Read Online Little Pink Slips by Sally Koslow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Koslow
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, New York (N.Y.), Contemporary Women, Fashion Editors, Women's Periodicals, Women Periodical Editors
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F ortunately, the next morning she awoke even and bronzed, not like the mutant tiger she'd feared.
Magnolia ran at eight, the earliest hour Abbey deemed civilized for
weekends. Her shiatsu massage guy, Eli Birdsong, showed up at 9:30
for an hour of bliss-by-kneading. After a quick shower, she had just
enough time to cab it to Frédéric Fekkai for an eyebrow shaping and
blowout. Satisfied that her stylist didn't completely obliterate the
body in her hair—the ramrod-straight look made her nose look the
size of a muffin—she tipped handsomely and walked up Madison
Avenue, scoping out shops to see if she could improve on the clothes
she'd laid out. So, of course, she was late for this week's manicure.
It was 4:30 by the time Magnolia got home. Biggie and Lola
assaulted her, hyper and indignant—they'd been deprived of Saturday
afternoon's usual rampage at the dog run. One short whip around the block was all the time Magnolia could spare if she was going to detox
even a little, look over a bit of work, and do her makeup right. She'd
drawn the line at a professional job, even if Natalie's guest list would
feature a column's worth of bold-faced names. In fact, now that she
thought about it, she'd have to scratch the work. Harry was picking her
up at 6:45.
As she poured the last of her precious and now extinct Ralph Lauren
Safari bath beads into the tub, the phone rang.
"Running a tad late," Harry said. "I'll bring round the car and
have the doorman ring up. Will you forgive me for being the kind of
cad who expects a lady to meet him on the street?"
I am such a sucker for a proper Brit accent, Magnolia thought. Give
him a Hugh Grant stutter and I'd marry him even if he were a televi
sion evangelist. "Take your time, Harry," Magnolia said. "We'll make
an entrance."
She poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, switched on a Norah
Jones CD, and let the glorious bubbles wash off the week, which she
gave a B plus. On the upside, she, Cam, Fredericka, and the gang
had—as of 10:59 the previous night—shipped the September issue.
They'd needed to work late every night. September was always a
monster—three-minute makeup, fall fashion must-haves, a sixteen
page parenting section underwritten by Toys "R" Us, and one article she knew each Lady r eader would memorize: the five secrets to getting a good night's sleep. That last coverline alone would sell the
issue. The women in America may as well have a big pajama party
between three and five in the morning—the adult female half of the
country was all up, ruminating.
But the best part of the September issue was Magnolia's off-the-charts
cover girl: a sweeter-than-Krispy-Kreme portrait of Kate Hudson and
her adorable, hipster toddler. Home run. Eighty percent newsstand
sell-through, at least, maybe 85, plus she'd be the envy of every other
editor.
Magnolia had had to wait almost two years for that photo shoot,
performing due diligence with Kate's celebrity flack by featuring sev
eral of her less fabulous stars—actresses way past their sell-by dates or no-name wannabes. It was a form of blackmail the industry
shrugged off and accepted. The cabal of publicists who controlled
celebrity coverage put all the magazines in a rotation. This meant that
it would be at least nine months—when Kate's next movie premiered—until one of Lady' s competitors would be allowed to feature her on a cover. That's if the publicists were true to their word. Some
times a promise was a promise, and sometimes just a suggestion. An
editor could think her cover was locked, only to be told there were
"extenuating circumstances" . . . which turned out to be that the celebrity preferred to be on Vanity Fair.
It took at least two years to get to the front of the line and by then,
anything could happen. A young mom celebrity could, for example,
decide once her baby became older, "for security reasons," never to
allow her child's face on a magazine again. Editors
Magnolia ran at eight, the earliest hour Abbey deemed civilized for
weekends. Her shiatsu massage guy, Eli Birdsong, showed up at 9:30
for an hour of bliss-by-kneading. After a quick shower, she had just
enough time to cab it to Frédéric Fekkai for an eyebrow shaping and
blowout. Satisfied that her stylist didn't completely obliterate the
body in her hair—the ramrod-straight look made her nose look the
size of a muffin—she tipped handsomely and walked up Madison
Avenue, scoping out shops to see if she could improve on the clothes
she'd laid out. So, of course, she was late for this week's manicure.
It was 4:30 by the time Magnolia got home. Biggie and Lola
assaulted her, hyper and indignant—they'd been deprived of Saturday
afternoon's usual rampage at the dog run. One short whip around the block was all the time Magnolia could spare if she was going to detox
even a little, look over a bit of work, and do her makeup right. She'd
drawn the line at a professional job, even if Natalie's guest list would
feature a column's worth of bold-faced names. In fact, now that she
thought about it, she'd have to scratch the work. Harry was picking her
up at 6:45.
As she poured the last of her precious and now extinct Ralph Lauren
Safari bath beads into the tub, the phone rang.
"Running a tad late," Harry said. "I'll bring round the car and
have the doorman ring up. Will you forgive me for being the kind of
cad who expects a lady to meet him on the street?"
I am such a sucker for a proper Brit accent, Magnolia thought. Give
him a Hugh Grant stutter and I'd marry him even if he were a televi
sion evangelist. "Take your time, Harry," Magnolia said. "We'll make
an entrance."
She poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, switched on a Norah
Jones CD, and let the glorious bubbles wash off the week, which she
gave a B plus. On the upside, she, Cam, Fredericka, and the gang
had—as of 10:59 the previous night—shipped the September issue.
They'd needed to work late every night. September was always a
monster—three-minute makeup, fall fashion must-haves, a sixteen
page parenting section underwritten by Toys "R" Us, and one article she knew each Lady r eader would memorize: the five secrets to getting a good night's sleep. That last coverline alone would sell the
issue. The women in America may as well have a big pajama party
between three and five in the morning—the adult female half of the
country was all up, ruminating.
But the best part of the September issue was Magnolia's off-the-charts
cover girl: a sweeter-than-Krispy-Kreme portrait of Kate Hudson and
her adorable, hipster toddler. Home run. Eighty percent newsstand
sell-through, at least, maybe 85, plus she'd be the envy of every other
editor.
Magnolia had had to wait almost two years for that photo shoot,
performing due diligence with Kate's celebrity flack by featuring sev
eral of her less fabulous stars—actresses way past their sell-by dates or no-name wannabes. It was a form of blackmail the industry
shrugged off and accepted. The cabal of publicists who controlled
celebrity coverage put all the magazines in a rotation. This meant that
it would be at least nine months—when Kate's next movie premiered—until one of Lady' s competitors would be allowed to feature her on a cover. That's if the publicists were true to their word. Some
times a promise was a promise, and sometimes just a suggestion. An
editor could think her cover was locked, only to be told there were
"extenuating circumstances" . . . which turned out to be that the celebrity preferred to be on Vanity Fair.
It took at least two years to get to the front of the line and by then,
anything could happen. A young mom celebrity could, for example,
decide once her baby became older, "for security reasons," never to
allow her child's face on a magazine again. Editors
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