She delivered the request with bluster she thought would be mistaken
for male confidence. No one ever damned a man for a bold gesture.
“What is your title,” he asked. “Remind me?”
“Bebe seems to think it’s deputy.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “Although I don’t recall if we ever discussed
titles, Bebe and I.”
“Three years ago I’d have been thrilled with that title, Jock. But it
doesn’t reflect the job I’m doing. I’m managing this magazine down to the last semicolon.” Surely, that was how Jock saw her role, a copy edi
tor who’d mated with a lion tamer. “You know that.”
“Do I?”
“If I have to sleep in the ladies’ room, I’ll make this magazine the
best it can be.”
“Why, for God’s sake, do editors carry on about titles? It’s about
bucks. Don’t you people get that?”
In this life, one thing counts. In the bank, large amounts… . For publishers and other business-side folk, it was a philosophy they may as
well have had on their business cards, but editors always wanted their
monetary entrée rounded up with tasty side dishes, including a
respectable title.
“Editor then?” Magnolia said. It was a big step down from editor in
chief, but at least it wasn’t deputy.
“Editor. Magnolia the editor.”
“You’ll tell Bebe?”
Jock had already stepped halfway out the door, but turned to give
Magnolia an appraisal that, if she wasn’t mistaken, lingered rather
long on her chest. “I’ll try to remember,” he said.
C h a p t e r 1 6
Bebepalooza
Traffic was light at this hour of the morning, and it didn’t take long to arrive at Washington Street, not far from the Hudson River.
Most local photo shoots took place in vast studios—Manhattan’s stand
ins for back lots—tucked into downtown loft buildings, and Magnolia’s
favorite was Industria Superstudio, where she was heading. Fredericka
had pulled in every chit to book Studio 6. It was small enough to be inti
mate, yet large enough to drive in a tank and photograph a minor
jihad—which is what Magnolia feared might take place today.
“Good morning!” Fredericka spotted her and left her Woman’s Wear on a leather armchair as she sprinted across the shiny wooden floor in Magnolia’s direction, her platinum bob flying.
“Guten tag, Fredericka,” Magnolia said. “Was ist das?” She pointed to a tall structure swathed in white drop cloths.
“The backdrop,” Fredericka explained. “Vhen ve decided to go
vith leopard, Francesco suggested a leopard vall, so ve had a muralist
paint one.”
“How much did this set us back?”
“Three thousand? Six thousand?” Fredericka answered and
shrugged. “Francesco has in mind to pose Bebe draped over one of
those leopard chaises in front of the background.” She pointed toward
a cluster of furniture being unpacked by several beefy deliverymen.
“Like an odalisque.”
Magnolia knew not to be surprised. Photographers saw themselves as artistes and cared far more about whether a day’s work would enhance their portfolio than if it fit a magazine’s image or budget. It mattered little that Bebe would be paying Francesco’s fee—half of today’s $50,000-plus bill. Photographers ruled their photo shoots, and
if they chose to treat an art director like a summer intern or take only
half the shots the editor in chief expected, they stamped their feet
and got their way.
“Check out the clothes,” Fredericka said, taking Magnolia’s hand
and pulling her toward the other end of the room, where Ruthie and
several assistants were setting up what looked like a good-sized bou
tique, removing garments from bags, steaming away creases, hanging
everything on aluminum racks, and salivating over choices.
“Some Bebepalooza.” Magnolia whistled.
“The shoes!” Ruthie said. “You’ve got to see them.”
Magnolia inhaled the smell of expensive leather and listened to
the promising rustle of tissue paper as a double for the Bergdorf’s
shoe department came into focus. The troops carefully removed at
least twenty pairs of leopard-print size tens: Manolo Blahnik stilettos;
Lambertson Truex skimmers with toes so pointed they could open
girly, bow-bedecked Christian Louboutin peep toes. The only foot
wear missing were actual leopard paws.
Ruthie slipped her size six-and-a-half feet into the bowed pumps.
“Don’t you love these?”
“Not for $700 I don’t,” Magnolia answered, knowing she sounded
like a social worker. “The reader could feed her family for months on
what these shoes cost.”
“We’re not telling people to buy the shoes,” Ruthie said. “Anyway,
they’re what Felicity said Bebe liked.”
Luca Luca, Moschino, Marni, and Roberto Cavalli were all here,
along with lesser labels. Since Bebe didn’t wear a sample size—
not by several digits—Ruthie and her junior varsity had called in
dresses, pants, and blouses from every chic store in Beverly Hills
and all points east. Magnolia and Fredericka combed through the garments, grouping first choices together. As Magnolia held up a ruf
fled Alexander McQueen cocktail dress, she heard the voice.
“Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, reporting for duty,” Bebe boomed.
“You don’t actually expect me to wear that?” she said as she got close
enough to see the dress in Magnolia’s hands. “Christ, I’d look like a
heifer.”
“Not at all, Bebe,” Magnolia said. “You’re going to look like you.”
Just not exactly like the Bebe who’d arrived in bike shorts, a long
sweatshirt, bare, lady wrestler legs, and running shoes. In one hand,
she carried a half-eaten doughnut and under her arm, Hell.
“I loathe photo shoots,” Bebe said. There was an edge to her voice
that Magnolia couldn’t quite identify. It took a second for her to real
ize that what she was hearing was honesty. Bebe was just as freaked
about being photographed as any woman who wasn’t a 100-pound,
fourteen-year-old model from Eastern Europe.
“That makes two of us,” Magnolia said. Every time she had her edi
tor’s letter photo taken, she’d found the experience so ego-shredding
she practically needed rehab to recover. “Most of my pictures wouldn’t
even make the cut for the Westminster Kennel Dog Show. But don’t
worry. We’ve got the very best for hair and makeup.”
Fredericka broke in. “Before ve get going, you need to meet
Francesco.” She nodded toward a short man in wireless glasses, loose
white pants, and a long shirt billowing over a sizable tummy. A do-rag
was tied around his head. “Ciao,” Fredericka shouted, as he ambled in
their direction.
“Ciao, bellissima,” Francesco said to Fredericka. “And this beautiful lady must be today’s star,” he sang out, bestowing kisses on
Magnolia’s reddening cheeks. “I will make you so magnificent, like
the most desired concubine in a sultan’s harem. But it will not be
hard.”
Fredericka interrupted. “Francesco, darling. You know Magnolia Gold. Reme
mber the Lady shoot with Nicole Kidman? This is our cover girl.” She swiveled toward Bebe. Francesco turned in Bebe’s
direction. “Please meet Bebe Blake.”
“You were expecting someone gorgeous perhaps?” Bebe said with a grin. “Frank, better have a drink. Catwoman ain’t coming. You got
your work cut out for you.”
Francesco blinked twice and kissed Bebe’s hand. “Apologies, my
lovely lady. You will see. I will make you divine.”
“Bovine? I can do bo-vine standing on my head.” Bebe laughed.
Alone.
Francesco looked confused and motioned toward the breakfast buffet. “Mangia, everyone,” he said, waving. Pineapple spears, three kinds of berries, yogurt, brioches, and bagels covered a long table set with
heavy taupe pottery and a linen cloth. “We’re still prepping the first
shot,” he said. “It all must be perfect.” Two male assistants in tight
blue jeans and black Tshirts were unfurling an enormous white back
ground. Several others were setting up a galaxy of lights. “You must
excuse me.”
Magnolia looked at her watch. Nearing eleven. The breakfast hour
would drag on another twenty minutes. Then makeup, which takes a
good hour, followed by hair, an hour there, too. By then it would be
1:30, and the whole crew—close to thirty people, counting Francesco’s aides-de-camp plus Elizabeth Lester Duvall and the Access Hollywood crew who’d be arriving at noon—would announce that, no, they’re not
hungry, but, sure, they could use a snack. The caterer would present
another, far more sumptuous, meal and the gang would chow down as
if they were gearing up for a Yom Kippur fast.
They’d be lucky to start shooting by two.
Magnolia wished life would allow her to age in photo shoot time. It
wasn’t just the slow-mo pace that got to her. It was the talk, endless
hours of it, during prep and between takes. “Did you hear about Dog
bone, the new club?” “My boyfriend and I got totally trashed there last
night.” “We got cut off at the pass. Had to go to Schiller’s Liquor Bar.”
“Did you want to kill?” “Totally.” “I so need to lose ten pounds.”
“You’re insane. I want your hips.” “Then be ready for lipo.” And on and on. Magnolia knew that even at Lady she wasn’t exactly brokering peace in the Middle East, but at photo shoots she could feel IQ points
literally melting away. Plus, she thought crankily as she took a deep
breath, this was a smoking crowd. Then there was the music, which as the day wore on, would throb at migraine-inducing decibels, all in the
name of trying to “create energy.”
Why, she wondered, did anyone think shoots were glamorous?
Magnolia wandered off to a corner, and began to read Men’s Health, the only magazine she could find. She got almost to the end of “Put the Tiger in Your Wood—9 Hard-and-Fast Rules for Awe
Inspiring Erections.” Just as she was thinking how her ex, Wally,
could have benefited from the information, Bebe gave a shout-out.
“Magnolia!” she yelled. “Whattya think?”
Bebe looked ready for a revival of Cats. Her face was spackled to a Formica smoothness, and smoky gray eyeliner extended almost to her
temples. At least Akiko, the makeup artist, hadn’t added whiskers.
“Honestly, Bebe?”
“No, lie big. Of course, honestly.”
“Too, too, too … Akiko, could you make it more … natural?”
Magnolia asked. Akiko smiled sweetly and continued to sculpt faux
cheekbones into Bebe’s well-fed face.
“Hey, I like it,” Bebe said. “The eyes stay. And Jean-Luc here”—
she pointed to the town’s premier makeup man, who was cursing his
boyfriend in French on a cell phone—“we’ve already decided on
spiky hair. A whole new me.”
A Bebe who readers might not recognize, Magnolia thought. A
Bebe who could frighten small children. But time was marching on. Elizabeth and Access Hollywood had shown up with a truckload of equipment. As Elizabeth bossed them around like the secretary of
defense, their presence added an element of chaos, which only slowed
the tempo as they directed Bebe in their filming and interviewed
Francesco.
Magnolia bivouacked with Fredericka. “If we can finish Bebe’s
hair and get her into the first outfit, will Francesco be ready in thirty
minutes?”
“I’ll ask,” Fredericka said. She returned in five minutes. “Francesco
thinks ve should break to eat.”
The lunch, which Francesco had ordered from Tabla, his favorite
Indian restaurant, was worthy of New Delhi in high summer. Nor mally, chicken tikka with mango chutney and mint, coconut rice, and
orange glazed carrots would have appealed to Magnolia. But today she
could only look at the clock. Their star hadn’t even tried on clothes.
Toward the end of the break, Magnolia approached Bebe. “We’ve got
to keep moving,” she said, and motioned Bebe toward the clothing
while she held up a Marni dress with a forgiving cut.
“Hate it,” Bebe said, as she polished off a big bite of a pink sweet
everyone else had left on the buffet.
“How about this?” Magnolia pulled out a simple gown by Calvin
Klein.
“Nope.” Bebe chewed loudly.
Magnolia offered Bebe a jacket by Michael Kors, followed by a
Moschino Cheap & Chic skirt and sweater. Reject. Reject.
“You’re kidding, right?” Bebe said, yanking off her sweatshirt and
exposing her black lace bra. From the back of the last rack she with
drew a flimsy leopard T, and stretched it over her head, smearing her
eyeliner. “Love it,” she said as she stripped to her panties, which, to
Magnolia’s relief, were grannies. “Help me find a bottom.”
Ruthie and Magnolia searched and returned with eight pairs of
pants. Nothing fit. If the pants were made with back or side zippers,
Ruthie would be able to cunningly split a seam and no one would be
the wiser, but every style zipped up the front.
“Houston, we have a problem,” Magnolia said. “Ruthie, have your
assistants run out and look for plain black pants.”
“No-no-no-no-no,” Bebe said. “I’ll wear my bike shorts.” Bebe
began to squeeze back into her spandex.
“Bebe,” Magnolia said. “You can’t.”
“Watch me,” Bebe responded, grinning.
“Seriously. It’s all wrong for the cover.”
“It’ll be fun,” Bebe said, gathering Hell into her arms. “What do
you think, you big, bad boy?” She tickled the cat’s neck until he
purred. “Doesn’t Mommy look fucktabulous?”
“Do you think we could let Francesco decide?” Magnolia asked,
peeking out from behind the curtained dressing area and motioning
him over. “Like I care what that fat old fart thinks? Magnolia, are you forget
ting whose magazine this is? This is me. I live in bike pants. End of
story.”
Francesco stepped behind the curtain. Bebe danced to the sound of
Prince. “So, Frank, can you make me bo-vine?” she asked, striking a
hands-on-hip pose.
The photographer glared.
“Francesco, let’s just try a few shots in these clothes,” Magnolia
said, softly and evenly.
“They will not do.” He folded his arms over his belly. “I do not see it.”
“See it,” Bebe said, mirroring his stance.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“See it, Frank,” Bebe repeated, shimmying to the music.
“Basta, basta,” Francesco answered, walking away. “I will not be insulted. I am Francesco Bellucci.”
Magnolia closed her eyes and hung her head. When she took a look
around, Fredericka was grinding her teeth and cursing in German.
Bebe was laughing, and Francesco had escaped. Magnolia looked at
the large clock on the wall. Four o’clock.
“Serious scumbag, that Frank,” Bebe said. “Remind me why you
booked him.” Because as soon as they heard you were the celebrity, six
photographers we asked first said no, Magnolia recalled. And one of
them was polite about it.
“Bebe, I’ll talk to him,” Magnolia said, looking for Francesco,
who’d walked out the door. She found him murdering a cigarette butt
with his Gucci loafer.
“Francesco, I know she’s—how can I say this?—unconventional, but
could you see your way to finishing the shoot?” Magnolia said. “Please.”
“I have my reputation,” he answered. “Sweet Jesus, who does that
woman think she is?”
“She’s an investor,” Magnolia said, slowly and loudly. “The maga
zine has her name on it, for God’s sake. It might be huge.”
“I am very sorry, Magnolia. But this shoot is a category five hurri
cane. I must withdraw.” Magnolia considered her options. It didn’t take long. She had no
options. Well, maybe one. “What if we up your rate by ten percent,”
Magnolia said. “Combat pay.”
“Twenty-five,” he countered.
“Ten,” Magnolia said. “Think of how you’d like to continue working for Elegance and Dazzle and all the other Scarborough magazines. Ten firm.”
Francesco lit up a second cigarette, sighed deeply, and wiped his
brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I shall proceed,” he said
gravely.
Four hours later, Bebe’s hair and makeup had been redone several
times. Magnolia and Fredericka had cajoled her into several wardrobe
changes. Francesco had finished off eight roles of film, including one
round in front of the white backdrop—without Hell—as an alterna
tive to the leopard. This was a good move: Magnolia had no idea how Fredericka would get coverlines to read over those spots. Access Hollywood was packing to leave. Francesco was just about to shoot a final roll of film, when Magnolia heard a familiar bellow, growing louder