drop.
Magnolia dumped the newspapers in the recycling bin near her back
door. By the end of the week, the weeklies—not just celebrity-studded
periodicals but newsmagazines as well—would also feature the Bebe
takeover. Then there would be the online newsletters, and e-mail blasts that each editor received, and they all received plenty— Mediaweek, Iwantmedia, Media Life, Media Industry Newsletter, Media This, and Media That. Since the media loves no subject more than itself, it would be a festival of narcissism.
The worst part was that thanks to Google, her misfortune would live on for years. According to Magnolia's unofficial tally, venerable had already been used nineteen times to describe Lady, causing Magnolia to refresh her understanding of the term. "Commanding respect by
virtue of age, dignity, character, or position" was the dictionary defini
tion. Magnolia suspected no one associated venerability with dignity,
character, or position—the common understanding linked venerability
simply to old age. The word smelled decrepit. Industry insiders who'd never bothered to study Lady (it was an open secret that most decisionmakers were "too busy to read") would believe the news and assume that Lady w as a dentured, bunioned, whiskered old hag. This pained Magnolia almost more than the fact that she'd effectively be reporting
to Bebe Blake, a fact she hadn't got her head around yet.
Hurt didn't begin to describe how she felt. Sick was more like it,
too sick to eat or talk or even call her parents. But she couldn't waste
time now being hurt or sick or humiliated. She needed to focus.
The most frustrating aspect of this avalanche of reality was that it
was out of the question for Magnolia to tell her side of the story to
anyone but her nearest and dearest—who, over the last day, failed
to include Harry, who hadn't even e-mailed. One thing Scary did
exceedingly well was to control its press coverage. Elizabeth Lester
Duvall, their storm trooper of corporate communications, monitored
every sound bite an employee might want to shout out. She delivered
her gag order in person the previous day the moment Magnolia left
Jock's office.
Elizabeth pulled Magnolia into the executive-floor conference room
and shut the door. "Don't worry, honey," Elizabeth said in the rat-a-tat-tat speech
which almost belied her Mississippi Delta roots. "We'll handle this.
Bebe will give a press conference tomorrow afternoon. We've booked
the Pierre. Be sure to get your hair blown out, because we're giving Entertainment Tonight an exclusive."
"We'll have makeup at the ready," Elizabeth continued, breath
lessly. "Back to the press conference. You won't speak. Darlene and
Bebe will handle the particulars. Just go home. Have a cocktail!"
She gave Magnolia a big grin and patted her hand. "You're taking
this so well!" With that, Elizabeth was off. A kiwi green cashmere
cardigan knotted around her shoulders billowed in her wake and her
silver hair sparkled under the hallway's fluorescent lights.
It wasn't until after Elizabeth had left that Magnolia realized,
when she talked to Jock, her title had never come up. Perhaps Bebe
would get the "chief " and Magnolia would be downshifted to "edi
tor," "deputy editor," "executive editor," or the truly opaque "edito
rial consultant." Or maybe she'd remain "editor in chief," and Bebe
would become, what, "editorial director"?
Did it matter, really?
It did. An editor in chief was far more glorious than a plain-Jane
editor, and usually got better pay. When a company wanted to be
cheap, they'd promote an executive editor into the top job, and name
her "editor" with a token raise. But it was all very confusing. An "edi
tor" at one company might be paid four times the salary of an "editor
in chief " at another, and even at the same company, people with
seemingly identical positions had widely variable power, perks, access
to upper management, and compensation. Magnolia
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