Little Pink Slips by Sally Koslow Read Free Book Online Page B

peek at what passed for a garden. The front space, with its Hockney
    lithos, drew this minute's superheroes from Scary, Condé Nast,
    Hearst, Time, and big-ticket literary agencies. Television folk swung
    both ways.
    It was up front that Magnolia headed. She spotted Darlene bouncing
    from table to table, floating photos of her sturdy Nordic daughters and
    bestowing kisses as if she were campaigning for the New Hampshire
    primary. Magnolia waved to several buddies from other companies as she walked across the room, stopping only to acknowledge the mayor's press secretary, who had just been featured in a Lady "40 under 40" roundup. Today Darlene's bag wasn't parked at her regular pied-à-terre,
    #12, but at a table that seated four. Magnolia positioned herself across
    from Darlene, who'd claimed the chair against the wall, the one with
    the good view.
    "She should be here any minute," Darlene said to Magnolia.
    "They're on their way."
    "They?"
    "Bebe never goes anywhere without Felicity Dingle. She's her pro
    ducer, memsahib, groomer, whatever." Magnolia remembered that at the last Lady photo shoot it was Felicity who'd barked to the publicist about Fredericka and had her banished from the studio. Darlene did a
    few hits on her BlackBerry, then locked eyes with Magnolia. "Bebe's a
    force of nature," she said. "You'll see."
       Darlene turned to the Marketplace section of The Wall Street Journal. Other than the local business pages—especially on Monday, when they traditionally decimated the magazine industry—it was all she
    read. No one would accuse her of being a seeker of wisdom and truth,
    nor would Darlene apologize for that—or much. She parsed her time
    to reach her goals, and since she'd entered magazines ten years ago,
    had been on a fast upward trajectory. Darlene left investment banking
    to begin as an ad salesperson at a small magazine about decorating (or
    "shelter," as Darlene always reminded people, even if they weren't in
    the industry, and mistook her for speaking Finnish). She got hired as publisher of Lady last year. At forty, the statute of limitations had run out on her classification as a wunderkind. She needed a grand slam, and she needed it now. But so far, Lady had only been number three in its category, with number four nipping at her heels, and her ad sales
    had slipped an eyebrow-raising 9 percent.
    As Darlene perused her newspaper, Magnolia looked at the menu,
    a waste of time. She'd be having oatmeal, as usual. Make a call? Not
    here, where the guy at the next table might be a tabloid spook.
    Suddenly, the room grew silent. Magnolia turned. Bebe Blake was
    heading toward them, a long-haired animal—a ferret? No, it was a cat—peeking out of her burnt-orange Birken bag. Bebe was wearing
    tight jeans—Juicy Couture, Magnolia guessed, although she wasn't
    sure they were made in Bebe's size—a V-neck Grateful Dead T-shirt
    that showed deep décolletage, and boots that looked compromised try
    ing to support her. She had a heart-shaped face; a small, pointy nose;
    and when she removed her Gucci sunglasses, close-set dark eyes not
    unlike those of her pet. Bebe's hair was the color of ketchup.
    Carrying an ostrich leather-trimmed, canvas tote loaded with
    papers and liter-sized bottles of Evian, another sturdy woman arrived.
    Her inky hair, which matched the feline's, hung close to her head in
    an asymmetrical cut that recalled Austin Powers's shagadelic London.
    In her aqua pants and zippered top, she looked ready for a power
    breakfast in any Atlanta suburb.
    "Darlene!"
    "Bebe!"
    "You adorable thing, you. And you must be the editor, Gardenia."
       In fact, this was not their first meeting. Every time Bebe had been on Lady' s cover, Magnolia had stopped by the photo studio to personally thank her and drop off a gift. Last time, to nibble during takes,
    she'd given Bebe chocolates in a specially ordered box the size of a
    laptop.
    "It's Magnolia. Magnolia Gold. Thank you for coming."
    "You're