Free Little Pink Slips by Sally Koslow

the Henry Hudson Parkway to Magnolia's
    face—and if she wasn't mistaken, her legs. The self-tanning had been
    worth the effort.
    "Just that I'm not sure the design's going to go forward," Magnolia
    said, hating that corporate-speak was the best she could do, wearing a
    girlie dress on a balmy June night with Diana Krall in the air and a
    handsome man to her left.
    "This toiling artist demands a reason," Harry said.
    "My publisher has an idiot big idea, high concept, never gonna hap
    pen, but I have to make nice."
    "Big how?"
    "Bebe Blake."
       "She's big all right." Harry roared. "We're talking wide-angle lens. But I'm not connecting the dots. What does she have to do with Lady ?" "Bebe wants to do an Oprah. Start an empire, mold nubile minds,
    preach to the little people. The Scary folks are thinking of giving her Lady on a silver platter."
    "Which makes you the turkey?"
    "Stuffed, trussed, eaten alive."
    "Magnolia, luv. Dial back. They can't just give away a magazine.
    Utter rubbish. Wouldn't get all worked up if I were you. The folks at
    Scary have got to be smarter than this."
    "Have you met Jock Flanagan?"
    "Only in Liz Smith."
    Magnolia raised her eyebrows and gave him a long, skeptical look.
    "I take your point," he said.
    As Harry smiled at her, she noticed a dimple. That and what a fast
    driver he was. They were already beyond Scarsdale, sailing through
    that slice of good-school-district burbs to which most of Magnolia's
    college friends had migrated with their reliable husbands and fast
    track toddlers. By the time Exit 4 on 684 came into view, an hour had
    melted away. They'd covered all the safe subjects: their first jobs (his was at Rolling Stone ), their last vacations (Barcelona for her, Reykjavik for him), and their dogs (could she warm up to a hyperactive
    Jack Russell?).
    Magnolia guided Harry through the twists and turns of what New
    Yorkers loved to refer to as "the country." Then they entered the
    grounds. It was 8:30. Showtime.
    Beyond stands of evergreens and birch, elegant gray gates parted
    on a winding road. At the top of a hill stood not a condo development
    but the house Natalie had christened Simply Simon. Every lamp and
    chandelier was ablaze, rivaling dozens of Chinese lanterns strung
    along an open front porch and swinging from old oaks in the soft
    breeze. The only thing missing was Bambi. That and the paparazzi—
    though for all she knew, Natalie might have hidden a crew in the
    bushes. They got out of the car, handed the key to the valet parking
    attendant, and walked to the front door.
    The first time Magnolia laid eyes on Natalie's house, her envy was
    like a rash. Natalie and her husband had bought their mini-estate only
    three years before. After a contractor had gone belly up, he'd unloaded
    his family dream house and its nine hilly acres to Natalie and Stan
    ("all cash") Simon. Within a year, Natalie had nestled a swimming pool and Jacuzzi into rocks that looked cloned from the set of The Flintstones —if Wilma and Fred had lived beside a man-made waterfall and hot tub. She and her decorator had tag-teamed at every
    antique show on the Eastern seaboard for insta collections of McCoy
    pottery, folk art tchotchkes, and flower-sprigged English china, which
    crowded into imposing cupboards with their requisite peeling paint.
    Outside, weathered European garden furniture dotted the lush, rolling
    grounds. An herb garden sat next to two tennis courts surrounded by a
    tasteful log fence. A cutting garden wasn't far from the basketball
    court and campfire circle, should anyone have a Kumbaya moment.
    "Cookie, you made it," Natalie shouted as she encircled Magnolia
    with a warm hug. Natalie wore a heavily embroidered purple kimono
    over silky black cigarette pants. Her hair was secured by chopsticks.
    Magnolia was glad she'd ixnayed her Chinatown jacket.
    "And you must be . . . ?" Natalie asked. "Harry. Harry James," he said as he extended his hand.
    Natalie clasped Harry's hand with