She pushed aside the faded orange pillows on the brown foam sofa
and opened Anna Wintour’s unauthorized biography, which she
hadn’t been able to put down since she had started it the previous
evening. Magnolia felt for Anna—no fewer than two hundred writers, photographers, and former colleagues of the Vogue editor in chief had gleefully tattled about how she was as cruel, cunning, and
controlling as she was pin thin. On the other hand, the same crowd
admitted she was brilliantly talented and industrious and could
charm any snake slithering along her red-carpeted path. Magnolia
thought she might learn a thing or two. How, for example, did Anna
beguile every man she wanted for whatever purpose she had in mind?
She was at the part when Anna has chewed her way through a
number of magazines no longer included on her résumé and lands an interview at Vogue. Its editor in chief at the time asks her what job she aspires to. “Actually, the job I’d like is yours,” Anna answers
before the woman ejects her from her office.
Do not—repeat, not—do that tomorrow, Magnolia warned herself.
As she began to wonder where Anna got her mutant strain of mon
strous confidence—clearly, they didn’t grow it in North Dakota next
to the amber waves of grain—Abbey walked through the door,
Tommy at her side. For a couple planning to dissolve their marriage in
the eyes of the tribe, they looked decidedly amicable.
“Hey, Magnolia,” Tommy said, hugging her. “Sorry to hear about
the end of your career.”
This might, Magnolia realized, be his version of sensitivity.
“Thanks, Tommy, but I’m hoping all that’s ended is one bad job, not
my whole brilliant career,” she said, still simmering from his mid
night visit months earlier.
“Mr.—” Malka was checking her paperwork. “O’Toole?” She pro
nounced the name as if she were sounding out a word in Urdu.
“Rabbi Plotkin can take you in to see Rabbi Lipschitz now. Sign here, please.” Tommy walked to the desk as a tall young man entered the
reception room from another chamber.
“Rabbi Nachum Plotkin,” he said, shaking Tommy’s hand. “Or
Nucki, your choice. Mrs. O’Toole, you stay—we’ll call you soon. You
brought a friend, yes?”
Abbey pointed to Magnolia.
“Malka,” the receptionist said.
Rabbi Nucki approached Magnolia. “You are a good person to be
here,” he said. Magnolia put Anna in her bag, and extended her hand.
The rabbi stepped back slightly, kept his hands by his sides, but
smiled. Magnolia pulled back her hand. “Thank you, Malka,” he said.
“We’ll talk later.” He escorted Tommy into the next room and closed
the heavy double doors behind them.
“Are you sure about this?” Magnolia whispered to Abbey. “You guys
aren’t even legally separated yet—and this step is terminal.”
“I’m sure,” Abbey whispered back. “It’s over with Tommy, no mat
ter what.”
Magnolia noticed Malka looking at them and felt rude for whisper
ing. “Malka, have you worked here long?” she asked.
“Since I graduated from Barnard last year,” she said, “but I’m quit
ting soon.” She smiled happily and patted her stomach.
“Congratulations,” Magnolia said.
“Mazel tov,” Abbey added.
“I’m blessed,” she said. “My husband, Avi—he’s a cardiology resi
dent at Mount Sinai.”
“Malkele,” an older man’s voice called from the other room.
“Please send in Mrs. O’Toole.”
Magnolia squeezed Abbey’s hand as she got up to join Tommy and
the rabbis.
“Malka, are you married?” the full-time Malka asked when they
were alone.
“No. Well once, a long time ago,” Magnolia said and decided to
answer the inevitable question. “No kids.”
“I know we’ve just met, but I’m wondering. Would you like to meet
someone, Malka, a beautiful woman like you? Avi has an older brother, Chaim. He’s thirty-nine. His wife—of blessed memory—
died. Breast cancer. Tragic.” Malka wiped away a tear. “Seven won
derful children who need a mother. It’s been a year. You walking in today … You know beshert?”
“I know beshert and thank you for thinking of me, I’m very flattered, but …”
“But what?”
“But no,” Magnolia said. “Though I thank you.”
“You’re not interested. I understand,” Malka said and returned to
her computer. In a moment she looked up. “Actually, I don’t under
stand. If you don’t mind me asking, if you’re single, why wouldn’t you
want to meet such a good man?”
Magnolia put down her book. She began to feel like a tax return
under audit. “I’m concentrating on work right now, that’s all.”
“What is it you do?”
“I work in magazines—although I don’t have a job just now.” She looked around, expecting to see at least a dog-eared Reader’s Digest. Nothing. “Malka, do you read any magazines?”
“Yes, at the doctor’s office,” she said conspiratorially. “Especially fashion magazine—I like Good Housekeeping, Woman’s World, Vogue.”
Anna Wintour, meet your reader, Magnolia thought, as Rabbi
Nucki walked out of the other room and sat across from her. It took a
moment for Magnolia to calculate that minus the Old Testament
beard and side curls, dressed in a suit that didn’t hang on him as if he’d
just lost thirty pounds, and with a spritz of bronzer to mitigate his
indoor pallor, Rabbi Nucki could pass for a handsome Wall Streeter.
“It’s sad when a marriage ends, yes, Malka?” he asked.
“Yes, Rabbi. But Abbey and Tommy—they’ll meet other people.
I’m sure of it.”
“God willing. And you, Malka?”
Magnolia looked into his earnest face. A better shirt and tie
wouldn’t hurt, either. “My first priority is to find a new job, Rabbi,”
she said. “The man can come later,” she added, surprised to be reveal
ing anything to this ambassador from a galaxy far, far away. “If you believe, they both will happen, Malka,” he said. “Put your
faith in the Almighty. As a great Talmudic scholar once said, and I
paraphrase, yesterday’s history, tomorrow’s a mystery, and that’s why they call today ‘the present’—every day is a gift. Forshtes, Malka?”
“Yes, I understand,” she said.
“If you work hard, Malka, and believe, God above will reward
you,” he said. “You want your dreams to come true? Then don’t sleep,
and when fortune calls, offer her a chair.”
Rabbi Nucki rose to leave. “Thank you for coming today,” he said.
“It means a lot to your friend.” He smiled kindly and returned to the
inner sanctum, leaving Magnolia to decode his message. As soon as the
door closed, however, Malka hurried over and sat down next to her.
“Malka,” the young woman said, “put out your left wrist and close
your eyes.” When Magnolia opened them, she saw a delicate red
thread tied next to her Cartier watch. “This will bring you blessings,”
Malka said, “and protect you against the evil eye of jealousy.” A pity
Scary didn’t direct-deposit these bracelets with paychecks. “Thank
you,” Magnolia said.
“Don’t thank me,” Malka said. “This bracelet was meant for you.
It will remind the One Above you want His protection. When you see
it, you will remember to perform acts of kindness—like you have
today—and that humility is an attribute of God.”
I’m not sure I do humility, Magnolia thought.
“Don’t take off the bracelet,” Malka warned. “When the job is done, the bracelet will be gone, Barusch Hashem.” She gave Magnolia a quick hug and returned to her computer as Abbey and Tommy
opened the door, accompanied by Rabbi Nucki. Tommy’s eyes were as
red as Magnolia’s newest accessory. Before he hurried out of the
office, he shook the rabbi’s hand, kissed Abbey on the cheek, and
waved to Magnolia.
Magnolia and Abbey gathered their coats. “Go in peace, ladies,”
Rabbi Nucki said as Malka offered her good wishes. In the elevator,
neither Abbey nor Magnolia spoke.
“You want to grab some coffee?” Magnolia asked when they
reached the street, “or just cab it uptown?” “Caffeine,” Abbey said. “I don’t feel too steady.” They walked a
few blocks in silence, until they found a Starbucks.
“What was it like in there?” Magnolia asked, as they faced each
other over cappuccino.
“I sat apart from Tommy,” Abbey said quietly, “about twenty-five
feet back from the rabbis and a scribe who wrote on parchment with a
quill. Tommy had to read from a binder with plastic sleeves. Hebrew
words written in English. He signed something. I don’t have a clue
what it said.”
“So he might have traded you for three briskets and a she-goat?”
Magnolia said. Abbey didn’t laugh. “Did they ask why the marriage
went bad?”
“They only wanted to know two things—if I kept kosher and
Shabbat,” Abbey said. “I assume they were disappointed on both
counts.”
“No chance to vent about what a rascal our Tommy was?” Magno
lia asked. “Or for him to confess his sins?”
“No,” she said. “At a certain point I had to pretend I was leaving
with our marriage contract. They put a tiny cut in it and kept it. The
people were gentle, but the whole thing was … formulaic.” Abbey wiped away a tear. “A marriage, poof, gone. I don’t know what I expected—more pomp and ceremony, certainly. I feel a lot more upset
now than before.”
Magnolia put her arm around Abbey’s shoulder, and the two of
them sat until Abbey stopped crying.
“I know you’re going to be all right,” Magnolia said softly. “A
woman has to be open to possibilities, and you are.”
Abbey looked unconvinced.
“When fortune calls, offer her a chair,” Magnolia said.
“Today’s horoscope?” Abbey sniffed, wiping her tears and finding a
small smile.
“Something a wise man said,” Magnolia said, pushing her red
string under her sweater.
“Are you going to tell me to go on JDate, too?” “Listen to Malka the wise,” Magnolia said. “We’ve got to work
hard at this happiness business.”
“Thanks for coming,” Abbey said. “I’m just rattled. Tommy broke
down in the rabbi’s office—it’s only hitting him now that he blew it. I
don’t want to be with him anymore, but we loved each other once and
I need to mourn. I’m going to go home, get in bed, and hope I’ll sleep
for twenty hours.”
“If you want your dreams to come true,” Magnolia said, “don’t
sleep.”
Abbey looked at Magnolia as if she knew what she was talking
about.
C h a p t e r 3 4
What Would Anna Do?
“He’ll be with you in a few minutes,” the executive-floor receptionist said.
Should the interviewer want to see it, Magnolia had printed her
résumé on paper with such a high fiber count a historian would be able to read it centuries from then. The best pages from Lady and a few from Bebe were tucked away in a black matte leather portfolio. Her new Jimmy Choos could pass muster here. The question was,
could she?
If you visited the company’s cafeteria, you’d know that three
fourths of the employees looked as bedraggled as much of the in
dustry. A few six-foot swans contemplated whether to indulge in a
leaf of radicchio, but you could count more jeans in the room than
four-thousand-dollar suits, and most of the women actually had hips.
Still, for a top job, Magnolia realized she’d be held to the highest
standard.
If Magnolia knew what job she was being considered for—if, in
fact, she was being considered for a real job, not simply being
appraised like a piece of meat—she might be less nervous. But when
the editorial director e-mailed her, he’d been cryptic, and you don’t ask questions at Fancy—which is how Magnolia thought of this com
pany. They weren’t the biggest publisher, and despite their glossiness,
you could subscribe to many of their magazines for five dollars a year
on Mags4Cheap.com, but in the Triple Crown of hauteur, Fancy was a
high horse indeed.
The editorial director met her himself in the outer lobby on his
high floor. He walked her to his office, which, she was surprised to see, was smaller than her former suite at Lady.
“Magnolia Gold,” he said. “At liberty, I understand.”
“Free at last,” she said.
“Bebe Blake, now there’s a train wreck.”
bore this guy. Magnolia settled on: “Bebe looks out for herself—
you’ve got to admire her grit.”
“But why back her in a magazine?” he said. “What was Jock Flana
gan thinking?”
Another land mine. For all Magnolia knew, Jock and her inter
viewer played squash together twice a week. Magnolia decided to
respond with a laugh—not a guffaw or a giggle, more of an airy
chuckle—although when she heard herself she was afraid she had
whinnied like a sick pony. Damn, what would Anna Wintour do? By
now he would have mortgaged his co-op to buy her a sable.
“How’s Bebe selling?” the editorial director asked.
To say it was selling poorly wouldn’t do her a bit of good. “Rather
well, actually,” Magnolia replied.
“Well, these numbers Darlene Knudson’s spewing—are they for
real?” he said. “Our publishers here aren’t buying them.”
“You’d really have to ask Jock or Darlene,” Magnolia said, wishing
he’d move to another topic.
He read her mind. “So what do you think of our magazines?” he
said.
If she critiqued ferociously, he might kick her into the hall, a
theme park of archival photographs and voices as muted as the color
palette of the decor. Overpraise the magazines, and he’d think she was a suck-up with nothing to bring to his table. Magnolia decided to say
only good things, sticking to magazines where she didn’t stand a
chance of ever becoming editor in chief, and emphasize how much
she particularly loved the men’s, home design, and food magazines.
“I dig almost all of what you do,” she concluded. Did she just said dig in an interview?
“Any you don’t dig?” the edi
torial director asked wryly.
This is where an interview could turn ugly. Why didn’t this
man stop torturing her and let her know why she was here?
Should she happen to pounce on a magazine that he had decided was
flawed and flay it in a manner he found cunning, at this notably mer
curial company she might land herself a top job with a clothing
allowance, a car and driver, and an interest-free loan for a country house. But which magazine? She could feel the seconds ticking away—or was that her pounding heart? She may as well have been on
a TV game show.
“Your teen title,” she finally said. “You could shake that one up,
not be such a clone of the mother ship.”
“Oh, really?” he said. “Do you think you’re the right generation to
lead that magazine?”
Ouch. Why didn’t he come out and say it: you, Magnolia Gold, have
aged out of the teen books, which were—inexplicably—how the
industry referred to magazines. Perhaps this company hadn’t heard
that sixty was the new forty, and thirty-eight was a mere tot. She’d
pretend he hadn’t made the remark. “Oh, no, teen books—not my
thing at all,” Magnolia said, hating herself for being a weenie.
“Magnolia, I like you,” he said. “You’ve done some lively work in a
tired category. You have a good eye, an amusing voice, and you don’t
seem to take yourself too seriously.” He made a sound that took Mag
nolia a second to realize was a laugh. “We’re up to our eyeballs in
divas here… .”
Magnolia felt her ego inflate like a beach ball. She was going to
thank him, when he continued.
“… and you have the common touch.”
She’d been drop-kicked back to Fargo. Though their readers weren’t any more gentrified than anyone else’s, at Fancy it was all
class all the time.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Magnolia decided. “I’d
like to believe I can see into the soul of a fair number of women.”
His half-smile returned. “You know, there’s a new project we
might talk about,” he said. “It’s flying a bit under the radar and goes by the code name Voyeur. You’ve heard about it, I assume.” Magnolia hadn’t. “Of course,” she said, and smiled in a way she
hoped he took as knowing.
“Excellent,” he said. He removed a short document from a folder