The Botox Diaries, page 17
Mickey ignores the carb controversy and keeps her attention glued to Lucy. “I once tried to get on Hunter’s show,” she says. “I took the Internet quiz but I never heard back. Any chance you could put in a good word for me with Hunter when you see him again? Are you two really close?”
“Wine? Who needs more wine?” I jump up, grabbing for the bottles. “Dan has red and white,” I say as if these are the two most original colors to hit wine stores in fifty years.
But Mickey—what made me think she was mousy? The woman’s starting to sound like Janet Reno—stays riveted to Lucy and persists in her line of questioning. “Isn’t Hunter the host of your new pilot? You must be together day and night.”
“Oh, you know Lucy, always busy, busy, busy,” I say, interrupting yet again. “Where do you get your information?” I ask Mickey, hoping to divert her attention. “You seem to know a lot about TV.”
“I’m on the fan websites all the time,” Mickey says, as if that’s the first step toward her Daytime Emmy. “I know everything about Hunter Green. His favorite color, which isn’t green. Where he gets his ties. His shoe size.” She stops for a moment, trying to decide if she should share her information, then decides to take the plunge. “The only bad news is he has very small feet,” she confides. “And you know what that means.”
“Very small socks?” I ask hopefully.
“But the good news is he just got back from a fabulous weekend with his secret girlfriend at a really romantic hideaway. I forget what it’s called. Oh that’s right,” she says triumphantly. “Le Retreat.”
Lucy manages not to spit out her wine, but she looks up just a little too anxiously at Dan. And their eyes lock for a beat too long.
“Isn’t that interesting,” Dan says calmly. “Lucy was there last weekend, too.”
For once the unflappable Lucy seems shaken. Her usual quick comebacks aren’t coming, and she carefully smooths the napkin in her lap with the palms of her hands. Nervous gesture or wiping off the sweat? Come on, Lucy, say something. “Jess was there with me,” she ventures lamely.
“Yes I was,” I say boldly, speaking on behalf of my very, very guilty client. “And it didn’t seem at all romantic to me.”
“Me either,” Lucy quickly agrees. “How do these places get their reputation, anyway?”
I get up to clear the first course plates. And, I hope, the air. “Snapper Vera Cruz coming up next,” I say. “Mickey? Would you mind helping me clear?” I look over at Hunter’s number-one fan but she doesn’t respond. Nikki. That was it. Nikki. I guess I’ll clear the plates myself.
When I finally get home from the dinner party, I find Boulder fast asleep on my mid-century modern sofa. Paid a small fortune for it, and the couch looks just like the one my mother bought from Sears when I was growing up. Hated it then—what made me think I’d like it now? And I don’t know why Boulder’s sleeping on it.
“I had to use my judgment, and I thought it would be okay to let Boulder in,” says Jen’s babysitter, Maggie, walking into the room. “Everybody in town knows about you two.”
“That’s fine,” I say, wondering what brought Boulder to my doorstep when there’s not a camera crew in sight. “Sorry I’m so late.” Party was over by midnight but I wasn’t in a rush to leave. Figured I’d stick around in case Dan had anything more to say about Lucy’s weekend, the picture in the Post, or l’affaire Le Retreat. But Dan seemed tired, and after he dried a few dishes, he went to bed. With or without Lucy I can’t say, although I’m sure she’ll tell me tomorrow.
I empty out my wallet to pay Maggie. When did babysitters in Pine Hills start earning ten bucks an hour? I know she’s saving up her money to go to college—but should I tell her that any job she gets after graduation won’t pay nearly so well? Once Maggie’s gone, I turn my attention to Boulder, who’s curled up like a sleepy puppy. He looks so comfortable that I’m certainly not going to wake him. I toss a light afghan over his bare feet, start to tuck it around his toes, then stop myself. Wait a minute, I certainly am going to wake him. What the heck is the boy doing on my couch at two a.m.?
But how to rouse him? A gentle shake to the shoulder? A kiss on the cheek? A glass of cold water dumped on his head? I settle on the shoulder shake. Which does nothing. Nice to be young and male and a sound sleeper.
“Boulder?” I say loudly. “Boulder? Boulder?”
He finally sits up, wide-awake immediately. Nice to be young and male and wake up on a dime.
“Hey, Jess, how ya’ doin’? Did you hear our show’s going to be on next week?”
“No, really? I thought it was scheduled for August.”
“Everyone at the network loved it and they put it on the fast track for sweeps,” he says, stretching. “I figured we could all watch together. It’d be cool.”
“Cool,” I agree, wondering whether he’s planning on sitting on the couch until next week. “Is that what you came here to tell me? It’s kinda late.” I rub my eyes and yawn for emphasis.
“You sure had some night partying,” he says with a grin. Here we go again with the grin. “You can tell me about it if you want.”
“Nothing to tell,” I admit. Still, good manners require I offer him something to eat. He’s a growing boy and he’s probably hungry. But I’m not going back into the kitchen at this hour for anything. Well, maybe some grapes.
“So what’s going on? Why’d you come over?”
“Actually, I want to talk to you seriously,” he says.
Then not grapes. I have some leftover beef stroganoff. That sounds serious.
But now the grin is gone and his expression has turned solemn. His range is increasing. He must be studying hard in acting classes.
Boulder clears his throat and summons his lines. “Listen, Jess, I know that after the show’s on everyone’s going to think we’re a couple. And I like you a lot. I really do. Love Jen, too. We really all could be very happy together.”
No, we couldn’t. But I don’t want to interrupt his big scene.
“Unfortunately, that being together can’t happen right now, and I wanted to tell you the truth myself.” He pauses for effect, stroking his perfectly one-day stubbled chin. “I’m already involved with someone.”
This doesn’t sound too upsetting. I’ve been kissed off before. And by people that I’ve actually kissed. “That’s okay,” I say, probably a little too quickly.
“Really? You’re not upset?”
“No. I understand. We met on a TV show. These things can’t last,” I say philosophically. Should I add how great it was getting to know him? And that I’ve learned from the experience? No, I think I’ll leave well enough alone.
“My agent got me to do the whole thing,” Boulder says, still apologizing. “I said I didn’t want to mislead anyone, but he said a break’s a break.”
“It’s a tough business. You do what you can,” I say, trying to make him feel better.
“So can we just be friends?” Boulder asks. “I’d hate to lose you completely. Especially now that I’m sticking around New York for a while to go on some auditions.”
Oddly enough, I realize that I’d be glad to have sweet, spike-haired Boulder as my friend. He’s fun to be around, and I wouldn’t mind walking into the PTA Parents Spring Swing on his arm. For once I’d have a good time dancing—and Cynthia would have a seizure trying to figure out what was going on with me and Surfer Dude. Win-win.
“Glad to be buddies,” I say. And now that we’re confidantes, I get to ask, “So, who are you seeing? Are you happy?”
“Happy most of the time,” he says, getting comfy again on the couch. “We have so much in common. We met surfing. We’re both trying to break into acting.”
Surfing and acting. Relationships have been built on less. Although not much. “Sounds good,” I say supportively.
“It is,” he says thoughtfully. “I’m just not sure if he’s the forever person.”
He? Did I hear that right? Okay, I was born in Ohio, but I’ve lived in New York for a long time. I shop on Christopher Street. I watch Will & Grace. I’m not shocked. But “he” sounds a lot like “she” and I don’t want to jump to conclusions.
“So, tell me about your … forever person. What’s … their name?” I ask, searching for the right pronoun.
“Cliff,” says Boulder happily. “He’s gorgeous. He looks just like me. And we’re both Aries.”
“And me a Sagittarius. Guess you and I just weren’t in the stars, Boulder.”
“Maybe that was it,” he says, nodding. Because obviously it was astrology and not our slight difference in sexual orientation that kept us apart.
“So why isn’t Cliff your forever person?” I ask.
“Maybe he is,” Boulder says. “We’re so right together. The only big problem with the relationship is my mom.”
That I can understand. “Is she having trouble accepting Cliff?” I ask sympathetically. “At least she won’t have to deal with a daughter-in-law.”
“Oh, she really loves Cliff,” Boulder says eagerly. “She loves everything about him. She just can’t get over the fact that he’s not Catholic. She’s pretty strict about my not dating boys outside the religion.”
A nice post-modern twist. Mom’s good that he’s gay. But she’s a traditionalist. Still yearns for a church wedding. No matter what the Pope says.
“Your mom’s pretty devout?” I ask.
“You bet. She’s the last person I know who still eats fish on Friday. She doesn’t care that Vatican II declared the Mass can be in English—she reads it in Latin. Well, she doesn’t really read Latin. All she knows is veni, vidi, vici. Doesn’t get her very far.”
“Only Latin phrase I know is carpe diem. Seize the day,” I say. “Which is exactly what you need to do here.”
“I’ll do it,” Boulder says eagerly. Then pausing, he asks, “But do what?”
“Take action. Go for what you want. Have you talked to Cliff about converting? Might solve the problem for your mom.”
“I never thought to ask,” Boulder says.
“You have to,” I say resolutely. “If this is a serious relationship, everything gets put on the table. You make sacrifices for each other. Every relationship has obstacles, but if you want to be together, you work them out.”
Boulder looks at me wide-eyed. “You’re right, I’m going to talk to Cliff. Thanks, Jess. You’re smart. How do you know so much?”
Now there’s the question of the evening. I seem to be good at everyone’s relationships but my own.
“Mostly I read a lot,” I say. “Everything I know is from Chekhov.”
Boulder stares at me blankly. I better explain it in a way he’ll understand. “Chekhov. Think of him as the guy who wrote the original Sex and the City. Russian version.”
Boulder grins affectionately. “See, you really are smart. And I was so smart to pick you as my date. We’re going to be BFF.”
Now I’m the one who doesn’t get it. It’s late and he’s speaking in initials. “Help me out on this one,” I say.
“BFF,” Boulder says, coming over and locking pinkies with me. “Best Friends Forever.”
Boulder spends the night on the couch, and in the morning, he brews a pot of coffee for me, leaves a note signed with a happy face, and is gone before Jen or I wake up. I have to get out of the house quickly, too. I’m meeting my Park Avenue benefit friends Amanda Beasley-Smith and Pamela Barone for a fashion show at Chanel. And what in heaven’s name can I wear? I’ve read about the quandary celebrities face before these events—put on a Versace for the Versace show and a Prada for Prada or is that too much pandering? Lacking couturier choices, I settle on a little black dress. It isn’t Chanel, but I think of it as my homage to the great Madame Coco, who, when her lover died, vowed to put the whole nation in mourning. And darned if every fashionable woman in New York isn’t still wearing black.
Three blocks from the store, I realize that I’ve forgotten my invitation, and my name probably won’t be at the door. Even the security guard will know at a glance that the dress isn’t the real deal. But I don’t have to worry because Amanda and Pamela are standing outside, politely waiting for me. Those girls were well brought up. Swiss finishing schools are good for more than snagging a rich husband.
“Thanks for inviting me here,” I say as we head up the grand staircase to the private showroom.
“We thought it would be fun,” says Pamela. “Private viewings are always so much better than those big fashion-week productions.”
“Always such a terrible crowd at those,” agrees Amanda. “You can never buy anything. And the private viewing is all about buying.”
I’d love to buy, but I forgot to bring my trust fund. Best I can do is spring for the Chanel Pink Mink nail polish. Yummy color, but at $16, is it really worth it? Any better than my $2.50 Wet ’n’ Wild? I know this outing is Amanda’s way of thanking me for all the work on the benefit and making me feel like one of the girls. But it’s making me feel like one of the poor girls.
As we step into the private viewing room, a salesgirl who’s barely older than Jen hands us each an elegantly embossed pad of paper—definitely better stock than my wedding invitations—and a gold pen.
“Feel free to mark down the numbers of as many outfits as you want,” she says, standing in a perfect pose to show off the classic pink Chanel suit she’s wearing. I wonder if the rules here are like McDonald’s and she had to pony up for her own uniform. If so, that pink number should be fully paid for by the time she’s ninety. Maybe I should tell her about the economic advantages of babysitting in Pine Hills. And she can do that in jeans.
The show begins, heralded by hip-hop music pulsating so loudly that I wonder if they’re trying to drive out everybody over thirty. The fifty or so young socialites in the audience give a smattering of applause as the models prance out in the latest variations of the classic Chanel suit—this season, micro-mini short, Pilates-body-tight, and finished—or not finished—with frayed edges. Maybe hems cost extra. The traditional ladylike links that used to be strung delicately at the waist have been replaced by clunky metal biker chains ripped off from the Hell’s Angels. I used to think you had to be old enough to wear Chanel. Now you have to be young enough.
Amanda and Pamela, obviously in their element, are delightedly nudging each other and scrawling down notes faster than Joyce Carol Oates churning out a new novel. I’m very busy, too, trying to identify the lovely thin blond woman in the front row, wearing jeans and a wispy, sheer blouse with sprays of flowers on it. Her perfectly highlighted hair is gathered back loosely in a rubber band. It couldn’t be Gwyneth Paltrow. Maybe it is Gwynnie. Gee, her pale features look washed out when she’s not done up in movie makeup, and that painted porcelain pendant hanging from her neck definitely didn’t come from Harry Winston. Look at that—five minutes at Chanel and I’m already a snob.
Each model—none of them weighing more than a lettuce leaf—struts past, thrusting her angular hipbones from side to side, showing off the last of the daytime ensembles. Then the hip-hop music changes to Ella Fitzgerald, the lights go from bright white to amber and a model sways toward us, wrapped in a pale-nude column of fluttery chiffon. There’s a murmur of pleasure, and a stirring of excitement as pad pages flip and numbers are furiously recorded. Entranced, I make a note about the diaphanous, mint green strapless gown. Wouldn’t that look spectacular hanging in my closet? Maybe not, because I have nothing to hang next to it. I bet half these women have whole rooms dedicated exclusively to their designer evening wear. As they say on Park Avenue, you can’t have too many ball gowns.
The music stops, the lights go back up, and there’s a pause in the action while the models regroup—maybe it’s time for their vitamins—and the first wave of orders are placed.
“I have to get that floaty chiffon,” Pamela says eagerly. “Gorgeous, wasn’t it? And so romantic. It reminds me of the tulle skirt I wore last year to the Metropolitan Opera Ball.”
“Didn’t save it?” I ask.
She looks at me askance. “I could never wear anything from last season,” she admits.
I could. And I accept hand-me-downs. Because even if I won the lottery, would I ever plunk down four thousand dollars of my own for a designer dress? Seems so frivolous. But just looking at clothes this beautiful makes me feel good, so I can imagine how I’d feel wearing them. Completely spectacular. Completely invincible. Ready to take on the world. For now, though, I guess I’ll have to conquer the world in khakis. Easier for getting in and out of the subway.
Amanda and Pamela trade notes, making sure that they’re not going to end up at some gala in identical dresses. There’s a little brouhaha over the absolutely divine number nineteen. Neither of them can remember exactly what it was, but they’re both sure that they have to have it.
“Rock, paper, scissors?” I suggest helpfully.
“No, that’s okay,” Pamela says with a little smile. “Amanda can have this one. But the next one we both want goes to me.” I wonder if the pact applies only to Chanel—or if Pamela will invoke it to claim the best nanny, the choicest Aspen ski rental, or the ground-floor coop they’ve each been dying to buy for their housekeeper.
They hand their forms to the girl in pink, who seems surprised that I don’t offer up mine, too. “You didn’t find anything you liked?” she asks with concern. “Is there something I should tell Mr. Lagerfeld? He always loves feedback.”
“Not that he does anything about it,” sniffs Pamela, who’s obviously expressed her opinions before.
“It’s true,” says Amanda politely. “Calvin takes our comments much more seriously.”
“So does Ralph.
“And Oscar.”
“Mr. Lagerfeld has been very busy lately,” the young salesgirl offers in his defense. “You know he just lost ninety-two pounds.”
Amanda and Pamela nod, as if this non sequitur actually means something. Maybe it does. Hard to take feedback on an empty stomach.
The salesgirl wiggles away on her stiletto kitten mules and Amanda and Pamela wriggle around on the hardback gold chairs. As with everything I’ve seen here, the chairs are a triumph of form over function.
