The Botox Diaries, page 10
He pauses, waits a beat, and when nobody answers, goes for a wrap. “I’ll cast the rest of the parts and e-mail the list over to each of you,” he says.
Sensing that everybody’s about to leave, Amanda works up her nerve and clears her throat. “Um, I’m not sure how to say this but don’t we need to pay some attention to the people who, well, will be paying for this event?”
“Yes,” pipes in Heather. “And I thought that Nicole Walters—you know her father Jerry is the CEO of Morgan Stanley—was just divine.”
“I like the girl who’s father is the CEO of Citibank,” says Allison, who’s apparently confused our auditions with a leveraged buyout.
Vincent hesitates, probably trying to decide whether casting the girl with the most talent is worth alienating the man who might fund his next project. He looks at me, figuring I might referee this round.
“Before we get to Eliza,” I say diplomatically, “I think we can all agree that Pierce is our Henry Higgins.” Vincent looks at me, needing a little more help on this one.
“Nobody could possibly accuse us of favoritism on that,” I say. “He was just so much better than any of the other boys. Is that okay with you, Pamela?”
Pamela looks down at her Ferragamos in an effort to be appropriately humble.
“I wouldn’t want anyone to think that my Pierce got the part because I’m on the committee. But,” she says blushing, “his father and I are so proud.” She turns to Vincent, solemnly. “If you believe in him as much as we do, I promise you, he’ll never let you down.”
I have to remember that speech. I’m sure I can score some points with it during Jen’s next parent-teacher conference.
Vincent’s sold on Pierce Barone, loaded with talent—and let’s face it, just plain loaded—and nods eagerly. “But of course Pierce’s role was never in doubt. I should have made that clear from the beginning.”
Now that a place for one of their own has been secured, there’s a palpable sense of relief.
“Well, that Tamika girl was pretty talented,” Amanda ventures.
“She was,” Heather agrees. “But don’t you think Nicole and Pierce would look just darling together on stage? And their parents are already such good friends!”
I keep waiting for somebody to point out that Nicole’s thin soprano voice won’t make it past the orchestra pit. But the Park Avenue moms are too busy cooing and envisioning where this perfect casting of Nicole and Pierce could all lead—the dating, the debutante ball, the inevitable nuptials at the Plaza. Or maybe the Plaza Athénée.
“No!” Allison cries out. Didn’t this happen at our last meeting? The girl doesn’t say much, but when she does, it’s a tidal wave. “The whole idea was that all our kids would be together, rich and poor, remember? So it has to be Tamika and Pierce. One from each side. That’s what this is about.”
A general hush settles over the group. Nobody dares argue and Vincent seizes the moment. “Well, well. Good, good. If that’s what you all want then I’m with you. Tamika and Pierce it is.” Still, he’s not quite sure whether he’s back in the director’s chair or still playing diplomat. “Anybody have any other favorites?”
“I’m sure you can figure out the rest of it, Vincent,” Heather says dismissively. Now that the leads have been cast, she’s done. Handling details is for the hired help. “But I do have some big news about the benefit party,” she enthuses to the rest of the ladies. “I called Kate and she’s with us.”
Where are we off to now? Kate who? Hepburn? Hudson? Couric?
“Kate’s going to donate her newest line of pink leather wallets for our goody bags,” Heather says triumphantly. “But only for donors over $1,000. I got her to throw in some notepads for contributors over $500. You know those wallets are precious. Everyone wants them. It’s fabulously generous of her.”
I get it. Kate as in Spade. I like her wallets myself. In fact, I bought a knockoff from a street vendor on the corner of Fifty-second and Sixth for five bucks just a week ago. I start to suggest that I could get some of those for the under-five-hundred-dollar donors, but I stop myself just in time. The ladies here probably don’t know that you can get anything from a street vendor besides a pretzel and I don’t want to burst their bubble.
We wrap up, do our kiss-kiss good-byes, and dash outside where a lineup of chauffered Town Cars are purring at the curb. Amanda quickly slips into one while Pamela and Pierce duck into another, and they wave to each other through the tinted glass windows. No carpooling for these girls, even if they do live across the hall from each other.
Having no Town Car, driver, or even taxi waiting, I cross the street until the Park Avenue posse have pulled away, so they won’t see that yes, my feet are actually going to touch the ground and I’m going to walk to the train station. I glance at my watch, trying to decide if there’s a prayer I can make the 6:11 train home. There’s always hope. I head crosstown on Forty-fifth Street at a pace that would impress Marion Jones, veer into a back entrance to Grand Central Station and come into the home stretch, sprinting breathlessly to Track 11, landing a seat in the front car with ninety seconds to spare. Damn! I could have stopped for a package of Twizzlers. A minute later, the crush of got-it-timed-to-the-last-second commuters jump on—all of them with Twizzlers, I bet—and start scrambling for seats.
“Mind if I sit here?” asks a man who’s apparently spotted the seat next to me and doesn’t mind asking me to push aside what I’d hoped was an intimidating pile of stuff.
“Sure,” I mutter sullenly. But then I look up and see that it’s Dan standing there, smiling at me.
“Hey, I didn’t realize it was you,” I say, suddenly cheerful. I slide over to give him the aisle seat, dragging my pocketbook, tote bag, newspaper and umbrella with me. I used to worry that my sinking mutual funds would turn me into a bag lady—now I realize my accessories might have already done me in.
Dan unbuttons his Burberry coat—does Lucy buy them in bulk?—and tosses it on the overhead rack. Even in a suit and tie he looks casually handsome—he’s tall and toned and confident, just like Lucy. Geez. The guy’s gorgeous and he’s the real deal—not like some people I’ve seen on Lucy’s arm lately. What’s the matter with my idiot friend? Doesn’t she realize what she’s got? If Ralph Lauren saw Dan and Lucy together he’d snap them up for a three-page ad campaign—the Perfect American Couple. But it’s more than just looks. Dan’s supportive, he loves her, he’s in it for the long haul. Why don’t the two of them stick to the storyboard and just head off into the sunset together?
Dan sits down next to me and tucks his one slim briefcase at his feet. How is it that men never have anything to carry? If they’re supposed to be the hunters and gatherers, the very least they could do is bring home a bag of groceries once in a while.
“So,” Dan says, settling in. “Great to see you. Everything good?”
“Terrific,” I say, balancing my pocketbook on my lap and leaning over to shove everything else under my seat. Whoops. My head ends up just a little too close to Dan’s knee. I sit up abruptly.
“How was the Willie Nelson concert last night?” Dan asks, ignoring my umbrella, which has now rolled onto his foot.
“Really, really fun,” I say. “It was so great of Lucy to take me.”
“Yeah. Absolutely,” Dan says, just a little too heartily. “So was it only the two of you?”
What does that mean? And what the heck am I supposed to say? Lucy never told me the cover story she’d cooked up for Dan, and I never thought to ask. If he wanted to come to the concert last night, did she give him a reason why he couldn’t? Or why she was taking me instead? I’m guessing she didn’t explain he’d be a fourth wheel, what with me and her lover already signed on.
Dan is looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“It was a lot more than two of us there,” I say brightly, trying to buy time. “Madison Square Garden was packed. What would that be, ten thousand? Fourteen thousand? I didn’t get the count.”
Dan chuckles. Okay, that worked. But I’m not out of the woods yet.
“You guys got home pretty late last night,” he says, pressing on. “Should I be worried about my wife going out on the town with the only single woman in Pine Hills?”
“Uh, yeah, right,” I say. “You know me. Totally wild. Two Diet Cokes and I call it a night.”
“So what’d you do until two a.m.?” he asks, prodding.
Got stoned on secondhand pot. Watched Hunter and Lucy make out. Saw naked girls screwing band members. “Nothing special,” I say.
“C’mon. Gimme a hint.”
“I think I’ll let Lucy tell you about it,” I say feebly.
“Big secret, huh?” He laughs, but I’m worried that he’s worried.
“I’ve got it!” He snaps his fingers. “Lucy’s having an affair with Willie Nelson and you don’t want to tell me!”
I can only imagine the wan smile that’s pasted on my face about now. If only you knew, Dan. Or maybe you do.
“Speaking of affairs,” I say, going for a bad segue, “I saw Jacques the other night. Remember I told you about him? My ex.”
“Sure. Jacques. The French guy who was a whiny baby.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, something like that,” Dan says.
“No, I said he didn’t want to have a baby.”
“Because he was a baby.”
I sit back in frustration. “Well, maybe I did say that but it’s not what I meant,” I say petulantly.
Dan raises an eyebrow. He gets it immediately, even though I wasn’t trying to tell him.
“Sounds like you two got along pretty well. That old French charm still works, huh?”
I feel my face flushing. I’m pretty sure I didn’t just fall for the French charm but maybe I should get another opinion. I haven’t talked much to anybody about this. Dan might as well be the one I open up to. He’s here. He’s a pal. All that testosterone has to be good for something. And the male viewpoint might be helpful.
“Tell me I’m crazy, but I like him,” I say simply. “I can remember all the reasons I left him, but the minute I saw him it felt so comfortable.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Just so right.”
“You mean you two are going to get back together?” he asks.
Now that’s the good thing about talking to guys. They’re blunt. Get right to the point. Okay, so I will, too.
“He still loves me,” I say, as if that explains it all. And maybe it does. But Dan looks at me dubiously.
“After all these years? And you’re back in love, too?”
Well, well, we are moving along quickly, aren’t we. Dan’s clearly never spent three hours a week with a shrink on the Upper West Side, ruminating on the subtleties of a failed romance. This is more like analyzing the stock market. Who are the players? Does it look good or bad? Are we buying or not?
But Dan must be good at the market, because he’s asked the million-dollar question. Am I in love? I’ve been thinking about it all week, and I still don’t have the answer. Yes. No. Sometimes. I wanna be. Maybe I am. Who could ever tell for sure? The sex. The sex was great. But what if I’m just prolactating? No, we really connected. There’s something there. But has he changed? I don’t know. What about Jen? Would we have another kid? Is he ready to be a father now?
I take a breath. Enough. I can’t keep doing this. I wish I were a man.
“You never really know if you’re in love,” I say, weaseling out yet again.
“Of course you know,” he says adamantly, surprising me with his surety. “You either are or you aren’t.”
I’d like to ask him if he’s still in love, but I wouldn’t dare. He probably is, and it’s too painful to think that Lucy might not be anymore. At least with him.
“Give me a couple of weeks to figure it out,” I say. “Jacques is coming back and another date or two’s gotta help.” I gaze out the window and start fantasizing about another date—or more specifically, another night with Jacques loving me and folding his body into mine. But the train’s almost at Pine Hills, so I start collecting my scattered belongings, then surprise myself by asking Dan, “Want to meet Jacques when he’s in town?”
“Sure,” Dan says agreeably. “I might pick up a few good lines from the guy. The four of us could have dinner.”
The four of us. Funny, I wasn’t thinking about it that way. I’ve got to remember that Dan and Lucy are still a couple.
The train stops and we step off onto the platform. “Walking home?” Dan asks.
“Of course,” I say, shifting my tote bag from one arm to the other. “Who’d pick me up? And you?”
“Yup,” Dan says. “Who’d pick me up?” He chuckles at the very idea of Lucy joining the fleet of devoted wives waiting patiently in their minivans to collect their hardworking husbands.
“Let’s go,” Dan says. We weave our way through the parking lot and when we turn onto the street, Dan drapes his arm seductively around my shoulder, drawing me close. “Mademoiselle, you are so very beautiful,” he says in a faux French accent. “So very, very beautiful.”
“Don’t mock me,” I say, laughing. But I notice that he doesn’t remove his arm as we start to trudge up the hill.
At home, I open the door and can’t decide if I’ve stumbled into a Gotti family funeral or the perfume aisle at Macy’s. An overpowering scent of rose and gardenia—and would that be a top note of primrose?—hits me immediately. When I step inside, I see luscious bouquets of flowers spilling out of dozens of cut glass vases—green vases, pink vases, crystal clear vases. The front hall table isn’t nearly big enough to hold them all, so the flowers are everywhere—some on the floor, others on the staircase, and even one short, squat vase balanced precariously on the needlepoint chair.
“Mommy!!” Jen comes bounding toward me, shrieking in delight. “Look at this!”
I am looking, since I’m too stunned to do anything else.
“I counted every one of them! Sixty-four roses! Twenty-two lilies! Thirty of those pink thingies! Twelve of those purple and yellow ones! Aren’t they the best? And sixteen of these.” She thrusts a gardenia at me. Can’t miss that fragrance.
“Who are they from?” she asks, still shrieking. “Maggie wouldn’t let me read the card!”
Maggie, the high school senior who comes over twice a week after school to look after Jen and help with homework, wanders into the foyer with a small smile on her face.
“Hey, looks like you have an admirer,” she says.
Maggie must have plenty of them, being a cute seventeen-year-old with wavy red hair and a warm, inviting manner. Suddenly I flash on the Swedish au pairs at Amanda’s Park Avenue spread—and the interesting question Heather raised about bringing the chicken to the fox. Would I keep Maggie once Jacques moved in? I’d want to, of course, Jen adores her. But Jacques is not a fox. And he’s not moving in. And if I think he’s still a fox, he’s definitely not moving in. Besides, who knows what’s going on in his head? Maybe he expects us all to move back to France. Well, that’s certainly not going to happen. He has to know that right off. Though Jen would like Paris, for a year or two anyway. She’d get a head start on her foreign language requirement, not to mention picking up some great clothes.
I shake my head. How am I ever going to stop this endless tape from running at the drop of a Jacques?
Jen and Maggie are both grinning at me.
“Open the card, Mommy, open it!” says Jen, bouncing up and down. She points to an elaborately beveled vase, bursting with at least two dozen blooming peonies, and motions to a ribbon-bedecked card dangling from the side.
Dazed, I walk slowly over to the vase.
“Oh, Mommy, you know I told you I counted? It came to 144 flowers. That’s twelve dozen. Twelve dozen!” She’s jumping up and down and I’m unexpectedly pleased, but not just because of the flowers.
“Pretty good math,” I say. “Did you do it all in your head?”
“She did,” Maggie says proudly. “I figured I wasn’t dragging her away from the flowers until you got home, so we played math games with them.”
Okay, Maggie’s definitely not out of here no matter who moves in. Anybody who gets my daughter to play math games has a lifetime option on babysitting.
Jen can’t wait any longer, and she pulls the card from the vase. “Here it is, Mommy! Read it out loud! It has to be from Boulder. He must have gotten the letter and really likes you. We’ll be on TV, Mom!”
Boulder’s an interesting possibility, but even from here, I can see the ORDERED FROM address on the outside of the envelope and—big surprise—it’s Jacques’ home in Paris. No, I’m not going to read the card aloud, at least not until I’ve read it to myself first.
I take the card and the vase that’s perched on the needlepoint chair. “This one will look pretty in my room, don’t you think?” I say to Jen. “Pick one for your bedroom.”
Jen makes a beeline for a pink vase holding a dozen pink roses. My decorating her baby room in nonsexist yellow and green obviously had no effect. “Like this one?” she asks.
“They’re perfect. You picked the best one. Let’s bring them upstairs and then we’ll have dinner and I’ll tell you what the card says.”
Maggie says good-bye and Jen, with her nose poked in the fragrant roses she’s selected, heads to her own room, leaving me alone in mine. I quickly place the vase on my dresser and rip open the card.
Mon amour … There aren’t enough flowers in New York to tell you how much I love you. Our love will live forever even though these flowers will die …
Dead flowers? Maybe that lost something in the translation.
… I can’t wait until we’re together again. In two weeks, my darling. Just two weeks more. Toujours, Jacques.
He needed 144 flowers to tell me he’d be back in two weeks? I thought we settled that at the door. I guess all this is better than a bunch of limp tulips from the Korean grocer or those balloon-festooned mums from FTD. On the other hand, this must have cost a thousand bucks. A thousand bucks? He could have sent the industrial-strength Oreck vacuum.
