Little Pink Slips Part 23

"If an opening presents itself, I'll run it by him. But I can't make any promises."

"Fair enough," Magnolia said.

She could hear Natalie's flamenco skirt rustling as she walked down the hall. The weather forecast for the weekend was suddenly looking partly sunny.

Shipwrecked on Fantasy Island, Magnolia imagined a reversal of fortune. If Bebe wanted her, seconded by Natalie, Jock would let her return. One week drifted into the next, though, and she never heard from him. The closest she got was a collision with Darlene.

"We missed you at the retreat," her former publisher boomed, swooping down on her in Scary's lobby and kissing her on the right cheek and then the left, a habit she kept going for a month or two after her annual Alpine ski holiday. "No one understood why you weren't there, especially since we discussed new magazine ideas.

They're your thing now, right?"

Good of you to point that out, Magnolia thought. "And how are Bebe and Raven hitting it off ?" she said. "Bosom buddies?"

"Advertisers drooling over them," Darlene said, grinning.

"Must be quite a performance," Magnolia said. "Who gets the Oscar?" "Oh, you do," Darlene said, turning away from Magnolia and talk ing loudly into the Bluctooth as she disappeared into a town car, her long black Prada coat flapping behind her.

The next day, Elvira called. Jock wanted to see her. The following day-Thursday-at ten A.M.

Now that she had the appointment, she invited Abbey and Cameron-who were going to be together that evening-for dinner.

She wanted to poll them on how they thought her meeting would play out.

"He'll send you back to Bebe," Cam said, over grilled flank steak, a cut of beef Magnolia had learned that she couldn't destroy. As soon as he said it, Magnolia discounted his opinion, which she realized was more inspired by contempt toward Raven than his usual reliable logic.

Cam had just spent the last ten minutes mimicking his new boss in a tweedy accent. "h.e.l.l of a bother to make the changes from those fact checking cows," he'd quoted Raven as saying. "They seem to think readers give a d.a.m.n whether the magazine is true. You've got scads too many people here anyway-in London we get a magazine out with half."

Abbey weighed in with "Jock? Admit he's wrong? No chance."

Magnolia reminded herself that Abbey was an outsider, unaware that far more curious developments took place regularly in the magazine industry; just last year a publisher bit a subordinate's nose; after an out-of-court settlement, the guy received a promotion and a raise.

"Maybe Jock has actual work for you," Abbey suggested. "Make you sweat for your paycheck." She decided Abbey was right. Jock prob ably wanted to hand her an endless, truly mind-numbing project- a.n.a.lyzing why Scary's postage costs were through the roof, let's say, which would require her to create enough Excel spread sheets to wall paper her whole apartment before she blew her brains out.

At five minutes before ten on Thursday, Elvira phoned to say Jock had been delayed and moved the meeting to eleven, then two, then 4:30, and ultimately to the next morning at ten. With each postpone ment, Magnolia felt increasingly like a force was at work to wring away every last drop of her composure, but when she walked into Jock's office, she faked a cheery smile-which he didn't return, motioning her to close the door. Magnolia sat in one of the armless chairs, facing him. He cleared his throat.

"Magnolia, I've reconsidered," he said.

"Really?" Relief surged through her like a current.

"Yes," he said, his face bleached of expression. "I've decided that with regard to the corporate editor position, we will go in another direction."

"What direction is that, Jock?" she asked. This time her smile wasn't entirely faked, though she did pray that the direction not lead to Excel spreadsheets.

He hesitated. "We will eliminate the position," he said.

"I see," Magnolia said, restraining herself from shooting Jock a high five. She wanted to get to the next bounce, when Jock would tell her-perhaps garnished with a compliment-either that she was headed back to Bebe because Bebe herself had demanded it, or that she would take on some sort of complex a.s.signment that would make use of her unique talents.

"This hasn't been an easy decision," he added.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Magnolia thought. Of course, it's hard-because he has to admit he's made a mistake-taking me off Bebe, even in starting the magazine in the first place, and not letting me renovate Lady. But does he think it's been a stroll on the beach to play the role of company loser? Let's get moving here, on to dessert.

"I respect that, Jock," Magnolia said, the only thing she could think of to say.

"Thank you, Magnolia," Jock said. "You're taking this well."

What an odd remark, Magnolia thought. What other way was there to take it? Does he actually think I'm going to miss being a corporate editor who does nothing?

She heard someone tapping softly at the door. Through the gla.s.s wall, Magnolia could see a man who worked at the other end of the executive floor. She remembered him as the dancing fool at the last Christmas party. Jock motioned for him to enter. "Howard from Human Resources will explain everything you need to know," Jock said, as the man stood and stretched out his hand to shake Magnolia's. He wore a suit fit for an undertaker and an expression to match. Magnolia took it in and looked back to Jock.

Her stomach lurched. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Please don't make this difficult," Jock said.

"But, but," she sputtered, "what about my return to Bebe?" "Excuse me?" Jock answered, and it was fair to say he snarled.

"Bebe . . ." Magnolia said. "She wants me to-"

Jock interrupted her. "That decision is mine and mine alone," he said, his voice rising. "Not Bebe Blake's. It's in the agreement she apparently never took the time to read. If that woman wanted to veto having Raven replace you, she had her chance months ago."

Whenever someone referred to that woman, Magnolia knew it wasn't good. A minute pa.s.sed, or it could have been five. "Are you telling me I'm f-f-fired?" she asked, never remembering having stut tered in her whole life.

"No one is being 'fired,' " said the human resources representative, who had never sat down. "Your position is being e-lim-i-na-ted." He enunciated the word as if he were a speech therapist.

Magnolia's brain didn't seem connected to her mouth, if it had been connected at all for the last five minutes. "What are you saying?"

Jock and the HR heavy exchanged a glance. Magnolia now realized the reason she'd never had much contact with this man was because his primary job must be to show employees the door. When a com pany appoints fire marshals, is this what they mean?

"I think we're finished here," Jock said, evenly enough, though the look on his face read Please, remove the dead rat from my rug. "Let's not make this any more painful than it has to be."

Painful for whom, Magnolia wondered. Why did people who gave subordinates a pink slip suggest that the hurt was mutual? If her eyes had bullets, the men in the room would be on their way to the morgue.

When they were fired, some employees, Magnolia suspected, burst into tears or ran to the bathroom to vomit. Those must be people who could identify their emotions; she, however, didn't have a nerve end ing in her body. All Magnolia could do was stand and meekly follow Howard-from-h.e.l.l into the hall.

"Magnolia, don't worry," Howard said in a there-there-now-dear voice. "Someone will pack up your office. We'll send everything to your apartment. You can come to my office now-I'll explain your severance and you can sign off on the paperwork." He placed his hand on Magnolia's arm.

Magnolia shook it off. She stared at the man's moving mouth with its thin, colorless lips, and she began to come alive. Does he actually believe he's making this easier by telling me to get the h.e.l.l out, she wondered? That packing my office is my highest concern? That I want my apartment littered with the residue of the last sixteen years of my work life? Does he think I plan to steal toilet paper, dozens of little green Post-it pads, a file cabinet of circulation records, perhaps.

Was this Howard going to whistle for a police escort?

Magnolia straightened her shoulders and activated her voice to TAKE CHARGE mode. She'd be d.a.m.ned if, from this second on, anyone else at Scary would see her sweat or flinch or shed a tear.

"Howard, I think not," Magnolia said. "Those papers? I'll let you know my plans about them next week." She walked away before Howard could answer.

Magnolia returned to her office. She locked the door, blasted a rock station on her radio, and howled. It was a primal scream of rage, of frustration, of pain. d.a.m.n that spoiled pig Bebe for ever having con vinced Jock that her magazine deserved to exist. d.a.m.n that loud mouth Darlene for leading Bebe's charge and, most likely, working behind the scenes to a.s.sa.s.sinate her. d.a.m.n every boneheaded cretin at Scary for killing off Lady instead of letting her transform it into something special.

Magnolia moved to the next level of d.a.m.nation-cursing herself for ever having got into such a vulnerable position, and for being deluded enough even as recently as ten minutes before in Jock's office to imagine her situation would improve. Instead of standing like a turkey in a s.h.i.t storm, she should have had the guts to walk away from the money and quit months ago, to have already reinvented her self as a movie producer or the writer of a beach book.

But, mostly, d.a.m.n Jock, for taking away the work she excelled at and adored. For coming on to her as if she were a happy little ho.

d.a.m.n Jock for having the power to yank out her heart. d.a.m.n d.a.m.n d.a.m.n d.a.m.n that a.s.shole Jock.

Magnolia gasped, then laughed. She'd screamed for minutes and no one had even noticed. That's how important she wasn't.

She quickly changed her voice mail to give callers her cell phone number, sent out a ma.s.s e-mail to a select group of friends, and threw her BlackBerry into her bag. Magnolia took a look around her office, which she was still waiting for Scary to repaint even though she had moved in two months ago. I'm not going to miss this pit, she thought.

Let the evil elves from Human Resources pack her.

She phoned Cameron.

"You're taking the afternoon off," she said. "I'm calling Abbey, and both of you are going to get me more drunk than I have ever been.

Just name the place and don't ask why. I have only one requirement.

Pick something obscenely expensive. Scary is paying-with your expense account. "

Cameron didn't skip a beat.

"The lounge at the Four Seasons?" Magnolia repeated, slipping into her coat. "Total rip-off. I love it. Meet you downstairs in five minutes."

Chapter 2 9.

A Persistent Vegetative State.

Magnolia awoke on Monday, and, with no compelling reason to get up in the cold, dim dawn, listened to the debate in her head. A kindly social worker's voice tried to soothe her back to sleep.

"The dogs can wait," the voice said.

"Rise and shine, Missy," barked Drill Sergeant Haul a.s.s. "Run four miles. Blow your hair. Put on makeup. Dress up. Everyone hates a sloth."

"Ignore her," whispered the social worker, who had the voice of a yoga teacher. "Be good to yourself."

"Up, up," said Haul a.s.s. "Read your newspapers. Do a crossword.

Rewrite your resume. Sign up for Habitat for Humanity. Network.

Visit a shut-in. Learn a language. . . ."

As the commands echoed, Magnolia buried her face in a pillow.

Inertia sealed her eyelids and m.u.f.fled any urge she might have had to mumble so much as a word. Suspended where disinterest meets disbe lief, she surrendered to a lethargy one degree too tense to be called slumber.

As a four-year-old, Magnolia was the itty-bitty grandstander who relentlessly waved her hand in front of the nursery school teacher so she could explain "hibernation." At this moment her heartfelt wish was for just that, to sleep off the winter, emerging to a brighter spring. If the HR sherpa had wanted to be truly helpful, he might have tossed her a manual on how to get through the day, the following week, and who-knows-how-many months stretching before her. Mag nolia felt better equipped to complete a long-form tax return than to figure out what to do next. And she suspected the tax return might be more interesting.

Minutes before ten o'clock, Lola began licking her face. She's prob ably afraid I'm dead, Magnolia realized. She placed both feet on the plush carpeting-and felt them sink into a warm spot of pee.

"Yech," she said, "Sorry, guys-won't happen again." She threw on a coat, stuffed her dirty hair under a hat, and found the leashes, which she'd dropped by the front door when she'd staggered in at midnight from Abbey's. On Broadway, she paused at the newsstand.

Biggie pulled to keep moving, and she obliged. Perhaps the dogs intu itively knew she should avoid buying today's newspapers on the chance that media reporters had used their column inches as a.s.sault weapons aimed in her direction.

She had read one item about herself, on Sat.u.r.day. One was enough.

"Magnolia Gold has left her post at Scarborough Magazines for per sonal reasons." She wondered why any company thought they did you a favor by sending out a press release announcing you'd left for "per sonal reasons"? Short of their believing someone had contracted a life-threatening disease, did people suspect the personal reason was anything other than the minor detail of no longer having a job? Did readers imagine a more nuanced tale? She really, really wanted to get to know her cousins. She decided to go ahead with the s.e.x change.

The sidewalks were dense with strangers-senior citizens, nannies pushing strollers, the occasional person in sleek business clothes rush ing, perhaps late for a therapy appointment. She had no idea that dur ing the workweek the Upper West Side was such a beehive of activity.

"Playing hooky?" Manuel, the doorman, asked with a wink as Big gie and Lola stopped for their treats at his concierge desk. Ever since the evening with Tyler, Manuel seemed to think she and he were ami gos. Would she need to come up with a story to explain her current life? "Got canned?" "Between jobs?" She worked up to "have a new schedule" and kept walking toward the elevator. Magnolia did not want to become one of those women whose best friend was the door man.

Upstairs, she brewed a pot of coffee and logged on to her laptop.

The day before and the day before that, she hadn't been willing to face her e-mail. She didn't know what she feared more, a tragically small number of messages from it's-not-enough-that-I-succeed you've-got-to-fail acquaintances-or an avalanche. She didn't care what other people thought. Except when she did. Like, she had to admit, now.

"You've got mail," the friendliest voice she'd heard that day announced. Yes, she did-from scarborough.com, condenast.com, hearst.com, timeinc.com, meredith.com, and every other magazine company where she'd had lunch buddies and former colleagues.

Clearly, the departing missive she'd hastily drafted had bounced all over town. There were fifty-two messages, divided almost evenly between sermon-spewers and the sympathetically b.i.t.c.hy, who real ized that there but for the grace of G.o.d went they.

Group One apparently believed losing your job is a blessing in dis guise; these things are always for the best; if life gives you lemons, make lemonade; one day Magnolia was going to thank herself for this happening; and-her favorite-when one window closes, another opens. What was she supposed to do, jump through it?

She noticed such wisdom tended to come from editors and publish ers who'd rolled through life on a tide of professional good luck they'd grown to mistake for a birthright-though a few of the bromides were from less fortunate souls who simply appeared to have bought into their own magazines' spiritual p.o.r.n and psychobabble.

Maybe the people who sent these words meant well, she reminded herself; they didn't have to write at all. But their lectures left a bitter aftertaste-the suggestion that nothing professionally rotten had happened and she should put her setback in perspective. Magnolia knew that's exactly what she would do-when she was good and ready, dammit-and she didn't need to get a push from editors still ruling tiny sovereign states. Magnolia saved these glad tidings for a later response, along with those from the busier-than-thou's who suggested getting together for lunch-several months later, a.s.suming their insane calendars ever allowed an opening.

She far preferred dear, sweet Group Two. Every one of their touch ing communiques was poetry.

What the f.u.c.k happened?

Begin SSRI Rx ASAP.

This totally sucks.

Raw deal.

Which b.i.t.c.h is responsible? Bebe or Darlene?

Tell me the backstory.

Call! Any hour.

You've been robbed.

This happened to me, several times, and you couldn't get me out of bed for weeks.

Don't get mad-get even and, her favorite, a medley on the theme of Jock: Did a bigger jerk ever roam the earth?