Little Pink Slips Part 13

"I don't know that I am," he said. The face that looked so hand some just days before was twisted in a snarl, and Magnolia could swear that his hairline had receded by another half inch.

"I can't deal with this right now," Magnolia said. "I want to talk, but our conversation is going to have to wait, Harry. This isn't an easy night for me. I'm sure you get that."

"But what could be more important than us?" he said.

From a distant place in the densely packed ballroom, Magnolia could hear a heavily amped country western artist-LeAnn Rimes?

Faith Hill?-singing an upbeat ballad over the room's noise. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jock and Darlene, who were now standing only four feet away, and if she wasn't being paranoid, she could swear they were listening to her with Harry.

"Magnolia, you're not answering me," Harry was almost shouting.

"We still need to talk about you and that a.s.shole ripping each other's clothes off."

Just as she had the impulse to throw her Bebepolitan in his face, Magnolia saw someone loping in her direction. Elizabeth all but tack led her and simultaneously gave Harry a chilly look. She had that gift.

"Magnolia, stage!" she snapped. "We're starting the presentation."

Leaving Harry standing with his mouth half open, Elizabeth cor ralled Jock and Darlene and steered them, along with Magnolia, toward the front of the room, where Felicity was already waiting.

"Don't move a muscle, any of you, while I find Bebe," Elizabeth said, signaling for the Nashville singer to continue.

Jock and Darlene stood aside while Magnolia tried to calm herself with breath after deep breath. "That a.s.shole Harry, that a.s.shole Harry," she repeated silently as she followed Elizabeth.

Ten minutes later Elizabeth returned, frowning. "Has Bebe swung by here?" she said. "Where could that woman be?" The party was called for seven to ten, although it hadn't got rolling until eight. It was now past nine, and Magnolia knew that Elizabeth was worried that guests would soon start to leave.

"Let me check around for her," Magnolia answered, just to be able to break away from Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. She'd pa.s.sed Bebe more than twenty minutes before, holding court by a photograph of Frank Sinatra. Magnolia stopped there first. No Bebe. She walked down the stairs to look in the lounge. Bebe was sitting on the floor next to a gla.s.s sculpture that appeared to have been liberated from an ice carnival.

"What's up, Magnolia?" Bebe's head was in Slow Mo's lap, an empty champagne bottle next to the two of them.

"Foxy!" Mo said. "Bebe here knows how to party."

"Bebe here has a speech to give," Magnolia said. "Enough with the liquid courage, Bebe. Achtung."

"Magnolia, Magnolia," Bebe said. "Calm down. Itsabeautifulnight."

She drained the champagne like a bottle of Snapple.

"Mo, help me get her upstairs," Magnolia said. Mo stood up, and Bebe-still joined to him-did the same. As they began to walk, Bebe tripped. Magnolia got on her other side, and the three of them stag gered to the elevator, Bebe hiccuping loudly.

"Gotta tinkle," Bebe said when the door opened on thirty-six. Magnolia walked her to the ladies' room. As Bebe left the stall, she pulled up her skirt, took off her thong, and dropped it on the floor.

"Can't stand this d.a.m.n string up my b.u.t.t," she said.

Magnolia waited for Bebe to put her undies in the trash, which she did not do. Magnolia decided not to rise to that occasion. She took Bebe's arm, and together they walked into the ballroom and over to Jock, Darlene, and Felicity. Elizabeth motioned the singer to finish her number and lined up the five of them to go onstage. Jock wel comed the crowd and handed the mike to Bebe, who took center stage.

Elizabeth had written a seven-minute speech for Bebe, who was supposed to thank Jock, Felicity, and Magnolia, then hand the mike to Darlene, who'd cue the start of a $75,000 video that featured behind the-scenes shots of Bebe "working" on the magazine. They'd rehea.r.s.ed this drill six ways to Sunday. At the end, a velvet curtain would rise, revealing the cover of the premiere issue's cover.

"h.e.l.lo, out there," Bebe said to the crowd. "We having fun yet? All I can say is you're going to love my magazine and. . . ." She stopped.

The crowd waited. "All I can say is . . ." She stopped again. The room became still. "All I can say is-" this time she found words to finish the sentence-"we have a great goody bag."

This wasn't the script.

"I'm not s.h.i.tting you," Bebe continued. "Hey, I want to show you.

Jock, where's a f.u.c.king bag?"

Jock looked confused. Elizabeth rushed to the stage with one of the red Coach Bebe totes. As the video started to roll, Bebe pulled out the gifts, one by one, and announced each. "Here we have a Bebe doll.

Great knockers, huh?" She pointed toward her own. "Leopard cash mere slippers!" She threw her stilettos into the crowd and put the slippers on. "A stuffed kitten wearing a Bebe T-shirt! Looks like h.e.l.l! Bacardi raspberry rum? By the way, did everyone here have enough to drink? An itsy-bitsy red Canon camera! A sterling silver choker . . ."

To appreciative howls from the crowd, who were now chanting, "Be-be. Be-be. Be-be," she held up every piece of loot. Someone cued the video, but no one even noticed it or heard its worshipful voice over, which was drowned out by the shouts. Bebe was still unsteady on her feet. Magnolia considered the outcome if Bebe, now going commando under her dress, slipped.

Magnolia tried to get her eye, to tell her to stop.

"'Scuse me, but Deputy Gold has something to say to all of you.

Magnolia, you adorable thing, get your rear up here."

Magnolia walked forward and took the mike. "The magazine, Bebe.

Don't forget to show everyone the issue! Hold it up!"

"Oh, the magazine," Bebe said, emitting an audible belch as she lifted a copy of Bebe. But by this point, the crowd-Harry included, arms linked with an a.s.sistant to one of the Access Hollywood reporters-was stampeding toward the door to receive goody bags.

"Stay, everyone," Magnolia implored, shouting as loud as she could.

"We'd love to show you the magazine." But no one was paying atten tion to her. Not even Jock, Darlene, or Elizabeth. They were all glaring at Bebe.

As the ballroom emptied, Bebe linked arms with Magnolia. "I think that went rather well, Gold," she said. "Don't you?" Bebe's makeup was smudged and her dress, slightly ripped. At that moment, Magno lia wished she could dig deep and find some motherly instincts. What would her mother advise? If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Maybe the advice was from Thumper in Bambi and not her mother. No matter.

She put her arm around Bebe's ample waist, and together they walked out the door, Bebe's leopard cashmere slippers padding softly on the empty ballroom floor.

Chapter 2 0.

Cupcake? I Don't Think So.

"What's the latest from Planet Bebe?" Abbey asked. Given the trifecta of her and Tommy breaking up again, Harry's dwindling attentions-apparently holding a grudge, he hadn't called in a week-and Magnolia's thirty-eighth birthday, Abbey had decided to underwrite a beauty blitz in her honor. They were starting at the Exhale spa on a sunny November morning, waiting for ma.s.sages in a dim j.a.panese-serene room.

"The technical term is, 'It sucks,' " Magnolia replied. "Bebe and Felicity flew to the West Coast, and Cam and I have been closing the issue through fax, phone, and e-mail. When it's just the two of us, for whole minutes it's bliss. Then I snap back to real life."

"Is Bebe still in the crosshairs of the columnists?" Abbey asked.

"Not at all," Magnolia said. "You'd think it would work against you to go full moon wacky at your launch party, but the magazine indus try's collective memory has the depth of a pore. Bad behavior and bad results rarely correlate. Elizabeth had her send tickets for The Bebe Show to all the reporters-everyone's mother's a groupie. Since then it's been a big, wet kiss. She wound up on the cover of Us, and now the premiere Bebe's almost sold out."

"She isn't haunted by the Post referring to her as Burpin' Bebe?"

"She'll probably brag about it in an editor's letter," Magnolia said.

Magnolia took out her Times and began to read aloud. "Get this. 'A report on November second about the wedding of Sarina Balfour Smythe and Heath Farina included an erroneous account of the bride's education, which she supplied. Ms. Balfour-Smythe, the new publisher of Scarborough Magazines' Dizzy, did not graduate from Stanford University or receive a master's in business administration from Dartmouth University or a Ph.D. in anthropology from Yale University. Although she attended Stanford summer school, her degree is from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh. The Times regrets that it did not corroborate the credentials before publishing the report.' "

"I'll bet they do," Abbey said.

"Why don't more people get outed for their whoppers," Magnolia said. "Darlene tells everyone she got a perfect SAT."

"What amazes me is a forty-year-old woman is still lying about her SATs," Abbey said.

"I take heart that as long as we both shall live, Darlene will always be older than I am," Magnolia said. Lately, no matter the situation, Magnolia defaulted to the subject of age, her brain trilling, "Thirty eight! Thirty-eight!" like a taunting parrot. She'd started to ask new questions. Am I too old to show my navel? No, not as long as my abs stay flat, she decided. Is it time to start dressing like a lady sena tor? The world will reward me if I don't. Will I ever again be carded?

Not likely. And the extra credit question: Should I harvest my eggs?

Next!

Magnolia would be Googling a stray fact, and suddenly her fingers were researching the age of other editors. She was relieved to discover how many were older than she-a whole crop was born in 1964.

But combing through the personals, she found herself wanting to throw a meatball at guys like "Genetically Swedish/Emotionally Italian SWM, 39," who only wants to hear from women thirty-five and younger.

Magnolia opened her Post. She stopped at a photograph of the Vogue soccer team, in fitted T-shirts emblazoned with their motto: We're secretly judging you. They trounced the Dazzlers. They could do with a better slogan than "Dazzle will beat you to a frazzle." Scary was rarely at the Conde Nast level, no matter the game.

Just as the New Age music began to give Magnolia a headache, her ma.s.seuse beckoned. Inside an immaculate ma.s.sage room, Magnolia inhaled the lavender aroma, stripped, and slid between fine white cot ton sheets.

"Any spots giving you trouble?" the ma.s.seuse asked, as she began to knead Magnolia's shoulder with a luscious lotion that smelled faintly of ginger and grapefruit. Magnolia could feel Bebe in her neck, Felic ity in her left hip, and Harry in her lower back. For the past week she'd been hobbling around like Toulouse-Lautrec.

"Everywhere," she admitted.

"I want you to go to a place that makes you feel relaxed," the ma.s.seuse said in a gentle voice. Her old office, Magnolia wondered?

Nope. There must be a law against thinking about work during a mas sage. Her living room with the dogs beside her? Better.

"Now take someone special with you to this place," the ma.s.seuse directed, as she began to banish the stiffness in Magnolia's neck.

You even need a date for a ma.s.sage! She closed her eyes but could visualize no one with her. Definitely not Harry. She was still furious at him for making such a big deal of the Tommy incident and goad ing her into a spat observed by Jock and Darlene. He and Genetically Swedish could go to a singles bar together.

"Are you beginning to unwind?" the ma.s.seuse asked as Magnolia started to float into a zone near sleep, savoring every long, smooth stroke on each thirty-eight-year-old muscle group. Fifty minutes later she opened her eyes.

"Didn't want to wake you," the ma.s.seuse whispered, handing Magnolia the thick terry robe she'd worn into the room. "You were totally out."

Was this sorceress a ma.s.seuse or an anesthesiologist? All Magnolia knew was she felt mercifully calm, as if her tension had been laid on the chair like a worn-out coat. She thanked her and dressed slowly, not wanting to abruptly reenter reality. In the outer lobby, Abbey looked similarly tranquil, but not too mellow to ask, "Ready for lunch?"

Crossing the street and walking along Central Park South and over to Madison, they entered the impeccably lit Barney's. They always stopped first at the jewelry displays-Abbey, for professional reasons, and Magnolia, because in a faraway bazaar, whenever she was tempted to purchase a bauble, she did the Barney's test, trying to imagine the treasure displayed under gla.s.s with just a few other choice pieces. If she could see it at Barney's, she rarely suffered buyer's remorse.

Ten minutes later, she and Abbey rode the elevator to Fred's, the store's crowded cafe, took a table amid the Black AmEx card crowd, and ordered their usual chopped salads. Today they were having them with champagne.

"To Magnolia!" Abbey said. "To the best year of your life. May it only get better."

"Amen," Magnolia said. "And to you, Abbey-to getting through this rotten Tommy stretch with unbelievable grace."

Abbey and Magnolia raced through their salads, and the waiter approached with a tiny fudge cake, which Magnolia was pleased to see arrived with only one sparkler and two forks. "Make a wish,"

Abbey insisted. "A secret wish."

A better man? A better job? Both, definitely, but not in that order.

Bebe's hostile takeover was bothering her more than being disap pointed by Harry.

Abbey handed her a tiny box wrapped in pale gray tissue and tied with yellow ribbon. Inside were earrings with yellow jade teardrops sus pended from cl.u.s.ters of tiny gray pearls and turquoise stones.

"Abbey, gorgeous," Magnolia said, replacing her small diamond studs with the exquisite pair. "I adore them." The yellow jade reflected her amber highlights; the turquoise made her green eyes greener.

"Thank you!" She gave Abbey a big hug.

"A Nolita boutique ordered them for Christmas, but you have the originals," Abbey said. Ten minutes later, as they got in the taxi to go to Think Pink, Abbey's phone rang, which reminded Magnolia that hers had been strangely mute for hours, except for an early call from her parents.

She removed it from her bag and saw why-Exhale required clients to silence their cells and Magnolia had forgotten to turn hers back on.

When she did so, there were four messages. Three were from Bebe with variations on "Where the h.e.l.l are you, Gold? We've got to talk. Very, very important. Hasta p.r.o.nto. Divine weather in L.A. At the pool. New bikini."

The fifth was from Harry. "Cupcake, I really need to see you," he said. "I'm such an a.r.s.e. Tail between my legs. Call me." Magnolia felt a twinge return in her back. Cupcake? I don't think so, she thought.

"Lots of birthday greetings?" Abbey asked as Magnolia clicked her phone shut.

"My parents," Magnolia said. "And Bebe."

"What about Dirty Harry?"

"Not a word," Magnolia lied. She didn't want to spoil a perfect day by discussing him. "Which is just as well. He might be somebody's Mr. Right-just not mine."

By five o'clock, afternoon darkness hung in the air. Magnolia walked home, careful not to smudge her newly red toes. She opened her cards. "Another year older?" Cam's read "c.r.a.ppe diem." She changed into white silk pajamas sent by her parents, settled in front of her fireplace, and started a novel. The only thing that can make this evening better is a big piece of leftover cake from my office party, she decided, and I'm not going to feel the least bit guilty about eating dessert twice in one day. Tomorrow, starvation. As she walked into her kitchen, however, the intercom sounded.

"Gentleman to see you," Manuel said.

Not Tommy! Magnolia gritted her teeth.

"Mr. James," Manuel continued. "Send him up?"

Magnolia hesitated. She'd managed to get through the day without any spikes in her emotional EKG. With Harry, who knew? Still, he'd arrived. "Yes, send him up, please," Magnolia responded.

Standing in her doorway, he looked taller than she remembered.

A man always looks taller when he carries a Tiffany bag.

"For you," he said, kissing her lightly on the lips.