Part 29 (1/2)
The editorial director met her himself in the outer lobby on his high floor. He walked her to his office, which, she was surprised to see, was smaller than her former suite at Lady.
”Magnolia Gold,” he said. ”At liberty, I understand.”
”Free at last,” she said.
”Bebe Blake, now there's a train wreck.”
Knock Bebe and she'd come off as a whiner; say nothing and she'd bore this guy. Magnolia settled on: ”Bebe looks out for herself- you've got to admire her grit.”
”But why back her in a magazine?” he said. ”What was Jock Flana gan thinking?”
Another land mine. For all Magnolia knew, Jock and her inter viewer played squash together twice a week. Magnolia decided to respond with a laugh-not a guffaw or a giggle, more of an airy chuckle-although when she heard herself she was afraid she had whinnied like a sick pony. d.a.m.n, what would Anna Wintour do? By now he would have mortgaged his co-op to buy her a sable.
”How's Bebe selling?” the editorial director asked.
To say it was selling poorly wouldn't do her a bit of good. ”Rather well, actually,” Magnolia replied.
”Well, these numbers Darlene Knudson's spewing-are they for real?” he said. ”Our publishers here aren't buying them.”
”You'd really have to ask Jock or Darlene,” Magnolia said, wis.h.i.+ng he'd move to another topic.
He read her mind. ”So what do you think of our magazines?” he said.
If she critiqued ferociously, he might kick her into the hall, a theme park of archival photographs and voices as muted as the color palette of the decor. Overpraise the magazines, and he'd think she was a suck-up with nothing to bring to his table. Magnolia decided to say only good things, sticking to magazines where she didn't stand a chance of ever becoming editor in chief, and emphasize how much she particularly loved the men's, home design, and food magazines.
”I dig almost all of what you do,” she concluded. Did she just said dig in an interview?
”Any you don't dig?” the editorial director asked wryly.
This is where an interview could turn ugly. Why didn't this man stop torturing her and let her know why she was here?
Should she happen to pounce on a magazine that he had decided was flawed and flay it in a manner he found cunning, at this notably mer curial company she might land herself a top job with a clothing allowance, a car and driver, and an interest-free loan for a country house. But which magazine? She could feel the seconds ticking away-or was that her pounding heart? She may as well have been on a TV game show.
”Your teen t.i.tle,” she finally said. ”You could shake that one up, not be such a clone of the mother s.h.i.+p.”
”Oh, really?” he said. ”Do you think you're the right generation to lead that magazine?”
Ouch. Why didn't he come out and say it: you, Magnolia Gold, have aged out of the teen books, which were-inexplicably-how the industry referred to magazines. Perhaps this company hadn't heard that sixty was the new forty, and thirty-eight was a mere tot. She'd pretend he hadn't made the remark. ”Oh, no, teen books-not my thing at all,” Magnolia said, hating herself for being a weenie.
”Magnolia, I like you,” he said. ”You've done some lively work in a tired category. You have a good eye, an amusing voice, and you don't seem to take yourself too seriously.” He made a sound that took Mag nolia a second to realize was a laugh. ”We're up to our eyeb.a.l.l.s in divas here. . . .”
Magnolia felt her ego inflate like a beach ball. She was going to thank him, when he continued.
”. . . and you have the common touch.”
She'd been drop-kicked back to Fargo. Though their readers weren't any more gentrified than anyone else's, at Fancy it was all cla.s.s all the time.
”I'm going to take that as a compliment,” Magnolia decided. ”I'd like to believe I can see into the soul of a fair number of women.”
His half-smile returned. ”You know, there's a new project we might talk about,” he said. ”It's flying a bit under the radar and goes by the code name Voyeur. You've heard about it, I a.s.sume.” Magnolia hadn't. ”Of course,” she said, and smiled in a way she hoped he took as knowing.
”Excellent,” he said. He removed a short doc.u.ment from a folder on his big, uncluttered desk. ”So if you'll sign this mutual confiden tiality agreement, please.”
Magnolia stared at the legal letter. n.o.body said no to this company, but Wally would beat her with a nine iron if she made another foren sic boo-boo. ”I'm going to have to show this to my attorney,” she said.
”Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows. ”None of the other candi dates have.”
”Isn't it refres.h.i.+ng that I'm not like any of your other candi dates?” Her remark failed to make him remove the agreement. Mag nolia put down her silver fountain pen and closed her tiny blue leather notebook.
He took her measure. ”We could handle this differently, if you wish,” he said. ”I won't show you our prototype, and you could simply hum a few bars and get back to me on paper.”
”I could,” Magnolia thought. Only she couldn't, since she hadn't a clue what Voyeur was. For all she knew, he had made up the name and project two minutes before. ”But I really need to know a bit more.
What I've heard, it's . . . sketchy.”
He walked to his window, which had a commanding view of Times Square. With his back turned to her, he spoke. ”Think of the magazines that celebrate Hollywood. Now imagine something entirely original. That's Voyeur. s.e.x, glamour, dirty secrets.”
”Aren't you describing Vanity Fair?” Magnolia said, not to mention Dazzle and all the others. Celebrity magazines had been popping out like free b.o.o.b jobs in a San Fernando Valley shopping mall. ”Not literary,” he said, as if that were obvious. ”It would be for next-generation readers-and I use that term lightly-who prefer the celebrity blogs and webzines. I would think your experience with Bebe would allow you some insights.” He gave her a sphinxlike glance. ”We'll only run with this if we find the right vision,” he said.
”It's always about the editor.”
”Deadline?” Magnolia asked.
”I'm leaving soon for the Oscars. A few weeks from now is fine.”
”I'm on it,” Magnolia said.
”By the way,” he said, ”the red bracelet? Nice touch. Very Ma donna.”
Chapter 3 5.
Knickers in a Twist.
Magnolia didn't know whether her firing was an exclamation point at the end of a flickering work life or an ellipsis during a long, rambling pa.s.sage, but one thing she did know was if she was going to breakfast with Natalie, she'd need the holy trinity-good hair, good shoes, and a good bag. One, two, three, blastoff.
As Magnolia pushed open the door to Michael's crowded entry and deposited her coat, someone jostled her from behind. She turned in time to see Jock roaring out the door, his head a black comet careen ing across Fifty-fifth Street. Darlene was the comet's tail, her long Prada coat flying. But before her former publisher could cut and run into the cold morning, she turned to Magnolia and yowled two words: ”Whip smart.”
Escorted by the maitre d', Magnolia walked to Natalie's usual table, nervously waiting for faces to turn and inspect her. Every diner, how ever, was buried in a paper. Magnolia thought she heard someone say the identical words Darlene had shrieked, but she couldn't hear- the room was rocking as if it were the White House Correspondents dinner and the First Lady had got off a zinger piercing the presi dent's ego. ”Fresh orange juice?” the waiter said, barely concealing a giggle.
”Just coffee, please,” Magnolia answered.
”Mrs. Simon phoned to say she was running late,” he continued, his snicker exploding. He paused until he controlled himself. ”May I bring you a newspaper, Miss Gold? Wall Street Journal, the Times-”
”The Post, please,” Magnolia said. With today's thorough primping, she hadn't read it. The waiter placed the tabloid in front of her, folded. All she could see was the business end of a whip dangling by a pair of st.u.r.dy, fishnet-clad legs and thigh-high, nosebleed stiletto boots. She unfolded the paper. Before her was a middle-aged matron wearing a diabolical expression, a black leather thong, and a laced bustier that any lingerie saleswoman worth her microfiber would instantly dismiss as several sizes too small. The determined face looked familiar; the cleavage, terrifying; the headline-WHIPSMART.
Holy latex G-string! Felicity Dingle, you snake in the gra.s.s, Mag nolia thought. No wonder your cell phone is always going off. ”I Think I Love You,” my big foot.