Little Pink Slips Part 25

"You're right," she said. "I agree. There has been a 'misunderstanding.' " Magnolia repeated the winking finger gesture. She stood.

"I'm not going to sign these. Now, if I may have those papers, please?"

"Magnolia, you've already taken almost a week to meet with me,"

Howard said, his patience having sprung a leak.

"Howard, I believe we're going to go in another direction here."

She put out her hand. "Those papers?"

Howard handed them to Magnolia, who wandered into the hall, up the elevator, and out of Scary. She started walking blindly in the brac ing cold until she found herself at the Starbucks she'd avoided since her blowup here with Harry. As she sat down, tears detonated.

Who could she call? Her professional support team consisted of a manicurist, a dog walker, a cleaning woman, Cam, and Abbey. The attorney who'd negotiated her Lady contract almost three years before was inconveniently incarcerated. The city was crawling with lawyers-that balding fellow at the next table, so engrossed in his phone conversation he didn't notice she'd come unhinged, was proba bly one. She definitely couldn't phone the environmental lawyer she'd dated two years ago. If you wanted to know about dog doo putrefying our water, he was your man, though. No, she'd need someone who could save her a.s.s.

She finished her coffee and walked uptown, drifting in and out of stores to keep warm. At 1:30, she took herself to the cafe at Saks.

Around her, pairs of glossy women chatted about mother-of-the-bride dresses and whether a five-carat ring was too-too.

Her phone rang. "Yes, I had the meeting," she told Abbey between sniffles. "Trying to stiff me out of my contract."

"Yikes, Jock's revenge," Abbey said. "You're not going to let him get away with it, are you?"

"I was just about to call one of those lawyers who advertise in the subway," Magnolia said. "1-800-SCREWED."

"Not funny," Abbey said. "What's plan B?"

"Tell me if I'm crazy," Magnolia said. "The person who keeps coming to mind to ask for help is Natalie."

"What makes you think you can trust her?" Abbey asked.

"With the bouquet she sent me-which was the most fabulous one I got, by the way-there was a note that read, 'Call me if you need help-with anything. I'm always here for you,' " Magnolia said. "I think that was code."

"Mags, I know this woman likes to find people furniture refinish ers and gastroenterologists, but she's a card-carrying Scary person.

You've lost your mind."

"You may be right," Magnolia admitted. She left Saks, walked all the way home, and reread her contract three times.

The next morning she flipped a coin, called Natalie's office, and left a message, which Natalie returned early that evening.

"Was hoping you'd call," Natalie asked. "How are you doing, Cookie?"

Natalie hated a whiner. "Pretty well," Magnolia said. "But I need some advice, and no one would know better than you."

"Love to talk, sweetie, but I've got a car downstairs and I've already kept it waiting for ten minutes," Natalie said. "Black-tie thing."

Was she saying I-can't-help-you now or I-can't-help-you-ever?

"Shall I call you tomorrow in the office?" Magnolia ventured.

"Don't think we should be talking from office phones," Natalie said.

Strike two, Magnolia thought. "But if you swing by the apartment tomorrow at five-thirty, we'll chat," Natalie suggested. "I know what you're going through."

I doubt that, Magnolia thought, thinking of Natalie's unblemished bio-Stanford, Columbia School of Journalism, perched at the top of a masthead for decades. She hated needing Natalie. But just now, she did.

"You're on," Magnolia said.

Chapter 3 1.

What About the Obvious?

Upon close inspection a visitor could see that the volumes filling the mahogany shelves of the faux library lobby leaned heavily toward obsolete medical texts and encyclopedias. Still, the Fifth Avenue co-op building spoke of wealth, decorum, and an admissions board that subliminally whispered, "Are you kidding?" to 80 percent of its applicants.

"Penthouse it is, Miss," the elevator man said. Magnolia entered the private landing, wallpapered in a tangle of roses never seen in nature, and gently tapped a bra.s.s knocker.

"Welcome, Miss Gold," said the uniformed maid Natalie had employed at least since the era when mobile phones were as big as pound cakes. "Take your coat?"

"Thanks, Imogene," Magnolia said. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," Imogene said in a Jamaican lilt as she led Mag nolia past the orchid-filled solarium. She moved so briskly, Magnolia barely got a glimpse of Natalie's newest collection, which covered the walls of a thirty-foot gallery tiled with antique limestone. When most people go to Australia, they return with kangaroo key chains. Not Natalie, who now owned at least a dozen aboriginal paintings taller than most aborigines. "What happened to the American folk art?" Magnolia asked. Not that she missed it. She could swear the eyes used to follow her from the portraits' bony faces.

"Mrs. Simon sold 'em at Sotheby's," Imogene said. Natalie must again be in a state of decorating flux, but Magnolia was glad to see that the red den, where they'd arrived, was intact. Like a quartet of plump dowagers, paisley club chairs faced the fireplace. Magnolia chose a seat nearest the hearth.

"Tea?" Imogene offered. "Cappuccino? A sherry?" The maid prod ded the logs with an iron poker, and they responded in a blazing salute. Everything and everyone at Natalie's worked efficiently.

"Tea, please," Magnolia said, warming her hands by the crackling heat.

"The missus called to say she'll be here soon-make yourself at home."

Magnolia did. When Imogene left the room, she got up to scruti nize the vacation photos, framed identically in sterling silver. In each, Natalie was dead center-her husband, Stan, and three children flank ing her. Magnolia knew many women who loved clothes, but no one liked them half as much as Natalie. On the Simons' recent Christmas trip to New Delhi, the family wore khaki-except for Natalie, a dead ringer for Princess of India Barbie in a billowing raspberry sari, matching tikka headdress, and a coordinating bindi glued to her forehead.

Magnolia sat again and began leafing through an Architectural Digest. As she took in the carefully crafted whimsy of Diane Keaton's kitchen, she heard Natalie's throaty alto echoing in the gallery.

"Magnolia," she shouted, her charm fully loaded. "Let me hang my cape and I'll be with you." By the time Magnolia had moved on to photos of a Bavarian castle, Natalie glided into the room, lit a Rigaud candle, and air kissed both of Magnolia's cheeks.

"So?" Natalie said, replacing her gray suede boots with red velvet slippers waiting by the fireplace.

"Hi, Nat," Magnolia said. "Thanks for having me over." She paused. Could this be more uncomfortable? "Anyway, without going into specifics, I need a lawyer," she said. "For my contract." "No details, huh?" Natalie said, pouting in amus.e.m.e.nt. "Let me guess. Age discrimination generally begins at forty. Are you preg nant?"

"Definitely not, but can we not get into particulars, Natalie?"

Magnolia begged. "And if this is awkward . . ."

"Stop right there," Natalie said, raising her hand like a traffic cop.

"You know better than to take me for an obedient Scary stooge."

"Yes, but I was hoping you wouldn't put me in a corner," Magnolia said. "I just need the name of a smart lawyer . . . please."

"Because your contract, obviously, was written in invisible ink,"

Natalie said, laughing. "I'm playing with you. Jock tries this every time, in one way or another. It's a game. But I'm surprised you of all people are asking whom to call. What about the obvious?"

"And that would be . . . ?" she said. "I'm coming up empty here."

"I say 'married couple'; you say . . ."

"My parents, Franny and Eliot Goldfarb."

"Try again," Natalie said. "You and me doing the Macarena together at a wedding . . ."

A smile blossomed on Natalie's face as Magnolia began to remem ber. Centerpieces as dense as a tropical rain forest. A twenty-minute rendition of "Hot Hot Hot," which the bride had specifically placed at the top of the no-play list. A lumpish best man declaring that the couple's union would last forever. The groom telling 300 reception guests he looked forward to the bride's being "a breeder."

"No!" Magnolia moaned. "Not him!"

"Why not?" Natalie asked. "Wally Fleigelman is one of the best labor lawyers in town, and I'm not saying that because he's my cousin."

"I am not using Wally," Magnolia said. "No! This is a guy who took the bar four times."

"Magnolia, you haven't kept up," Natalie said. "For the kind of mess you must be in, your ex is the gold standard."

"But we haven't spoken in years," Magnolia said, which was the least of it.

"Start," Natalie said. "Besides, if you handle yourself right, know ing Wally, he'll waive the fee." "What do you take me for?" Magnolia looked at Natalie in mock shock.

"Get your mind out of the gutter-I didn't mean that at all,"

Natalie said. "According to my aunt Joyce, he's gaga for his wife."

"The lovely Whitney Fink Fleigelman?"

"You know her?"

"I hear things." And see things, like Whitney in a lineup of blondes photographed at the Central Park Conservancy annual spring lunch, though it was hard to see her face, given the enormous, flow ered Queen Elizabeth hat.

Natalie reached for her brown lizard address book and copied Wally's number, which she pressed into Magnolia's hand as they walked to the front door.

"Thanks, Natalie," Magnolia said as Imogene magically appeared with her jacket and helped her into it.

"Anything more you want to tell me?" Natalie said mischievously as Magnolia b.u.t.toned up. "The reason why Jock would want to be an even bigger putz than usual, let's say?" An armful of Natalie's bangles jingled as she placed her hand on Magnolia's arm, "Listen," Natalie added, "I'm not Jock's type, but . . . I hear things."

Magnolia weighed Natalie's request for the fine points. "No, I'm good," she said, kissing her on both cheeks.

"Call him."

Magnolia stuffed the number in her pocket.

How do you start a conversation with a man who was your husband for a twelve-month eternity? It was 9:30 in the morning. If Wally was the Mr. Big that Natalie claimed, he'd surely be at his desk by now.

She dialed his number: 212-644-0000. "Fleigelman's," a polite voice said.

No more Fleigelman Kelly Sinatra Rodriguez and Roth? Wally must be a lone ranger now.

"Mr. Fleigelman, please." "Who may I say is calling?"

His ex-wife? An old friend? "Magnolia Gold."

"Hold, please."

A minute went by, then several, until a breathy voice came on the line.

"Mrs. Fleigelman speaking. May I help you?"

d.a.m.n that Natalie. Why did she give her Wally's home number?

Magnolia wanted to hang up, but all Wally's wife had to do was *69 her and she'd be busted. "I was looking for Wally, please. This is . . .

his first wife."

"Scarlett? Oh, excuse me. It's Melanie, isn't it?"

Magnolia did not care to guess how often she'd been the punch line of Wally and Whitney's jokes. "And you must be Tiffany," she said.

"Wally's at his office," Whitney Fleigelman said curtly. "May I know what this is in reference to?"

"Something personal. I mean, personal business. Well, really just business," she stammered. "I'll catch him another time. Sorry to bother you." She rushed off and called Abbey.

"I feel like such a twit," Magnolia said. "Natalie suggested I ask Wally for legal help-"

"Wally who?" Abbey asked.

"My starter husband," Magnolia said, pacing the room.

"Oh, Wally Finklestein," Abbey said.

"Close enough," Magnolia said. "Fleigelman."

"You were Magnolia Goldfarb Fleigelman?"

"Just barely," Magnolia said.