Part 9 (2/2)

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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 sweats.h.i.+rt, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.”

<script>