Little Pink Slips Part 30

"But these are extraordinary circ.u.mstances," Bebe said. "d.a.m.n.

Hang on. Another call."

The pause gave Magnolia a chance to savor the moment. Even if she hadn't been fired by Scary and wasn't disputing her sever ance, this wouldn't be the burning building she'd pick to run back into.

"It's my agent," Bebe said. "Good Morning America and Today are fighting over me for tomorrow morning, and tonight I'm doing Larry King and Letterman. No time to fly to L.A. for Leno. Rats." She clicked off.

Magnolia dialed another number.

"Cameron," she said, leaving a message. "Want to come over tonight for Larry King and Letterman? Bring Abbey. Bring the world. I'm celebrating."

"Where's Abbey?" Magnolia asked Cameron as he walked through her door. He kissed her on the cheek, hung his overcoat in the closet, and in a few giant steps made himself at home in front of her television.

"Wouldn't know," he said, flipping channels till he found Larry King Live. "Abbey and I had the let's-be-friends talk."

"Sorry to hear that," Magnolia said. And surprised, since Abbey hadn't returned her last two calls.

"Don't be. Some Frenchman she met's in town. Frankly, I'm relieved. I'd been rehearsing the same speech for weeks. She's sweet, Abbey. I didn't know how to put it to her."

Magnolia fixed Cam with a long, quizzical stare, searching for a sign that Abbey's rejection had wounded his heart or at least stung his pride. She had an impulse to push up the gla.s.ses that had slipped down his nose, but the Continental Divide of boss-employee relations wouldn't close, despite the fact that they hadn't worked together for months.

"What?" he said. "Really, it's over. Finito. Abbey's great, but there was zero chemistry. Not enough meat on her bones. And not only do I not know a radiant cut from a rat's a.s.s, I don't want to know."

In truth, everything about the way Cam's lanky, blue-jean-clad legs stretched in front of him looked relaxed as a breeze. Magnolia shrugged and walked into her kitchen.

"There she is," he shouted as she pulled two beers out of her refrigerator to accompany the chips she'd put on a tray. "White bel uga sighting! Gold, get in here."

So now she was Gold. Magnolia bolted to the TV. For her appearance, Bebe had chosen a bustier, form-fitting jeans, and go-go boots, all in Clorox white.

"I guess this is her idea of a virginal look," Magnolia said. "Drive home the old 'If you think I'm a dominatrix, think again' message."

Bebe leaned toward Larry King, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pouring over her bodice, and beamed a smile that stopped short of her eyes.

"Bebe, when you started your magazine, did you ever think it would be this hard?" Larry asked her.

In the second that Bebe hesitated, Magnolia could sense this wasn't the question she had expected. "Hard, Larry?" she said. "We're start ing this out by talking about who's hard?" She let loose her boisterous cackle.

Larry smiled slightly. "Seriously, every year almost a thousand magazines launch," he said. "Naked Dachshunds and yours were just two last year. Anyone who can start a fire, it seems, can start a maga zine, and usually all that happens is they burn a lot of money. Most new magazines fail."

Larry did like to hear himself talk.

"How much money has Bebe burned?" he finally asked. "He's a meanie tonight," Magnolia said.

"Just jerking her chain," Cameron said.

"Larry, honey, n.o.body said putting out a good magazine is gonna be cheap," Bebe countered, her smile vanished. "I'm not about cheap. Bebe will cost what it costs. It's my magazine."

"Sort of," Magnolia said, imagining Jock's blood pressure soaring as he watched the interchange. He was probably pulling up his copy of their partnership agreement this very instant and exercising every four-letter word he knew. Magnolia turned to Cameron. "You're the managing editor-how over-the-top are her costs?"

Cameron rolled his eyes and waved his hand above his head but shushed Magnolia so he could fixate on Bebe, who'd moved to a vigor ous defense of Felicity's right to whip anyone she felt like in the pri vacy of a boudoir.

"You and I can agree on that, Bebe," Larry said, "but will your readers? They're a conservative crowd. Won't they feel Miss Dingle is an abomination?"

As the censors bleeped out Bebe's response, Larry turned straight to the camera. "On that subject, I wonder what tonight's other guest has to say? Dr. Laura Schlessinger, are you standing by in Los Ange les?" The camera panned back to Bebe in time to catch the fury con torting her face. Had she been unaware that a virtue-hawk was the other guest? Bebe dipped into her decollete, fished out her mike, and-making a clatter-stood.

"Bebe," Larry said. "Where you headed, girl?"

"Outta here, my friend," Bebe snapped. "It's been a pleasure, but I know a setup when I see it."

"C'mon, Bebe," Larry said. "Let's calm down."

"Let's not," she said.

"Bebe, you're a talk show host yourself-you know this is just . . . television," Larry said, shaking his head. But Bebe had already stomped off.

Cameron and Magnolia stared at the screen. "Did we just see what we just saw?" she asked.

"Career annihilation in the making?" Cameron said. "Thought our Bebe was a cooler cuc.u.mber."

"Jock must actually be getting to her," Magnolia said. "Can't wait to see how she's going to handle Letterman."

Cameron looked at his watch. "Wish I could stay but," he said, "gotta write."

"How's that book coming?" Magnolia asked. As far as she knew, Cameron had been writing the same book for the full four years she had known him. Although maybe he already had a best seller or two under a pseudonym. Maybe even a series. That's how little he men tioned this side of his literary life.

"On the home stretch. My agent e-mails me every day to make sure I don't have a minute's fun."

"What's the book about?" Magnolia asked coyly, as she had many times before. Cameron just laughed and gave her an amused look.

"Can you at least tell me what kind of novel it is? Mystery?

Thriller?"

"None of the above," he said.

"You're writing chick lit! G.o.d knows you could, working at a women's magazine. No, I've got it. You're doing male chick lit. Yes!

d.i.c.k lit!"

"Pardon me, Ms. Gold," Cameron said in an imperious tone, "but even if all gentlemen do is reflect on their tiny p.e.n.i.ses and ample love handles, what we write are called books. Got that? Literature. Even if the t.i.tle is The Unibrow Diaries."

"The Devil Wears Tighty Whiteys?"

"He always does," he said. With that, he gave her an unexpectedly huge hug, grabbed his jacket, and left.

Magnolia walked back to her TV. Since her one and only current job prospect was Voyeur over at Fancy, she'd decided she needed to steep herself in pop culture and had been TiVo-ing every celebrity program, cable and network. The chuga-chuga-chuga of celebrity's gossip train was roaring through her brain. She might know diddly squat about what river flows from the Allegheny and the Mononga hela, or take a day to recall the name of the newest Supreme Court justice, but she'd developed an encyclopedic knowledge of whose cel lulite was the most cottage cheesy, which bride in a Vera w.a.n.g gown was a lipstick lesbian, and what name of which star was caught in flagrante delicto with his personal chef. Ask her anything, and Mag nolia could lob back the answer faster than you could spit the word "spin." She wasn't proud of this ability, but she knew it might eventu ally pay her way.

Besides, celebrity shows pa.s.sed the time, and when she became utterly brain-dead, there was always Jewels of Vegas. Magnolia had just bought her mother a pink sapphire and amethyst ring for only $139 (there were only ten available-she had to act fast) when she decided to catch a tiny catnap so she could stay awake for Letterman. She opened her eyes at what seemed like ten minutes later, but Dave was already finishing his "top ten" list.

"And the number one reason why no one should ever start her own magazine," Dave said, "is that the swimsuit issue of Naked Dachshunds may outsell you." To applause, he held up a cover featuring a pregnant dachshund posing with her belly proudly displayed like Demi Moore on Vanity Fair. "And now, welcome our next guest, my very good friend Bebe Blake."

Bebe had changed out of her dress whites. In solidarity with seri ous editors, she'd switched to black. Feathers, however, engulfed her.

She looked like Big Bird in mourning.

"Dave, you're not going to ambush me, are you?" Bebe said, twin kling a laugh.

"Bebe, wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"Would you mind if a friend joined me?" she said, smoothing her feathers as she sat with a thunk on the couch.

"Not a dachshund, is it?" he said. "No stupid pet tricks tonight."

"It's my dear colleague, Felicity Dingle," Bebe said. Felicity walked out, carrying her infamous leather satchel. "In case you need to be whipped into shape." Dave and the audience joined her in a roar of laughter. The three of them chattered, every remark as sweet as cherry pie, even a long yak that contrasted s.e.xual habits of Americans to those in the UK.

Magnolia was getting ready to turn off the show, when Dave turned to Felicity, "Bebe seems content, doesn't she? True, Bebe?" he added.

"I am-now," she answered, a grin splitting her face.

"How's that?" he said.

"Now that I'm quitting the magazine," she said, looking entirely pleased with herself. She opened Felicity's satchel and pulled out at least a dozen copies of Bebe, which she dropped on the floor, then punted off the set. "I made my decision earlier today. I don't know what happened to freedom of the press, among other freedoms, but no one's going to tell me what to put on the cover of my own maga zine, or who to hire to run it. I can't put up with any more abuse and interference. You heard it here. My magazine is history."

Dave's eyebrows went up. "Now, Bebe-say it ain't so. Bebe's a mere babe, and you're no quitter."

"If something's not working, don't drag it out. I've been married twice and when the relationships stopped working, I moved on. Men, magazines-all the same. Ciao. Adios. Life's too short for aggrava tion."

"Haven't you been having fun, Bebe?" Dave said. "And that gun cover-well, you were making quite a statement." He held up the gun cover issue, which had been conveniently placed on his desk.

"Do I have to spell it out, Dave?" Bebe said. "I quit. Q-U-I-T. Scar borough Magazines can take their magazine and put it where the sun don't shine."

"Oooh, harsh, Bebe. Harsh." Dave said, then looked into the cam era. "Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. How about it?

Bebe Blake calling it quits to her beloved magazine. It will be dearly missed. Especially among gun lovers. It's bye-bye, Bebe, bye-bye. Or shall we say bang-bang, Bebe, bang-bang?"

The next thing Magnolia knew, a car commercial replaced David Letterman's face. Magnolia immediately called Cameron, but his line was busy-because he was dialing her cell.

"Didn't I say that Bebe was going to quit tonight?" Magnolia asked. "I knew it!"

"No," Cameron said. "You didn't say it, and you didn't know it."

"But I was thinking it," Magnolia said. "I swear."

"I don't even want to imagine what goes on in that brain of yours, Magnolia," Cameron said. "Anyway, it's probably Bebe's idea of a publicity stunt. Make Jock sweat and beg to take her back on her terms."

It occurred to Magnolia that what he said made sense-and that she'd just displayed the sensitivity of a tank. If Bebe quit, Cam would be out of a job. She better back down. "Thanks for stopping by this evening," she said. "You're definitely right, as always."

"Pleasure's all mine," he said. "And, you know, I was wondering . . ."

The phone indicated another call. "Could you hold on, Cam? Just a second . . ."

"Surprised?" Bebe said.

"Nothing surprises me anymore," Magnolia answered. "But why now?"

"Jock, Raven, Darlene, bunch of losers," Bebe said. "Who needs this s.h.i.t? n.o.body tells Bebe Blake what to do. I hope they'll have fun putting out The Magazine Formerly Known as Bebe."

"Bebe, if you weren't serious about the magazine, why did you start it?" Magnolia said. And bomb my life?

But Bebe didn't answer. She had already hung up. Magnolia went out to walk her dogs and, when she returned, promptly fell asleep.

Only the next morning did she remember she'd never got back to Cameron.

Chapter 3 6.

It's a Hard-Knock Life.

"My name is Magnolia," she began, stepping into the inferno of a crowded subway car in July. "I know you hate people interrupting your morning, but I just need a moment." Most of the commuters resolutely read religious tracts, swayed to their music, or looked through her, their goal to avoid eye contact-and, if possible, skin contact-with fellow pa.s.sengers. "A short time ago, I had a good job and benefits. Now I'm homeless.

"I don't rob. I don't steal. I don't do drugs." Technically true, if you discounted the occasional joint at parties. "If you could find it in your heart to help me-money, food, whatever-anything will be appreci ated." She walked the length of the car, her Tod's tote open. "Just thinkin' about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow," she sang in her wobbly voice with its five-note range. One man yelled, "Put a lid on it," but as Magnolia hit "I love ya tomorrow-you're always a day away," a woman opened her own Tod's bag and tossed a half-eaten box of Good & Plenty into Magnolia's bag.

"Good luck," the woman said with deep sincerity as she squeezed Magnolia's hand, her manicure impeccable in contrast to Magnolia's own ragged nail stubs. Magnolia kicked off her heavy comforter and woke in a puddle of sweat, her heart throbbing like percussion at the MTV music video awards. d.a.m.n-she shouldn't have visited that storefront psychic yesterday, but its handout beckoned: "Are you depressed, anxious, los ing peace of mind?" All of the above, she decided. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This gifted European spiritual adviser will remove nega tive energy and help you achieve inner serenity." The next thing Magnolia knew, Svetlana of West Seventy-eighth Street was predict ing "a dazzling future" but warning her, as she chewed what Magno lia hoped was gum and not tobacco, to "not keep repeating mistakes and put what happened yesterday behind you."

Which psychic phenomenon from yesterday? Svetlana didn't specify. Bebe abandoning Bebe? How could this touch her now that she was unemployed and possibly unemployable? Two months had pa.s.sed, and while she'd been feted at breakfasts, lunches, and c.o.c.ktail hours, all that happened was that she'd listened to no fewer than twenty-seven editors b.i.t.c.h about their own work. Despite a five-pound weight gain, after each date Magnolia felt a little emptier, exactly the emotion she experienced handing the gifted Svetlana twenty bucks.

Svetlana may have exorcized energy all right. Magnolia collapsed that night at 8:30. Now she stumbled into her shower and washed away the dream. As she was getting ready to scrub off yesterday's mascara as well, her phone rang.

"Magnolia, she who snoozes loses," Wally crooned. "Pick up, my princess."

She rushed, dripping, to the phone she'd left on the sink.

"Wally, I've been hoping to hear from you," she said. For the last six weeks, her case had progressed in slow motion, keeping pace with the rest of her life. Wally split a hair. Scary split another. Every few days he sent her an e-mail reporting that little had developed. Twice Magnolia had been ready to ditch the whole exercise, but "This is how lawyers show how big their d.i.c.ks are," Wally insisted. "When the schmucks at your old company make a dumb-a.s.s move, I just laugh, let it sit for a few days, then go back for more. Not to worry." If her dream was a barometer, however, she was worrying. "Any developments on my case?" she asked.

"Tell you in person, kiddo. Can you be in my office in, say, an hour?" he asked. "I'm leaving this afternoon for Aspen with Whitney and the kids, but you and I gotta talk."

"Good news?"

"Is my name not Wally Fleigelman?" he responded. Unfortu nately, it was.

"See you soon," she said.

For their ten o'clock meeting, Wally had ordered breakfast. He carefully prepared a bagel for her, smearing it with chive cream cheese, adding two glistening slices of Nova Scotia salmon, and top ping it with a thick slab of Bermuda onion.