Little Pink Slips Part 20

"Felicity, out!" She pointed to the door. "You codependent leech.

What kind of s.h.i.+t are you shoveling?" "Well, if memory serves, young Nathaniel's here courtesy of you and your friend Natalie Simon," Felicity said with a final smirk, as she slammed the door so hard the papers on Magnolia's desk scattered.

At five, Magnolia attempted a drive-by visit to Natalie, who hadn't responded to the three messages she'd left. As Magnolia got out of the elevator, however, Jock was walking toward Natalie's office and she aborted her mission.

A half hour later, Jock's a.s.sistant called to inform her she had a command performance: lunch with him tomorrow.

The next morning the Bebe story was bouncing around the Internet, but the television shows, both news and celebrity-to the degree you could tell them apart-had stopped reporting the inci dent, probably on advice of lawyers. Magnolia didn't know if she was in the eye of the hurricane or if it had blown out to sea and, as a result, she deliberated for twenty minutes about what to wear. Every thing in her closet looked too giddy, too grim, or too prim. She ulti mately defaulted to an old black velvet jacket, narrow tweed pants, and black suede boots that gave her three and a half extra inches of courage. Whether she was preparing for her own memorial service or a tete-a-tete on the post-Polo spin cycle-which her inner optimist decided was more likely-she felt well-dressed.

At 12:15, she waited at the appointed spot downstairs, the late December wind whipping her face. Ten minutes pa.s.sed. She called Jock's office to see if he was delayed. No answer. Then she heard him.

"Over here, Magnolia." He was calling to her from his town car.

"C'mon in."

She'd a.s.sumed they'd walk to one of his neighborhood joints-the Gramercy Tavern, perhaps, or Union Square Cafe. But a car? In that case, she hoped for Michael's or the Four Seasons. "Where are we eating?" she asked, forcing a smile, as she settled herself on the seat next to him.

"It's a surprise," Jock said. They traveled south, crawling along Broadway in the seasonal slog.

Might they wind up at WD-40? n.o.bu? That hole in the wall with taxidermy at the end of Freeman Alley? No, they kept going, and sud denly they were on a bridge. Jock must be one of those Manhattanites who's just discovered Brooklyn, Magnolia decided, praying they weren't headed for a slab of cow at Peter Luger's.

During the drive, the conversation skirted Bebe and Polo, though Jock did bring up the gun cover. "Not only is it nuts, that cover, this morning I found out a bunch of the supermarket chains won't display it," Jock complained. "As goes Wal-Mart, so goes our newsstand- right down the toilet."

Magnolia felt her stomach turn over. He's going to blame me. What was I thinking, that today's lunch would be about making the Polo mess go away? I'm over. Talk about deluded.

She had a sudden urge to tell the driver to turn around, that she just remembered her apartment was on fire. But then Jock switched to harmless subjects, and she zoned out, trying to respond at appropriate moments. After twenty more minutes, they arrived at a Brooklyn restaurant that Michelin had proclaimed one of the city's best. As they stepped behind a velvet curtain, Jock pressed his hand on Magnolia's back to guide her to a corner table in the tiny, avocado green room.

Jock ordered a bottle of 1997 ZD Cabernet Sauvignon-the restau rant was known for its wine list-and quickly downed a gla.s.s, urging Magnolia to do the same. "A toast," he said. "To Magnolia, a woman of exceptional talent, courage, and valor." He clicked her gla.s.s.

"Thanks, Jock," Magnolia said, suspicious of the accolade.

"You've been a great sport, kid," he said. "I thought you deserved a good thanks. Let's start with the roasted beets with goat cheese ravioli and toasted pine nuts. Or would you rather have the ratatouille stuffed squid?"

"Beets, definitely," she said. To match my face.

"And for an entree, I insist on the duck."

Magnolia studied the menu. Slow rendered duck breast, braised sprouts and Aligote in a caramelized red vinegar sauce. Aligote? She'd definitely missed the press release on whatever that was. Throughout both courses, Jock kept their winegla.s.ses filled as he nattered on about his vacation to Dubai, Little Jock's thoroughbred, and paintings he hoped to acquire at auction.

Magnolia responded in a language she was fairly sure was English, but her head was on her job, which she now convinced herself would be terminated by the end of the lunch. As galling as it was to have to report to Bebe, and to be second-guessed by Felicity, to be tossed out of Scary would be far worse. If she were to get a new job, she wanted it to be on her terms, not Jock's.

Finally, Bebe came up.

"She's quite the girl, our Ms. Blake," Jock said. "We haven't seen the end of this mess with that Fine boy. But at least we've put pressure on the media to bury the story so we can try and settle out of court- though Bebe's going to have to pay big, bigger than we will, to make it go away."

He finished off his winegla.s.s and refilled it. "The newsstand mess, though," Jock said, "that's not a small thing." He looked as if his best friend had just received an HIV-contaminated transfusion. "I've got it at me every which way."

He's fattened me up for the kill, Magnolia thought. Here it comes, the rubout.

"There's a lot of stress with being in charge," Jock groaned. Wait- was he showing sympathy? Wrong. He was talking about himself.

The server came over to offer dessert: "Gingerbread pudding or chocolate fig cake?"

"I couldn't possibly, thanks," Magnolia said.

"A double espresso," Jock said. "And chocolate fig cake."

"Sir, will that be with coconut ice cream or pa.s.sion fruit sorbet?"

"Pa.s.sion fruit." As the waiter walked away, Jock leaned in closer across the small table and filled both their gla.s.ses with the last of their second bottle of wine. "We're headed for some hairpin turns, Magnolia. But you can help." He raised his gla.s.s, as if for a toast. "Do you know you are a very beautiful woman?" he asked in a soft growl. He moved his face so near hers, she could smell the Cabernet Sauvignon and she instinctively-though she hoped not noticeably- backed away. This lunch was definitely not pa.s.sing the sniff test.

"Why, thank you, Jock, you are very kind," she said stiffly.

"Relax," he laughed, and took her hand. "Have I been good to you?"

Yeah, Jock, you've been great. Murdering Lady. Demoting me. Importing my replacement. "Yes, Jock. I appreciate everything you've done for me."

"Good. I've always thought the two of us could be a team. There's something between us. I know you can feel it. And I like the way you've at least tried to stand up to that b.i.t.c.h, Bebe. You've got, what's the word you people like? Chutzpah." He took her hand and rubbed his fingers slowly between hers. "What do you say?"

Coming on to her now, while a s.e.xual hara.s.sment suit was whizzing through the air? He must be totally disa.s.sembling. Magnolia s.h.i.+fted in her chair and backed away a little farther. I say, Ewww that's what I'd like to say. "I am so f.u.c.ked" also comes to mind. She considered telling a lie like "I'm very flattered, but I like the way things are now, Jock-although if you were single and not my boss and ten years younger . . ."

"Jock, maybe we should regroup when we haven't had two bottles of wine" was the most authentic and politic response Magnolia could muster.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," he said, trying to penetrate her eyes with a look she was sure he imagined was seductive.

"I don't think you do. Do you really see this, of all times, as the moment for you to start up with me?" she said, removing her hand from his grasp. "Do you want more scandal, more items in the paper?"

"Magnolia, who's going to know?" he said, the words a threat.

"Everyone," she said. "Because I'll tell them."

Jock stared at her.

"I will," she said.

After an uncomfortable pause, he cleared his throat, adjusted his gla.s.ses, and called for the bill. "I see," he said, putting on his coat without helping her with hers. The two of them walked to the car. The ride back to Manhattan felt as long as a flight to New Zealand and allowed plenty of time for second-guessing. What made her be so harsh? Why hadn't she just manufactured a hidden fiance?

Neither one of them spoke until they were just a few blocks from Scary. "I'm considering a new position for you, Magnolia," Jock said, "given everything that's gone down in that war zone between you and Bebe. Yes, I'm definitely thinking about 'corporate editor.' " He was staring straight ahead, delivering his announcement as gravely as if he were informing the Vatican that the pope had died.

"Corporate editor?" Magnolia squeaked. In a few companies, cor porate editor wielded heft. But more often, just like editor at large translated to editor who's small, it was a hollow position. Jock might give her projects-should this position come to pa.s.s-but unless they came with his clear imprimatur, no one at Scary would take the a.s.signments seriously, despite her sweaty efforts to wield vigilante authority. "Corporate editor?" It was like being named weather girl for the three A.M. news telecast in Tulsa.

"Yes, everyone around here needs a change." Jock hopped out of the car without saying good-bye. "Corporate editor. Magnolia, think it over."

Chapter 2 6.

Pluck Sucks.

"Run it by me again," Abbey said as they looped around the Reservoir. "When Jock said, 'You think it over,' was he talking about that other job or the Hot Sheets Hotel?"

"I wasn't sure, but figured Hot Sheets was like an airline reserva tion-forty-eight hours and the offer would expire," Magnolia said.

"Which I let it do, although I was dying to know what name he'd use for reservations."

"So you have another new job?" Abbey asked.

"Scary's corporate editor," Magnolia said. "Last stop before obliv ion." And for someone like her, who loved slaying dragons, living death.

"Did you have a choice?" Abbey asked as they ended their run.

"I could have quit," Magnolia said. "Call me a coward. I chose pay check over trying to prove s.e.xual hara.s.sment."

"Jock's word against yours? I'm no lawyer, but it doesn't sound like an airtight case," Abbey said. "Now tell me, what do corporate editors do?"

"Look busy," Magnolia said. "The job doesn't come with a training manual, so I'll have to write it myself. Jock will probably ask me to interfere at the other magazines-critique them, submit ideas, sit in on meetings-and all the Scary editors in chief will despise and ignore me." Magnolia realized as she was talking about work, she was getting increasingly tense, even though she'd just finished a four-mile run that was designed to obliterate stress. She knew she had to change the subject.

"I want to hear about you and Tommy," she said. "Are you really and truly over?"

"Done-d'-done-done," Abbey said. "I've sprinted through the five stages of breakup-denial, anger, depression, reconciliation s.e.x, and Match.com."

"How goes online dating?" she asked as they walked into Abbey's apartment building. Upstairs, Abbey began to brew coffee in her clut tered but utterly charming kitchen with its checkerboard floor and tall, gla.s.s-fronted cabinets filled with white china.

"Women lie about their age-for men, it's height," she said.

"Every guy I've met could be technically cla.s.sified a carnival midget.

I definitely have to post my own ad." She handed Magnolia pen and paper. "So I'm giving you an a.s.signment. Be creative. Help me write one."

"Ooh, fun. Give me a few essentials."

Abbey took out her notes. " 'Good listener,' 'great friend,' 'and 'compa.s.sionate'?" She looked for Magnolia's approval.

Magnolia shook her head. "That's fine if you want to head up the Red Cross," she said. "Lead with your looks."

" 'Pretty' ?"

" 'Pretty' is code for 'not exactly hideous in the right light,' " Mag nolia said. "Pretty is flowered dresses, jars of jam, Snow White, granny quilts."

"Got it. 'Beautiful' ?" Abbey said. "As in 'my friends say I'm beautiful'?"

Magnolia thought it over. "Beautiful scares the nuts off men," she said. "Let's go with 'adorable.' And it's true. 'Adorable, s.e.xy, artistic, laser wit." Magnolia made a list. "Are you writing this for you or me?"

Abbey asked.

"Mine would say, 'Temporarily closed for renovation.' Back to you. 'Great with hands'?" Magnolia wondered. "Why not? Truth in adver tising. Now we need something like 'more Guggenheim than Frick,' 'More Breakfast at Tiffany's than Two for the Road ' ?" She drank half her coffee. "Think, Abbey."

" 'More Paris flea market than Bergdorf 's' ?"

"Perfect. Clever but not too. You don't want to come off too Maureen Dowd. Brilliantly cutting and movie star gorgeous. Talk about a killer combo-poor thing, we should invite her to brunch-she must never go out. Although it doesn't help to write a book called Are Men Necessary?"

"Enough words, don't you think?" Abbey asked. "Guys really don't read that much."

"Or that carefully," Magnolia said. "You could write 'Man-hungry hussy from h.e.l.l looking for warthog to eat flesh' and you'll get responses if your picture's hot enough. Show me what you've got."

Abbey pulled out her alb.u.m. Many of the photos were neatly cut in half, Tommy having been burned at the stake of Abbey's fireplace the first night of Stage Two. Much of what remained was Abbey snapped at black tie functions, where, given her love of vintage cloth ing, it was hard to tell if she was wearing bag lady rejects or Yves Saint Laurent.

Magnolia flipped through the alb.u.m twice. "I think we have a winner," she said when she got to one of Abbey in her Audrey sun gla.s.ses and bikini top. "Can't wait to see who comes panting. If you get a good response, I may run an ad myself."

"So are you still getting e-mails from Tyler?"

"Daily," Magnolia admitted. "They're dear. It's the purpose-driven romance."

"Could it ever be the real thing?" Abbey asked. "He sounds awfully sweet."

"Are you kidding?" Magnolia said. "He's a Lutheran minister in Wild Rice, North Dakota, with a wife and two kids. I'm an ambitious, divorced, Jewish Manhattan magazine editor who spends too much on clothes. Do the math." She hugged Abbey and ran home.

The truth was, Magnolia had been enjoying their e-mailing more than she cared to admit. When she dated Tyler in high school, her father tried to discourage the relations.h.i.+p by quoting Fiddler on the Roof: "A bird can love a fish," he'd say, in his best Tevye imitation, "but where will they live?" Now, Magnolia could answer him. In cybers.p.a.ce. Every morning Hotmail would deliver a missive from Preacherman8. She was getting as addicted to them as to cashews.

When she'd written him about her counterfeit promotion- conveniently skirting what had inspired Jock's spite-he'd responded with "If your boss doesn't know by now what you are capable of, he must be blind or stupid or both. Don't try too hard to make sense of some thing that is illogical." She wondered what Tyler would think of the latest, which she'd e-mail him about tonight. Raven KensingtonWoods was replacing her at Bebe.

And what would he think of her publisher Darlene's s...o...b..ry send-off ? "Magnolia, I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all your hard work," she'd said in an audition for insincerity. "I've really enjoyed working with you these past few years." So much that you pushed me under a bus, Magnolia thought, her teeth grinding at the other end of the phone. You probably flew to London and lured Raven here with a trail of Prada.

Natalie-who'd been dodging Magnolia's calls-phoned yesterday as well. "You've got to approach the new job with pluck," she advised from her lookout atop Mount Success. "I've always believed power is for the grabbing." This philosophy had sustained Natalie for decades, along with you've got to be a little b.i.t.c.hy to be interesting. "Bebe-let that be Raven's problem," Natalie added. "Has Bebe called you, by the way?"

"Not a peep, not a cuss."

"Felicity?"

"She's still smoking over Polo. And, hey, what's happening with that?"

"They're settling out of court," Natalie said. "Let's just say that it's likely Nathaniel will have his tuition and therapy paid for through out the rest of his life, and still have plenty left over for beachfront property."

Magnolia felt awful that Polo had been traumatized, which shouldn't happen to anyone, but she still couldn't help feeling she'd pulled the short straw, especially on Monday, when she opened the door to her corporate editor office. The walls hadn't been painted in years, and she was greeted by two roaches, one dead, the other in vig orous health. The office was tucked into the side of the executive floor where people never wandered unless they were lost. Sasha helped unpack her. Raven, Sasha's new boss, would be starting tomorrow.

"I'm never going to forget that you've kept my secret about the Post, Magnolia," Sasha said. "Good luck in this new job." Sasha surveyed the bleak surroundings. She didn't press Magnolia on what she'd be doing, exactly, in her new job. The e-mail announcement had been vague, though perhaps by now Sasha had learned to read sub liminal messages whispered in corporatespeak.

Her second visitor was Cameron, who arrived with three dozen pale pink roses. "It's going to be d.a.m.n odd not working for you," he said as he handed her the flowers and enfolded her in an enormous, long hug.

"You, too, but you've got to be my lifeline to reality, promise? A woman needs gossip to live." Isolation scared Magnolia as much as Fargo.

"Promise you will be my personal eyewitness and prognosticator?"

"Lunch, e-mail, hanging out whenever," he said, "I'm your man."