Little Pink Slips Read Online Free PDF Page B

They aren't going to like it if Bebe and her latest boy toy get splashed on The National Enquirer, and many of Lady' s more conservative readers—you know we're mostly read by red-state Republicans—may be upset by it, too."
    Magnolia took a deep breath. "Seriously, guys—you'll rue the day
    you sign a contract with Bebe Blake."
    She looked the table up and down, waiting for one of her col
    leagues to see the wisdom of her impassioned homily. Silence.
    "Okay, then," Jock announced, grinning his beaver smile. "Meet
    ing adjourned."
    Was there a clue she'd missed? Would a shrewder editor have seen
    it all coming? Maybe. Somebody who slept with Jock, perhaps? Defi
    nitely. Was the idea hatched by Darlene to make her suffer? Magno
    lia, even in a spasm of paranoia, doubted it. Darlene was more
    treacherously ambitious than pointlessly cruel; she cared about mak
    ing money, the primary credential—along with the ability to avoid
    getting bogged down in pesky introspection—for succeeding as a publisher. If Bebe could guarantee Scary the direct route to a bigger pile of cash than Lady did, the company might get behind it. If. Magnolia collected her thoughts, along with her boards, and
    headed back to her office.

C h a p t e r 4

    The Two Women Who Still Eat Carbs

    When it came to running with Abbey Kennedy, Magnolia was what the United States Postal Service used to be. Neither snow nor
    rain nor gloom of night—hangovers, insomnia, upstairs party
    people—kept her from the appointed rounds. If the two made a date,
    she'd show on the dot of 6:45 A.M. Running wasn't all about protecting
    her butt from gravity or a sincere interest in heart health—no matter how much Lady preached on the subject. A couple of spins around the reservoir was her Prozac.
    Magnolia had returned home late last night; walked Biggie and
    Lola, her Tibetan terriers; poured a glass of Shiraz, and promptly
    crashed after three sips. She'd had every intention of returning
    Abbey's call, greased with apologies, but exhaustion triumphed. Guilt
    trailed her as she ran a few blocks east and turned on to Central Park
    West to pick up Abbey.
    To run, Magnolia wore the usual—whatever was clean and a base
    ball cap from a trip to the Golden Door, where for two days Julia
    Roberts had been her best friend. "Mea culpa," she said to Abbey as
    she entered the oak-paneled lobby of her apartment building. Abbey
    quickly popped on her big, black Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, but not
    before Magnolia noticed she'd been crying. Next to Abbey, Magnolia was Babe, Paul Bunyan's ox. Abbey could
    shop in the teen department and barely looked twenty-four, though
    she was ten years older. Crying jag or not, this morning she was
    adorable in tiny black running shorts, an orange racer-back running
    bra, and shoes that gleamed brand-new. Her dark brown ponytail
    looked as sleek as always.
    "Okay, tell me," Magnolia pleaded gently. "Sorry I couldn't return
    your calls yesterday. Work tsunami. First, talk."
    Abbey started to run and stared ahead, her smile zipped into a tight
    line." It's Tommy."
    "And?"
    "Gone."
    As they entered the park, Seymour, a neighborhood golden
    retriever who'd become Abbey's surrogate canine child, bounded up to
    them, Frisbee in tow. Normally Abbey would have given Seymour a
    hug, and the Frisbee a long toss. But today she ran past him, pushing
    uphill on her twiggy but powerful legs, leaving Seymour looking as
    confused as Magnolia felt.
    "When I got back from San Francisco Sunday night, I noticed
    Tommy had made brownies. They were arranged on that stainless
    steel platter he'd got for me at Moss on Valentine's Day." Magno
    lia remembered how annoyed Abbey had been—she was romantic
    to her last cabbage rose print—when she'd received a serving dish
    as a gift from her husband of three years. And from SoHo's bas
    tion of ultramodern design, when she was the countess of the flea
    market.
    "I went to cut a brownie in half and the knives were