair of playground bullies,”

  she’d carped about Jock and Bebe, “but there’s no client like a rich,

  angry one.” Nonetheless, everyone Magnolia knew was betting that

  Bebe would clean up—big. As she continued to flip channels, Magno

  lia started pacing as if she were waiting to see whether a pregnancy

  test would turn blue.

  “… and the victor in the infamous trial between talk show person

  ality Bebe Blake and Scarborough Magazines, the publisher of her eponymous magazine, Bebe, is …”

  Why did she care? Strictly speaking, was she even in the magazine industry anymore?

  “… absolutely no one,” the newscaster said. “That’s right, folks.

  Judge Margaret Ruth Tannenbaum of the Supreme Court of the

  State of New York has essentially said a pox on both your houses.”

  The screen flashed to footage of the judge. “There is no proof that Bebe magazine would ever have made a dime,” the judge lectured, “so neither side deserves monetary damages.”

  “In further comments,” the reporter continued, “Judge Tannenbaum stressed that she thought it was ‘a crime that Lady magazine was sacrificed to a narcissistic celebrity so she could be the hood orna

  ment for a pointless magazine.’ Both the judge and her mother had been longtime Lady subscribers. ‘I miss their recipes,’ said the judge, who is widely known for her home-baked biscotti, ‘and the article on

  pet psoriasis saved my Max from considerable heartbreak.’ “

  Magnolia switched to other channels, searching for more coverage.

  Bebe popped up.

  “Viewers,” she heard Matt Lauer say, “Bebe Blake is standing by.

  How do you feel about the verdict on your lawsuit, Bebe?”

  Bebe’s face looked terrifyingly large as it filled Magnolia’s TV

  screen. “This is a huge victory,” Bebe said. “Huge.”

  “But, Bebe, you didn’t get a dime,” Matt countered.

  “That’s not the point,” Bebe said. “Justice has prevailed. I don’t

  care what it cost—I care about the principle, and the important thing

  is that Scarborough Magazines didn’t win a dime. And,” Bebe contin

  ued, pausing for a split second to catch her breath, “we’re going after

  those suckers to recover legal fees, which are substantial.” She raised

  her arm in a victory salute. “They started this war!”

  “You did quit your own magazine,” Matt pointed out. “And weren’t

  there some improprieties on the part one of your editors, Felicity Din

  gle—and a few other, uh, bumps along the way?”

  Bebe failed to respond, which caused Matt to catapult another

  question into the dead air. “Your future plans, Bebe? What can your fans look forward to now that Bebe magazine is over? Are the rumors true that you are also quitting your television show?”

  “You nailed that one!” said Bebe, who made a gagging sound and

  motion. “I’m sure you can relate.”

  Matt ignored the comment and sound effect. “So tell our audi

  ence—what’s up?”

  “I’m starting a business,” Bebe said. “The Slut Hut.”

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Got ya, Matt,” Bebe said. “Ha. For real? My friend Barbra wants me for the lead in Yentl, which she’s bringing to Broadway. Plus my new blog.”

  “Boy, everyone’s a blogger. What’s yours called?”

  “Bebe’s Bull—” Bebe’s face disappeared as the censors bit off the

  end of the name. Magnolia had seen enough. She returned the call to Natalie, who

  was in a meeting, so she dived into her newspapers. The trial story was too new for the morning editions, but in the Post there was Jock’s face, his mouth agape. The article reported that Jock’s wife was leaving

  him. Pippi wanted $57,000 a month for alimony and child support,

  which included $14,000 for Little Jock’s rented horse, even if it meant

  that Big Jock had to abandon his $10,000-a-month pied-à-terre.

  The phone rang. “So, Cookie,” Natalie trilled. “What do you think?”

  “I’m loving it!” Magnolia admitted. “Both sides got what they

  deserve. Oops, rewind,” Magnolia said. “How insensitive of me.” She

  realized Scary’s ignominious loss would be bad business for a com

  pany where Natalie continued to work.

  “Good God, Magnolia,” Natalie said. “Don’t apologize. Everybody

  here thinks Jock’s the most arrogant scum-bucket who ever lived.

  There’s a special circle in corporate hell for a CEO who squanders

  millions on an embarrassing trial, tops it off with sexual harassment

  problems and his puss splashed over the papers for his divorce, and

  tries to drag his peers down with him.”

  “So you think the Scary boys will have him eat dirt for a while?”

  The very thought made her want to stand up and sing, “I’m Gonna

  Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”

  “Are you kidding?” Natalie said. ” ‘Eat dirt?’ He’s over.”

  “Define ‘over.’ “

  “Fired, finished, decapitated. If the Scary boys could waste him,

  they would.”

  “Really?” Sweet, she thought. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “Well …” Natalie abandoned all dignity. It was fair to say she

  squealed. “You can congratulate me, Natalie Simon, the newly

  appointed CEO of Scarborough Magazines!”

  Magnolia screamed.

  “Thanks—I’ll take that as mazel tov. And if you can clear your

  busy schedule, Miss Gold, Chairman Simon would like to take you to

  lunch. See you Friday at Michael’s.”

  C h a p t e r 4 3

  Passion in Flip-flops

  An enormous bouquet of orange gerbera daisies arrived as Magnolia left to meet Abbey at a downtown theater. “To my Daisy

  Silver,” Cameron’s note said. “You finally made the right decision.

  Looking forward, C.”

  Throughout the movie, Magnolia deliberated on those daisies,

  which now filled her three tallest vases and every corner of her brain.

  “Keanu Reeves’s kiss—did you have the feeling it was the begin

  ning of the end or the end of the beginning?” Abbey had to repeat the

  question twice
before Magnolia answered.

  “Hmmm …” Magnolia answered, as they walked into Lil’

  Frankie’s. “Not sure.”

  “Did that plot work for you?”

  Magnolia could barely remember it. “Uh, yeah,” she said.

  “Fascinating,” Abbey said, picking up a menu. “Okay, what kind of

  pizza should we order?”

  “Whatever,” Magnolia said. “You know what I like.”

  Abbey thwacked her with a stare. “Magnolia, you’re phoning in

  this whole evening. Hardly said a word in the cab. Forgot to pick up

  our Raisinettes. What’s up?”

  “I’m … preoccupied.” “Your ‘preoccupied’ is not an orgy of fun, my friend,” Abbey said.

  “Is it that you think the verdict wasn’t fair?”

  Magnolia leaned her head on her arm. “Judge Tannenbaum’s ver

  dict was eminently fair,” she said, “but it’s put me in a corner, that’s

  all.”

  “You’re going to have to connect the dots for me,” Abbey said. “I

  know I’ve been out of the country for a few weeks, but… .”

  “Okay,” Magnolia said, and launched into a short, sweet synopsis of

  where she and Cam stood or didn’t stand, that she was looking for

  ward to visiting him and he apparently felt the same way, but how

  Natalie had thrown a monkey wrench into her plan by scheduling a

  command performance for Friday.

  “Now that’s a story line,” Abbey said, looking appropriately flab

  bergasted. “You and Cam!” She squeezed Magnolia’s hand. “I was

  wondering when you’d notice you’re perfect for each other. It seemed

  quite apparent to me when he couldn’t stop talking about you.” She

  was grinning. “So, what’s the big deal?” The pizza arrived and Abbey

  bit into a hot, cheesy slice. “You just reschedule Natalie.”

  “People don’t ‘reschedule’ Natalie,” Magnolia said. “Certainly not

  now that she’s CEO. You’re not getting how important this might be.

  She’s invited me to Michael’s. In practically her first public act. It’s

  living theater.”

  “I don’t know,” Abbey said. “She might just want to gloat before an

  adoring audience. Put her off. By the way, what have you told

  Cameron?”

  Magnolia sucked in a big gulp of air. “Nothing,” she admitted.

  “There, I said it. I’m dodging. He called at ten, and twice later, and I