Little Pink Slips Part 2

When it came to running with Abbey Kennedy, Magnolia was what the United States Postal Service used to be. Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night-hangovers, insomnia, upstairs party people-kept her from the appointed rounds. If the two made a date, she'd show on the dot of 6:45 A.M. Running wasn't all about protecting her b.u.t.t from gravity or a sincere interest in heart health-no matter how much Lady preached on the subject. A couple of spins around the reservoir was her Prozac.

Magnolia had returned home late last night; walked Biggie and Lola, her Tibetan terriers; poured a gla.s.s of Shiraz, and promptly crashed after three sips. She'd had every intention of returning Abbey's call, greased with apologies, but exhaustion triumphed. Guilt trailed her as she ran a few blocks east and turned on to Central Park West to pick up Abbey.

To run, Magnolia wore the usual-whatever was clean and a base ball cap from a trip to the Golden Door, where for two days Julia Roberts had been her best friend. "Mea culpa," she said to Abbey as she entered the oak-paneled lobby of her apartment building. Abbey quickly popped on her big, black Audrey Hepburn sungla.s.ses, but not before Magnolia noticed she'd been crying. Next to Abbey, Magnolia was Babe, Paul Bunyan's ox. Abbey could shop in the teen department and barely looked twenty-four, though she was ten years older. Crying jag or not, this morning she was adorable in tiny black running shorts, an orange racer-back running bra, and shoes that gleamed brand-new. Her dark brown ponytail looked as sleek as always.

"Okay, tell me," Magnolia pleaded gently. "Sorry I couldn't return your calls yesterday. Work tsunami. First, talk."

Abbey started to run and stared ahead, her smile zipped into a tight line." It's Tommy."

"And?"

"Gone."

As they entered the park, Seymour, a neighborhood golden retriever who'd become Abbey's surrogate canine child, bounded up to them, Frisbee in tow. Normally Abbey would have given Seymour a hug, and the Frisbee a long toss. But today she ran past him, pushing uphill on her twiggy but powerful legs, leaving Seymour looking as confused as Magnolia felt.

"When I got back from San Francisco Sunday night, I noticed Tommy had made brownies. They were arranged on that stainless steel platter he'd got for me at Moss on Valentine's Day." Magno lia remembered how annoyed Abbey had been-she was romantic to her last cabbage rose print-when she'd received a serving dish as a gift from her husband of three years. And from SoHo's bas tion of ultramodern design, when she was the countess of the flea market.

"I went to cut a brownie in half and the knives were gone."

"Huh?"

"It took me a few minutes until I saw the note taped to the fridge.

'Abbey, I will always love you, but it wasn't meant to be.' It took a few minutes to sink in. I kept looking for a P.S.: 'I'm outta here and you're outta eggs.' What kind of bulls.h.i.t way is that to leave your wife?"

Tommy bulls.h.i.t. "I was out all night working on a story" bulls.h.i.t.

"I've stopped seeing Stephanie" bulls.h.i.t. "The trip to Turks & Caicos is for work" bulls.h.i.t. The kind of bulls.h.i.t Abbey chose to believe.

Magnolia disliked Tommy O'Toole, deeply. She guessed the feeling was mutual, as it is when someone knows you've got their number, although she could understand why Abbey fell for him. Two years younger than Abbey, a model turned anchorman for the local news, broad shoulders, no waist, that faint shrimp-on-the-barbie accent, curly brown hair, terrific piano player. Also quite the baker boy and, according to Abbey, extraordinary in bed. But ever since Tommy came on to her, a month before his wedding, Magnolia wanted to snarl at him whenever he entered the room.

"I've been hysterical," Abbey said. "Blindsided. Haven't been to my workshop once. Or eaten a thing except for a whole pint of Chunky Monkey last night between three-thirty and four."

What were Ben and Jerry putting in ice cream? Abbey picked up the pace and kept talking. "I feel like such a fool. I want to claw his eyes out. I miss him. I'm embarra.s.sed. I feel pathetic. I'm in disbelief.

I hate him. I love him. I'm exhausted from all this emotion. How can he really be gone?"

What do you say to a friend who hurts everywhere? "Tommy is an a.s.shole." Why state the obvious? "He tried to kiss me once, but I said, 'f.u.c.k off.' " Instead Magnolia said, "Abbey, he'll be back." As soon as she heard her voice, she realized any devotee of Dr. Phil could have done better. Plus, she doubted it was true.

"Magnolia, you're wrong. This time I know he's never coming back. He took his cell phone charger, that navy Asprey blazer we had the fight about. Nineteen hundred dollars for a jacket that looks like Brooks Brothers? I'm still p.i.s.sed. And the good knives. What kind of a man takes knives? Oh, and his pa.s.sport. At least I never have to look at that Vuitton case again."

Abbey and Magnolia had bonded long ago over how much they loathed Louis Vuitton anything, and now that Magnolia thought about it, she was suddenly convinced that Tommy's pa.s.sport case was probably a gift from a woman with whom he'd had an adventure, probably in a humid place in a faraway time zone. "Do you have any idea where he went?"

"No clue."

They ran in silence, completing their laps. This was the first time Magnolia remembered a lull in their conversation. She and Abbey were perfectly matched as two of the slower runners around the reservoir-although today's shock appeared to be propelling Abbey to a speed that Magnolia had to work hard to match-and their chatter always made the runs seem more like a phone call than exer cise. Whether they were discussing if Abbey should use citrines or garnets in one of her designs-her jewelry line, Abbey K, had just been shown in a recent W ("worn by Hilary Sw.a.n.k to the Oscars")-or a.n.a.lyzing last night's dream, talk carried them through.

After finishing their run, they headed to a nearby coffee shop for the fifteen minutes of breakfast Magnolia allotted herself on a work day. Not only were she and Abbey the only two women on the Upper West Side who still ate carbs-they shared a scone whenever they ran-she guessed they might also be the neighborhood's sole adult females who got through the day without antidepressants, although Magnolia was thinking that it would be handy right now for Abbey to have some pharmaceutical voodoo.

"Tommy will be back," Magnolia insisted. "He adores you. You're his life." Where was this drivel coming from? Abbey burst into tears.

Magnolia grabbed a stack of napkins, handed them to her friend, and hugged her hard.

"Forget me," Abbey said through her heaving, Italian widow moans. "What's going on with you?"

"If I start venting, I will never stop," Magnolia said. "I'll give you two words. Bebe Blake."

"She walked off another photo shoot? What do you care? She sold, what, eleven copies for you last time."

"Oh, that it were so simple. I'll call you tonight and give you the whole deal." Magnolia got up to leave, remorse pulsing. She wished she could take off the morning, tuck Abbey under a downy duvet in a cool, air-conditioned room, and hold her hand while they listened to Harry Connick Jr. But there was rarely a day to be late for work, and this was definitely not it. Scary was the court of Henry VIII-make a mistake and you could be beheaded.

They said their good-byes. Magnolia raced home and rushed into the shower for a quickie shampoo. She went over her clothing options.

Today called for skysc.r.a.per heels, definitely, and the confidence building Stella McCartney dress she'd been saving for a very impor tant occasion. With water dripping across her pale gray carpeting, she checked her schedule. Did she have a lunch? Yes, Natalie Simon for their monthly sushi pig-out.

Magnolia could use a dose of Natalie just now. A sit-down with Natalie could be better than finding money in your pocket: her advice was that astute. The vox populi was that Natalie was the cagiest editor in town, having earned her chops over the course of thirty years. The only problem was that Natalie seemed to have a selective memory and so many industry friends sucking up that you couldn't always count on her to recall promises she'd make to you, even if your discussion was yesterday.

Thirty-five minutes later, Magnolia was out the door. As she left the elevator downstairs, she collided with a delivery boy. "For you,"

shouted the day doorman. A magnificent white orchid-pale, perfect, a botanical Uma Thurman-was on its way up.

Magnolia accepted the present with curiosity. Flowers at Lady were routine, although it was usually the beauty and fashion depart ments that cleaned up; you could barely walk to the bathroom with out seeing a glorious floral tribute. The untrained observer might think someone on the staff got engaged every day, but, no, the deliver ies were almost always attached to press releases for, say, a new ultra hydrating, pro-vitamin hair complex a publicist wanted mentioned in the magazine.

Could the orchid be a guilt gift from Darlene? Unlikely. She'd never given Magnolia a present, not even at Christmas. She opened the card. "Can't wait to see how yesterday went."

Uma was from Harry James, the designer who'd worked so hard on Lady's potential facelift. Their months of late nights had been all business but not unpleasant. Harry. What a lovely thought.

Magnolia checked her watch. She realized that for a full five minutes she'd forgotten about Bebe Blake hovering on the horizon, ready to turn Lady into a caricature of a magazine and her job into something worse.

That is, if she still had a job.

Chapter 5.

The Corner of Grapevine and Yenta.

"Make yourself at home," Natalie Simon mouthed to Magnolia, a phone to her ear.

That wasn't hard. Except for a computer Natalie used as little as possible, her enormous s.p.a.ce-twice that of Magnolia's, although both of them were editors in chief at Scary-was more a salon than the hub of a working journalist. As Mozart hummed in the back ground, a sea of azure prints, chosen by Natalie's decorator to set off her blue eyes, enhanced an effect of unhurried calm. Flanking the sole fireplace in the building were twin love seats. One featured a needlepoint pillow begging the question, "What part of meow don't you understand?" while the other observed that "Many complain of their looks, few of their brains." The pillows were gifts to Natalie from her mentor, the famously silver-haired Hearst editorial director Ellen Levine.

Natalie loved to dress as if she were still the 100-pound sylph she was in 1975. Today she wore an olive military coat and periwinkle blue polka-dot shirt over a knee-length yellow satin bubble skirt, a mix of vintage and, as Natalie-an Anglophile from Scarsdale- liked to put it, the high street. Her tangled, blond hair balanced like a c.u.mulus atop her head, and stacks of turquoise and silver Navajo bracelets jangled at her wrists. One finger sported a substantial sap phire ring, another bands of lapis lazuli and gold.

She looked like a homeless woman who'd robbed a jewelry store.

One of Natalie's many talents was to attract people, and Magnolia thought of her office as being located on the corner of Grapevine and Yenta. Like a cat presents mice to her mistress, New Yorkers on their way up and/or on their way down liked to reward Natalie with juicy tidbits, and her phone fairly vibrated with this-just-in innuendo, deep background, and the occasional fact. This not only benefited Dazzle, Scary's cash cow, but made Natalie very good company when she was in the mood to share, which was often. To show her appreciation for information that sustained her place as the magazine world's reigning queen bee, Natalie liked nothing better than to find people jobs, doctors, and dates.

More than once, Magnolia had benefited from Natalie's aid. She had given Magnolia her first job, as her a.s.sistant at Glamour. She'd recommended the dermatologist Dr. Winnie Wong, who never let a little thing like FDA approval deter her; because of Dr. Winnie's signa ture glycolic acid potions, Magnolia hoped to forestall cosmetic sur gery for decades. Natalie had also introduced Magnolia to her cousin Wally Fleigelman, who except for his name turned out to be a perfect first husband.

Magnolia didn't hold it against Natalie that she and Wally stayed married for only one year. For all of their hasty courtship, Magnolia was crazy in love, but unfortunately, after the wedding, she and Wally realized they were from different solar systems. He was an unabridged New Yorker, from his accent to his out-there sarcasm, and ten years earlier, she had yet to understand what was funny about a Woody Allen movie and b.u.t.tered a roast beef sandwich. And how was Magno lia to know that her bridegroom's idea of foreplay would become watching the Golf Channel side by side? Recognizing a youthful folly-they were both only twenty-four at the time-the newlyweds parted amicably, not so difficult when the bride gets the real estate.

"Magnolia, sit." Natalie pointed to one of the love seats. Their sushi waited on delicate bamboo trays. They might be eating takeout from Yamahama Mama, but Stella, Natalie's number-two geisha-the one in charge of food, travel, and expense accounts-made sure the presentation was up to Natalie's specs.

"A shame about yesterday," Natalie offered, as she popped a piece of unagi into her mouth, careful not to smear her plum lip gloss.

Magnolia avoided Natalie's eyes. She'd pretend the possibility didn't exist that Natalie and others might be feeling sorry for her.

Magnolia knew pity was the first symptom of a swift but fatal corpo rate disease.

"The thing is, the design Harry James and I created was wonder ful," Magnolia said, pitching her voice low to make sure she wasn't whining. "We'd finally found an approach that's not the same old, more-white-s.p.a.ce-than-words clone of every other magazine. What's up with Jock that he can't see what a bonehead move it would be to scuttle all this good work?"

"Since when, Cookie, does the smartest decision ever get made?"

Natalie offered, parking her polished ebony chopsticks at the side of a red lacquer plate. "Everyone's got his own agenda. For now, forget the redesign. Although from what I hear, it's spectacular."

Was Natalie gunning for Magnolia to show it to her? That wasn't going to happen. Magnolia had learned the hard way that Natalie was like every other editor, who believed what was yours was yours- writers, headlines, ideas-until she decided it was "in the public domain," a time which could arrive with surprising alacrity.

"So, I shouldn't appeal to Jock's higher plane of reason?" Magnolia asked, getting up from her chair and walking to the window. If Magnolia wasn't mistaken, that was Darlene getting into a car with a rotund redhead poured into black leather pants, a fitted jacket, and spiky boots.

"There's no such place," Natalie said with a laugh. "Right now Jock's thinking Bebe Blake will lead him to Oscar parties, weekends in Malibu, and his own pilot and plane." They both knew how it got to Jock that his kid brother, who headed a media company deep in the corn of Nebraska, had a GV at his disposal, when he didn't even have a share in a NetJet.

"But, Natalie, it doesn't make sense," Magnolia said. "The Bebe Show is sliding in the Nielsen's. Will she even get an option to renew?"

"Magnolia, have I taught you nothing? Use a little sechel for a change." Only with Magnolia did Natalie throw around Yiddish, this time invoking the term for shrewd judgment. They were often the only Jews at Scary meetings and on those occasions Natalie used less Yiddish than your average Leno-watching Southern Baptist.

"Get all o.r.g.a.s.mic about Bebe?" Magnolia asked.

"Precisely. What's to lose?"

Integrity? Face? Time? Still, she tried to focus on the bigger picture.

"I get your drift."

"Besides, Bebe's not that bad," Natalie said as she twisted a stray tendril into her unruly topknot.

"And you would know this how?"

"We had lunch recently and she's hilarious. Curses a blue streak.

I was peeing in my pants."

This was the first time Natalie had ever mentioned lunching with Bebe. In fact, after her last Dazzle cover, which featured a paparazzi photo which made the entertainer look like the blue-ribbon sow at the Texas state fair, there was talk of lawsuits. Magnolia weighed the options. Should she ask Natalie if she was aware of Bebe's proposal before her meeting with Jock and the gang-or let it go? Better not. If she knew nothing, Natalie would do a slow burn at the implication that she was sitting on dynamite.

"How's that friend of yours with the jewelry?" Natalie said as she poured green tea from a fragile celadon teapot.

Magnolia sometimes felt that before a conversation with Natalie she should pop a Ritalin, but frankly she was relieved that they'd moved to a new topic.

"Abbey?" Magnolia asked.

"I can never remember her name," Natalie said. "Was that one of her necklaces I saw Charlotte wearing the other day?"

"Could be," Magnolia said. She knew where this was going and decided to get there fast. "Want me to see if she'd give you a friends and-family discount?"

Natalie feigned surprise. "Magnolia," she said. "You are the sweet est. But now that you mention it, maybe something from the new line I hear she has coming out. The one at Bergdorf's"

In the next ten minutes they discussed whether or not Magnolia would go out with Natalie's husband's partner (Magnolia waffled- he was a troll), why the editor of Elegance ran Penelope Cruz on the cover every six months (desperate), and who'd become the next editor of the Star (each of them offered a short list). When Natalie's a.s.sistant buzzed her, Magnolia was glad. It was almost two, and their lunch had failed to have its desired effect of making her feel fabulous merely from being in Natalie's wake.

"Oh, I know it's last minute, but I'd love it if you'd join us for c.o.c.k tails in the country a week from Sat.u.r.day," Natalie said as Magnolia got up to leave. "Throwing a book party for Dr. Winnie. A small group.

Very casual."

Magnolia couldn't remember when she'd ever actually had fun at one of Natalie's parties, but if she declined, Natalie might be angry.

Magnolia couldn't risk it. Natalie shifted from friend to foe like other women changed underwear.

"Love to," Magnolia said.

"Bring a guy-that is, if you're dating someone."

Her little imaginary boyfriend? They could drive in her pretend Porsche.

"Bebe promised to come," Natalie added.

"Your new best friend?"

"Grow up, Magele. You're way too paranoid."

The minute she said it, Magnolia knew that she wasn't. On the way back to her office, Magnolia decided to make a pit stop at the lobby newsstand. She paid for her lottery ticket and dashed into a closing elevator.

"There she is," Jock said to a short, rumpled man next to him.

"Our own steel Magnolia." Magnolia cursed the day the movie had ever been released. "Jock!"

she said, and forced what she hoped was a smile.

"Magnolia, meet Arthur Montgomery."

Arthur Montgomery. The name sounded familiar but the face- long and hawkish-wasn't. "Mr. Montgomery, h.e.l.lo."

"Miss Magnolia, what a lovely name," he drawled. If they ever had a real conversation, this gentleman was going to be disappointed to find out she was from North Dakota, not Carolina. Could she help it if her mother chose the name "Magnolia" on her honeymoon to New Orleans?

"Magnolia, call me," Jock said as the elevator opened to her floor.

His tone was neutral, but an order nonetheless.