Little Pink Slips Read Free

early bird number one.
    "Don't be crass," answered Miss Sixty. "We have equal rights here."
    "Not if you don't wait your turn," the friend said as she raised an
    arm to bar her elder. "No one's going in till you all calm down, every one of you," yelled
    the Chanel rep, her camellia trembling. "No one."
    Calm prevailed. For thirty seconds. Then the doors parted. The
    room, bright as a casino, swallowed Magnolia. Neatly boxed shoes and
    boots, carefully arranged by sizes, and every sort of brooch and more
    were piled high on tables, which ringed row after row of tightly
    packed clothing racks. Where to begin? The handbags, the handbags.
    Totes the size of labradoodles, clutches too small for a Tampax, purses
    worthy of a Jackie O impersonator. Not a style in sight a workhorse
    could live out of from morning till night.
    Then she spotted it, the black kid classic. Interlocking C's stood
    chastely back-to-back in a quilted V. She'd seen this number advertised for $2,100 in the Times. Here, $150.
    Magnolia grabbed the bag and a furry carryall that she could wear
    with—well, she'd figure that out later. She scat to the shoes, and furi
    ously began trying on every pair of size sevens. Powder blue ballerina
    flats with huge C's. Even in her delirium she realized they were more
    appalling than appealing. The ankle boots? Phoebe's orange alert sang
    in her ears. Pumps with thick ankle straps? They'd make her legs look like stumps. Maybe the kitten heels. Elle insists—again—that pink was spring's newest neutral. They would do.
    Under a chair she spied an unopened box, the crisp white logo an
    island of dignity in the middle of funereal ebony. Inside, the sling
    backs' toes narrowed to a sexy point. The lizard soles, which no one but the wearer would even see, glistened like sexy snakes. " You need to convince people you are special," her horoscope had warned. These shoes had her name all over them.
    Now, the clothes. Magnolia cursed herself for not having researched
    her size at Saks. Six, she guessed, eyeing her behind. For princely occa
    sions every woman was supposed to trot out a Chanel jacket, but there
    were few here without buckles and pockets run amok. Only one jacket
    looked acceptable—dove gray tweed with silver threads, a few discreet
    buttons rimmed with rhinestones, C's linked in the silk lining. Like
    intrepid pom-pom girls, they were everywhere, those C's. She grabbed
    the jacket and sprinted to evening gowns. Magnolia considered the red chiffon, but it was too bare for a bra. While ogling her nipples, the
    testosterone club that ran Scary would declare such a dress in poor taste.
    She settled on a demure black cocktail dress. Maybe she'd be invited to
    a Catholic charity dinner.
    Arms filled, Magnolia headed to the ad hoc try-on area. Women in
    all manner of undress were madly pulling clothes on and off, quickly
    discarding selections that retailed for thousands. They seemed grate
    ful for the males in the room—gay guys shopping for their sisters had
    opinions you could respect. As she was trying to decide if the dress
    actually looked like something from the Ann Taylor Loft 60 percent
    off rack, she saw them. The publishers.
    Four of Scary's hotshots were stripped to their bras and thongs, zip
    ping one another up and lobbing compliments. Darlene Knudson, Lady' s publisher, towered above the publisher of Elegance, Charlotte Stone, a perfect lady trying valiantly to outsell Vogue . Charlotte waved over Magnolia. Like every editor, Magnolia deeply distrusted
    most publishers, believing they would sell you down the river for a
    Depends ad. Charlotte, however, was reputed to be decent.
    "Magnolia! Honey! Did you see the trenches they just brought out?
    They're only $75!"
    On size-zero Charlotte, the belted green coat looked soigné. "Check
    out the lining," she urged. The name Coco was knit into the fabric.
    They really did have the branding thing going on. Magnolia guessed
    that the lumpy coat might give her all