The Botox Diaries, page 13
“Funny, you don’t feel so loved when you find out something like that,” I say, flooded with memories. All the bad memories I’ve been trying to keep at bay since Jacques has come back into my life.
“I’m sorry you got hurt. But Dan won’t find out,” Lucy promises.
We walk a few steps in silence and Lucy links her arm in mine. Maybe some of what I’ve said is starting to sink in.
“You never forgave Jacques?” Lucy finally asks.
“Hard to say,” I admit. “At the moment, the whole question’s up in the air.”
Chapter EIGHT
WHEN I GET BACK from Puerto Vallarta, the message light on my answering machine is flashing like a Las Vegas slot machine. I try to count the neon pulses but give up at seventeen and press PLAY. First comes a round of irate calls from Park Avenue stage mothers, shocked—shocked—that their children’s talents at singing, acting, and sucking up haven’t been properly rewarded with a key role in My Fair Lady. I’m trying to figure out how they knew to call me when one mother reveals that my number was on the bottom of the casting announcement, put there by our ever-clever director Vincent. Who apparently takes calls only from Nathan Lane.
Then comes a series of increasingly agitated message from Jacques. He’s had a change of plan. Instead of New York, his business meeting will be in Dubai.
So sorry to disappoint you, ma chérie, he says sorrowfully. You were looking forward to seeing me, non? Another time. Soon. Je promis. Téléphone-moi.
In the next message—an hour later? the next day?—he isn’t très content. Why didn’t I call him immédiatement?
I know you’re out of town, he says, his voice now slightly agitated. But you must call.
Apparently he doesn’t know I’m the only person in the universe who shells out $150 a month to Verizon and still hasn’t mastered the art of beeping in. Time magazine may put me on the cover.
Are you mad at moi? he asks in the next, an edge of panic creeping into his tone. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Do not be mad at moi.
Two more calls to tell me I shouldn’t be upset. He’s had a change of plan, not heart. He’ll make it up to me. He loves me.
I kick off my shoes and sit down. This is taking longer than I’d bargained for.
Here’s what we will do, he says, panic gone and confidence restored. You will come with me to Dubai on Thursday. I am sending the ticket. You will have it tomorrow.
There’s a plan. Fly out Thursday to Dubai. Which is where, exactly? I seem to remember it’s in Africa. Or possibly Arabia. Is there still an Arabia? Maybe I’m thinking of Abu Dhabu. Abba Dabba? Yabba dabba doo. No, that’s what Fred Flintstone said.
I take a deep breath. Never mind where Jacques wants to send me, my mind seems to wander all on its own.
Next beep. Next message.
My Chauncey doesn’t go to Dalton so he can be cast as a fishmonger! screams a furious mother’s voice. Chauncey will not be in the play! He’s joining the lacrosse team instead! Get someone from Stuyvesant to be your fishmonger.
I guess that’s not Jacques.
But maybe this last one will be.
Thursday, ma chérie. My car will meet you at the airport. Jacques’ voice is smooth as crème fraîche. We will make love every night. During days I have meetings, but for you there is shopping. A tour of the city. A hike in the mountains. And I will arrange a desert camel ride, je promis.
The desert. At least that helps me pin down the continent. And here I am lusting after a man who’s promising me camel rides. But enough. I click off the machine and notice the International FedEx package sticking out from my pile of unopened mail. Jacques’ secretary always was efficient. How is it that all of a sudden, I’m everyone’s favorite travel companion? My biggest trip last year was to the opening of Sam’s Club. Now between Jacques and Lucy, it’s raining airline tickets.
Still, meeting Jacques in Dubai, Dubuque, Des Moines, or wherever the heck he has me going is out of the question. Because unless some family in Appalachia has decided to take her in, Jen will be home this afternoon. I can’t wait to get her back. Come on, Jacques. Please tell me you remember I have a daughter, and that I can’t pick up and fly six thousand miles to have sex with you. Though god knows I’d like it.
I take my suitcase to go unpack and, as if on cue, the phone rings. I wish I had caller ID. I’m not talking to Chauncey’s mother about the indignity of her precious progeny playing a fishmonger. And I’m not prepared for Jacques just now. But what if it’s Appalachia calling and the nurse is on the line? I warned Jen about those power tools. There’s been an accident, a horrible, bloody accident. My poor baby’s been hurt.
I drop my suitcase and grab for the phone, almost knocking it off the desk. “Hello, is everything okay?” I ask anxiously.
“Oui, oui, mon amour. Now that I have you I am happy again,” Jacques says, his honeyed voice calming me even from so far away. “So you got the ticket? I will see you in two days?”
“I wish,” I say, surprised at how glad I am to hear from him. “But it’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible. Not where we’re concerned.”
“I can’t meet you this time. My daughter. You forgot about Jen.”
“Ah, Jen. Your little wren. But that’s easy—another ticket! Think how much she will love the camel ride!”
I laugh and cradle the phone closer to my ear. Yes, I’d love to see Jacques on Thursday. Would do anything to see him. Except leave my daughter. “Unfortunately, school vacation’s just ending and it’s going to be a big week in history class,” I joke, thinking ahead to next week’s schedule. “They’re just getting to Lewis and Clark.”
“Lewis? Jerry Lewis?” Jacques asks, perking up to Jen’s academics.
Oh please, not that French thing with Jerry Lewis again. Best just to ignore it. “I’m sorry, Jacques,” I say. “I wish you could still come here. I miss you.”
“Moi aussi,” Jacques says, crestfallen. “I’ve been dreaming about our being together. But c’est d’accord, I understand. Your little girl. She’s the only reason I would take no for an answer. But I must hold you in my arms again soon.”
“I want that too.”
“A thousand kisses.”
For the first three days after she gets back home from Appalachia, Jen drives me crazy and I can’t figure out what’s going on. Maybe I should have gone to Dubai. She insists on dragging me to the mall and trying as hard as she can to max out my Discover card. Limited Too isn’t good enough for dresses and we have to go to Betsey Johnson. Never mind that the styles are too sophisticated for her and too teenagey for me—she loves them. She wants fancy sandals with heels and I should get the same pair. Her wish list includes dangling earrings for me, a sparkling bracelet for her, glossy pink lipstick for both of us, long-lasting lash-enhancing mascara (which I won’t even discuss) and seventy-five-dollar José Eber haircuts. Thinking I’m being a sport, I give in on the dresses and splurge on the bracelet. But when I won’t pony up for the rest, my usually even-tempered sweetie stomps away in a huff.
“You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything,” she pouts, turning her back to me on the escalator.
This time she’s right. I don’t.
Sunday morning, for some reason, Jen wakes me up unnaturally early. She’s a vision in the new Betsey Johnson, the glittery bracelet, and the six bejeweled barrettes that Lily gave her last birthday.
“You gotta get up, Mom,” she says urgently. “Put on your new dress. And I picked out a pair of shoes for you. They’re not as good as the sandals you wouldn’t buy, but they’ll be okay.”
I blink, trying to figure out what’s going on. Why is she all dressed up? Is it Easter again so soon?
“I’ll be okay for what?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you later. C’mon. You’ve got to make pancakes. You’ve gotta hurry.”
Jen and I always have pancakes on Sunday morning, but today she’s so jumpy she can barely sit still long enough to eat one, never mind her usual stack of four with fresh banana topping.
When the doorbell rings, she shoots up like a rocket. “Get it! Get it!” she shrieks, so excited you’d think Clay Aiken was coming for a playdate. “You should have worn the new dress, but I guess your jeans are okay.”
“Why? Who’s here?” I ask, trying to figure out what she knows that I don’t.
“Just get the door, now!”
I fold my arms. “Tell me what’s going on, young lady.”
By now, Jen is apoplectic. “Just open it! Open it!” she shrieks.
So I do.
Standing there is a model-gorgeous guy with spiky sun-bleached hair, a grin plastered on his face, and a bunch of pink roses in his arms.
“Congratulations!” he says, giving me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. He’s about two heads taller than I am, athletic-looking, and wearing a cutoff Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt that declares he’s “Surfer Dude.”
“I’m Boulder!” he exclaims, as if I should be as excited by the news as he is. “You won! I’m your date!”
He lunges in for a hug, and, forgetting about the armload of flowers, crushes the roses between us. Would that be a thorn that’s now lodged in my cleavage? I always did prefer orchids.
“Look! Give us a big smile!” Boulder says.
He spins me around and I see eager photographers, stocky men with videocameras, and young, stylish women with notebooks and stopwatches all swarming up my front lawn. In the driveway, the high school marching band, dressed in full beribboned regalia, strikes up the only song they really know. “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
Suddenly a microphone, a clipboard, and a makeup brush are simultaneously thrust in my face.
“What the hell … I mean the heck … is going on?” I ask, pulling away from the microphone. One of the cameramen steps in so tight that I don’t know if he’s going for a close-up of my crow’s-feet or a shot of the thorn in my cleavage. I stick my hand out to push him away and then decide that’s the wrong move. Only time you see a hand blocking the camera is when some corporate bad guy is trying to keep his face off 60 Minutes.
“What is this?” I demand again. “What’s going on?”
“I picked you!” Boulder says, the sunlight bouncing off his unnaturally white teeth. “Seven thousand letters. Or maybe it was seven-hundred thousand.” He looks over at one of the young women with notebooks. “Mindy, how many people should I say wrote in for a date with me?”
“Whatever you want,” she calls out.
“Millions of letters!” Boulder says enthusiastically. “And you’re my perfect match! Cosmo’s Most Eligible Bachelor has found his girl!”
It’s all coming back to me now. The date Jen found in the magazine. The letter she wrote in my name and must have sent off even though I never corrected the spelling. But maybe Boulder didn’t notice.
“Jen!” I call, looking out into the sea of lights and lenses. “Jen, where are you? Come here, now!”
She pops up in front of me, giggling and hopping from foot to foot in her white patent flats. Okay, maybe she is getting a little old for them. I should have bought her those high-heeled sandals.
“Mom, I kept the secret! I did, didn’t I? You didn’t know anything, right? I promised not to tell and I didn’t.”
“Really natural reaction,” Boulder says to me, admiringly. “You seemed just like a suburban mom.”
I’m glad a decade in Pine Hills has accomplished something, although not everyone would take that as a compliment. Just then, Mindy steps forward, waving her clipboard marked SEGMENT PRODUCER.
“Perfect, Jess, you did great,” she says cheerily. “I’m so glad we don’t have to reshoot the surprise arrival. Got it on the first take. You really acted surprised.”
“I was surprised,” I say, offering an explanation that obviously hasn’t occurred to anyone yet. “But what’s going on here? You can’t just show up on my doorstep this way.”
“We got all the permissions we need.” Mindy grins. “From your daughter.”
“She’s only eleven.”
“Right!” Mindy beams.
How did Jen know about all this and not tell me? Maybe I’ve gone overboard teaching her to keep promises. Better add a codicil: Sunday school lessons do not apply when dealing with reality-TV producers.
“Now you and Boulder can go inside and talk a little while we reset. But don’t give away any secrets,” Mindy warns. “We want to capture all that getting-to-know-you stuff on tape.”
“Sure. Perfect way to start a relationship. Get intimate on tape.”
“And by the way,” Mindy continues, “I’d like the next shot in the kitchen, if that’s okay with you.”
“No, it’s not okay with me,” I say, bristling. “There’s pancake batter all over everything. Let me go clean up a little first.”
“The set dresser and two prop guys are here to get the kitchen ready,” says Mindy, as if every household includes a cleanup crew of three teamsters. “We even brought oatmeal in case you don’t have any. Quaker Oats paid for product placement.”
And I thought all I was getting was Boulder.
Inside, away from the sunshine and bright lights—a double whammy that must be ultra flattering with me in no makeup—I try to regain my composure.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask Boulder, falling into my best hostess-with-the-mostest mode.
“No thanks, I’m in AA,” he says happily.
“How about orange juice?” I ask, since that’s what I meant in the first place.
“I don’t drink that, either,” he beams. “Though maybe if it’s low-acid. Do you have any soy milk?”
“No. Do you drink water?”
“Sure. If it’s Perrier or Pellegrino. Or even Poland Spring,” he says good-naturedly.
“How about Pine Hills?”
“Never heard of it, but I’ll take a flyer,” he says adventurously.
I hand him a glass of tap water and try to think what we have in common. Nothing. “Are you really a surfer?” I ask, remembering the magazine article.
“Sure thing. I’m out there hanging ten in Malibu every day. But what I really want to do is be in movies,” he says, as if he’s the first person to come up with that idea. “By the way, just so you know, I’m only in AA for the contacts. Seven a.m. meeting in Santa Monica at Shutters on the Beach gets all the studio execs. That’s where everyone gets discovered.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say, though why I’d use up precious brain cells over that, I’m not sure.
“And stay away from the four p.m. meetings in Venice Beach,” he adds helpfully. “That one gets all the winos.”
I look around the kitchen which the prop guys have already cleaned up. They do a nice job on sinks. Maybe we could shoot in Jen’s bathroom next.
Boulder squeezes by the camera tripod that has been installed next to the table, and then he traps me in another bear hug.
“Can you believe this?” he asks, thoroughly thrilled with himself. “We made it! You and me! Not just in the magazine—we’re on the TV show!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty surprised myself,” I say, honing my skills in understatement. “I mean, I know why they picked you, but what made you pick me?”
“I was amazingly smart on this one,” Boulder says, so pleased with himself that the grin spreads—I didn’t think it possible—even wider. “I figured all the other Cosmo bachelors were gonna go for the sexy girls. But only ten of us would get picked to be on the TV show. And I thought, Go for an old one! A mom! Somebody nobody else would pick! Somebody you’d never expect! They’ll love it!”
“I guess it worked,” I say, stunned. Who knew that being old enough to have my memory and my collagen break down would land me a date? But hold on. I’m not looking for a date. And this is worse than one of Lucy’s fix-ups. Why would I go through with this?
“You know, this whole thing was my daughter’s idea,” I say, inching away from him. “Maybe you should get someone else. Someone sexy. Your own age.”
“No, hey, I really wanted you,” Boulder says earnestly. “I like moms. And you remind me of my own mom. She’s pretty cool.”
“Maybe she and I can have lunch sometime,” I say frostily. “But let’s face it. You and I are never going to work out.”
“No, don’t take it wrong,” he says, adjusting the Surfer Dude T-shirt around his six-pack abs. Which in his case are a twelve-pack. “You’re pretty good-looking. You’ve really kept yourself up for someone your age.” He pats me on the backside with about as much passion as a ten-year-old petting his Saint Bernard.
My patience is wearing thin. “Thanks, but you know, I think everyone should just get out of here.” I wave my arms broadly, as if that’s all it takes to shoo him away.
“No way. You gotta do it. This is our big chance.”
“My chance for what?” I snap. “I’m a happily single mom. I love my life. I love my daughter. I just turned down a trip to Dubai. I mean it. I want everyone out of here.”
“Hey, please?” he asks imploringly. “I really need to do this. Don’t say no.”
By now, Boulder’s lower lip is trembling and his brow is starting to furrow. Suddenly he’s a little kid, and all my maternal instincts kick in.
“You gotta help me out here,” he adds dolefully. “I don’t make any money surfing and my agent says I might get a commercial out of this.” His baby blue eyes glisten and he blinks hard.
Ten feet away, I see Jen looking equally scared, shocked that I’m getting mad instead of married. She was trying to make me happy. She had a plan about Boulder, and gosh-darn if she didn’t get him here.
I can’t disappoint Jen. I just can’t. And besides, I’m desperate for Boulder not to start crying right here in my kitchen.
“All right, all right,” I say, capitulating. “I’ll do it. Just tell the crew not to scuff my floor.”
“Thanks.” Boulder grins. “I won’t forget this.” And just like that, all’s right with the world again. He must have been an easy child.
