Read Online Little Pink Slips by Sally Koslow - Free Book Online Page B
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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had it easier at People or Dazzle, Magnolia thought. They used paparazzi photographs, although the fights for the best ones got ugly and monstrously expen
sive. Still, it didn't matter if the star had lettuce in her teeth, as long as
readers recognized her. Magnolia and all the editors of more traditional
publications needed a perfect studio shot, where the celebrity locked
eyes with the reader, Mona Lisa–style. And forget about recycling a
photograph from a few years ago. Any of the stars you'd want bought
the rights to all the photos that had ever been taken. Every single one. It
was an arcane system. You needed the approval of a celebrity's publicist
to reprint a photo and if you tried to sneak around and approach the
photographer or his rep directly, they would alert the publicist who, by
midday, would be on the phone, taking your name in vain as she drove
to work in L.A.
So the Kate Hudson cover was good news, very good. On the down
side, though, Magnolia hadn't been able to meet with Jock. It took her
all of Sunday to convince herself that confronting him—make that,
gently reasoning with him—was her best move. His assistant had
rescheduled an appointment three times over the course of Monday,
Tuesday, and Wednesday. Then Jock flew off with Darlene, Charlotte Stone, the publisher of Elegance, and two other publishers to weasel the Detroit car lords into doing a lucrative joint buy of Scary ads. Magnolia tried not to think about the whole nasty business. It was
time for the evening's first big decision. What to wear? She didn't
know whether tonight was the equivalent of a budget meeting
washed down with a few martinis or a potentially life-altering first
date. Magnolia tried on the new Tuleh floral. It showed tasteful "I'm
a woman, not just a working girl" cleavage, and Abbey had lent her a
pair of dangly tourmaline earrings that made her eyes look as green
as granny apples. Her orange mini and halter? Did it say "festive
dress," as Natalie had requested, or "tranny hooker"? Should she go
for understated chic with the Chloe cream eyelet pants and semisheer
shirt? The outfit was her seasonal splurge—she could have gone to
Paris for a week on what she'd spent—and now she wondered if it
looked like she'd grabbed it from Forever 21. Maybe she should
default to her five-year-old black Gucci pants (thank you, Abbey, for
insisting that Loehmann's wasn't a waste of time) and compliment
generating $69 Pearl River chinoiserie jacket. With that getup at least
no one would be staring at her chest.
Dressing for Natalie's little party was harder than writing a
résumé. In terms of self-promotion, more depended on it.
Tuleh won. Cleavage never hurt. As Magnolia slipped on the frilly
frock, the doorman rang to announce Harry. She gave herself a spritz
of scent, slicked her lips with gloss, and looked in the tall mirror that
leaned against the foyer wall. Good to go.
She'd never seen Harry in anything but one of his dark business
suits, button-up shirt, and narrow ties. But there he was in a pale pink
shirt, linen trousers, and a three-button black jacket. And damn he
had blue eyes, blue as a '57 Chevy. His wavy brown hair, combed
straight back, looked as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, an
image she'd never considered until this very moment.
Harry walked around to give her a peck on one cheek and then the
other—he smelled good, too. He opened the door of his car. Magnolia
hated to be behind the wheel of a car—she didn't know a clutch from
a carburetor—but she was reasonably sure this was a vintage Jaguar.
Sinking into its nicely broken-in tobacco-brown leather upholstery as
they headed toward Westchester, Magnolia once again thanked Harry for Uma, who was still in full bloom on her coffee table, and told him for at least the fifth time how much she liked his Lady r edesign. "Now tell me what you're not telling me," Harry said, laughing
and turning his eyes from
sive. Still, it didn't matter if the star had lettuce in her teeth, as long as
readers recognized her. Magnolia and all the editors of more traditional
publications needed a perfect studio shot, where the celebrity locked
eyes with the reader, Mona Lisa–style. And forget about recycling a
photograph from a few years ago. Any of the stars you'd want bought
the rights to all the photos that had ever been taken. Every single one. It
was an arcane system. You needed the approval of a celebrity's publicist
to reprint a photo and if you tried to sneak around and approach the
photographer or his rep directly, they would alert the publicist who, by
midday, would be on the phone, taking your name in vain as she drove
to work in L.A.
So the Kate Hudson cover was good news, very good. On the down
side, though, Magnolia hadn't been able to meet with Jock. It took her
all of Sunday to convince herself that confronting him—make that,
gently reasoning with him—was her best move. His assistant had
rescheduled an appointment three times over the course of Monday,
Tuesday, and Wednesday. Then Jock flew off with Darlene, Charlotte Stone, the publisher of Elegance, and two other publishers to weasel the Detroit car lords into doing a lucrative joint buy of Scary ads. Magnolia tried not to think about the whole nasty business. It was
time for the evening's first big decision. What to wear? She didn't
know whether tonight was the equivalent of a budget meeting
washed down with a few martinis or a potentially life-altering first
date. Magnolia tried on the new Tuleh floral. It showed tasteful "I'm
a woman, not just a working girl" cleavage, and Abbey had lent her a
pair of dangly tourmaline earrings that made her eyes look as green
as granny apples. Her orange mini and halter? Did it say "festive
dress," as Natalie had requested, or "tranny hooker"? Should she go
for understated chic with the Chloe cream eyelet pants and semisheer
shirt? The outfit was her seasonal splurge—she could have gone to
Paris for a week on what she'd spent—and now she wondered if it
looked like she'd grabbed it from Forever 21. Maybe she should
default to her five-year-old black Gucci pants (thank you, Abbey, for
insisting that Loehmann's wasn't a waste of time) and compliment
generating $69 Pearl River chinoiserie jacket. With that getup at least
no one would be staring at her chest.
Dressing for Natalie's little party was harder than writing a
résumé. In terms of self-promotion, more depended on it.
Tuleh won. Cleavage never hurt. As Magnolia slipped on the frilly
frock, the doorman rang to announce Harry. She gave herself a spritz
of scent, slicked her lips with gloss, and looked in the tall mirror that
leaned against the foyer wall. Good to go.
She'd never seen Harry in anything but one of his dark business
suits, button-up shirt, and narrow ties. But there he was in a pale pink
shirt, linen trousers, and a three-button black jacket. And damn he
had blue eyes, blue as a '57 Chevy. His wavy brown hair, combed
straight back, looked as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, an
image she'd never considered until this very moment.
Harry walked around to give her a peck on one cheek and then the
other—he smelled good, too. He opened the door of his car. Magnolia
hated to be behind the wheel of a car—she didn't know a clutch from
a carburetor—but she was reasonably sure this was a vintage Jaguar.
Sinking into its nicely broken-in tobacco-brown leather upholstery as
they headed toward Westchester, Magnolia once again thanked Harry for Uma, who was still in full bloom on her coffee table, and told him for at least the fifth time how much she liked his Lady r edesign. "Now tell me what you're not telling me," Harry said, laughing
and turning his eyes from
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