Part 39 (1/2)
A week later, she moved into Natalie's old office, which Natalie agreed to let her redecorate-smart of Wally to ask for that, Magno lia thought, along with weekly flowers in lieu of the standard health club. Magnolia wasn't ready to give up running with Abbey.
The walls were now a whispery violet repeated on the soft, low mohair sofas that flanked the fireplace, which Magnolia had kept ablaze since Halloween. She was back to working at the same long, antique pine table-unearthed from Scary's netherworld-that she'd used at Lady. There were big windows and huge bulletin boards layered with photographs and in-progress pages from the magazine. It was a spare, calming work s.p.a.ce, which was good, since her days began before eight and ended after ten.
True to Natalie's prediction, Magnolia had been working seven days a week, including traveling at least once a month with the maga zine's publisher, Malachy Jones. They'd made sales calls in San Fran cisco, Atlanta, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit (twice), Boston, Houston, and London. This trip would be their first to Los Angeles.
There were two aspects of travel with Malachy Jones that Magno lia particularly appreciated. The first was that in every city he seemed to have a boyfriend, which meant her evenings always ended by nine.
The second: he wasn't Darlene Knudson; he was quiet and thoughtful.
What had become of Darlene since the firing, n.o.body was certain.
Some said she and Jock were selling condos in Queens, which they were marketing as ”the new downtown.” Others declared that Dar lene had launched a tween girls' clothing line with prices starting at a thousand dollars.
Almost every day at Dazzle brought the rush of New Year's Eve, minus the champagne. Magnolia had more than kept up her end of the bargain. The magazine wasn't just Scary's queen breadwinner- newsstand, subscriptions, and ads were all soaring. There were two good reasons why. First, a long overdue redesign by Fredericka. The second, Magnolia's secret weapon, Sasha.
”Do you want to work for me again?” she'd asked Sasha. ”You'll be my first hire.” ”As your a.s.sistant?” Sasha asked. Magnolia could hear her disap pointment. ”You know I'm applying to law school.”
”You'd be a staff writer,” Magnolia said. Sasha accepted the posi tion on the spot, and every week generated headline-grabbing articles, like her exclusive on those nasty rumors about one of President Bush's daughters.
The rest of the staff, which she'd inherited from Natalie, wasn't just efficient-she liked them. And the person she liked the best was Stella, her number-two geisha, whom Natalie had left behind. With her MBA from the Natalie Simon School of Office Protocol, Stella arranged every detail with what was once quaintly known as military precision. Before a trip, for instance, she antic.i.p.ated Magnolia's needs down to the location of each airport's ladies' rooms.
Today, the moment Magnolia arrived home after visiting Abbey, Stella was on the line, a.s.suring her that the car she reserved to take her to the airport was-amazingly, considering the blizzard-on time. Magnolia thanked her profusely and opened the s.h.i.+ny black folder Stella had messengered over with its hour-by-hour itinerary amended with tickets, directions, and vouchers.
What she looked at first, of course, was the large, square engraved invitation, not unlike the one she'd received last week for her cousin's daughter's Bat Mitzvah in Boca Raton. ”The Academy of Motion Pic ture Arts and Sciences invites Ms. Magnolia Gold to the Academy Awards . . .” This year she would be watching the Oscars not from her living room but from the Kodak Theater, in one of the two seats traditionally accorded to Dazzle. Magnolia wondered if Malachy, her date, would actually wear socks with his evening shoes.
Magnolia reached the airport with more than an hour to spare, but soon enough she settled into her seat-first cla.s.s-and eyed her heavy bag of ma.n.u.scripts. Usually, she couldn't wait to read and com ment. Today she had other plans. Magnolia took out the bound, uncorrected galley of the book Stella had worked her contacts to chase down just the previous day. The cover showed the back of a couple embracing. A Friend Indeed. She was glad Cameron had won the war with his publisher over the name.
She looked first for the dedication and acknowledgments, her heart racing, but they were TK-publisher's jargon for ”coming later.” She flipped to the end for the author's bio: ”Cameron James Dane was raised in Burlington, Vermont,” it said. ”He received his bachelor's degree from Williams College and a master's in fine arts from Yale University. A Friend Indeed, his first novel, is being published in fourteen countries and made into a major motion picture. He lives in Mal ibu with his rescue dog, Mags.” The photograph showed Cam with a pup whose fur was the same dirty-blond as that of her owner, who was walking barefoot on the beach, his face hidden by sungla.s.ses.
Magnolia opened to the first page, telling herself she was just curi ous to see whether Cam's editor had macerated his deceptively simple prose. ”Jake Hawkins had loved Daisy Silver for four years. Five, if you counted the year when he only admired her from his desk in the office three doors down. He loved the way her laugh sounded like the charm bracelet that never left her slim wrist, and he wondered whether she kept it on, even when . . .”
As she devoured the pages, she could see that the decorum com mittee at Cam's publis.h.i.+ng house had convened and blessed the s.e.x scenes, which were now more fruitful and had multiplied. But, other wise, the book was as she remembered. Cam's voice was still strong. In fact, she felt as if he were dictating into her ear and she luxuriated in every word. When the captain announced they were landing at LAX, she was only half finished, having-at strategic points-allowed her mind to swerve into territory no one would call virginal.
Magnolia deplaned and found her waiting town car. The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills couldn't be less like its forbidding Manhattan cousin. She was admiring its warm, old-world ambience, waiting for her room key, when she heard her name.
”Mag-knowl-ya.”
”Bebe!” she said, spinning around to face her. ”h.e.l.lo.” Bebe had lost a good fifty pounds and had dyed her hair black.
”I hear you're in town for the Oscars.”
”And you're making a movie.”
”Don't you think I'm perfect for the Elizabeth Taylor role?” Bebe said. ”As soon as I started h.e.l.lcat-that's my production company-I knew The Taming of the Shrew had to be our first release.”
”Sorry Yentl closed so soon,” Magnolia said.
Bebe dismissed the four performances with a wave of her hand.
”Those Broadway audiences don't get subtlety,” she said. Magnolia saw a fleet of Louis Vuitton luggage roll by. ”Great, my bags are finally here. So, can I take you to dinner?”
”Sorry, Bebe, but my publisher has us seeing a client,” Magnolia said. ”But thanks.”
”Breakfast tomorrow?”
”Same.”
”Drink then?” Bebe said. ”The bar here, say about ten?”
”I'd love to, but we'll be meeting with other clients later,” Magno lia lied. ”You know how it is-sell, sell, sell.”
”Well, catch you later,” Bebe said, unfazed. ”And think cover. I want a fabulous cover just like this!” she said as she put on white movie-star sungla.s.ses.
”Yes, I know,” Magnolia said. Bebe had been agitating for a cover on Dazzle since Magnolia had got her job.
”Promise?” Bebe said, winking.
She winked back.
A bellman ushered Magnolia into her suite. She tipped him gener ously. On one table stood a bottle of Cristal chilling in a silver bucket.
”Cookie, enjoy the Oscars,” the card from Natalie said, ”and thanks for your wonderful performance.” Magnolia hadn't known what to expect of Natalie as a boss, but she quickly learned that as long as she kept Dazzle solidly in the black and favorably in the news, they'd get along famously.
Two large bouquets crowded the coffee table. One was a tall stand of mango calla lilies, their bright orange a lightning bolt in the taste fully beige room. She ripped open the card. ”Orange you glad we're going to the Oscars?” Malachy's jokes sometimes fell a bit short on the wit meter, but unlike Darlene, at least he tried. The second bouquet was an extravagance of peonies, hydrangeas, and full-blown red roses accompanied by a gardenia-scented candle and two pounds of dark Belgium chocolates. ”Welcome to the town where more is more, Big smooch, BEBE,” the card read.
Magnolia unpacked, carefully hanging her gown on a heavily padded silk hanger. She lined up her Cinderella-worthy sandals on the closet floor and stowed this year's birthday present from Abbey- jade and moonstone drop earrings-in the safe. The Balenciaga evening bag, filmy wrap, and silky lingerie, still with their tags on, she slipped into the drawers.
In fifteen minutes, she was due downstairs to meet Malachy. She considered-as she had, constantly, for the last few weeks-whether she should call Cameron. She hadn't seen Cam at all since she aborted her trip to visit him the past spring and once her job started, their e-mails had dwindled to nothing. ”Hi, there. Want to get together? In town for the Oscars!” Magnolia practiced saying the lines out loud, trying to imbue them with a blithe insouciance.
She couldn't do it. She'd make the call later.
Later, however-after dinner with four obstreperous, twenty eight-year-old cosmetic clients who seemed to especially enjoy that the mojitos were on Scary-she fell dead into bed. Amelie's arrival, the time difference, her months and months of fatigue . . . in two minutes, she was out cold. On Sunday, she nearly overslept, and before the nine o'clock appointment Malachy had lined up for them, barely had time for a swipe of lip gloss before meeting him downstairs. Mag nolia had scant conversation to share as they drove in their rented convertible to Doughboys on Third and La Jolla.
As the group gorged on flaxseed pancakes, Magnolia discreetly checked her itinerary. After breakfast she'd be back at the Four Sea sons, at the spa. Eleven o'clock: manicure and pedicure; twelve o'clock: ma.s.sage; and one o'clock: the house specialty, margarita body pol ishes: she'd be rubbed with juices from limes, oranges, and tangerines mixed with sunflower oil, salt, and tequila. Magnolia hoped she wouldn't walk away, smelling like a Tijuana bar. After the spa, she'd return to her room to meet a hair and makeup stylist. a.s.suming no snafus, she and Malachy would connect at three-thirty.
Which was how it worked out. Having been pummeled, exfoliated, and transformed by a team of dedicated Southern California profes sionals, slipping into her sequins and shoes was the quickest thing she did all day. As she fastened her earrings and admired the way they caught the light, there was a knock.
”Flowers,” the bellman said. ”Again.” She peeked through the chained door and saw a bouquet in each of his hands.
”Kisses from the Cohens-Abbey, Daniel, and Amelie,” said the card attached to the lavender roses in a silver cache. The other blos soms were creamy white and starlike, on branches that appeared to have been recently cut from a backyard garden. She breathed in their unmistakable fragrance, as sweet as a June twilight on the delta.
Magnolias.
There was no card. Did she dare think they might be from Cam?
They were probably from a publicist who would follow up later, per haps with skywriting promoting a miracle depilatory she wanted Dazzle to feature. Although they might be from Rabbi Hirsch. They'd gone out six times, and although Magnolia felt he was a good deal more appropriate for her than Tyler Peterson, she couldn't see herself with a man who might expect her to bake a kugel every Fri day night.
Magnolia locked her cell phone in the safe-her evening bag was barely bigger than a six-year-old's hand-and checked her reflection.
No one was going to mistake her for a best-actress wannabe, but a doc umentary short subject nominee perhaps. She went downstairs to meet Malachy.