Little Pink Slips Part 39

A week later, she moved into Natalie's old office, which Natalie agreed to let her redecorate-smart of Wally to ask for that, Magno lia thought, along with weekly flowers in lieu of the standard health club. Magnolia wasn't ready to give up running with Abbey.

The walls were now a whispery violet repeated on the soft, low mohair sofas that flanked the fireplace, which Magnolia had kept ablaze since Halloween. She was back to working at the same long, antique pine table-unearthed from Scary's netherworld-that she'd used at Lady. There were big windows and huge bulletin boards layered with photographs and in-progress pages from the magazine. It was a spare, calming work s.p.a.ce, which was good, since her days began before eight and ended after ten.

True to Natalie's prediction, Magnolia had been working seven days a week, including traveling at least once a month with the maga zine's publisher, Malachy Jones. They'd made sales calls in San Fran cisco, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit (twice), Boston, Houston, and London. This trip would be their first to Los Angeles.

There were two aspects of travel with Malachy Jones that Magno lia particularly appreciated. The first was that in every city he seemed to have a boyfriend, which meant her evenings always ended by nine.

The second: he wasn't Darlene Knudson; he was quiet and thoughtful.

What had become of Darlene since the firing, n.o.body was certain.

Some said she and Jock were selling condos in Queens, which they were marketing as "the new downtown." Others declared that Dar lene had launched a tween girls' clothing line with prices starting at a thousand dollars.

Almost every day at Dazzle brought the rush of New Year's Eve, minus the champagne. Magnolia had more than kept up her end of the bargain. The magazine wasn't just Scary's queen breadwinner- newsstand, subscriptions, and ads were all soaring. There were two good reasons why. First, a long overdue redesign by Fredericka. The second, Magnolia's secret weapon, Sasha.

"Do you want to work for me again?" she'd asked Sasha. "You'll be my first hire." "As your a.s.sistant?" Sasha asked. Magnolia could hear her disap pointment. "You know I'm applying to law school."

"You'd be a staff writer," Magnolia said. Sasha accepted the posi tion on the spot, and every week generated headline-grabbing articles, like her exclusive on those nasty rumors about one of President Bush's daughters.

The rest of the staff, which she'd inherited from Natalie, wasn't just efficient-she liked them. And the person she liked the best was Stella, her number-two geisha, whom Natalie had left behind. With her MBA from the Natalie Simon School of Office Protocol, Stella arranged every detail with what was once quaintly known as military precision. Before a trip, for instance, she antic.i.p.ated Magnolia's needs down to the location of each airport's ladies' rooms.

Today, the moment Magnolia arrived home after visiting Abbey, Stella was on the line, a.s.suring her that the car she reserved to take her to the airport was-amazingly, considering the blizzard-on time. Magnolia thanked her profusely and opened the shiny black folder Stella had messengered over with its hour-by-hour itinerary amended with tickets, directions, and vouchers.

What she looked at first, of course, was the large, square engraved invitation, not unlike the one she'd received last week for her cousin's daughter's Bat Mitzvah in Boca Raton. "The Academy of Motion Pic ture Arts and Sciences invites Ms. Magnolia Gold to the Academy Awards . . ." This year she would be watching the Oscars not from her living room but from the Kodak Theater, in one of the two seats traditionally accorded to Dazzle. Magnolia wondered if Malachy, her date, would actually wear socks with his evening shoes.

Magnolia reached the airport with more than an hour to spare, but soon enough she settled into her seat-first cla.s.s-and eyed her heavy bag of ma.n.u.scripts. Usually, she couldn't wait to read and com ment. Today she had other plans. Magnolia took out the bound, uncorrected galley of the book Stella had worked her contacts to chase down just the previous day. The cover showed the back of a couple embracing. A Friend Indeed. She was glad Cameron had won the war with his publisher over the name.

She looked first for the dedication and acknowledgments, her heart racing, but they were TK-publisher's jargon for "coming later." She flipped to the end for the author's bio: "Cameron James Dane was raised in Burlington, Vermont," it said. "He received his bachelor's degree from Williams College and a master's in fine arts from Yale University. A Friend Indeed, his first novel, is being published in fourteen countries and made into a major motion picture. He lives in Mal ibu with his rescue dog, Mags." The photograph showed Cam with a pup whose fur was the same dirty-blond as that of her owner, who was walking barefoot on the beach, his face hidden by sungla.s.ses.

Magnolia opened to the first page, telling herself she was just curi ous to see whether Cam's editor had macerated his deceptively simple prose. "Jake Hawkins had loved Daisy Silver for four years. Five, if you counted the year when he only admired her from his desk in the office three doors down. He loved the way her laugh sounded like the charm bracelet that never left her slim wrist, and he wondered whether she kept it on, even when . . ."

As she devoured the pages, she could see that the decorum com mittee at Cam's publishing house had convened and blessed the s.e.x scenes, which were now more fruitful and had multiplied. But, other wise, the book was as she remembered. Cam's voice was still strong. In fact, she felt as if he were dictating into her ear and she luxuriated in every word. When the captain announced they were landing at LAX, she was only half finished, having-at strategic points-allowed her mind to swerve into territory no one would call virginal.

Magnolia deplaned and found her waiting town car. The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills couldn't be less like its forbidding Manhattan cousin. She was admiring its warm, old-world ambience, waiting for her room key, when she heard her name.

"Mag-knowl-ya."

"Bebe!" she said, spinning around to face her. "h.e.l.lo." Bebe had lost a good fifty pounds and had dyed her hair black.

"I hear you're in town for the Oscars."

"And you're making a movie."

"Don't you think I'm perfect for the Elizabeth Taylor role?" Bebe said. "As soon as I started h.e.l.lcat-that's my production company-I knew The Taming of the Shrew had to be our first release."

"Sorry Yentl closed so soon," Magnolia said.

Bebe dismissed the four performances with a wave of her hand.

"Those Broadway audiences don't get subtlety," she said. Magnolia saw a fleet of Louis Vuitton luggage roll by. "Great, my bags are finally here. So, can I take you to dinner?"

"Sorry, Bebe, but my publisher has us seeing a client," Magnolia said. "But thanks."

"Breakfast tomorrow?"

"Same."

"Drink then?" Bebe said. "The bar here, say about ten?"

"I'd love to, but we'll be meeting with other clients later," Magno lia lied. "You know how it is-sell, sell, sell."

"Well, catch you later," Bebe said, unfazed. "And think cover. I want a fabulous cover just like this!" she said as she put on white movie-star sungla.s.ses.

"Yes, I know," Magnolia said. Bebe had been agitating for a cover on Dazzle since Magnolia had got her job.

"Promise?" Bebe said, winking.

She winked back.

A bellman ushered Magnolia into her suite. She tipped him gener ously. On one table stood a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver bucket.

"Cookie, enjoy the Oscars," the card from Natalie said, "and thanks for your wonderful performance." Magnolia hadn't known what to expect of Natalie as a boss, but she quickly learned that as long as she kept Dazzle solidly in the black and favorably in the news, they'd get along famously.

Two large bouquets crowded the coffee table. One was a tall stand of mango calla lilies, their bright orange a lightning bolt in the taste fully beige room. She ripped open the card. "Orange you glad we're going to the Oscars?" Malachy's jokes sometimes fell a bit short on the wit meter, but unlike Darlene, at least he tried. The second bouquet was an extravagance of peonies, hydrangeas, and full-blown red roses accompanied by a gardenia-scented candle and two pounds of dark Belgium chocolates. "Welcome to the town where more is more, Big smooch, BEBE," the card read.

Magnolia unpacked, carefully hanging her gown on a heavily padded silk hanger. She lined up her Cinderella-worthy sandals on the closet floor and stowed this year's birthday present from Abbey- jade and moonstone drop earrings-in the safe. The Balenciaga evening bag, filmy wrap, and silky lingerie, still with their tags on, she slipped into the drawers.

In fifteen minutes, she was due downstairs to meet Malachy. She considered-as she had, constantly, for the last few weeks-whether she should call Cameron. She hadn't seen Cam at all since she aborted her trip to visit him the past spring and once her job started, their e-mails had dwindled to nothing. "Hi, there. Want to get together? In town for the Oscars!" Magnolia practiced saying the lines out loud, trying to imbue them with a blithe insouciance.

She couldn't do it. She'd make the call later.

Later, however-after dinner with four obstreperous, twenty eight-year-old cosmetic clients who seemed to especially enjoy that the mojitos were on Scary-she fell dead into bed. Amelie's arrival, the time difference, her months and months of fatigue . . . in two minutes, she was out cold. On Sunday, she nearly overslept, and before the nine o'clock appointment Malachy had lined up for them, barely had time for a swipe of lip gloss before meeting him downstairs. Mag nolia had scant conversation to share as they drove in their rented convertible to Doughboys on Third and La Jolla.

As the group gorged on flaxseed pancakes, Magnolia discreetly checked her itinerary. After breakfast she'd be back at the Four Sea sons, at the spa. Eleven o'clock: manicure and pedicure; twelve o'clock: ma.s.sage; and one o'clock: the house specialty, margarita body pol ishes: she'd be rubbed with juices from limes, oranges, and tangerines mixed with sunflower oil, salt, and tequila. Magnolia hoped she wouldn't walk away, smelling like a Tijuana bar. After the spa, she'd return to her room to meet a hair and makeup stylist. a.s.suming no snafus, she and Malachy would connect at three-thirty.

Which was how it worked out. Having been pummeled, exfoliated, and transformed by a team of dedicated Southern California profes sionals, slipping into her sequins and shoes was the quickest thing she did all day. As she fastened her earrings and admired the way they caught the light, there was a knock.

"Flowers," the bellman said. "Again." She peeked through the chained door and saw a bouquet in each of his hands.

"Kisses from the Cohens-Abbey, Daniel, and Amelie," said the card attached to the lavender roses in a silver cache. The other blos soms were creamy white and starlike, on branches that appeared to have been recently cut from a backyard garden. She breathed in their unmistakable fragrance, as sweet as a June twilight on the delta.

Magnolias.

There was no card. Did she dare think they might be from Cam?

They were probably from a publicist who would follow up later, per haps with skywriting promoting a miracle depilatory she wanted Dazzle to feature. Although they might be from Rabbi Hirsch. They'd gone out six times, and although Magnolia felt he was a good deal more appropriate for her than Tyler Peterson, she couldn't see herself with a man who might expect her to bake a kugel every Fri day night.

Magnolia locked her cell phone in the safe-her evening bag was barely bigger than a six-year-old's hand-and checked her reflection.

No one was going to mistake her for a best-actress wannabe, but a doc umentary short subject nominee perhaps. She went downstairs to meet Malachy.

"You look lovely, Ms. Gold," he said, offering his arm. Magnolia hoped she looked half as pretty as he did. Malachy-the-metros.e.xual had eyelashes she would kill for, not a pore in sight, and highlights so deceptively natural she wished she had the nerve to ask for the name of his colorist.

"You, Mr. Jones, will be mistaken for a star," she said. "In fact, I do believe you will get lucky tonight."

"I believe I have gotten lucky already," he said. "Did you see the tall Spanish guy at the bar around eleven? Great abs?"

"I am sorry to say at that hour I was asleep." "Well, here's the deal," Malachy said, as he helped her into the limo. "He's a seat filler tonight, and we're going to meet at the end of the evening. But don't worry. The car will still pick you up to take you to the party."

"Got it," Magnolia said, as a surge of Fargo shyness kicked in at the thought of having to navigate an Oscar bash solo. But, she told her self, like everything else this year, it would be character-building.

Given the crush of limos, it took almost thirty minutes to drive twenty blocks on Sunset Boulevard, and the car came to a complete halt on Hollywood, two blocks from Highland.

"Let's walk," Malachy suggested. They joined the swarm of other guests already perspiring under the blinding afternoon sun. It took twenty-five minutes to get near the red carpet.

But there it was. Hair extensions! Cleavage! A lyric poem to excess, the epicenter of hyperbole. Vince Vaughn, Nicole Kidman, and Bill Murray looked taller than she had imagined; Jude Law, Reese With erspoon, and Ralph Fiennes, shorter. Two feet from her, Catherine Zeta-Jones dissed Renee Zellweger, who turned to chat up a man in a cowboy hat. Her ex? No, Tim McGraw, with Faith Hill.

A man b.u.mped into her as she and Malachy got pushed to one side.

"That you, Magnolia?"

"Hugh!" Magnolia said, but when she blinked, he was gone.

"You know Hugh Grant?" Malachy asked.

"Long story," she said.

In one corner, a phalanx of reporters and photographers charged Angelina Jolie, dressed tonight as an impossibly beautiful angel of death. A rogue state of hip-hop artists, led by Jay-Z and Sean Diddy Combs, all but danced its way across the carpet, nearly colliding with a frizzy-haired, fashion-resistant gentleman Magnolia recognized as the director of the creature feature nominated for best picture. From far across the red carpet, she spotted Joan Rivers accosting Bebe, though it might be the other way around. Oprah and her best friend Gayle- in Magnolia's exact gown-arrived, bejeweled and bemused, and ex changed compliments with Cate Blanchett. Everyone greeted Jack Nicholson as if he were Jesus, Buddha, and Muhammad combined. Prada, Yves Saint Laurent, Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Jean Paul Gaultier, J. Mendel, Vera w.a.n.g, Dior, Chanel, and Armani-the gang was all here. The tuxedos were exceptional, especially Ellen DeGeneres's.

Magnolia wished Abbey could be here just to do a head count of the eight-carat-and-larger diamonds, although it would be more fun to critique the fashion boo-boos. In eighty-degree heat, why was Hilary Sw.a.n.k in chinchilla? Did Penelope Cruz think a bubble skirt flattered anyone over the age of ten? Magnolia hoped she wasn't watching it all with her mouth agape. She circled wide-eyed through the crowd, knowing it wasn't just fodder for Dazzle but the world's best c.o.c.ktail party.

Eventually, Malachy grabbed her hand as they were ushered into the theater. Pa.s.sing through a gla.s.s curtain, she wanted to study the photos from the previous years' Best Pictures, but like a herd of royal cattle, she, Malachy, and the other three-thousand-plus chosen ones were verbally prodded toward their seats. The two of them headed for the uppermost balcony. It didn't matter, at least not to Magnolia.

Tonight was the best one she'd had in-well, ever. If celebrity wor ship were religion, this was Jerusalem. The thought of Cameron bounced in and out of her brain-how great it would be to chew over this vaudeville of narcissism with him-but then the overture began.

She leaned back.

Malachy seemed far less taken with it all than Magnolia. He fid dled with the digital b.u.t.tons next to his seat, ordered them c.o.c.ktails, and any number of times checked his BlackBerry. But for Magnolia, it didn't matter if it was for Best Actress or Best Sound Mixing-when a winner was announced she cheered as if her mother had won.

"Excuse me for just a minute," Malachy said as the third hour of the ceremony began. "I'm going to the little boy's room." Magnolia barely heard him, since the next award was for Best Actor. The bright lights beamed on every face, each trying harder than the next to look as if he didn't give a flying f.u.c.k.

And the winner is . . . "Johnny Depp!"

The auditorium erupted in applause. Magnolia stood up and started clapping. "Johnny-I love you," she shouted in a rebel yell. She may have actually whistled. Until he spoke, however, she barely noticed that a body had slid in next to her, filling Malachy's empty seat.

"That guy your type?" said the seat filler.

She whipped her head around so fast an earring flew off.

"Cameron?" Magnolia blinked in disbelief.

"Hey, aren't you that magazine chick?" he asked.

"And aren't you the writer whose novel's getting all that buzz?"

"Good dress," he said.

She wanted to answer with something appropriate, but had no idea what appropriate might be. He looked as good in a tuxedo as she had imagined, from his pique shirt, to studs the exact blue of his eyes, right down to his feet, shod in dignified black, and not-thank G.o.d- in velvet slippers embroidered with martini gla.s.ses, like the stranger to her left. She continued to stare. "What a coincidence," she finally sputtered.

"Do you think maybe we should sit down?" he said. After one of the more abbreviated speeches, Johnny Depp had already left the stage. Magnolia and Cam were the only people in their corner of the third balcony left standing. Hands all around were motioning for them to stop blocking the view. But first, Cameron bent over and retrieved her earring, which had landed-like an offering-directly at his feet.

He took her hand and laughed as he placed the earring in it. "Mag nolia, it's good to see you," he said as he slid his cool fingers down her bare back, let them rest above her hip, and pulled her as close as he could. "What a guy has to do to get your attention."

She leaned into Cam both to steady her balance and to see if he was real. "How'd you come up with this idea?"

"Abbey."

"Really?" was all she could say.

"And your publisher, Malachy-great guy-engineered it. The magnolias, though," he said, nodding his head up and down, "my idea. All mine."

The clapping started again, but Magnolia was no longer paying attention. "I love those flowers." She started to cry and opened her tiny bag in search of a tissue. Fortunately, antic.i.p.ating her reaction to the film clip of the year's dead Academy members, she'd packed as thick a wad as her tiny bag would allow. "I absolutely love them." Her hands were shaking.

"I've missed you," he said, and sounded not one bit flip.

Say something, Magnolia. Say something that shows this man he's been in your dreams for the last year, that every day you've asked yourself whether you made the right decision. Do. Not. Blow. It.

"I've been kind of an a.s.s," she said. It wasn't poetry, but it was utterly from the heart.

"That you have," he said. "But I have always kind of liked your a.s.s-and I've been kind of an a.s.s, too."

"Congratulations on your second book deal," she said. "I've read about it everywhere." Now that Leo DiCaprio was signed to play the lead in A Friend Indeed, Cameron's advance for his next novel commanded a jaw-dropping sum.

"Thanks, but now I have to write it in one year, which is already ticking away. Those advances you hear about-you only get a sliver at the beginning. You've actually got to write the sucker to see any real money. Imagine that?" As he smiled, he pushed up his gla.s.ses in that little boy way Magnolia never got tired of seeing. "Congratulations on your job, which, I guess, isn't that new anymore."

"With the shelf life of editors, ten months is a lifetime."

"Do you love it?" he asked. What he was really saying was you better love it, fool, because look what you gave up.

Magnolia certainly didn't like a.n.a.lyzing the rising and falling futures of celebrities as if they were pork bellies, and she hated to think that at the end of her life, her finest accomplishment would have been to have persuaded the movie-star-of-the-month to do a Dazzle cover. But all the standard editor hash-that she loved as much as always. She'd be lying if she denied it.

"I like it fine," she said, "for however long it lasts-but I have no illusions about growing old in this or any job. Being editor in chief of Dazzle could last for twenty years-or twenty more minutes." "So it's right up there in security with writing books and screen plays."

"Like trying to weather a hurricane in an inflatable kayak."

It felt good just to be talking to Cam, but the people around her didn't see it that way. She realized she'd best cut to the chase.

"Are you coming back to New York?" she asked, and didn't care if she came off borderline psycho for being direct. Cameron was here next to her. Now.