Part 9 (1/2)
”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 fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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.