Little Pink Slips Part 24

These sentiments made Magnolia feel understood, and after she'd printed them out to savor, she responded to each. By the time she was finished, it was 2:30, and she'd set up fourteen breakfast, lunch, and c.o.c.ktail dates for later in the month and into the next. Her lack of work was going to run up quite a tab on the corporate credit cards of industry pals who still had them. When life gives you lemons, order a gin and tonic.

At the moment, however, she was hypercaffeinated and famished, and realized she'd eaten through anything in her kitchen she could pretend was a meal. Order in lunch at home? Pathetic. Eat alone in a restaurant? Worse. Go hungry? Unthinkable. Go shopping? That's what a grown-up would do. Magnolia started making a grocery list just as the phone rang.

"Your boxes should arrive between four and eight," an unidenti fied wonk from Human Resources announced. "And Howard needs you to come in and sign your papers tomorrow at nine or ten. Which time works for you?" Five minutes till never works for me, Magnolia thought. "I've had a dental appointment scheduled for months," she lied. "Can't make it until Thursday." That was the earliest she could picture herself walk ing through Scary's door.

"Howard's at a conference on Thursday-it'll have to be Friday.

Ten."

Magnolia entered it in her calendar. She looked at this week and the next. Emptiness loomed like a persistent vegetative state.

As she went downstairs and out the door, the sergeant's voice started up again, and trailed her to the grocery store. Carpe diem, little unemployed princess. Now that you've received this unexpected gift of time, don't blow it.

Throwing groceries into her cart, Magnolia considered the arc of her life. Every summer during high school and college she'd merrily slaved away at some sort of internship, and since then had known nothing but a buzz of work. Many of her friends prayed for something they called me-time, dreaming of pedicures and trips to Patagonia-anything for a break from kids and pleasure-sucking jobs. Why couldn't one of them have been kicked out instead of her? For Magnolia, work was first-cla.s.s fun attached to a paycheck.

She returned to her apartment, unloaded her bags of the six food groups-low-fat cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, strawberries, coffee ice cream, dark chocolate, and cashews. As she pa.s.sed by the big, gilt mir ror in her foyer, she caught a glimpse of herself and stopped for a closer look. She had a thought. This would be the perfect moment in which to disappear, let's say to Brazil, for breast implants. But she would never dare; it would be her karma to wind up profiled on Dateline with silicone dripping out of her nose.

She needed another idea. Take a course? The community center around the corner-a new building which had won architectural awards but could nonetheless be easily mistaken for a minimum secu rity prison-had recently sent a catalog. She found it stuffed between overdue bills and unopened annual reports from companies in which she hadn't realized she'd invested.

Magnolia spent forty minutes studying the community center's offerings. Who knew, just blocks away, you could enroll in "Cheese cake," "Israeli Dancing with Shmulik," and "Mah-jongg for Begin ners"? But what got Magnolia juiced was "Texas Hold 'Em." Poker chips! Free snacks! Then Magnolia read the fine print. The cla.s.s was for forties and fifties singles.

She tossed the catalog in the garbage and curled up on her couch.

What she wanted to do was . . . nothing. All the enticements that had drawn her to Manhattan, which she'd shoehorned into her frenetic schedule, suddenly seemed as appetizing as a black banana. Sample sales? For clothes to wear where? Galleries, the theater, ballet, opera, literary readings, scones with clotted cream at Lady Mendl's Tea Salon-the thought of indulging in any of them made her feel down graded from b.u.mmed out to dejected, because there it was: she didn't want to be alone. Every friend who lived in the city was busy working, and her other buddies were young matrons exiled in the burbs, busy with lactation consultants and landscape gardeners.

A man in her life might be pleased to know she could steal away on an afternoon for a long lunch, with him for dessert. But there was no man, and she shouldn't be taking the time to look for one. She should be looking for a job.

Money wasn't her instant concern-she was still under contract with Scary as editor in chief of Lady and could handle the bills for a while. But soon enough she'd need a salary, and editor-in-chief posi tions didn't pop up often. She'd need to engineer meetings, light up the room like Forty-second Street, and be meticulous about what job she took next. Wrong choice? h.e.l.lo, Has-Been.

Thinking about it all made Magnolia drowsy. If she closed her eyes, she could rouse herself in twenty minutes, shower, put on some thing other than her baggiest jeans and run to Zabar's. Sasha had just called to see if a group from Bebe could stop over after work with a bottle of wine. Magnolia would need at least some chips and salsa, and she definitely required a quickie blow-dry and Think Pink manicure.

A few minutes later-it felt like minutes, yet it was dark outside- Manuel buzzed to ask if he could send up some people who said they were from her office. Forget the blow-dry and manicure. She rushed to brush her teeth, but there was no time to change her clothes or even put on lipstick.

She opened the door. "Sign here," said a beefy messenger. "This is the first load. Where do you want 'em?" At least ten cartons as big as Bernese mountain dogs stood in the vestibule outside her door.

"Here will be fine." The delivery-which she'd forgotten about- was joined by a second load, then another. But it wouldn't be fine, see ing her work life reduced to thirty-two cartons she'd have no place to unpack. She supervised the messengers stacking the boxes in what now looked like a war memorial blocking her foyer mirror. At least she wouldn't have to look at the face of a whiny malcontent every time she walked to the kitchen.

"We're done," Mr. Muscle said. He gave her what she took as a meaningful once-over.

Is this guy coming on to me, she wondered, dressed the way I am, in a ratty Michigan sweatshirt? Then it occurred to Magnolia that he and his sidekick expected a tip. To have her apartment become a stor age bin was going to cost her thirty bucks.

The intercom buzzed again. The Bebe gang was on its way up. Ruthie, Fredericka, Sasha, and Cameron trooped through the door, throwing their coats and bags on the boxes. She let herself be con sumed by their embraces, not noticing that the door had opened again.

There was Felicity, lugging a case of beer. Bringing up the rear was Bebe, carrying numerous large pizza boxes.

"Magnolia, you look like s.h.i.t," Bebe said.

If someone had used the Heimlich maneuver, they couldn't have got Magnolia to respond.

"C'mon, don't be a hard-a.s.s," Bebe said, laughing. "I said it with love. Got a church key? Let's party like we actually like each other."

"Don't worry about a thing," Felicity said. In five minutes Felicity emerged from Magnolia's kitchen with dishes and silverware and placed them next to the pizza boxes on Magnolia's seldom used for mal mahogany table. This was testimony to the historical footnote that ten years ago, as Mrs. Wally Fleigelman, she'd impersonated a grown-up and thrown dinner parties on wedding china. The group attacked the pizza and beer.

"To the enemy of my enemy!" Bebe said by way of a toast, clicking her beer bottle with Magnolia's. "May that t.w.a.t Raven slit her throat with her own tongue."

Magnolia checked to see if the others-who had to take orders from Raven every day-were joining Bebe in the salutation. They were silent, except for Felicity's "Here, here."

Bebe went on. "h.e.l.l sized her up and took a dump in her office."

Bebe's laughter ricocheted off Magnolia's living room walls.

Bebe took another beer. "That Jock, sense of humor like a chair," she said. No argument there, Magnolia agreed. "On his birthday, I had the art department mock up our gun cover, with me pointing the pistol at him. d.a.m.n, Fredericka, why didn't you bring a copy to show Magnolia?

d.i.c.khead couldn't crack a smile. Started going off on me about how that issue sucked, stores sending it back, Darlene needing to do a little dance about it to advertisers. In my face until I walked out on him."

A phone rang to the sound of the Patridge Family singing, "I Think I Love You." Felicity fished out her cell phone and took the call.

"Gotta tottle," Felicity said. "Pressing engagement."

"You with the 'pressing engagements,' " Bebe said to Felicity.

"Always disappearing." Bebe then shouted "Beer here!" to Cam as if he were hawking drinks at Yankee Stadium.

Bebe at center stage was, Magnolia realized, strangely relaxing.

She felt like a throw pillow in her own living room and didn't even have to open her mouth. The others chimed in from time to time, but it was Bebe's show.

Magnolia wondered why she had come. It was too late for the two of them to become allies, if that's what the star wanted, and she doubted that Bebe genuinely liked or cared about her. Someone must have told her that it was good form to bond with your staff, and per haps that's what the woman thought she was doing.

By eleven, one by one, Sasha, Cameron, Ruthie, and Fredericka peeled off, with the refuse from dinner bagged and ready to dump in the garbage. Only Bebe was left, downing the last beer. "Nice place you've got here," she said to Magnolia, as if just notic ing the surroundings. "Not what I would have pictured."

"Really?" Magnolia asked. "How did you see me living?"

"Truthfully?" Bebe asked. "Never thought about it." Her big laugh boomed again. "Hey, where's your john?" she asked. Magnolia pointed her toward the white marble powder room off the foyer.

When Bebe emerged, Magnolia was glad to see her put on her coat.

"So, Magnolia, about the magazine?" Bebe asked on her way out.

"Yes, Bebe?" Why doesn't she just go home and Google herself for entertainment, Magnolia wondered.

"Give me your esteemed opinion," Bebe said in a surprisingly seri ous voice. "Should I cut my losses and pull out?"

"Of the magazine?"

"No, Iraq," Bebe said. "Of course, the magazine."

Was it the beer talking? From what Magnolia knew of the partner ship with Scary, both parties were obligated for a lot longer than six months.

"If you do that, aren't there consequences?" Magnolia asked.

"Consequences?" Bebe said. "Honey, that's what lawyers are for."

"You know what I admire about you, Bebe-you're a risk taker,"

Magnolia said, thinking out loud. When she was involved in the mag azine herself, Bebe's risks seemed inane, but, now, who was going to be hurt by them-Jock? Darlene? Magnolia had a glimmer of guilt when she considered that the Bebe staff would suffer from Bebe's missteps, but they were talented and versatile; she knew that if they floated their resumes, they'd be snapped up by other editors. "Hon estly, I think you should take on more of the hot-b.u.t.ton issues, Bebe,"

Magnolia said, her conviction growing. "The more controversial, the better. Let's think. How about gay marriage?" She had no idea where Bebe stood on the subject. It didn't matter. No matter her position, it would alienate half the country-and give Jock a coronary.

"Interesting," Bebe said. "Very interesting. It's my magazine. Why not get political? I could start endorsing candidates in my editor's letter."

"Now you're talking," Magnolia said.

"Or run for office myself."

"Yes!"

"Hey, I've got it," Bebe said. "Abortion. We'll do a special abortion issue." She high-fived Magnolia.

"Love it," Magnolia said. "It's genius, Bebe, genius." Could she think of one advertiser who would want to be in any magazine's spe cial abortion issue? She could not. If Magnolia was lucky, there would be picketers outside Scary. Maybe a televised riot and a Michael Moore doc.u.mentary.

"This was a hoot," Bebe said as the elevator door closed behind her.

"Why weren't you this much fun when we worked together?"

Chapter 3 0.

An Offending Prepositional Phrase.

Magnolia had never visited the Human Resources department. In the past, HR always came to her. She wandered through Scary's bas.e.m.e.nt and finally found Howard's pocket-sized office, where his a.s.sistant asked her to wait. Magnolia stared at a closed folder labeled with her name, hire date, and fire date. She was about to peek inside, when Howard entered and shook her hand with his clammy palm.

"Before we sign off on papers," he said without preamble, taking his chair, which was upholstered in purple squiggles, "it's customary to conduct an exit interview." Squarely in front of her, Howard placed a clipboard with a long, printed checklist. He cleared his throat.

"Overall, Magnolia, how would you rate your experience here at Scar borough?" he read aloud.

"Would that be before or after?" Magnolia asked.

"Before or after?" Howard asked.

"Before or after Lady?" Magnolia asked. "Before or after Bebe Blake and Bebe? Before or after my corporate editor job?" She could hear her voice rising. "Before or after I got axed?"

Howard scribbled on the page. Probably identifying me as ready to go postal, Magnolia thought. "Start wherever you wish," Howard said.

"Being recruited as editor in chief of Lady was . . . terrific," she said, remembering the gigawatt glamour of being courted and cos seted for months-the counteroffer from her existing job that Scary topped, the breathless press release announcing her hire, and the veddy-veddy proper reception in her honor at Le Cirque. "I was thrilled to join this company. Everything after Lady . . ."

"Yes?" Howard prompted.

Should she say "sucked"? ". . . was less satisfying," Magnolia answered.

"Do you care to elaborate?" Howard asked.

"No," she said.

He raised one eyebrow. "Then on to the next question," he said, wearing the look of an ambulance technician trained to deal with trauma victims. "How would you describe Jock Flanagan, your super visor here at Scarborough Magazines?"

"Aggressive," Magnolia said, after a split second's thought.

"Do you care to elaborate?" he asked.

Should she kick it up a notch? Magnolia settled on "inappropriate behavior," letting her fingers wink as quotations marks.

Howard raised both eyebrows and peered at Magnolia as if he were trying to imagine her naked-although maybe he was simply deter mining if she was an employee with a legitimate claim or a feminist who interpreted every innocent cheek peck as foreplay, and trying to recall a seminar he'd taken on how to know the difference.

"Care to elaborate?" Howard said.

"No," Magnolia said. "I don't."

"Nothing more you want to share?" This was like the moment in your appointment where the kindly gynecologist gives you the chance to reveal that your boyfriend is a drooling beast. But Magnolia couldn't see the point of screaming hara.s.sment now, when Jock would surely deny it, and she was already fired.

"Can we cut to the chase, please, and get to that?" Magnolia pointed to the bulging Magnolia Gold obituary folder. "As you wish," Howard said, jotting a few notes on her form and putting it aside. "You have been a well-respected member of the Scar borough team," he recited. Magnolia wouldn't disagree. "In recogni tion of the contribution you've made here for the last few years, as well as your standing within the magazine community, Scarborough's board, under Jock's direction, has decided to give you more severance than you would, according to the employee guidelines, normally be accorded." Howard smiled beneficently.

Magnolia felt her heart beat a little faster. Jock must be feeling ter rified, guilty, or both.

"We will double your severance," he said.

Her contract was good until the end of the year, and it was only January. She expected the silver lining of those eleven months' wages.

But double! Almost two years. Holy c.r.a.p, this was delicious. Her mind raced. She could postpone job hunting for at least six months and travel-take her parents to Israel maybe, and then see the Pyra mids, and Turkey. She could finally visit Australia, then rent a flat in Paris. Magnolia pictured herself sitting at an outdoor cafe, wear ing something by that dreamy Nicolas guy of Balenciaga. She'd pa.s.s the morning in the Musee d'Orsay and the afternoons lost in a novel-a French novel, because she'd have gone to Berlitz. Two years!

"So, if you'll sign off here," Howard said, opening the folder and offering Magnolia a pen.

Several pages of boilerplate stretched in front of her. Whereas, yada, yada, yada, herewith, blah, blah, blah, hereafter, in consideration of the payments and ent.i.tlements . . . therein her employment relationship with Scarborough Magazines, thereinunder . . . the ter mination of that relationship . . .

Whatever. Magnolia flipped to the final page. Gold shall receive monies equal to one month's employment.

Her brain flashed does not compute. Magnolia slowed down, and reread the last clause. A month? The words stood out like a tattoo.

"Excuse me, there's a typo," Magnolia said. She pointed to the of fending prepositional phrase. "You said a minute ago that my payment would be doubled. I have a contract until the end of the year. So it comes to about two years, not a month."

Howard looked at the agreement. "No, it's correct. Perhaps there's been a misunderstanding," he added. "The contract you speak of was for when you were the editor in chief of Lady. That position ceased months ago. You've been corporate editor for a short time, with no contract. There was some discussion as to whether you were even ent.i.tled to two weeks of severance, but as I said, Jock has chosen to grant you a month. Now," he said, "if you'll sign."

The purple squiggles on the upholstery of Howard's chair swam like snakes in front of Magnolia's eyes. She wanted a gla.s.s of water, oxygen, Scotch. She wanted . . . a lawyer!