Little Pink Slips Part 8

"Mom, she's not exactly confiding in me," Magnolia said.

"Fran, you're wrong," her father said. "She's gay." "Eliot, you're crazy," she said. "That's Rosie."

The bickering raged on, until Magnolia told them she needed to get off the phone because she had a date and wanted to get a manicure.

"A date, honey?" her mom said. "That's fabulous. Is he Jewish?"

"No, Mom," she said. She had no idea what Harry's religion was, but she was fairly sure he wasn't Jewish.

"It's the most important thing, doll," her father said. "Never forgot that."

"Because it's been the charm for you two?" Magnolia said, and instantly regretted it.

"Do you ever hear from Wally?" her mother asked.

"Not in years, Mom," she said. "And, anyway, he remarried."

"You blew it, kiddo," her father said.

"Eliot, shame on you," her mother said. "What's wrong with you?"

And on and on.

Magnolia relived the conversation until she arrived on West Fourth, the kind of tranquil, leafy street where she could easily pic ture living. She opened the door to Extra Virgin and found Harry waiting at a corner table. He stood as she entered. Tonight he wore faded jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up-a jacket hung on the back of the chair-and a faint scent which, when they hugged, recalled long walks in Nantucket.

"Magnolia, duckie, the week you've had," he said, holding her face in his hands and giving her a short, tender kiss. "Has that big bully, Bebe, stomped all over you?"

"I have a little bruise right around here," she said as she pointed to her heart. "But don't underestimate me."

"You?" he said. "Never. Here, have a look at the menu. The chef here is a genius."

Magnolia's appet.i.te usually left men asking "Where do you put all that?" For this biological blessing, she thanked her mother, who still fit into a Pucci dress from her honeymoon. Magnolia started with Chardonnay-steamed mussels, but nibbled one of Harry's roasted artichokes. He continued with the branzino. She wavered between crabmeat ravioli and lamb tangine. Ravioli won. Having eaten dessert for lunch-her own flan and half of Abbey's tiramisu-she slowed, but couldn't resist a taste of Harry's tarte tatin, sipped with strong espresso. Tonight she hoped she'd be up for hours.

"Caught a moment of that press conference on the telly," Harry said. "You looked ravishing, if a little frightened. Or was it bored?"

"Maybe I should be frightened, but for the moment I'm wearing the red badge of courage."

"Bebe-she's got eyes like a nasty little hedgehog," Harry said, sliding his hand on top of Magnolia's. "I knew her stunt double at university. Or maybe I'm confusing her with the mean nanny of my nightmares. Is she the type who hangs around with a lot of poofs?"

"I'm told she likes real men," Magnolia said, "and lots of them, the younger the better. Her last husband was twenty-eight."

As the candles burned low, dripping on the roughly hewn wooden tables, Harry's hand slid under the full skirt of her gauzy white sun dress and skillfully climbed her bare thigh. While they discussed work-tactics to handle Bebe, how he could land an account with Banana Republic-Magnolia's mind settled between her legs. She knew Harry lived only blocks away, but he wasn't rushing to end their dinner. He was setting the pace, slowly and confidently.

"Amaretto?" he asked. At this point, the only thing she wanted to put in her mouth was an appetizing part of his anatomy, but he nod ded to the waitress. A brunette with long, silky hair and a personal trainer's body sprinted across the room.

"Heather, luv, two Amarettos, please," Harry said, letting his hand graze the waitress's slim waist.

"Mr. James, of course," she responded, holding his gaze and never glancing in Magnolia's direction.

Harry brushed her hand, but turned back to Magnolia and stroked her arm. Twenty minutes later, she and Harry were the last diners to leave Extra Virgin. Magnolia tossed a tiny bottle of olive oil-compli ments of the chef-into her bag, in which she'd stashed a toothbrush and an extra thong. Without discussing it, Harry steered them toward his brownstone. They entered through a foyer containing a small table with an antique bra.s.s bowl for keys and a slim Steuben vase filled with several deep purple dahlias. The foyer opened into a large room dominated by an enormous kitchen, as full of equipment as a small restaurant.

She noticed several black-and-white paintings on the far end of the room, which held low, oversized, red leather couches and a grand piano. The canvases were well over ten feet tall. Just as Magnolia real ized the sensual form in the largest painting was female, Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind, caressing her face and sliding down over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her hips.

"She reminds me of you," he said. "Curves in the right places, but understated. Not too showy."

Perhaps it was his regular line. Maybe he was silver plate. But at that point, "Miss Gold, please remove your clothes and put on this paper gown" would have worked. They walked upstairs and entered Harry's spartan bedroom-a simple black iron bed, a dark walnut Empire armoire, a table, a chair loaded with art books, and a painting featuring another fertility G.o.ddess. Harry gathered Magnolia's clothes and care fully hung them on a heavy wooden hanger on the back of the door.

For a split second, an image of Harry and Extra Virgin's waitress, together in this very room, crossed Magnolia's mind. She imagined them naked, clinking Amaretto gla.s.ses, sharing a postcoital joke at her expense. "Did you catch the business-cla.s.s-sized b.u.t.t on her, Harry?"

the girl would say. But then Harry pressed Magnolia to him, drew her down to the cool, cotton sheets, and pinned her body under his.

"Magnolia Gold, my darling, surrender your red badge of courage,"

he ordered, in a low growl. "I am the big bad wolf."

Chapter 1 4.

Whatever Turns You On.

"Magnolia Bakery?" Magnolia said.

In every relationship, the man came up with the same idea. Harry just thought of it sooner than most. On Sunday, a few weeks after they'd started seeing each other, Magnolia met Harry at the front of the bakery's line. Hipsters and tourists alike trailed out the door, waiting for sugar transfusions. Magnolia Bakery might be in the Village, but inside, under the swirl of a lazy ceiling fan, you could easily imagine Scarlett waving a confederate flag. Magnolia found Harry's gesture as endearing as the bak ery's signature cupcakes iced in the hues of little girls' party dresses.

"Four, please," he said to the guy behind the counter.

"Four?" Magnolia said. "I'll be as big as Bebe."

"On you it would look good," he said, putting a piece of cupcake in her mouth. She wondered what life might have been like if she'd been named, say, Hermes: smaller b.u.t.t, better bags.

It was definitely the gold rush. She and Harry had been seeing each other two or three times a week and last night, at bedtime, he signed off his phone call with "You're growing on me."

"Sweet dreams," she replied. And that's what her dreams were.

She was gaga over Harry, and his attentions arrived with superb timing. Which made it all the harder to be sitting in her crowded new office on Monday morning, watching a leftover cupcake disap pear into Sasha's mouth as she sought Magnolia's opinion on her new blog.

"What do you think of me calling it Almost 24/7?" Sasha asked.

"I'm almost twenty-four, and I'd yak about everything in my life- oral s.e.x, work, my 32AA b.o.o.bs. Other women should know what it's like to go through life built like a playing card. I'll call that entry 'No b.o.o.bies, No Rubies.' "

"Almost 24/7? What will you do when you turn twenty-four?"

Magnolia asked.

"Not going to work," Sasha realized. "I'll give it another think."

She licked cupcake crumbs off her fingers. "Nutritious breakfast.

Should we go over your agenda?"

They both knew the daily ritual was pointless. Without discussing it, Sasha had canceled the meetings she'd engineered weeks in advance, her normal drill in order to accommodate editors' frantic travel and shoot schedules. Except for an 11:45 dental appointment, Magnolia's calendar stood empty.

Downtime at work had never existed before, and Magnolia didn't like it one bit. Yet at the magazine it would be impolitic to charge ahead-a.s.signing features, approving photographs, interviewing applicants for unfilled positions-as if Bebe weren't down the hall, at least theoretically. The painters were still at it in Magnolia's old office, and Bebe was nowhere in sight. Magnolia freshened her lip stick and wandered over to the office next door. She stood for a full minute before Cameron became aware of her, took out his iPod ear phones, and smiled.

"And so it begins," he said.

"Have you done magazine 101 with our Queen B, explaining that we actually have deadlines?"

"Planning a sneak attack for noon," Cameron said. "If she shows."

With Bebe apparently not realizing she needed to be the orchestra leader, Lady's symphony had ceased. The staff hadn't reached complete cacophony-all her colleagues were still at their desks, nervously awaiting orders, whispering into phones, and dashing off e-mails they tried to conceal should anyone approach their computer screens. But it was already July. In weeks the October issue, com pressed to a few computer disks, would be due at the printer. The deadline could be stretched only a little-and at great expense.

October wasn't the only problem. November needed to get well under way, along with issues after that. To save money, smart editors always photographed in season. This very minute they should be planning next summer's food stories to be shot now, at a nearby beach, instead of spending $17,000 to fly a crew to the Caribbean in the high season next February.

Editors were dodging calls from photographers' reps eager to con firm dates. Writers, needing rea.s.surance from motherly a.s.signing editors, whimpered for contracts. Freelancers were threatening to defect to other jobs.

"I hate that you have to be the bada.s.s, Cam," Magnolia said. "But with it coming from you, maybe Bebe will listen."

Felicity's voice rang out down the hall. "Yoo-hoo, Magnolia.

Cameron. Is this beyond exciting?"

Both Magnolia and Cam would have chosen a different word.

Felicity had a cat carrier in her hands. In it was h.e.l.l, wearing the smirk of a serial killer. Magnolia backed away as the feline stuck out a clawed paw.

"We're moving in!" Felicity trilled. "Jock told us to camp out in the conference room until the paint dries. Don't you just love that perfect rouge?"

"Felicity, just the woman I was hoping to see," Cameron said, a little too heartily, Magnolia thought. "If you wouldn't mind putting the tomcat down for a minute, I was wondering if I could steal you to go over some dates?"

"I'll leave you two," Magnolia said, backing out of the office and pondering where she could, with a modic.u.m of dignity, pounce next.

She entered the art department, walked beyond the three designers, past the photo editor's desk and her a.s.sistant's cubicle, and into Fredericka's elegantly spare taupe office. Fredericka, her tanned arms loaded with silver bracelets, hovered over her light box.

"Magnolia!" she moaned. "Vat am I going to tell Fabrizio about his October cover?" Fredericka had shots of Sarah Jessica Parker spread out, tenderly looking at each one as if it were an in utero image of her unborn child. Just a few weeks earlier, Fabrizio daVinci had finally agreed to work for Lady-the result of Fredericka's considerable persuasive abilities and magnums of Cristal sent to his cavernous down town studio.

"Fredericka, his rep probably has ten offers for those pictures,"

Magnolia said. "First, remind him that Scary still holds a six-month embargo on the images." Maybe this whole Bebe nonsense will disappear and we can restore Lady, Magnolia thought fleetingly and-she realized-stupidly. But Scary did own the pictures, and she'd be d.a.m.ned if another magazine would benefit from her misery. "Then promise him the premiere Bebe cover."

Fredericka blanched, her skin almost matching her platinum hair.

Apparently she hadn't yet fully absorbed that she and her photo editor would be responsible-issue after issue-for turning Bebe Blake into a cover temptress. She looked at Magnolia like a racc.o.o.n in a trap.

"But Fabrizio vould never, never agree to shoot Bebe," she said.

"You know he only likes gorgeous vomen."

Fredericka was right. And Magnolia realized no good could come from hanging around her office. Even if the dentist told her he'd need to pull a front tooth, she'd rather be in his chair than here. She returned to her office, packed her Tod's tote with the latest Vogue, and left for his office, arriving forty minutes early.

Two hours later, her face looking like a stroke victim's, Magnolia heard her cell phone ring. Sub-Zero, she hoped. While sit ting in the dentist's chair, she'd happily relived every stroke and thrust of both Sat.u.r.day and Sunday nights. At one point, in her dental stupor, she worried that she might be doing a pretty fair "yes! yes! yes!" from When Harry Met Sally. But it wasn't Harry.

"I've been calling and calling," Sasha said. "How quickly can you get back here?"

"Fifteen minutes," Magnolia answered, overly optimistic. She'd already been standing for ten minutes on 57th Street, searching for a taxi.

"They're gathering," Sasha said. "Drop quiz. Cameron's looking for you. Surprise staff meeting."

A half hour later Magnolia bolted off the elevator onto her floor.

She listened for the raucous laughter that usually erupted during a meeting, the rising voices of editors interrupting one another with ideas that trumped the next person's. An amped-up, compet.i.tive staff meeting was better than a basketball game at Madison Square Gar den, and sometimes just as sweaty.

She heard nothing.

When she entered the conference room, however, the gang was there, stony and mute. Bebe presided at the end of the table in Mag nolia's usual spot. For her first day of work she wore a silvery satin bomber jacket embroidered with dragons, and coordinating pants.

With the ceiling spotlight shining on her you, had to squint.

"Sam here told me it was high time that we, uh, convened,"

Bebe said, looking at Cam. "I was just telling the girls-oh, 'scuse me, Sam-about my idea for the first cover: posing in a tub full of bubbles."

Bebe's gaze caught Magnolia's lopsided mouth. "What the h.e.l.l happened to you, Mags? Wild nooner?"

The staff turned to Magnolia, who ignored Bebe's comment.

"Bubbles. What, exactly, would you be trying to convey in that image?" Magnolia asked Bebe in a level tone.

"That I'm all about fun," she answered, staring at Magnolia as if that weren't as obvious as the fact that they both had b.o.o.bs. "Life's a hoot. Join in. Party on."

"I'm not sure most women want to hop in a tub with another woman, Bebe," Magnolia said.

"Holy Jesus and Mary, my women aren't that literal," Bebe answered.

"Felicity, what do you think?" "Your crowd would follow you anywhere, Beebsy," she said.

"Who are 'your women'?" Magnolia asked. "We need to establish that."

"Every woman. That's who watches my show. Nuns, truck drivers, inmates, old biddies, teenagers. Here, the cover would look like this."

She sketched herself next to words marching down the right, instead of the left. Bebe's rendering looked reversed. Perhaps it would sell well to the dyslexic-or in Tel Aviv.

"Bebe, maybe we should brainstorm about the cover later in a separate meeting," Magnolia said. "Fredericka has some drop-dead ideas-Ruthie, too." She turned to her lieutenants. Fredericka flashed her whiter-than-white teeth, but Magnolia noted she had chewed her fingernails to the quick. Ruthie, not usually a poster girl for perfect posture, appeared starched.