Little Pink Slips Part 9

"How about turning our attention to what's going to be inside the October issue," Magnolia said. "When you think of fall, what comes to mind?" She hadn't a clue how to tease great ideas out of Bebe, a.s.suming she had some.

Bebe leaned back in her chair and put her boots on the table. "The fall makes me think of . . . Harleys," Bebe said, finally. "Tearing up a quiet country lane on a big road hog."

"I see models posing with bikers," Ruthie ventured. "It could be a great way to show denim."

"But not those skinny b.i.t.c.hes," Bebe said, opening her jacket and pulling at a roll around her middle. "Every woman hates 'em."

Bebe had a point. "So are you seeing a plus-size fashion story?"

Magnolia asked. She noticed her anesthetic was wearing away. Had she wanted to, she could now smile.

"Plus, minus . . ." Bebe answered. "You all can figure that out. Just find me a bunch of biker babes."

"Ah, real people-that makes it much harder, Bebe. We have to find the women, be sure there's geographic and racial diversity, see when they can be flown to New York, be fitted for clothes-it takes planning, and real women don't usually fit into sample sizes."

Magnolia answered in a tone even she identified as prissy, but the fact was that organizing real people stories was like planning the inva sion of a small country. They were ten times the trouble of regular fashion stories, where you phoned an agency, cast a few models, and called it a day. Real people stories required ma.s.sive effort and yet often looked amateurish.

"They can wear their own clothes," Bebe said.

"But women want to be able to buy the clothes they see," Magnolia said, thinking that the bigger problem would be with Darlene. Peri odically, Darlene gave Magnolia a list of the fashion advertisers she was wooing, and she expected the magazine to flog their clothes in the editorial pages, even if they came with price tags way out of reach for the readers.

"You work out those details," Bebe said, frowning. Her eyes looked even closer together than usual. "You and Sam must be gangbusters at that. Now in the fall, I also like to eat. Well, I always like to eat. Felic ity here bakes bread, believe it or not."

"Mother taught me," Felicity explained with pride. "I'd be happy to be photographed teaching the readers. I bake a mean pumpernickel."

"Sounds delicious, Felicity," Magnolia answered. Now that her painkiller was gone, she remembered that she hadn't eaten a bite of anything today. "But most American women try to stay away from bread."

"Bulls.h.i.t, Mags," Bebe said. "Show me one."

"Ladies?" Magnolia looked to her staff. A few timid hands shot up, but several editors refused to yield, even though Magnolia knew they'd rather give their Jimmy Choos to the homeless than eat the crust of a pizza.

"Okay, bread, done." Bebe switched on to a higher voltage. "And then I'll write a s.e.x column. Answer readers' questions. Nothing off-limits."

She nodded her head in enthusiasm. "We'll need a great name. I'm thinking 'p.u.s.s.y Talk'?"

According to polls, if you believed them, Lady's readers-and Scary would send Bebe to all of those subscribers; that's how it worked-had husband and children, but no one ever admitted to having, liking, or being the least bit curious about s.e.x. "You think it might be a smidge too graphic, Bebe?" Magnolia asked.

"How about 'Getting Naked,' " she suggested.

"Love it," Magnolia said, "but some other magazine uses it."

" 's.e.x Ed,' " an editor shouted.

" 'Your Pleasure Starts Here.' "

" 'A Course on Intercourse.' "

"Not just intercourse," Bebe said. "Get real, girls."

" 'The B Spot! The B Spot!' " a very pregnant Phoebe, who usually never came up with an idea beyond her annual "Metallic Makeup for the Holidays," screamed the suggestion.

" 'The B Spot,' " Bebe hollered it back. "I get it. I like it. 'The B Spot.' "

"Whatever turns you on," Magnolia snickered softly.

"What's that? 'Whatever Turns You On!' " Bebe repeated. " 'What ever Turns You On.' Yup, that's it. Magnolia, you little genius. 'What ever Turns You On.' "

Magnolia realized she could transform the meeting into a Roman holiday, with every editor feasting on the gore and barbarism of watching her tear out Bebe's squinty little eyes. Or she could encour age Bebe to create a magazine in her own image and have it die a nat ural death.

That is, if the magazine would fail. With the American public, who knew? Bebe could be right. Women might adore these ideas. Maybe every woman was secretly dying to hop on a big old Harley, stuff her face with a loaf of pumpernickel, and have mind-blowing s.e.x on a quiet country lane with a three-hundred-pound biker named Runt.

"So Mag-knowl-ya, what do you think?"

"Whatever Turns You On . . ." Magnolia said. "Let's make it happen."

Chapter 1 5.

In This Life, One Thing Counts.

During the two years Magnolia had reported to Jock Flanagan, he had not once popped into her office for a schmooze. So it was curious that today, Friday, the end of her first full week as Bebe's deputy, Jock arrived like a missile. He landed on her new guest seat ing-an armless, royal blue swivel job, pilfered from the conference room-as if it were time for their weekly therapy session.

"So how's it going with Bebe?" he asked, trying to smooth his thick, wavy hair. Jock required regular mowing, and if he missed a trim, he looked as if he'd been coifed by a Cuisinart.

Magnolia flashed on the last few days. She and Bebe had settled into a no-routine routine. A few times Bebe had buzzed her to demand a drive-by meeting, but either she hadn't learned to turn on her Mac or didn't care to use it, so no e-mail volleys existed. Felicity kept regu lar hours to supervise the fluffing of Bebe's office, and could be heard squealing with glee as each mirror, poster of Bebe, or carnivorous looking plant found its home in the red lair. Bebe fit the magazine around rehearsals and tapings for The Bebe Show.

Magnolia wished that Jock were, in fact, an actual therapist. Then she could have told him how she felt. Ridiculous, p.i.s.sed off, and stuck- she couldn't afford to walk out since no guardian angel had dangled another opportunity in her face. This didn't surprise her; she'd counted on the redesign of Lady to project her into the orbit of hotshots who circled from big job to bigger job. But she also felt guilty-she knew she should be grateful for the well-paying, well-percolated position she still had, even if it was at a lower rank than at the first of the month.

"Magnolia, I asked you a question," Jock said.

"Everything's fine," she answered. "Really. We're developing a terrific s.e.x column, we're stalking biker chicks for fashion, and we've got a story in the works where we're all over leopard-clothes, shoes, dishes, furniture, everything except the big cat itself."

Jock seemed to cringe a little, but offered no response, so Magnolia continued.

"There's a special section called 'Don't Get Screwed-Get Every thing,' where matrimonial attorneys advise divorcing women. Bebe came up with the idea, based on her last settlement. She's been mar ried several times, you know? Husband number three demanded a fortune in alimony-I'm sure you read about it. He was her agent, ten years younger. It's sad the way he ripped her off."

"Hmm," Jock said.

She thought, given Jock's marital history, that at least the divorce story would have piqued his interest, but now it was Magnolia's turn to wait. It hadn't sounded like a good hmm. The staff was busy, she thought defensively. Whether it added up to a unique magazine was not for her to say. Not that anyone was asking.

"Magnolia, from what I hear you haven't been, well, the most cooperative."

"What?" she snapped, wondering who might have slimed her. She thought she'd been as neutral as Switzerland. Well, maybe not sweet, stern little Switzerland, but definitely more Western European than Middle Eastern. If someone-most likely Darlene, that sociopath masquerading as a publisher-had portrayed her as a suicide bomber of Bebe's plans, it was outrageous. "You heard this where?"

"Where doesn't matter," Jock said, staring at his manicured nails as if he'd just noticed they were attached to his hand. "You get how serious this is, don't you? How much money Scarborough has on this horse?" Magnolia took Jock's measure. She wasn't convinced he was angry: she'd seen him in this state enough times to recognize his version of rage. Once, when he'd swooped down on an editor whose newsstand sales had plummeted 62 percent, you'd have thought she'd shot his bulldog, Grover Cleveland. Magnolia decided Jock probably just needed rea.s.surance. No doubt, he was getting heat from the Scary brothers who owned the company. They rarely left Santa Barbara, but tortured him by phone, fax, and summons to California.

Magnolia calculated that she'd best kick it up a notch. She'd need this job until something better came along. "You have my word that I will get and keep things in line," she said, in honor student mode.

"Bebe's first cover shoot's today, and I'll be there to run interference. Elizabeth's people have arranged for an Access Hollywood crew to film the shoot. Build buzz. They'll air the film the week of the launch."

Would she be insane to spit out what she was thinking of saying next? "Would you like to come to the shoot?" Magnolia held her breath, thinking how the photographer they'd booked-Frances...o...b..llucci, a fading star known for grand opera tantrums-would very likely walk out if the president of the company showed up to cramp his style.

Jock appeared to consider the invitation. But then he said, "Oh, please, that won't be necessary," and waved away the thought. "In fact, I'm catching a plane. I know I can count on you, Magnolia."

He looked at his vintage Patek Philippe and stood to leave. Should she spring her next question, the one that kept her up every night and had, as a result, cost her four hundred dollars for a QVC chinchilla wrap too faux for even a ho? Magnolia went for the red meat. "I'm glad you stopped by, because I was hoping we could discuss my . . . t.i.tle."

She delivered the request with bl.u.s.ter she thought would be mistaken for male confidence. No one ever d.a.m.ned a man for a bold gesture.

"What is your t.i.tle," he asked. "Remind me?"

"Bebe seems to think it's deputy."

"Makes sense," he said. "Although I don't recall if we ever discussed t.i.tles, Bebe and I."

"Three years ago I'd have been thrilled with that t.i.tle, Jock. But it doesn't reflect the job I'm doing. I'm managing this magazine down to the last semicolon." Surely, that was how Jock saw her role, a copy edi tor who'd mated with a lion tamer. "You know that."

"Do I?"

"If I have to sleep in the ladies' room, I'll make this magazine the best it can be."

"Why, for G.o.d's sake, do editors carry on about t.i.tles? It's about bucks. Don't you people get that?"

In this life, one thing counts. In the bank, large amounts. . . . For publishers and other business-side folk, it was a philosophy they may as well have had on their business cards, but editors always wanted their monetary entree rounded up with tasty side dishes, including a respectable t.i.tle.

"Editor then?" Magnolia said. It was a big step down from editor in chief, but at least it wasn't deputy.

"Editor. Magnolia the editor."

"You'll tell Bebe?"

Jock had already stepped halfway out the door, but turned to give Magnolia an appraisal that, if she wasn't mistaken, lingered rather long on her chest. "I'll try to remember," he said.

Chapter 1 6.

Bebepalooza.

Traffic was light at this hour of the morning, and it didn't take long to arrive at Washington Street, not far from the Hudson River.

Most local photo shoots took place in vast studios-Manhattan's stand ins for back lots-tucked into downtown loft buildings, and Magnolia's favorite was Industria Superstudio, where she was heading. Fredericka had pulled in every chit to book Studio 6. It was small enough to be inti mate, yet large enough to drive in a tank and photograph a minor jihad-which is what Magnolia feared might take place today.

"Good morning!" Fredericka spotted her and left her Woman's Wear on a leather armchair as she sprinted across the shiny wooden floor in Magnolia's direction, her platinum bob flying.

"Guten tag, Fredericka," Magnolia said. "Was ist das?" She pointed to a tall structure swathed in white drop cloths.

"The backdrop," Fredericka explained. "Vhen ve decided to go vith leopard, Francesco suggested a leopard vall, so ve had a muralist paint one."

"How much did this set us back?"

"Three thousand? Six thousand?" Fredericka answered and shrugged. "Francesco has in mind to pose Bebe draped over one of those leopard chaises in front of the background." She pointed toward a cl.u.s.ter of furniture being unpacked by several beefy deliverymen.

"Like an odalisque."

Magnolia knew not to be surprised. Photographers saw themselves as artistes and cared far more about whether a day's work would enhance their portfolio than if it fit a magazine's image or budget. It mattered little that Bebe would be paying Francesco's fee-half of today's $50,000-plus bill. Photographers ruled their photo shoots, and if they chose to treat an art director like a summer intern or take only half the shots the editor in chief expected, they stamped their feet and got their way.

"Check out the clothes," Fredericka said, taking Magnolia's hand and pulling her toward the other end of the room, where Ruthie and several a.s.sistants were setting up what looked like a good-sized bou tique, removing garments from bags, steaming away creases, hanging everything on aluminum racks, and salivating over choices.

"Some Bebepalooza." Magnolia whistled.

"The shoes!" Ruthie said. "You've got to see them."

Magnolia inhaled the smell of expensive leather and listened to the promising rustle of tissue paper as a double for the Bergdorf's shoe department came into focus. The troops carefully removed at least twenty pairs of leopard-print size tens: Manolo Blahnik stilettos; Lambertson Truex skimmers with toes so pointed they could open letters; Stuart Weitzman calf-hair pumps you'd feel the need to pet; girly, bow-bedecked Christian Louboutin peep toes. The only foot wear missing were actual leopard paws.

Ruthie slipped her size six-and-a-half feet into the bowed pumps.

"Don't you love these?"

"Not for $700 I don't," Magnolia answered, knowing she sounded like a social worker. "The reader could feed her family for months on what these shoes cost."

"We're not telling people to buy the shoes," Ruthie said. "Anyway, they're what Felicity said Bebe liked."

Luca Luca, Moschino, Marni, and Roberto Cavalli were all here, along with lesser labels. Since Bebe didn't wear a sample size- not by several digits-Ruthie and her junior varsity had called in dresses, pants, and blouses from every chic store in Beverly Hills and all points east. Magnolia and Fredericka combed through the garments, grouping first choices together. As Magnolia held up a ruf fled Alexander McQueen c.o.c.ktail dress, she heard the voice.

"Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, reporting for duty," Bebe boomed.

"You don't actually expect me to wear that?" she said as she got close enough to see the dress in Magnolia's hands. "Christ, I'd look like a heifer."

"Not at all, Bebe," Magnolia said. "You're going to look like you."

Just not exactly like the Bebe who'd arrived in bike shorts, a long sweatshirt, bare, lady wrestler legs, and running shoes. In one hand, she carried a half-eaten doughnut and under her arm, h.e.l.l.

"I loathe photo shoots," Bebe said. There was an edge to her voice that Magnolia couldn't quite identify. It took a second for her to real ize that what she was hearing was honesty. Bebe was just as freaked about being photographed as any woman who wasn't a 100-pound, fourteen-year-old model from Eastern Europe.

"That makes two of us," Magnolia said. Every time she had her edi tor's letter photo taken, she'd found the experience so ego-shredding she practically needed rehab to recover. "Most of my pictures wouldn't even make the cut for the Westminster Kennel Dog Show. But don't worry. We've got the very best for hair and makeup."

Fredericka broke in. "Before ve get going, you need to meet Francesco." She nodded toward a short man in wireless gla.s.ses, loose white pants, and a long shirt billowing over a sizable tummy. A do-rag was tied around his head. "Ciao," Fredericka shouted, as he ambled in their direction.

"Ciao, bellissima," Francesco said to Fredericka. "And this beautiful lady must be today's star," he sang out, bestowing kisses on Magnolia's reddening cheeks. "I will make you so magnificent, like the most desired concubine in a sultan's harem. But it will not be hard."