Little Pink Slips Part 3

She stopped in the art department on the way to her office. "Can we work on the cover together in about an hour?" she asked Fredericka. For the 80 percent of Lady's readers who were subscribers, you could put a can of pork and beans on the cover and they'd barely notice, but to attract elusive newsstand buyers, the image and words were life-and-death; developing covers stretched for weeks. As she hovered over Fredericka at her computer, her art director was end lessly patient while Magnolia suggested colors and type and tweaked coverlines. At the end of each session, Magnolia walked away with numerous versions, which she'd stare at for days, trying to choose the most arresting one. She'd stare so long the words-Free! Hidden! s.e.x!-began to look like a Slavic language. Her last step was to take the covers home, so her doorman could weigh in.

"Ready when you are," Fredericka answered. "The film's scanned."

"An hour then," Magnolia said. As she walked into her own office, Sasha gave her a new batch of messages. Harry had returned her thank-you call about the orchid and Cam had stopped by. Magnolia was sorry she missed him, since she'd decided to tell him about the Bebe situation-not that it was a talk she looked forward to having.

"Almost forgot," Sasha said. "Darlene's a.s.sistant set up a breakfast for this Friday. You're supposed be at Michael's at eight-fifteen to meet you-know-who."

Sasha looked at Magnolia, waiting for more, but Magnolia walked into her office and slammed the door. Seven ma.n.u.scripts and one editor's letter later, she went to work with Fredericka. At 5:55 she called Jock. It was a brief conversation. Jock didn't think it would be necessary for him to join Magnolia, Darlene, and Bebe when they met for breakfast. He and Arthur Montgomery, her attorney, were seeing eye to eye on everything and he was sure she and Bebe would, too.

Chapter 6.

A Legend in Her Own Mind.

"Good morning, Miss Gold," the perennially cheery young greeter announced. "Mrs. Knudson's already seated."

In the evening, any visitor from Nome to nowhere could snag a prime spot at Michael's Restaurant, but at breakfast or lunch the room was unofficially reserved for le tout media, who came to check out one another. Only after Michael's crack team verified your name, rank, and serial number to make sure you were-or still were-who you claimed to be. The unspoken rule was that if the maitre d' and his fembots didn't know who you were, they weren't interested in taking your $27 for eggs and toast. The seating chart was planned with the precision of a $500,000 wedding. Executives from advertising, fash ion, and beauty favored the back room, which won for appeal, given its peek at what pa.s.sed for a garden. The front s.p.a.ce, with its Hockney lithos, drew this minute's superheroes from Scary, Conde Nast, Hearst, Time, and big-ticket literary agencies. Television folk swung both ways.

It was up front that Magnolia headed. She spotted Darlene bouncing from table to table, floating photos of her st.u.r.dy Nordic daughters and bestowing kisses as if she were campaigning for the New Hamps.h.i.+re primary. Magnolia waved to several buddies from other companies as she walked across the room, stopping only to acknowledge the mayor's press secretary, who had just been featured in a Lady "40 under 40" roundup. Today Darlene's bag wasn't parked at her regular pied-a-terre, #12, but at a table that seated four. Magnolia positioned herself across from Darlene, who'd claimed the chair against the wall, the one with the good view.

"She should be here any minute," Darlene said to Magnolia.

"They're on their way."

"They?"

"Bebe never goes anywhere without Felicity Dingle. She's her pro ducer, memsahib, groomer, whatever." Magnolia remembered that at the last Lady photo shoot it was Felicity who'd barked to the publicist about Fredericka and had her banished from the studio. Darlene did a few hits on her BlackBerry, then locked eyes with Magnolia. "Bebe's a force of nature," she said. "You'll see."

Darlene turned to the Marketplace section of The Wall Street Journal. Other than the local business pages-especially on Monday, when they traditionally decimated the magazine industry-it was all she read. No one would accuse her of being a seeker of wisdom and truth, nor would Darlene apologize for that-or much. She pa.r.s.ed her time to reach her goals, and since she'd entered magazines ten years ago, had been on a fast upward trajectory. Darlene left investment banking to begin as an ad salesperson at a small magazine about decorating (or "shelter," as Darlene always reminded people, even if they weren't in the industry, and mistook her for speaking Finnish). She got hired as publisher of Lady last year. At forty, the statute of limitations had run out on her cla.s.sification as a wunderkind. She needed a grand slam, and she needed it now. But so far, Lady had only been number three in its category, with number four nipping at her heels, and her ad sales had slipped an eyebrow-raising 9 percent.

As Darlene perused her newspaper, Magnolia looked at the menu, a waste of time. She'd be having oatmeal, as usual. Make a call? Not here, where the guy at the next table might be a tabloid spook.

Suddenly, the room grew silent. Magnolia turned. Bebe Blake was heading toward them, a long-haired animal-a ferret? No, it was a cat-peeking out of her burnt-orange Birken bag. Bebe was wearing tight jeans-Juicy Couture, Magnolia guessed, although she wasn't sure they were made in Bebe's size-a V-neck Grateful Dead T-s.h.i.+rt that showed deep decolletage, and boots that looked compromised try ing to support her. She had a heart-shaped face; a small, pointy nose; and when she removed her Gucci sungla.s.ses, close-set dark eyes not unlike those of her pet. Bebe's hair was the color of ketchup.

Carrying an ostrich leather-trimmed, canvas tote loaded with papers and liter-sized bottles of Evian, another st.u.r.dy woman arrived.

Her inky hair, which matched the feline's, hung close to her head in an asymmetrical cut that recalled Austin Powers's s.h.a.gadelic London.

In her aqua pants and zippered top, she looked ready for a power breakfast in any Atlanta suburb.

"Darlene!"

"Bebe!"

"You adorable thing, you. And you must be the editor, Gardenia."

In fact, this was not their first meeting. Every time Bebe had been on Lady's cover, Magnolia had stopped by the photo studio to personally thank her and drop off a gift. Last time, to nibble during takes, she'd given Bebe chocolates in a specially ordered box the size of a laptop.

"It's Magnolia. Magnolia Gold. Thank you for coming."

"You're so much younger-looking than your photo." Bebe squawked, and both Darlene and the other woman joined her in noisy laughter.

"And you're so much . . ." Magnolia began.

"Fatter?" Bebe offered. It was just this kind of self-deprecating remark that won her fans, who were considerable in number. "I read minds," Bebe continued. "Meet Felicity." Magnolia shook hands with Bebe's cashmere-clad sidekick. "And this is h.e.l.l, the current man in my life, who's going to need some cream. Got some tongue on him, doesn't he?" She lifted the cat into her lap and let him lick her face.

"Shall we order?" Darlene said.

"I'll have raspberries with soy milk," Bebe announced. When she smiled, her small eyes got smaller. "Felicity? Will it be soy yogurt? We just returned from that new ashram in Santa Fe. We're vegans now." Magnolia wished she'd gone for the eggs Benedict. But her oatmeal had arrived with efficiency.

Bebe yawned. "What's this I hear about your wanting me to take over a magazine?"

Magnolia almost spit out her cereal.

"Jock and I have been scouting for a new take on Lady for months now," Darlene began.

Total con, Magnolia thought. Unless it's true.

"We adore your show," Darlene continued. "I TiVo it and watch it every night on my Stairmaster. Gotta work on the old tush." She pat ted her rear.

"Your tush is a work of art, honey," Bebe said. "But let's cut to the chase. Flattered as I am by your attention, magazines are over. They're bor-ing. Never read 'em. Can't tell 'em apart. Beige, beige, blah. Dull, dull, dead."

Magnolia shot a glance at Felicity's bag, which was knocking against her leg. At least one of them bought magazines. W stuck out. And O. Plus obviously they were all going to pretend that Bebe's bright red memo for her own magazine, which they'd seen just days before, didn't exist. Magnolia realized she had officially entered an alternate universe.

"We think that your stamp on any product would make it stand out, and a magazine isn't any different from, say, designing clothes,"

Darlene countered. Bebe's brand of plus-size studded denim routinely sold out at Target.

h.e.l.l lapped up his dish of cream, at which point Felicity emptied the table's milk pitcher into his saucer.

"If I would even consider this little venture, I'd insist on a few deal points," Bebe announced.

"Shoot," Darlene responded.

"For starters, I require one hundred percent creative control," Bebe began. "Can't be second-guessed. That's a given. Ground-rule two, I work when I work. Never sleep, so it's not a problem. I spend July and August in Hawaii, December in Aspen, and I'm thinking of buying in Tuscany.

Anyway, Felicity can make any decision for me. She's my go-to b.i.t.c.h." The two of them high-fived. Since "Good morning," Go-to b.i.t.c.h had said not one word. Magnolia saw mouths moving, heard laughter coming from a faraway place. Drops of perspiration trickled down inside her new linen jacket. She would rather be enduring a Brazilian wax after a long, bushy winter than be here.

". . . and I don't intend to renew my show. f.u.c.kin' noose," Bebe said with enough conviction to turn heads at other tables.

Magnolia came to. No show, no endors.e.m.e.nts, no visibility for the magazine, if it should sink to that. No! No! No!

"Bebe, I'm surprised to hear you'd think of leaving The Bebe Show. It's such an audience-pleaser. Your fans would be outraged." Magno lia hated the sound of her own voice, although she wasn't surprised Bebe would be taking this step, with her ratings slip-sliding away. She hadn't made the list of Fortune's wealthiest women in the universe for the last four years by being a pea brain.

"We'll see," Bebe said, popping the last raspberry in her mouth.

"I'm looking at a lot of opportunities. Maybe open my own ashram.

Or a chain of foot reflexology salons."

"If we're lucky enough to get you on board, is there anything you like and would want to keep from the current Lady?" Magnolia ventured, hearing her voice squeak, but feeling incapable of lowering it.

"Well, it's clever the way you do the product endors.e.m.e.nt thing, your seal of approval."

"That's Good Housekeeping."

"And I like that column, 'Can This Marriage Be Saved?' Read it all the time at the podiatrist's.

"That would be Ladies' Home Journal."

"You ladies, you're all alike." Bebe snapped, although Magnolia had to admit that she'd heard the exact remark many times in focus groups. Which was why she'd planned a redesign of Lady with Harry James. She could feel her temples throb at the epic injustice of the whole situation.

"I'm sure we can work out any little details later," Darlene broke in. "This is just get-acquainted time. Felicity, do you have anything you want to ask?" Felicity's voice was low, her manner confident, and her accent, decidedly northern English.

"Only if Magnolia thought there would be anything unusually dif ficult about doing a magazine this way?"

Magnolia wasn't entirely sure what answer she could cough up, other than that handing over the magazine to Bebe and/or Felicity was the worst idea since bald guys with ponytails. "Typically, a maga zine's editor in chief is a benign dictator," she responded. "What she says, goes. For better or worse, it's her vision, her success if the maga zine's a hit, her disaster if it bombs. In this case, the vision would be Bebe's. It's an unorthodox arrangement, but I'm sure there's a way to work it out."

"Dictator?" Bebe said. "Sweet."

Chapter 7.

Marshmallow and Mademoiselle.

Manhattan offered far posher nail salons than Think Pink, where the only frills were a bowl of miniature Snickers and two jade plants in the jaws of death. What the establishment lacked in lux ury it made up for in location, which was equidistant from Magnolia on West End and Abbey on Central Park West. The real draw, though, was its owner, Lily Kim, the mother of Ruthie Kim, Magnolia's fash ion director.

In Korea, Lily had been a midwife. Here, she labored seven days a week in her shop, her real mission being to make sure that her daugh ter Ruthie achieved profound success. The tutors who helped Ruthie get into Stuyvesant High School-the Ferrari of New York City pub lic education-paid off when Wellesley gave her a full scholars.h.i.+p.

While picking clothes and arranging fas.h.i.+on shoots wasn't quite what Lily had projected for her daughter-her ambition ran along the superhighway of concert cellistOlympic skaterMcKinsey consult ant-Lily had accepted Ruthie's choice. Now she made it her business to know Nina Ricci from Narciso Rodriguez, and she never hesitated to offer fas.h.i.+on advice or to comment on the appearance of Ruthie- or anyone else. "Maggie, you look tired," Lily announced, as she arranged Magno lia's polish shades: Marshmallow and Mademoiselle, one coat of each, to create the subtle pink of a blus.h.i.+ng bride.

"Week from h.e.l.l," Magnolia responded. She had to be careful what she said, since every detail would bounce back to Ruthie. "But it's been worse for Abbey." She turned to her friend. "What's the late-breaking news?" she asked. This much Magnolia knew: as of 11:30 last night, Tommy was still MIA.

Magnolia thought it a testament to the donation of her precious Ambien stash that Abbey had even shown up today for their weekly manicure. She'd bombarded her with calls to make sure she wasn't still home in her nightgown on a sunny afternoon watching You've Got Mail, which every single woman in Manhattan could lip-synch.

"Got a message last night," Abbey said. "The p.r.i.c.k's alive."

Anger, Magnolia thought. Excellent. Abbey's still alive, too. "Where is he?" she asked.

"Hiding in cybers.p.a.ce," Abbey reported. "That's all I know." She blinked away a tear. Clearly, wrath was only a topcoat on a fragile base of fear, hurt, and anxiety.

"What did he say?" Magnolia pressed on, while Lily quietly began filing her nails, not too long, square with rounded edges. The Satur day afternoon opera played quietly on a boom box.

"Needs time to think," Abbey reported.

"Code for 'I will take my own sweet time to f.u.c.k around while you squirm and writhe,' " Magnolia said. She couldn't remember the last time any woman benefited when a man got to thinking. "What are you going to do?"

"Throw myself into work," Abbey said. "Become the world's most prolific jewelry designer. I was up all night sketching. I'm seeing lizards, lizards everywhere. Lizards with slinky diamond bodies.

Lizards with cowardly topaz stripes. And strangely, these lizards have no b.a.l.l.s."

While Abbey and Lily debated the anatomy of scaly reptiles, Mag nolia tried to ignore the fleeting thought that Abbey might actually produce one of these critters for her birthday-preferably in a size big enough to make a statement around her wrist. "Did you read your husband the riot act?" Magnolia asked.

"My estranged husband?" Abbey asked. "Not in so many words. I'm such an a.s.s. I was actually relieved to hear from him."

"Did you e-mail back?"

"Told Tommy to get his b.u.t.t home," Abbey admitted.

Magnolia thought Abbey might have asked a few more questions.

Like where was he? Who was he with? What were his intentions?

Why did he think he could treat her this way? She knew it would be up to her to play rottweiler. "If he writes back-correction: when he writes back-give him a deadline."

"I hope you never put his name on the lease," added Lily, ever the pragmatist, as she warmed Magnolia's hands with a steamy towel.

When they married, Tommy had moved into Abbey's rent-stabilized apartment. For the cost of a Queens studio, the couple luxuriated in six rooms and nine-foot ceilings capped by dentil moldings, a butler's pantry, enough closets to hide a family of fugitives, and a view of the park. The desire to keep a real-estate jewel of this caliber had kept many a faltering New York marriage together forever. Lily had clearly hit a nerve, and Abbey gave both of them her look that telegraphed: "Back off. This isn't a drug intervention. I am not the idiot wimp you think I am." Directed toward Magnolia, the look seemed to also say, "I'm married, even if my husband's not exactly around. You, on the other hand, are single. Perhaps terminally."

"Enough," Abbey said.

"Natalie loves your jewelry-especially the pieces she heard Bergdorf's commissioned" was all Magnolia could think to say.

"But of course Mrs. Simon would know this," Abbey said. "Is there anything she doesn't know?" She could not forgive Natalie for never remembering her name.

"She doesn't know who I am bringing to her party next week,"

Magnolia said. "Because I don't know myself." Magnolia's social life had gone into remission five months before when she broke up with Alec the architect, who had long black hair and an inability to hit an ATM. When he asked for her to pay his car leasing bill, Magnolia ended it, finally accepting the fact that he'd been as stingy with emo tion as he had been with cash. "If I don't come up with someone- and you know she'll hara.s.s me about it all week until I do-Natalie will remedy the situation herself." As a matchmaker, Natalie believed in the cla.s.sic combination of beautiful women and rich, ugly men, although for her, another rule applied: Natalie's husband happened to look like Jeremy Irons's baby brother.

"In that case, we need to be creative," Abbey said. "What about Cameron in your office? I've always loved him."

Everyone did. "Next," Magnolia said.

"J-Date," Lily insisted. "You need Jewish man." She gave the same advice to her own daughter.

"Find a guy online?" Magnolia responded. "What kind of loser do you think I am?"

"The kind who got no man," Lily said with a laugh. Lily and her manicurists were always cracking up. Either they found the world infinitely amusing or their customers, imbeciles.