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friend, and
    hugged her hard.
    "Forget me," Abbey said through her heaving, Italian widow
    moans. "What's going on with you?"
    "If I start venting, I will never stop," Magnolia said. "I'll give you
    two words. Bebe Blake."
    "She walked off another photo shoot? What do you care? She sold,
    what, eleven copies for you last time."
    "Oh, that it were so simple. I'll call you tonight and give you the
    whole deal." Magnolia got up to leave, remorse pulsing. She wished
    she could take off the morning, tuck Abbey under a downy duvet in a cool, air-conditioned room, and hold her hand while they listened to
    Harry Connick Jr. But there was rarely a day to be late for work, and
    this was definitely not it. Scary was the court of Henry VIII—make a
    mistake and you could be beheaded.
    They said their good-byes. Magnolia raced home and rushed into
    the shower for a quickie shampoo. She went over her clothing options.
    Today called for skyscraper heels, definitely, and the confidence
    building Stella McCartney dress she'd been saving for a very impor
    tant occasion. With water dripping across her pale gray carpeting, she
    checked her schedule. Did she have a lunch? Yes, Natalie Simon for
    their monthly sushi pig-out.
    Magnolia could use a dose of Natalie just now. A sit-down with
    Natalie could be better than finding money in your pocket: her advice
    was that astute. The vox populi was that Natalie was the cagiest editor
    in town, having earned her chops over the course of thirty years. The
    only problem was that Natalie seemed to have a selective memory and
    so many industry friends sucking up that you couldn't always count on
    her to recall promises she'd make to you, even if your discussion was
    yesterday.
    Thirty-five minutes later, Magnolia was out the door. As she left
    the elevator downstairs, she collided with a delivery boy. "For you,"
    shouted the day doorman. A magnificent white orchid—pale, perfect,
    a botanical Uma Thurman—was on its way up.
       Magnolia accepted the present with curiosity. Flowers at Lady were routine, although it was usually the beauty and fashion depart
    ments that cleaned up; you could barely walk to the bathroom with
    out seeing a glorious floral tribute. The untrained observer might
    think someone on the staff got engaged every day, but, no, the deliver
    ies were almost always attached to press releases for, say, a new ultra
    hydrating, pro-vitamin hair complex a publicist wanted mentioned in
    the magazine.
    Could the orchid be a guilt gift from Darlene? Unlikely. She'd
    never given Magnolia a present, not even at Christmas. She opened
    the card. "Can't wait to see how yesterday went."
       Uma was from Harry James, the designer who'd worked so hard on Lady' s potential facelift. Their months of late nights had been all business but not unpleasant. Harry. What a lovely thought.
    Magnolia checked her watch. She realized that for a full five
    minutes she'd forgotten about Bebe Blake hovering on the horizon, ready to turn Lady into a caricature of a magazine and her job into something worse.
    That is, if she still had a job.

C h a p t e r 5

    The Corner of Grapevine and Yenta

    "Make yourself at home," Natalie Simon mouthed to Magnolia, a phone to her ear.
    That wasn't hard. Except for a computer Natalie used as little as
    possible, her enormous space—twice that of Magnolia's, although
    both of them were editors in chief at Scary—was more a salon than
    the hub of a working journalist. As Mozart hummed in the back
    ground, a sea of azure prints, chosen by Natalie's decorator to set off
    her blue eyes, enhanced an effect of unhurried calm. Flanking the
    sole fireplace in the building were twin love seats. One featured a needlepoint pillow begging the question, "What part of meow don't you understand?" w hile the other observed that " Many complain of their looks, few of their brains. " The pillows were gifts to Natalie from her mentor, the famously silver-haired Hearst editorial director