ignoring scowls from the women—more than 150 by now—behind
her in line. Darlene had never met a mirror she didn’t like and, at
forty, was still bragging about her SAT scores. She was a Midwestern
transplant, too, but while Mr. and Mrs. Goldfarb failed to receive the
memo that self-esteem had been invented, Darlene drank it in her
mother’s milk. The child of Iowa über-WASPs, Darlene was now an
Upper East Side mother of three, with a nanny for each daughter.
Everyone on her staff knew Darlene took mental health days every Friday to make up for rarely seeing Priscilla, Camilla, and Annabel
the rest of the week.
She always tried to stick it to Magnolia, who considered Darlene
her frenemy—more enemy than friend.
“First-timer?” Darlene asked, throwing down her bulging black
satchel. “I hate this stuff myself, but Mother loves it.”
“Yes, I’m a virgin,” Magnolia responded in a tone she hoped was
airy and ironic. But Darlene was already thumb-dancing with her
BlackBerry. Conversation over.
By now the sisterhood of shoppers snaked down one long wall and
back around the other. The latest arrivals were nearer to the door than
sleep-deprived zealots who’d blown in at dawn. The crowd ranged
from fashion victims—whose unfortunate garments represented every
trend from the past four seasons—to dozens of adorable answers to the question “Who could ever wear that?”
As the clock neared eight, a Chanel representative emerged, arms
brimming with papers. “No one will be admitted without proper ID,”
she shouted above the din. “Complete these waivers before we let
you in.”
“Forms?” countered a member of the Lucky pep squad. “What’s up?”
“We need to make sure no one will resell on eBay,” announced the
gatekeeper.
“Last year one woman made over $60,000,” the girl next to
Magnolia whispered. Just as she was considering the brilliance of that
energetic consumer, a tussle broke out. A new arrival (she must be
past sixty—her face was Botoxed and Restylaned to perfection, but
the neck told all) had tried to maneuver herself to a spot near the
door. Two women half her age blocked her entrance.
“Where do you think you’re headed?” one demanded.
“To shop like everyone else,” the interloper responded as she
plucked a speck of lint off her yoga pants.
“Like hell you are,” said early bird number one.
“Don’t be crass,” answered Miss Sixty. “We have equal rights here.”
“Not if you don’t wait your turn,” the friend said as she raised an
arm to bar her elder. “No one’s going in till you all calm down, every one of you,” yelled
the Chanel rep, her camellia trembling. “No one.”
Calm prevailed. For thirty seconds. Then the doors parted. The
room, bright as a casino, swallowed Magnolia. Neatly boxed shoes and
boots, carefully arranged by sizes, and every sort of brooch and more
were piled high on tables, which ringed row after row of tightly
packed clothing racks. Where to begin? The handbags, the handbags.
Totes the size of labradoodles, clutches too small for a Tampax, purses
worthy of a Jackie O impersonator. Not a style in sight a workhorse
could live out of from morning till night.
Then she spotted it, the black kid classic. Interlocking C’s stood
chastely back-to-back in a quilted V. She’d seen this number advertised for $2,100 in the Times. Here, $150.
Magnolia grabbed the bag and a furry carryall that she could wear
with—well, she’d figure that out later. She scat to the shoes, and furi
ously began trying on every pair of size sevens. Powder blue ballerina
flats with huge C’s. Even in her delirium she realized they were more
appalling than appealing. The ankle boots? Phoebe’s orange alert sang
in her ears. Pumps with thick ankle straps? They’d make her legs look like stumps. Maybe the kitten heels. Elle insists—again—that pink was spring’s newest neutral. They would do.
Under a chair she spied an unopened box, the crisp white logo an
island of dignity in the middle of funereal ebony. Inside, the sling
backs’ toes narrowed to a sexy point. The lizard soles, which no one but the wearer would even see, glistened like sexy snakes. “You need to convince people you are special,” her horoscope had warned. These shoes had her name all over them.
Now, the clothes. Magnolia cursed herself for not having researched
her size at Saks. Six, she guessed, eyeing her behind. For princely occa
sions every woman was supposed to trot out a Chanel jacket, but there
were few here without buckles and pockets run amok. Only one jacket
looked acceptable—dove gray tweed with silver threads, a few discreet
buttons rimmed with rhinestones, C’s linked in the silk lining. Like
intrepid pom-pom girls, they were everywhere, those C’s. She grabbed
the jacket and sprinted to evening gowns. Magnolia considered the red chiffon, but it was too bare for a bra. While ogling her nipples, the
testosterone club that ran Scary would declare such a dress in poor taste.
She settled on a demure black cocktail dress. Maybe she’d be invited to
a Catholic charity dinner.
Arms filled, Magnolia headed to the ad hoc try-on area. Women in
all manner of undress were madly pulling clothes on and off, quickly
discarding selections that retailed for thousands. They seemed grate
ful for the males in the room—gay guys shopping for their sisters had
opinions you could respect. As she was trying to decide if the dress
actually looked like something from the Ann Taylor Loft 60 percent
off rack, she saw them. The publishers.
Four of Scary’s hotshots were stripped to their bras and thongs, zip
ping one another up and lobbing compliments. Darlene Knudson, Lady’s publisher, towered above the publisher of Elegance, Charlotte Stone, a perfect lady trying valiantly to outsell Vogue. Charlotte waved over Magnolia. Like every editor, Magnolia deeply distrusted
most publishers, believing they would sell you down the river for a
Depends ad. Charlotte, however, was reputed to be decent.
“Magnolia! Honey! Did you see the trenches they just brought out?
They’re only $75!”
On size-zero Charlotte, the belted green coat looked soigné. “Check
out the lining,” she urged. The name Coco was knit into the fabric.
They really did have the branding thing going on. Magnolia guessed
that the lumpy coat might give her all the grace of a gorilla, but
grabbed the last one without a try-on. She dragged her purchases to
the cash register. It took another fifteen minutes to check out.
“Thirty-nine hundred,” said the Chanel girl, without looking up.
Magnolia took another look at the handbag. If you added a chain, it
could double for her lunch box from fourth grade. Was she really going
to spend almost four thousand dollars on purchases she wasn’t even
sure she liked? If she’d ever wear these clothes, she wished she could
accessorize with a disclaimer that read, “Do not judge the wearer, who
may look deeply shallow, but is truly a person you’d want to know.”
“Are you paying or not?” a woman behind her shouted. Magnolia
whipped o
ut her credit card. She lugged her bags to the street, hoping the hotel doorman could flag a taxi. It was 8:45. Magnolia was
famished, thirsty, and needed to get to the office for a nine o’clock
meeting.
Finally, she slid into a cab. As it turned right past the old Plaza
Hotel, Darlene, Charlotte, and the other Scary publishers—each on
her cell phone—passed her in a company limo. The light changed.
Magnolia looked at her watch, a Cartier tank she’d indulged herself
with in honor of getting her job. She realized now she’d certainly be
late for her meeting.
She might have the title. She might be the youngest woman to ever edit a magazine as huge as Lady. But Magnolia Gold felt, not for the first time, as if she were a big, fat fake. Any minute now, she’d be
exposed as the cubic zirconia she truly believed she was.
C h a p t e r 2
The Grunt Work and the Glory
“Ah, the couture shopper,” Sasha Dobbs greeted Magnolia as she entered her office on lower Fifth Avenue. “The sale—all
it’s cracked up to be?”
“Bought a lot, sweat a lot,” Magnolia replied to her assistant. She
glanced at her watch. Five after nine.
“Not to worry. The meeting’s pushed to four because Little Jock
broke his arm in an equestrian event yesterday. Or so they say.”
Jock didn’t strike Magnolia as a Mr. Mom who’d hang out at a
child’s bedside, even if it was his first son after five tries in three mar
riages. More likely than not, he was enjoying the happy ending of a
very late night, probably with someone cute and young and not his
wife. But it was a gift to Magnolia just the same. She’d have the better
part of the day to rehearse for the meeting.
Sasha handed her the morning’s messages. Three were from publi
cists, one from her friend Abbey, and another from Natalie Simon, the town’s current alpha dog editor, who headed up Dazzle. She’d hired Magnolia for her first job, as her secretary, a title you were still allowed to use twelve years ago at Glamour.
“Okay if Cam pops in?” Sasha asked.
“Two secs, Sash.” As Magnolia scanned her e-mail, Sasha arranged
a fresh bouquet of peonies. Twice a week, Sasha stopped at the corner
grocer and managed to discover flowers that looked as if they came from
Takashimaya. Nonetheless, Magnolia made a mental note, when salary
renegotiations came up, to ask for a weekly stipend to order fresh flow
ers every week from a real florist—ideally, that guru of design known
for supersimple, superexpensive monochromatic bouquets.
She’d be useless without Sasha. When Magnolia’s previous assis
tant, the plummy-voiced Fiona, had failed to return from a vacation,
Magnolia seriously considered hiring the Oberlin grad who was
temping for her. Then she got a peek at her pierced tongue. The next
day Sasha showed up, dressed in a slim black suit by Theory. Sasha
had limited experience beyond Teach for America, but she clinched
the deal with her thank-you.
Magnolia never hired anyone who didn’t send a follow-up note; to
not thank a potential boss for her time, and make a case for how per
fect you were for the job, was just plain dumb. Sasha’s note was liter
ate and hand-delivered on creamy, engraved Smythson of Bond Street
stationery.
Sasha had begun six months ago at $41,000 and had earned every
penny twice over. Speak to the folks in New Delhi about fixing
Magnolia’s BlackBerry. Check. Book tickets to L.A. and make sure
Magnolia gets a window seat. Check. Order from Cupcake Café for
office party. Check. For the tenth time explain to Darlene’s assistant
that she can’t put an appointment on Magnolia’s calendar to call on a
client without clearing it. Check. None of these chores required the
double major in film studies and philosophy Sasha had earned at
Wesleyan, but she was so efficient she always had plenty of time left
over for writing the magazine movie column.
“Okay. Ready for Cam,” Magnolia said, leaving the rest of her e-mail
for later.
“No problem,” Sasha said. Magnolia despised that expression. Yet
if she complained about it to Sasha, she knew she risked getting as
steely a warning from Human Resources as if she’d asked her assis
tant if she’d tattooed her private parts.
Cameron Dane, the magazine’s managing editor, excelled at the extreme sport of keeping Lady on time and on budget. When Cam told her to hurry, because a page needed to ship, Magnolia did. When
they were at risk of overspending—last month, it was obscene sums on messengers—Cameron blew the whistle. Just as important, if Lady hadn’t eaten up as much money as Scary allowed, he’d figure out
where to use it or lose it, rule number one of corporate budgets.
Straight, six foot two, and in his early thirties, Cameron was one of
the industry’s less typical managing editors. If he hadn’t been an aspir
ing novelist in need of health insurance, he’d never have been in the
job. As usual, he was wearing Levis, and his shaggy blond hair hung
over his collar. He placed his large mug of coffee on her desk.
Forty minutes later, after the two of them worked through his list
of emergencies—including hiring a coach for the new lifestyle editor,
who had impeccable taste but whose organizational instincts were a
weapon of mass destruction—Cam was ready to leave. But not before
he reminded her: “Time to write your editor’s letter.”
door. Her eyes followed him. If I weren’t his boss, if he didn’t have a girlfriend, if he weren’t five years younger, and if he showed the least glimmer of interest—Magnolia thought—there’s a guy I’d like be
with naked. And so on. But she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of a
fly-by fantasy. She had to wrap her head around her work, not her sex
life, which was currently on pause.
She’d get to the editor’s letter. First she needed to look at the three
baskets on the antique pine table she called her desk. Magnolia swore
by her supremely low-tech system. The basket on the left was the out
box—currently empty, a glaring reminder of all she had yet to do.
The middle basket she considered a black hole for items she could
postpone, hopefully for eternity. The overflowing basket on the right
contained whatever she needed to read.
Each upcoming issue’s priorities were in a different-colored folder.
September, which they were working on now, was purple. Title options
were in a brown folder, waiting for Magnolia to choose or rewrite. All
the financial stuff was in green, naturally. A blue folder labeled READ swelled with manuscripts and story pitches that hadn’t been bought
or assigned and maybe never would be. It stayed on the bottom of
the basket. If Magnolia waited until the weekend to get to READ, it
wouldn’t stop up the plumbing—providing Sasha hadn’t deposited
any time-sensitive material there (“The White House requests the
honor of your presence… .”). Magnolia’s most important folder was
red, signifying a rush.
The folder she inevitably dove into first, however, was pink: invita
tions. Today’s offerings were meag
er. Another osteoporosis luncheon—
worthy, but Magnolia had hosted one herself two months ago. A
screening for a movie geared to adolescent males—even Sasha wouldn’t
want it, although she might go to the club opening, a category of event
Magnolia stopped attending when the cocktails became undrinkable.
Red Bull, OJ, and rum?
Magnolia turned to her computer screen to begin “But I Di
gress … ,” her editor’s letter. What in God’s name would she write
about this month? To plug something in the issue, she only had space
for a few paragraphs, but she needed to lead with deep thoughts. It
was worse than composing haiku.
This month, Lady introduces two new columns, she started to write. Bor-ing. Maybe she should focus on the section about child care? Can there be a bigger guilt machine for working mothers than the job of finding quality child care? Better. But this is real life. Mary Poppins isn’t landing on your roof… .”
Sasha buzzed again. “Ruthie’s ready to show film.” Magnolia
hated the interruption, but if she didn’t pick photos for the September
issue, the art department couldn’t design. She walked down the hall to
the large room filled with cutting-edge computers and girls in clothes
from Club Monaco. The only designer who felt compelled to dress up
was Fredericka von Trapp, the art director—today in head-to-toe Jil
Sander. She was huddled over a light box with Ruthie Kim, the fashion
director.
“You can’t see her dress.” Fredericka complained, tucking a lock of
platinum blond hair behind one ear. “Vy did you have the photogra
pher come in so close? She’s got pores like craters.” Fredericka hadn’t lived in Germany for twenty years, but her accent was as strong as
Marlene Dietrich’s.
“Because she’s breathtaking,” Ruthie said.
“Try bulimic. Remind me vy ve booked this model?”
“Amber bailed. Look right here. She’s gorgeous. Gorgeous.”
Ruthie adored every photo from every shoot she’d ever supervised.
Thirty minutes flew as the three of them picked nine photos.
Back to her office. Another three sentences on the letter. The phone,
this time Scary’s attorney.
“You can’t say that.” He was ranting about a celebrity profile. “Does
the word ‘libel’ mean nothing to you?”