Part 36 (2/2)
”You there, Mags?” Wally shouted. ”I've got to know if these terms sound acceptable, or you want to go back for more.” There was only breathing from Magnolia's end of the phone. ”Magnolia?”
”I'm here, Wally, talking to you from euphoria,” she said. ”Magno lia Gold accepts-with pleasure.”
Chapter 4 2.
Fired, Finished, Decapitated.
”I missed you.” ”I missed you, too.”
After two weeks in Italy and one in Paris, Abbey had returned.
Daniel wouldn't be visiting for several more weeks, and Magnolia was just slightly ashamed of being elated to have the new Madame Cohen all to herself. ”I can't figure out what's changed about you,” she said as they began their early morning run. A moisturizer sold only in Europe? A subtly different hair color? ”Your face looks softer,” she decided. ”Is this what happiness looks like?”
”This is what five pounds looks like,” Abbey said, puffing her cheeks and patting her tummy, which-to Magnolia-looked as con cave as ever. ”And at my height, my five is your ten. Great food, great winethat was my honeymoon. Well, not quite.” She paused, appar ently to recollect a moment she didn't care to share.
As they ran, Abbey reviewed every four-star restaurant they vis ited. ”And by the way, forget the hype-the real reason French women don't get fat is that they smoke.” She stopped as they finished their second loop. ”But enough about me. Your settlement! You must be crazy happy.” They walked briskly toward their coffee shop. ”Oh, I am,” Magnolia said. But she considered herself an ingrate not to be radiating ostenta tious glee. ”Wally's a prince, and my financial adviser-I have one now, can you believe it?-put almost all the money in something she insists I don't touch for years. Except for the pittance I plan to live off, I'm pretending my windfall doesn't exist. This is what good Fargo girls do-h.o.a.rd.”
”Come on,” Abbey said. ”Indulge yourself. At least a little bauble?” Their regular waiter appeared as they grabbed the prime corner booth. ”Just tea for me this morning, nothing to eat,” Abbey said as the waiter welcomed them back.
”The usual, please,” Magnolia said, then turned back to Abbey. ”I wrote checks to ten charities, and I'm sending my parents on a cruise of the Greek islands.”
Abbey raised her eyebrows. ”That's n.o.ble, but what about you?”
”I'm replacing my kitchen countertops.” Magnolia brushed poppy seeds from her bagel into a tiny black pyramid. ”What do you think of white marble? Not practical, huh?”
”Magnolia?” Abbey sounded dubious.
”Truth? I'm too agitated to spend a cent,” she said, staring at the table. ”My inner bag lady is shouting, 'Watch out-you'll never work again.' I'm beginning to feel this firing is The End.”
”C'mon-it may take a while to find a dream job-you told me that yourself,” Abbey said. ”At least plan a trip while you're waiting. You can use Daniel's apartment in Paris.” She stopped herself. ”Our apartment.”
”I don't feel like traveling alone,” she snapped and immediately regretted it. Throwing guilt bombs at Abbey hadn't been her plan.
”Forget I said that. I couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to-still polis.h.i.+ng my Fancy proposal.”
”You were working on that before I left.”
”Every time I think I'm finished I start over. Maybe I have a learn ing disability.”
”Clinical ambivalence,” Abbey said and gently poked Magnolia's arm. ”Do you even want that job?” ”I'm not sure there even is a job,” she said. ”Fancy might just be picking my brains.” Magnolia put her hand in the pocket of her windbreaker and pulled out a $10 bill, which she laid on the table.
”This one's on me. Welcome back. Movie tonight?”
”Whatever you want to see,” Abbey said. They stood up and lay ered on their scarves, gloves, and hats. The calendar read April, but it still felt like the winter of Magnolia's discontent.
She walked west, toward her apartment. While Abbey had been away they'd e-mailed every few days, so Abbey was up to speed about the trial and the sale of Cam's book, though not its plot, and definitely not the kiss. What else was there to tell, really? That she and Cam had each made a move but ultimately retreated to their pa.s.sion-free com fort zones? True, they'd been talking, e-mailing, and IM-ing since he'd returned to Los Angeles for more meetings. Yet in every way there was a continent between them.
Now Cam wanted her to visit. She'd been telling him she couldn't leave town because of her Voyeur proposal. Magnolia knew she was a freeze-dried liar.
”You'd love running on the beach,” he'd said last night. His pub lisher, or maybe it was his agent-Cam was vague on this point-was putting him up at the Shutters in Santa Monica, and his room had a view of the Pacific. He hadn't exactly said that he wanted her to share that room, however, and Magnolia felt uncomfortable asking.
Maybe Abbey was right, though. She should get out of town. What would be the worst that might happen? She and Cam would laugh at the absurdity of thinking they could hook up, then buy a movie star map, rent a red convertible, and prowl the city.
Every trip she'd ever made to L.A. had been in tandem with a pub lisher for the sole purpose of selling ads. Magnolia a.s.sociated the city with predawn wake-up calls, six meetings per day, and ten P.M.
exhaustion. As pure R&R, it might be different. She and Cam could gorge on overpriced sus.h.i.+, go to comedy showcases, and visit the wineries in Santa Barbara. When Cam was busy, she'd dress in aggres sively casual left coast clothes and get some practically iridescent highlights or do a Pilates cla.s.s and rub shoulders with celebrities she'd been scrutinizing ad nauseam on television and in magazines.
Maybe she'd even discreetly check out plastic surgeons; by L.A. stan dards, surely thirty-eight was past the legal limit to be walking around with a face and body that hadn't been reengineered. On the weekend, the two of them could stop by that enormous swap meet at the Rose Bowl or wind their way up the coast, stay in Big Sur, and end in Napa, where they'd drink even more wine.
It could be chummy-or better than chummy-and at the very least shake her out of the New York blahs. Anyone could get cranky living through a damp Manhattan winter. She always felt far more s.h.i.+very here than in the arctic desert of North Dakota.
By the time Magnolia arrived at her apartment, she'd decided to call Cam and announce her plans to take the trip. She looked at her watch. Five o'clock in the morning in California. Better wait. She left her running clothes in a heap on her bathroom floor and hopped in the shower. In the steam, she let herself imagine a second kiss with Cam. And more. Much more. She heard the phone ring. As the fan tasy flowed into every tributary of her unloved body, she let it ring and ring.
After drying herself with a towel she'd warmed on the radiator, Magnolia found her most extravagant lotion-no Vaseline Intensive Care today-and lovingly ma.s.saged it into her skin, inch by inch. She stood in front of the opened armoire and reached for a variation on her ongoing work uniform-flannel pajama bottoms and a baggy T-s.h.i.+rt. No thanks, she decided. From a drawer, Magnolia unearthed some excellent underwear and pale blue cashmere sweatpants with a matching hoodie. The unworn set was still wrapped in tissue paper from last Christmas and felt like kitten fur against her newly silken skin. Her fantasy intact, she logged on to her computer and, using miles to upgrade to first cla.s.s, made an airline reservation for two days later. Within ten more minutes, she'd booked a car to take her to the airport and arranged for Biggie and Lola to be kenneled.
Magnolia felt better already.
Yet it was still too early to call Cam. She decided to e-mail. ”In the mood for sus.h.i.+ after all. See you Thursday at LAX,” she wrote. ”I've missed you,” she added and immediately subst.i.tuted the sentiment with ”Talk later. M.”
Magnolia thought through what else she'd need to do before she left. A haircut and root job, definitely. Maybe someone would already be at Frederic Fekkai and be able to book an appointment. She got to her phone and noticed she had a message that must have arrived when she was showering. ”Turn on your TV p.r.o.nto, Magnolia,”
Natalie's recorded voice said. ”The verdict's in. Call me. ASAP.”
Magnolia ran to her TV. She'd missed the last round of news, so she checked online. There were no postings she could locate. She returned to channel surf.
Throughout the trial, Judge Tannenbaum made no secret that she had bigger legal fish to fry and that the plaintiffs, defendants, and all their lawyers were wasting her precious time. ”This trial never should have happened, and these two are just a pair of playground bullies,”
she'd carped about Jock and Bebe, ”but there's no client like a rich, angry one.” Nonetheless, everyone Magnolia knew was betting that Bebe would clean up-big. As she continued to flip channels, Magno lia started pacing as if she were waiting to see whether a pregnancy test would turn blue.
”. . . and the victor in the infamous trial between talk show person ality Bebe Blake and Scarborough Magazines, the publisher of her eponymous magazine, Bebe, is . . .”
Why did she care? Strictly speaking, was she even in the magazine industry anymore?
”. . . absolutely no one,” the newscaster said. ”That's right, folks.
Judge Margaret Ruth Tannenbaum of the Supreme Court of the State of New York has essentially said a pox on both your houses.”
The screen flashed to footage of the judge. ”There is no proof that Bebe magazine would ever have made a dime,” the judge lectured, ”so neither side deserves monetary damages.”
”In further comments,” the reporter continued, ”Judge Tannenbaum stressed that she thought it was 'a crime that Lady magazine was sacrificed to a narcissistic celebrity so she could be the hood orna ment for a pointless magazine.' Both the judge and her mother had been longtime Lady subscribers. 'I miss their recipes,' said the judge, who is widely known for her home-baked biscotti, 'and the article on pet psoriasis saved my Max from considerable heartbreak.' ”
Magnolia switched to other channels, searching for more coverage.
Bebe popped up.
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