Little Pink Slips Part 15

Magnolia had already seen the presentation, created by Darlene's marketing director. What connection it had to the lives of Bebe's readers she'd yet to determine.

The PowerPoint concluded with a shot of the cover accompanied by Marvin Gaye singing, "What's Going On." "You can see that Bebe captures the spirit of a bold woman, the kind everyone wants to become," Darlene intoned. "The kind of buyer Glamazon has in mind for Consuelo, its new fragrance, and its skin-care line." Darlene looked pleased. As she began to unroll the heart of her sales pitch, however, there was a persistent knock. "Enter," Consuelo said. The receptionist stuck in her head.

"Excuse me, Ms. Everett, but there's a woman here who insists on seeing you and she won't tell me-"

Bebe shouldered her way past the young receptionist and walked toward the round gla.s.s table where everyone was seated. "d.a.m.n grid lock," she said, as she threw off a sleeveless black coat that appeared to be made of monkey fur. She deposited the garment on the edge of Consuelo's pristine desk.

"Bebe, I'd like you to meet Consuelo Everett," Darlene said.

"Hey, Connie," Bebe said, offering the executive her hand and a grin. "So what do you think of my magazine?"

"Well, Bebe, we were just getting acquainted with it," Consuelo answered, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, her long, French manicured fingers crossed over one another, which gave Mag nolia a close-up of Consuelo's hunky, canary diamond solitaire. "You couldn't have arrived at a more auspicious time."

"Suspicious?" Bebe asked. "Of what?"

"Auspicious, Bebe," Consuelo said. "I was wondering why you believe Glamazon belongs in your magazine."

"Come again?" Bebe asked.

"Our products, Consuelo parfum, Glamazon exfoliators, and agedefying eye enhancers-how do we know the Bebe reader will embrace them?" Consuelo asked evenly.

Bebe stared at Consuelo as if she'd just noticed she had a large mole on her nose.

Darlene jumped in. "I can answer that. We know our reader's an upscale shopper-she buys more department store brands than drug store, she's young, she's sophisticated, and she has a significant dispos able income, $76,000. She's Glamazon all the way."

What rot, Magnolia thought. We know nothing. We don't even have final numbers on how well the first issue sold. The readers could all shop with food stamps.

"I appreciate that, Darlene," Consuelo said, "but-"

Bebe woke up. "When you buy Bebe you're buying me, the complete Bebe Blake experience," she a.s.serted with conviction. "I stand for independence. And don't your cosmetics?" As she leaned toward Consuelo, the woman leaned back ever so slightly.

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way," said one of the matching daughters.

Bebe and Darlene began talking over each other in increasingly shrill tones. Magnolia tried to follow both conversations at once, but it was as if they'd switched to Zulu. All she could pick out were the occasional buzz words like "must buy" and, from Bebe, "dog doo."

Then she heard her name spoken.

"Magnolia, would Lady's reader have purchased Glamazon?" Consuelo asked. "From what I hear, those subscribers have been sent the magazine." All eyes turned to her.

"Glamazon's new," Magnolia answered, "so I can't quote you hard facts, but we know the Lady reader always regarded high-end cosmetics as an affordable indulgence she felt she deserved. I can compare to, say, Chanel. The Lady reader couldn't, frankly, afford the clothes or the bags, but she was a huge consumer of Chanel No. 5, the lipsticks, and the nail polish. I'm positive the a.n.a.logy would extend to Glamazon."

Consuelo looked satisfied. Darlene, Magnolia thought, looked relieved. Bebe looked radioactive.

"Chanel #5 is for tight a.s.ses," Bebe said, scowling. "Wouldn't wear it to a pig roast."

Magnolia saw Darlene roll her eyes, although she was sure Con suelo and her daughters did not. They were fixated on Bebe. Darlene shot up.

"Isn't she hilarious, our Bebe?" Darlene said to Consuelo. "That's what we love about her, complete and unbridled candor. I'm going to be following up by phone this afternoon." Darlene looked at her watch. "Two forty-five? We've eaten up way too much of your time. Muchos, muchos gracias." With that, Darlene herded Bebe out of the room, and Magnolia followed.

Riding to the office, Magnolia decided not to pierce the silence with in-person thanks to Bebe for her birthday gift. Darlene stared out one window, and Bebe, the other. Magnolia began to imagine the amusing recap of the meeting she'd be able to give Cam. Then it dawned on her-a bad meeting was not necessarily good news, espe cially not for her. No one talked for the rest of the ride.

"Damage control, damage control." Magnolia muttered as she rang Jock's office after she returned. If she got to him immediately, she could offer him her own carefully crafted summary-witty but d.a.m.ning-of how Bebe had blown the ad sales call and how she, Magnolia Gold, had tried to save the day. Score: Magnolia, 15; Bebe, love.

"Any chance of getting a little time with the man?" she asked Elvira, Jock's gatekeeper. "Fifteen minutes?"

"And the purpose of the meeting is?" Elvira asked, reflected power oozing through the phone line.

Manipulation? Retaliation? Garden-variety a.s.s-saving? "Just a Bebe update," Magnolia answered.

"He's got a heavy schedule for the next week, and then there's a trip to Shanghai," Elvira replied. Magnolia could hear her making blowing sounds as if she were drying her nails. "How about a week from Friday at three-forty? Oops-he'll be off to Key Largo." The season had arrived for the Sun G.o.d to go south on weekends.

"The following Monday?" Elvira suggested. "Ten-twenty?"

By then the Glamazon decision would have been announced-not to Bebe's advantage, on that Magnolia would bet Biggie's best bone- and her vigorous self-defense would be moot. "Elvira, please call me if there's a cancellation," Magnolia said, knowing it would never happen.

"Even better, ask him if he couldn't squeeze me in, okay?" So much for having showered Elvira with cosmetics she'd asked Phoebe to a.s.semble for her birthday last summer. She may as well have given the grab bag of Bobbi Brown and Lancome products-Elvira's favorites- to the night maid.

Magnolia proceeded to Plan B and called in Sasha. "Do a drive-by outside Jock's office," she instructed.

"Got it," her a.s.sistant answered. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Gla.s.s walls throughout Scary extended to Jock's vast, leathery do main. While Magnolia knew better than to walk by his office herself, an innocent stroll from Sasha-an invisible a.s.sistant-would never be noticed.

"He's in there with Darlene and Bebe," Sasha reported back, call ing Magnolia from her cubicle ten minutes later. "Bebe was smoking one of his cigars, and all three of them were whooping it up."

"Thanks, kiddo," Magnolia said, careful not to reveal an iota of emotion. "Just as I thought." Rats, rats, rats, Magnolia thought. De spite the frost in the taxi less than a half hour ago, apparently Bebe and Darlene had decided to mount a unified defense.

Magnolia began to pace. Given the diminutive proportion of her new office, three steps equaled one good pace, and she found herself racewalking straight to Sasha's desk across the hall. Upon seeing her, Sasha quickly closed her Post, which reminded Magnolia that in her Hugh Grant afterglow, she'd neglected to even open her morning paper. She could read it now. Anything for a distraction. As "Mind if I borrow your paper?" slipped out of her mouth, though, Sasha dumped the tabloid in her trash can and finished it off with the remains of a Diet c.o.ke.

"Aren't we being a little hostile?" Magnolia asked. "What'd the Post do to you?"

"Nothing in it today," Sasha answered, and offered a high-pitched giggle.

"Sasha, there's always something in the Post"-a body ID'd in a Brooklyn dumpster, a rat caught lounging in a Dunkin' Donuts- something." Magnolia watched Sasha turn to tidying papers on her already neat desk.

"Give me that paper, Sasha," Magnolia insisted.

"You don't want to see it."

"G.o.d will punish you, Sasha Dobbs," Magnolia said, walking toward the elevator. "You are going to get the worst acne."

Five minutes later Magnolia had returned from the newsstand downstairs. She opened the Hershey bar she'd bought along with the paper, settled herself at her desk, and flipped to the business pages that announced industry news. Nothing. Maybe it was an item about Harry. Had he catapulted into a photo-worthy relationship? She turned to Page Six, which today was on page fourteen. There was a tragic-looking Julia Roberts photographed with five Bergdorf's bags-being elected to the Worst Dressed list could inspire the most secure woman to shop-and an item declaring that a certain adorable Hollywood couple was still together, in case you were up nights stress ing over whether their marriage could be saved.

Then she spotted it. "Just asking," the three lines began, "which glittering editor is no longer solid gold? A certain English-accented, topof-another-masthead lovely may soon be replacing the tarnished blossom taking orders from Hollywood's lovable loudmouth."

Magnolia dropped her candy bar, leaving a skid mark on her white cashmere V-neck.

Her first impulse was to call Mike McCourt and let him know he'd obviously been bamboozled by "a certain English-accented"

editor. But what if he hadn't been? Manhattan was littered with UK roadkill who s.n.a.t.c.hed New York jobs when their Fleet Street careers stalled. In their West Village tea shops, they privately laughed at American executives awed by inglorious northern England accents.

Harry must be friendly with every one of those ex-pats, Magnolia realized. What if, together, he and an ambitious Keira Knightley clone had crafted the tale and pa.s.sed it on to the Post? Magnolia picked up the phone to call Harry's office and sound off. She dialed his number. One ring. Two.

What was she doing? Thank G.o.d, he hadn't picked up. Harry might be a hothead, but even if he did have something to do with this, what exactly was she going to say to him? Magnolia slammed down the receiver just as she heard the recording of his painstak ingly acquired, well-modulated BBC English announcing, "Good afternoon." Magnolia had no idea whether Harry's studio's land line-his cell seemed too intimate at this stage of their extinct rela tionship-had caller ID or whether he would hunt her down later with *69.

Talk about damage control. Someone's got to gag me before I com mit both social and professional suicide, Magnolia thought. I can't be trusted. Her next impulse was to phone Abbey, until she remembered that she'd flown to Los Angeles, where a number of Third Street bou tiques were salivating at the prospect of buying her jewelry.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep breaths. Big news usually blindsides people-n.o.body gets telegrams, she reminded herself.

Maybe the item is a scare tactic or someone's idea of a joke.

For the remainder of the afternoon-and the rest of the short workweek, because Thursday was Thanksgiving-Magnolia forced herself to polish an issue's worth of sentences to a gloss, even ghost write Bebe's editor's letter on how to bond with a cat, to be run with a portrait of Bebe and h.e.l.l. Yet all the while she was looking over her shoulder, trying to pretend people weren't gossiping about her. Was the item planted by Darlene? Bebe? Elizabeth at Jock's behest? Possibilities ran through her mind like an Andrew Lloyd Webber ballad-graphic, tragic, ultimately so relentless it made her want to howl-but she proudly refrained from leaving drama-queen messages for Abbey. You can handle this, Magnolia chanted. You're thirty-eight!

On Wednesday, in honor of the holiday weekend, Scary closed at noon. At Lady, this wouldn't have stopped Magnolia from working until eight, when-every year-she and Abbey would pull out their fox trapper hats; pile on parkas, mittens, and tired Pashminas; and spend hours on Eighty-first Street and Central Park West, watching their favorite balloons come alive for Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. But today she decided to go home early. After stopping to buy the olives, cheese, cornbread, and pie that Cameron had care fully specified for his Thanksgiving dinner-friends knew better than to ask Magnolia to cook or bake-Magnolia lit a fire and turned on her television.

As she channel-surfed, Bebe suddenly appeared. The show was live-she'd seen Bebe in the identical orange mohair tunic that morning, wondering if she'd intentionally tried to impersonate the Great Pumpkin. Her guest today was Sharon Stone. The two of them air-kissed, and Sharon slinked across the set and settled herself next to Bebe. Sharon looked flawlessly young, another celebrity who pro claimed that plastic surgery was great for other people, just not her. "This seems like an odd choice for you, Sharon," Bebe began. "A Western. You being such a rabid antigun slinger."

You could all but hear the inner Sharon summon her agent with "Get this crazy b.i.t.c.h off me-this wasn't the talking point we agreed to."

"Not sure what you mean, Bebe," Sharon said, however, utterly poised. "Shoot isn't just 'a Western.' It's a Clint Eastwood movie." "Clint might be the most popular guy in Hollywood, but that's not the point. What I want to chew over is that I understand you've turned in your guns to the L.A.P.D., Sharon," Bebe said. "What's that about? You one of those gun-hating nuts? I never knew."

Magnolia dropped the channel changer. Bebe was leaning forward in her chair, jumping on Sharon the way Biggie would a pork chop.

Magnolia heard two phones ring-her cell and her phone next to the couch-but she couldn't tear away to answer.

"Guns, Bebe?" Sharon replied, still cool. "Why are we talking about guns?"

"Well, don't you believe that owning a gun can help prevent a mur der, Sharon?" Now Bebe was practically out of her chair and in Sharon's face. Sharon fixed Bebe with her ice-pick stare and tossed off a laugh.

"You've got to be kidding, Bebe," she said. "Guns preventing murders? I suppose you think chocolate prevents weight gain and s.e.x pre vents pregnancy." A few members of the studio audience t.i.ttered.

"Sharon, honey," Bebe was saying. "Scotland and Ireland have tougher gun laws than we do, and higher murder rates."

Sharon rose to the bait. "I'm not tracking you," she said, her mike now unnecessary. "Bebe, are you saying we should all go out and buy guns?"

"Well, I just did," Bebe said, leaning back in her chair and putting one of her chunky legs up on her desk. "Relax-it's not an a.s.sault weapon." The audience laughed, a little more vociferously than before.

"That's a relief," Sharon said.

"Keep going, Bebe!" Magnolia shouted to the TV. "Make an utter a.s.s of yourself." And Bebe did.

"I bought the cutest little handgun," she declared. "Fits into my handbag like a banana. Gives me a whole lot of peace of mind when ever I'm walking alone at two A.M."

"So now she's armed," Magnolia screamed-loud enough to rouse the dogs.

"I suppose you think I'm a monster for owning a gun?" Bebe asked Sharon with a jack-o'-lantern grin.

"People who own guns scare the c.r.a.p out of me, I'll admit it,"

Sharon answered. As she ground her perfect white teeth, delicate cords appeared on the actress's swanlike neck. "You people say you need guns to protect yourselves, and the next thing you know you're going postal and your creepy kids are mowing down their friends at school."

"'We people'?" Bebe asked, glaring. "So now you're blaming me for serial killers?"

Magnolia's cell phone went off.

"I can't believe it either," Magnolia said quickly to Cam. "Bebe's trying to turn Sharon Stone into chopped meat. Can't talk. Need to see who'll self-destruct first." She clicked off.

"No one's blaming you for anything, Bebe," Sharon said wearily, as Magnolia returned her attention to the screen. "Hey, I didn't come on this show to be ambushed. All I want is to talk about my movie."

"Fat chance!" Magnolia yelled. "Strike back, Sharon! Attack!"

"So talk about it," Bebe taunted. "Didn't I read you have a genius IQ? Change the subject."

Sharon stayed mute, but her fingers pulled nervously at her hair.

Bebe picked up h.e.l.l and put him in Sharon's lap. "Cat got your tongue?" Bebe swiveled and looked into the camera. "You saw it here first, folks-a friendly discussion about the merits of gun ownership.

I hope all you morally superior liberals out there have paid special attention."

"Who are you calling a 'morally superior liberal'?" Sharon asked, indignant. "Try law-abiding citizen who still has a brain." Sharon tossed a startled h.e.l.l onto the floor and stomped off the set.

"Guess we pushed her b.u.t.tons," Bebe said with a malevolent laugh as her bandleader keyed her theme song. It took a good twenty sec onds for the credits to roll.

Magnolia looked at her AOL mailbox. Nine new e-mails ranged from "that woman will do anything for publicity" to "call in the National Guard." On her phones she had messages from her parents, along with Natalie, Ruthie, Phoebe, and Sasha.

Immediately after The Bebe Show, every major network ran news of Bebe sandbagging Sharon. The celebrity shows followed, which left plenty of time for cable's talking heads, with Larry King snagging Sharon Stone, whose agent had wisely advised her to turn this into an opportunity for continued exposure. Sharon was joined on the pro gram by Robin Williams, who did a brilliant Bebe. From ten until eleven there was more news, capped off by Jon Stewart, Stephen Col bert, David Letterman, and Jay Leno. "Did you see the gun gals face off this afternoon?" Jay asked in his monologue. "Man, I wouldn't want to be between those two cowgirls in a dark parking garage."

Magnolia watched it all, flipping channels while she mult.i.tasked on the computer and phone dissecting Bebe's performance.

"What did you think?" Natalie asked.

"You first," Magnolia said. "No, you," Natalie urged.

There was no percentage in revealing to Natalie how over-the-top thrilled she'd been by Bebe's performance. How great it felt to have the world see that Hollywood's lovable loudmouth could be this vile and off. How much she was identifying with Sharon Stone. She won dered if Bebe's behavior breached some don't-act-insane clause in her Scary contract and if Jock would ditch her. How maybe she, Magno lia, would now get her sweet old job back and could return to the office on Monday to strains of "Hail to the Chief."

But then it occurred to Magnolia that if Bebe would self-destruct, she would sink with the ship or be asked by Jock to salvage it.

"Well, this could be very bad for Bebe" was what Magnolia said to Natalie. "Our readers are divided on the gun issue, although the one thing they see eye to eye on is etiquette. They're going to hate seeing Bebe in attack mode."

"They're a well-mannered demo," Natalie agreed. "You're right.

They might turn against her."

Would that be good or bad? Magnolia would have liked to know what, exactly, Natalie would suggest as a next step, but Natalie sud denly took another call, which left Magnolia alone with her alternat ing worry and glee. Bebe was important and well-connected. Even if the public responded to her behavior as a gaffe, she would survive it, Magnolia finally decided as she turned off Conan O'Brian in favor of sleep. But then the phone rang one more time. It was Scary's spin mis tress, Elizabeth.

"Stay calm," Elizabeth said, although it was she who sounded fran tic. "By the end of the long weekend, this Bebe fuss will all blow over.

Do. Not. Worry."