Little Pink Slips Part 5

country club-that if he'd read the editor bylaws, he'd know that it was expressly forbidden for her to even learn to play golf. Maybe there were some female editors somewhere who loved golf-she just didn't know any.

"I'm going to have to beg off. All I know about golf I can summa rize in three words: bad Bermuda shorts."

"Golf. Did I hear my second-favorite four-letter word?" The ques tion was coming from Bebe, still glommed onto Harry.

"You play?" Jock asked. "My favorite outdoor sport," Bebe said. "I am thinking of planning the Bebe Blake Invitational Pro-Am. Already in conversation with ESPN. Ford's on board as sponsor."

"Stupendous marketing opportunity for Lady," Arthur added. "But we'd have to talk soon. Deal's almost done. I'm sure your readers would be interested."

Felicity wandered over, locking arms with Bebe and Jock. "I am having the best time," she said. "Dr. Wong promised me an appoint ment for Monday. It's not at all like what people say. You magazine people do know how to party. Bebe, have to steal you away. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

The two of them wandered back into the crowd. Harry pulled Magnolia into a corner. "May I rescue you?" he asked.

Magnolia was already way past her usual two drinks. Even Jock was beginning to look attractive, and forty-five years old was her cut off. "You may," she said. "We are so finished here."

Chapter 9.

Good, Clean Manhattan Fun.

Magnolia was not hallucinating. That really was Harry James-he of the excellent pecs and other lovely body parts- snoring softly in her bed. She threw on a silk kimono and tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to wake him.

As she began to brew a pot of coffee, extra strong, she attempted to reconstruct last night. She remembered trying to get out of Bedford while the getting was good. Then her publisher, Darlene-no, it was Bebe-stormed in her direction, offering an invitation she felt she could not refuse: meeting up at Bebe's suite at the Ritz-Carlton back in Man hattan. There were curt words with Natalie, who was probably peeved that she, too, couldn't go to Bebe's after-party, not with a hundred guests attacking pecan tartlets, colossal strawberries, and chocolate-covered fortune cookies that the caterer wasn't presenting until eleven.

When she and Harry arrived at the hotel, Bebe's cat, h.e.l.l, rubbed against her leg. That Magnolia recalled. Jock-whose third wife, Pippi, always seemed to be visiting her family in Houston-was canoodling with Dazzle's entertainment editor, a corkscrewed, brunette poptart in a dress slit past the boundaries of corporate propriety. Jock's hand seemed glued to her left hip, all 34 inches of it. Bebe's lawyer, Arthur, played the piano while Felicity, in a booming alto, belted out Billy Joel. Did Bebe and Darlene start a game of strip poker? That was too awful to try to remember.

Everything about the evening melded-everything except the kiss.

During the drive back into the city, she and Harry bantered away, hit ting every broad target from Bebe's behind to the number of plastic surgery procedures per guest. Good, clean Manhattan fun. At Bebe's, as the Veuve Clicquot flowed, Magnolia and Harry began to feed each other oysters. One for Harry, one for Magnolia, and on and on. They'd staked out the balcony, its Manhattan vista as timeless as a torch song.

As if he'd done it hundreds of times, Harry put his arm tightly around her waist, and pulled her close. It was just one kiss, one long, slow, warm, champagne-y kiss.

He'd been together enough to call the front desk and have his car brought around. With two crisp twenties, Harry thanked the door man, Felix-he seemed to know his name. As they turned onto West End Avenue, a parking spot opened in front of Magnolia's building, which she took as a portent. It would have been rude, then, not to invite him up. Magnolia liked to think of herself as a well-mannered Midwesterner. Who was she kidding? Manners had nothing to do with it. It was two A.M., Harry was clearly available and she hadn't had s.e.x in seven months.

The phone rang, jarring Magnolia back to Sunday morning. Who'd be phoning at this hour? She looked at the clock. Anyone-it was almost eleven. What was indecent was that she'd just got up after sleeping with a man with whom before last night she'd never discussed anything more intimate than a font.

"How was the party?" It was Abbey, sounding bizarrely chirpy for a wife who knew her husband was floating in cybers.p.a.ce, and not much more. G.o.d bless her antidepressant, which she'd decided to start two weeks ago. It must have begin to kick in.

"Either amazing or a catastrophe," Magnolia answered. "Too blitzed to decide."

"Details, sweetie. Cough 'em up."

"Better-than-average food and much swanning around in off-the charts clothes." "Yeah, yeah, another dull night for Magnolia Gold. More, please.

Anyone fabulous there?"

"An impressive showing of the New York narcissists' delegation," she said.

"Plus Bebe, Felicity, Jock, and Darlene. Oh, and Bebe's lawyer."

"I see, all the cool kids from high school."

"Starting to feel that way," Magnolia said, as she walked to the cof feemaker to fill her mug.

"Did you hold your ground?"

"It's become a slippery slope," she said. "But, to be honest, work is not the first thing on my mind this very minute."

"And what is?" Abbey asked.

"Not a what. A who," Magnolia whispered, stirring milk into her coffee. "Harry."

"Magnolia Gold, you harlot," Abbey screamed. "You do me proud.

I think I'm gonna cry. Was he worth it, or are you already suffering dater's remorse?"

"Box number one."

"Do we think he's interested?"

"Can't talk. I hear him rustling around and I may be experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder-the kind where you want to rip the guy's clothes off all over again."

"As your mental health adviser I feel obligated to speak up. Miss Gold," Abbey said. "You may be in the first stage of an all-too common condition we refer to as first-degree l.u.s.t, which is often brought on by an extended drought."

She suddenly felt Harry ma.s.saging her neck and beginning to work his way down the back of her thigh-high robe. "Dr. Abbey, you are a brilliant diagnostician but don't hate me. Gotta go."

Magnolia stood up and turned to him, to say . . . what? . . . some party last night, huh? How about those martinis? Fortunately, there was no need for conversation, cheesy or otherwise, because while his hands slipped inside her lacy panties, he was kissing her in the most determined way. Harry was neither tall nor short, and for a guy in his late thirties who mostly sat around making computer magic, he was in commendable shape-an attribute equal to his ability, just then, to mult.i.task.

Harry pressed her against the refrigerator. Twenty-five minutes later, Magnolia realized that Sub-Zero would no longer be an appro priate name for that particular kitchen appliance.

Drying off after their shower, Magnolia decided this would be an opportune moment to locate her inner Frenchwoman. She pictured them washing down flaky pastries with steaming cafe au lait while they lingered over the Times. The best she could offer, however, was stale granola topped with acidophilus yogurt and some rather mature strawberries. Magnolia sensed that her standard breakfast would squelch the mood faster than a dog p.o.o.ping on the rug-which would be happening any second.

"After I walk Biggie and Lola, how do popovers sound?" she asked.

"Popover Cafe?"

"It's just a short walk." Magnolia gave Harry her most fetching smile. Famous for popovers as big as cantaloupes, the restaurant- four blocks away on Amsterdam Avenue-was one of Magnolia's favorites, despite the fact that it appeared to have been decorated by an eight-year-old girl-there were more teddy bears than you could count, and calico curtains s.n.a.t.c.hed from Snow White's cottage.

"I'm not sure I could handle the double-stroller gridlock, luv," he answered. Much as she appreciated her nine-closet co-op, vigilant doormen, and proximity to parks and the Dakota-which Magnolia considered her ultimate destiny (she'd be a very considerate neighbor to Yoko)-on the coolness scale, her neighborhood scored, maybe, a five. It was family land, filled not just with strollers, which must been made by Hummer, but with unshaved foodies, both male and female, loading up as if Hurricane Shlomo would hit the Hudson any minute.

She thought it best not to suggest Barney Greengra.s.s, the sturgeon king, as a brunch alternative.

An awkward pause later, they both started talking. "I've got so much work to do," Harry and Magnolia said in unison. For Magnolia, at least, it was true-even if she'd happily prepare performance evaluation reports all night long just to have Harry close to her for a few more hours.

"It's been--"

"Magnificent," he interrupted. "The most delightful night. And not unexpected."

Harry put on his jacket. After one lengthy embrace, where she memorized the scent of his freshly showered neck, she closed the door behind him. I-will-call-you-later, he recited, five words that loboto mize even the most self-a.s.sured single woman. She walked the dogs, collapsed on her unmade bed, pulling the rumpled Frette sheets up to her chin, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

At five o'clock Magnolia awoke, ordered chicken with cashews from Imperial Dragon, and worked straight through 60 Minutes, an Entourage rerun, and a Lifetime movie where a washed-up actress plays a psycho who buries alive a tyc.o.o.n's wife. She had a mountain of ma.n.u.scripts, potential book excerpts, and layouts to review, which she turned to during commercials. Usually she was a patient editor, writing clear, detailed comments in the margins. But today, more than once, she scrawled "Huh?" or "Is English this writer's first lan guage?" in barely legible handwriting.

Just as Magnolia was going to find out if the movie's victim would rise from the grave, the phone rang. It was Abbey, filling her in on Tommy's latest and waiting for Magnolia's social weather report. At 10:45 she got another call, from Sasha, to give her the heads-up that she was stranded in the Pittsburgh airport and would be late in the morning.

Magnolia let her mind wander. She could picture Harry across the room at the desk, her laptop replaced by a sleek designer's computer.

He'd be calling her over, saying they had to stop what they were doing, that he had other ideas in mind.

She should be focusing on work. On tomorrow. On deconstructing what to do about Bebe. But she didn't want to think about her-she was too busy deconstructing Harry's "not unexpected." Did that mean that she, Magnolia Gold, was as luscious a morsel as he'd imag ined-or that she, Magnolia Gold, was as easy to bed as a p.o.r.n star?

Why couldn't men come with instruction manuals?

Chapter 10.

Manhattan Is High School in Heels.

At home, Magnolia's taste led her to Paris, circa 1965. She'd painted the living room a pale yellow to mitigate Manhattan's gray light and loved curling up with a pile of ma.n.u.scripts on the curvy, panther-print chaise, which she'd positioned next to the baroque, white marble fireplace that had drawn Wally and her to the place eleven years ago. Framing the windows were gossamer draperies.

They reminded Magnolia of her prom dress at Fargo South-and the night she and Tyler Peterson celebrated their true love in the backseat of his father's Pontiac. The latest addition to the apartment was a chandelier, tastefully dripping with crystal teardrops, which she indulged herself with last year when her bonus came through.

Just looking at the chandelier made her feel like Simone de Beauvoir-or Gigi-depending on her degree of literary pretension: some days she saw herself as a serious person taking charge of her own future, others as a ditz with charm around the margins. She could imag ine stepping out for an espresso and a Gauloise at Cafe de Flore-or was it Les Deux Magots?-on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, even though she'd never smoked a cigarette in her life. Marijuana didn't count.

This morning, however, as she opened the door to her office at Scary, she landed in a world where Little Bo Peep met Ralph Lauren. Scary hadn't wanted to spring for redecorating, so she'd inherited the furniture of the previous editor, who was in love with American coun try. Magnolia worked amid coffee-stained sisal carpeting, black wing back chairs, and white walls due for a paint job. At one end of the room sat her big, pine desk; at the other, a cozy couch with baggy, cream colored slipcovers. Enormous bulletin boards covered two walls. On a four-week cycle-Lady was a monthly-one filled up with miniature versions of layouts and full-sized cover options for the next issue. The other had developed into a Smithsonian of postcards, pages ripped from other magazines, and Roz Chast cartoons.

Magnolia loved an early morning at work. She could quickly dispense with her e-mail and savor The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Wall Street Journal. Unfortunately, it was too soon to phone her parents, who'd traded Fargo for Palm Springs, feeling they'd earned the right to sun 365 days a year.

Soon Cameron would arrive and find a warm body to fill in for the missing Sasha. This would require Magnolia to explain her nitpicky systems to the terrified temp. She briefly considered whether she might tell Cam that, thanks anyway, she could manage on her own today, then recognized that he-being all but clairvoyant in the Magnolia department-would attribute such an action to her being worried.

On that point, he would be correct. She counted on laser-beam focus. Just now, though, Magnolia found it hard not to dwell on how quickly she'd slid from the exhilaration of buffing Lady to a gloss not seen in thirty-five years, to wondering whether the poor old dear would soon be transmogrified into a magazine carnival act. Between Bebe's harangues on subjects only she cared about and all that b.l.o.o.d.y red, Magnolia couldn't imagine readers buying Bebe more than once.

There was a knock at her door, which she'd left slightly ajar.

"Mags, good morning." She liked that Cam called her Mags. He was the only member of the staff who claimed this familiarity and he spoke her name in a deep, commercial-worthy voice-one of his sev eral earlier careers was acting.

"Hey," she said. "How was the weekend?" Cam owned a house upstate, where he retreated every Friday. Magnolia had never seen it.

"Major bike ride. Other than that, just cooking and weeding. Wrote. Reread Middlemarch."

"I'm becoming illiterate," she said. Lately she'd definitely been more Gigi than Simone de Beauvoir.

"That can be our little secret, you with the fancy New York life."

From anyone else, Magnolia would have been allergic to the sting.

But Cam actually knew how hard she worked, how many evenings she surrendered to Scary.

"If you're referring to Natalie's party, I came, I drank. I listened to people pontificate. I did not lose my cool or any brain cells that I'm aware of." Magnolia decided not to share the Harry part. She pre sumed that Cam still had the same girlfriend, a Belgian photographer who was always flying all over the planet for National Geographic, and Cam was polite enough not to ask her if she'd starting dating any one after Alec-the-architect.

"What's going to happen next?" Cam asked.

"That question may have been answered by the eighteenth hole at Winged Foot Country Club. I can hold my breath."

"Good. That means you and I can do performance evaluations all morning long." He said the last three words very, very slowly.

"As soon as you nab a victim to be Sasha for the day."

Cam returned forty-five minutes later, temp in tow. He and Magnolia then began to hash out who would get a raise. Scary, not known for generosity at the lower levels, had declared 2.5 percent as the norm.

That meant that if Magnolia wanted to reward a star employee with an increase she'd actually notice, another staff member would get stiffed. As far as Magnolia was concerned, every employee deserved more than the paltry standard. She'd rather have root ca.n.a.l than look a talented, underpaid editor in the eye, slather praise like Creme de la Mer, then announce that at the end of the next year she'd be richer by $759.31. "You're brilliant, you've slaved for twelve months, now after taxes you can blow yourself to a weekend at Motel Six and a Happy Meal."

They chewed through the evaluations for as long as they both could stand. Only when Cam left her office did the temp remind Magnolia that in ten minutes she needed to be at the 21 Club to hear Candace Bushnell speak at a luncheon. In magazine mythology, Candace held a vaulted place. Not many a.s.sistants started by sharpening pencils at Ladies' Home Journal and ended with s.e.x and the City, hot novels, and the studliest dancer ever to perform with the New York City Ballet.

Sasha would have known to order a car to take Magnolia thirty seven blocks uptown, but the temp didn't, and it was too late to book one. Magnolia dashed out to hail a taxi. She got lucky, and only eigh teen minutes later a cab dropped her off in front of 21, whose wel coming lineup of puny lawn jockeys always made her think of every jerk she'd dated since tenth grade. The interior of the old-time speakeasy-turned-club continued the equestrian theme, with horse paintings grazing on the walls. You could almost smell the dung.

The minute Candace started her speech, Magnolia realized that Sarah Jessica Parker had modeled Carrie's delivery after Candace's excitable speech-or vice versa. Candace sounded exactly like Carrie did whenever she was drunk, especially when she described a party she'd attended in the eighties where the men wore only diapers and the women dressed as nannies. "Some sort of English thing," Candace recalled, then started taking questions.

What are you writing? A book that sounded overdue to her editor.

When did you marry? Not until forty-three, which made the crowd exhale with relief. What kind of shoes are you wearing? Candace took off a sparkly, blue stiletto and placed it on the podium for everyone to admire. Candace made Magnolia feel good about being a single woman in her thirties, trying to earn a good salary.

The luncheon over, Magnolia flew upstairs to a tiny powder room she knew would be emptier than the one the horde would hit on the ground floor. As she emerged from the stall, she found herself face-to face with Candace, who was even tinier than she'd appeared from the podium-a size 2, tops. In the split second during which Magnolia pondered if she should introduce herself and ask Candace if she'd write for Lady-and then decided that, no, she was way too big a deal for that-Candace greeted her by name.

"Magnolia Gold?" "Yes, oh, that's me." Magnolia felt like an idiot for not responding in a more articulate fashion, but was flattered-and shocked-to be recognized.

"Is it true what I'm hearing?"

What was Candace hearing? Did Candace want to be her friend? Before she could concoct a witty retort, Candace continued.

"Bebe Blake taking over your magazine? That's rich! Man, am I glad I've left women's magazines. And I thought television was low."

With a toss of her long, blond hair, Candace was off, leaving behind only a whiff of delicious perfume and her empty champagne flute, which she'd parked on the marble countertop.

As Magnolia settled back at her desk at 2:45, the temp buzzed her on the intercom. "Jack wanted to see you fifteen minutes ago,"

she said.

Jack the IT guy? Every time he touched her computer, it developed tics in new places. "Please tell him that now isn't a good time." Mag nolia had a December planning meeting and it would take hours. It might be almost the Fourth of July, but at Lady they needed to be thinking eggnog, buches de noel, and, every year, a new spin on Hanukkah latkes. December was their biggest seller. By mid-November, you could count on American women to instinctively scour their supermarkets for a comforting magazine full of artery-clogging cookie recipes.