The Botox Diaries, page 21
“How can you—” Lucy starts to ask. But Dr. Parnell’s done talking. Before the question’s even out of her mouth, he’s stabbing a needle into her chest.
Lucy squeals and looks up, too startled to say anything.
Dr. Parnell points the glistening, used needle into the air and smiles proudly. “Botox. Love it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a miracle drug. Right up there with penicillin. Cures headaches. Backaches. Wrinkles. And why not cleavage crease. Can always find a new way to use it.”
“New way?” Lucy asks, slightly tremulous from the unexpected shot. And the news that she’s a guinea pig in the war against aging.
“The line is disappearing before my eyes,” the doctor says approvingly. The line he never saw.
Lucy, slightly hunched over and rubbing the tender shot spot, walks away, looking vaguely shell-shocked as the octogenarian steps up for her turn. I step back, having seen enough, when suddenly Dahlia’s at my side. I look her up and down, remembering that on my ill-fated blind date with Dr. Peter Paulo he’d said that Dahlia reminded him of me. He must have been really desperate for a line. Because except for the ten fingers and ten toes, I don’t see it.
“You goin’ next?” Dahlia asks me, eager as a Lucille Roberts tele-marketer to initiate me into the club.
“Not doing it,” I repeat for the thousandth time. “Not today.”
Though I have to wonder why I’m holding out. The Botox babes look pretty good—in fact, darn good. Not at all like the androids I’d expected. And nobody’s acting like it’s a big deal. With Botox becoming as common as an American Express card, why leave home without it? Being natural might have once been a point of honor, now it’s a point of embarrassment. To these women, aging without Botox is like wearing Birkenstocks—philosophically correct and comfortable, too. But you don’t want anybody to see you doing it.
“I’d think twice about saying no to Botox,” says Dahlia, who has two more cents to add. “No wedding ring, I notice. Gotta do what you can to compete.” She winks and gestures grandly around her palace. “Think I got all this on my natural charms? Becoming Mr. Hammerschmidt’s third wife wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, ya know.”
I pause reverently to think what might have been involved. The three B’s? Back rubs, Botox and blow jobs? Given the size of this place, Dahlia probably made her way further through the alphabet than that. What starts with Z?
Lucy comes over, looking pale and clutching her chest.
“I think …” Lucy says, gasping for air. “I think I’m having a heart attack. The Botox. It must have paralyzed my heart muscles. I can’t breathe.”
“I’m sure that can’t be,” I say soothingly. Though who knows. What if she bent over or had sex while I wasn’t looking?
“Not here, not here! You’ll ruin Hoib’s book party!” says the pint-sized Dahlia, rushing over and grabbing Lucy. With the strength of a Navy SEAL commando, she hauls her out of the room and dumps her unceremoniously in a royal bathroom which is twice the size of my living room.
“Lie down here,” Dahlia directs, gesturing to an overstuffed love seat. Lucy, misunderstanding, settles onto the bidet.
“Maybe you should call an ambulance, just in case,” I say, hustling in after them.
“Absolutely not,” Dahlia says staunchly. “I’ve planned this event for months. There’s a reporter here from the New York Post. No way I’m letting it be known as the heart-attack party.”
She turns on her red suede Christian Louboutin heel and swivels out, slamming the door behind her. I have a feeling it’s locked.
Lucy gets up and, clutching her chest, begins pacing around the bathroom. “Oh god, what an embarrassing way to die.”
She lurches over to the medicine chest and throws it open.
“What are you looking for?”
“Aspirin. I heard it prevents heart attacks. Though maybe it’s too late.” She starts rifling through the vials and reading off labels. “Xanax, Zoloft, Lipitor, Ambien, Ativan, Percocet. Just what every well-stocked house needs. Everything but a goddamn aspirin.” She pauses, studying two more bottles. “Viagra and birth control pills. How’s that for a match made in heaven.”
If Lucy’s making jokes about Dahlia’s sex life, she’s probably not destined to die on the bidet.
Instead of swallowing a pill, Lucy turns on the gold faucet and runs some cold water on her wrists. She takes a few deep breaths, delicately rubs her temples, and sits down on the love seat as the color returns to her face.
“Feeling better?” I ask her.
“Feeling kind of stupid,” she admits. “I think I just panicked. Maybe you’re right. Pretty idiotic to put your life on the line for vanity. We’re all getting way too obsessed with trying to look perfect.”
Great. I’m starting to see the value of some renovation work and she’s going natural.
Lucy rubs her chest. “He really did jab that needle in kind of deep,” she says apologetically. “Scared me. For a minute there I had a flash that my obit would read TV PRODUCER AFRAID OF FORTY DIES OF BOTOX IN THE BOOBS.”
“I can top that,” I say, shaking my head. “Last weekend, mine was almost CLUMSY CANOER LOSES LIFE AND SHOES.”
“At least neither of us ended up HEADLESS WOMAN IN TOPLESS BAR,” Lucy says, invoking our favorite tabloid headline.
We both chuckle and I go over and put my arm around her shoulder. “Listen, of course you panicked. You’re having a tough week,” I say sympathetically.
“It’s been more than a week,” she says dispiritedly.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I say. “Grab an Atavin if you want. Or better idea. I saw a Baskin-Robbins down the street.”
After Dahlia’s party, I don’t have much time to think about worry lines, because I’m too busy worrying about the lines the kids are learning for our My Fair Lady benefit. With not much time to go, the kids are in the rehearsal hall every day, practicing songs and painting sets. And today they’re brandishing gigantic brushes like swords as gobs of red, yellow and blue poster paints are flying everywhere.
“Hey, guys, get some of that paint on the mural,” I call out over the cheerful din. Not that I’m complaining. The Park Avenue and Arts Council kids have merged so seamlessly that nobody but their mothers could tell them apart.
“Yeah, let’s get going,” urges the new stage manager. “The Coventry Garden mural is looking great. But we still have to do Professor Higgins’ apartment.”
Amazingly, the kids troop over and follow him to the next stretched canvas panel. My idea to make Chauncey the stage manager was inspired, but even I didn’t know it would turn out this well. The kid can’t sing but he sure can organize. He’s got the cast sewing costumes, building sets and getting to the rehearsals on time. Knows how to get people working. And the Krispy Kremes he always brings along don’t hurt.
“Ms. Taylor, what color should the flowers be on the Professor’s wallpaper?” Tamika, our star, asks me politely.
Now there’s an executive decision I can handle. “Lilac,” I say, basing my choice on absolutely nothing. But five kids immediately dip their paint brushes into the light purple paint. Heady with power, I spin around to pick the color for the wood paneling on the bottom half of the set and land smack against Pierce’s outstretched brush. I yelp, realizing I’m now covered with orange paint from cheek to chin.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’ll get some paper towels.”
“You look silly,” Tamika says to me, starting to giggle.
“Not the first time,” I say, smearing my hand across my face, probably making matters worse. And definitely making my hands orange, too.
Vincent, our flamboyant director, sweeps over in a dither to collect the children who are supposed to be rehearsing Scene Three. But he’s stopped short by my orange face.
“Goodness, Jessica,” he says disapprovingly, “don’t tell me you still use Coppertone.”
He grandly tosses his head back and twirls his ever-present Phantom of the Opera cape. As the kids cluster around, he glances at the newly begun mural. “Who chose lilac for the flowers on the wallpaper?” he bellows, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “That’s just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Hasn’t anyone here ever been to London?”
“I have,” pipe up at least nine Park Avenue voices.
“Then you know that the wallpaper flowers must be yellow,” he says imperiously.
Nobody asks why, and with the Scene Three children in his wake, Vincent swirls dramatically to the other side of the hall.
“Okay, guys, yellow,” Chauncey instructs the kids who are left behind. “Let’s paint over that lilac.”
So much for my authority. I move over to watch Vincent’s rehearsal, tapping my foot as the stage fills with the cheerfully in-tune sounds of the children belting out “I’m Getting Married in the Morning.” This number’s going to be a showstopper. But at age twelve do the girls really need to know how hard it is to get a guy to church on time?
Behind me, I hear a brusque man’s voice rising over the last bars of the song. “Does anybody know where Lowell Chauncey Cabot IV is?” he asks officiously.
I look over my shoulder as none other than Joshua Gordon steps carefully across the concrete floor, trying to keep his perfectly polished shoes clear of the minefield of splattered paint.
“He’s over there,” I say, thrusting my chin in the direction of the mural.
“Oh, Jess. I didn’t realize it was you,” he says. Then catching a closer look at me, his face breaks into a wry smile. “Nice look. Orange is a good color on you.”
Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Not again. Where’s Pierce with those paper towels?
I wonder how man-handler Dahlia would fawn her way out of this situation. I take a deep breath and decide to go for lighthearted. “The Origins facial was so much fun, I thought I’d try this,” I say saucily. “Could open up a whole new marketing line for Benjamin Moore.”
“I’ll mention it to them,” he says, parrying back. “They’re a client. So’s Quaker Oats, by the way.” He looks at me pointedly.
I’m blank. Does he want me to show up next time in oatmeal?
“I’m thinking of telling the CEO they’re doing way too much TV product placement,” he says. “Not worth the money they’re spending. Probably nobody but me noticed the oatmeal box in your kitchen.”
My kitchen? The oatmeal box? That would mean … Oh no, it can’t mean that. I clear my throat.
“You saw me on the Cosmo bachelor reality show?” I ask.
“Yup.”
His expression doesn’t give anything away, but I can guess what he’s thinking.
“Not my finest moment,” I say too apologetically.
“I can understand your wanting a hot date. But the surfer’s way too young for you. Go for someone your own age.”
“What’s wrong with young and laid-back?” I ask the man who’s obviously neither. I guess I’ll never make a guy feel taller than five-eight. Even one like Josh who’s already six-two. Took less than nine words to turn me into the anti-Dahlia.
“I don’t know what all you women find so appealing about these under-earning, pretty-boy jocks,” he says indignantly. “Wouldn’t hurt you to look for a grown-up man who earns a living.”
Wow. My TV date really touched a nerve. But Josh looks way too upset to be thinking just about Boulder. Then I remember about Josh’s ex-wife and the tennis pro. No wonder he’s overreacting.
“Just so happens Boulder’s gay,” I say, thinking that might be a comfort.
“You certainly do make interesting dating choices,” he says tersely.
We stare at each other for a few awkward moments. I could try to explain about Boulder. Or maybe tell Josh it’s not his fault that his wife is insane. But Joshua Gordon isn’t standing around waiting for a group hug.
“Listen, I’m just here as a Board member,” he says, reverting to business-only mode. “I came to see Chauncey so I can report back to his father.”
“I did a good job with the Chauncey problem,” I say, patting myself on the back since Josh is obviously not going to. “Turns out he’s a great kid. Once I talked to him I figured out pretty quickly he’d make a mean stage manager.”
“Smart solution,” Josh concedes grudgingly. “Glad you took care of that.”
“Happy to be of service. That’s my job. I’m good at it.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” Josh says, scraping his custom-made English leather shoe against the concrete in an effort to wipe off some imaginary blob of paint. “Your judgment in men still leaves something to be desired.”
Chapter THIRTEEN
HUNTER IS PACING AROUND the lobby of the Regal Hotel like a wildcat in the new Tiger Mountain habitat at the Bronx Zoo. Nice environment, but he doesn’t want to be here. And he’s pissed at his handlers—in this case, Lucy.
“Sweetheart …” he says through clenched teeth to Lucy. “Sweetheart. Sweetheart.”
“It’s okay. It’s really going to be okay,” she says, as he paces out tighter and tighter circles in front of her. She reaches over to pat his arm but he pulls away.
“Sweetheart, you’re a fabulous producer and I trust you,” he says, a little too loudly for the genteel surroundings. “You’re the best in the business. I’m proud to host your pilot. But what the fuck were you thinking dragging me here to do a fucking second-rate interview?”
“Darling, please don’t swear. It’s not good for your image,” Lucy says.
“Fuck my image,” Hunter says, voice rising. “You think the fucking Olsen twins are good for my fucking image?” He’s screaming above lobby limits and two out-of-towners standing at the concierge desk look up from their Around New York guide to check out the fracas. The show going on in the lobby is hotter than Hairspray—and the tickets are a lot cheaper.
“Lower your voice,” Lucy says, her own jaw tightening.
“Not until you tell me why you booked this interview. The Olsen twins. The fucking Olsen twins.”
“Excuse me, but despite what the tabloids say, I don’t think both of the Olsen girls are fucking yet. Maybe one of them,” I say, entering the fray to keep the facts straight. Lucy hired me for the day as a researcher, and if she’s shelling out a per diem, I’m damn well going to earn it. “I’ll stay on top of it. Could change any day.”
Both Lucy and Hunter look at me like I’m crazy. But today I’m just the lowly research girl, so Hunter doesn’t bother explaining that he meant fucking as an adjective, not a verb. Not that he’d be likely to articulate it quite that way.
“Lucy. Sweet. Heart,” Hunter says, speaking in measured tones. And making it clear that “sweetheart” is his Hollywood-speak for “moron.”
“You promised me a big-name interview. I was thinking Brad Pitt. Renée Zellweger. Julianne Moore. She didn’t win the Oscar, but I’d be okay with her. But not a couple of Mouseketeers.”
“The Olsens weren’t Mouseketeers,” I say, setting the record right once again. “That was Britney and Christina. And it was ages ago.” At least I learned something poring through two hundred back issues of YM. “The Olsens got their big break on Full House. On ABC, which is owned by Disney. But I don’t think that’s what you meant.”
“I don’t care if they fucked Walt Disney himself and every one of the seven dwarves!” Hunter roars, finally exploding. “I’m too important to interview mall rats!” His voice ricochets around the room and Lucy looks alarmed. An ever-growing group of fans at the concierge desk have tossed aside their theater guides. Our little lobby drama is standing-room-only. If Hunter keeps this up, the lights on Broadway may not go on at all tonight.
“Calm down,” Lucy says tersely. “These girls have a billion-dollar business. Every preteen in America collects Mary-Kate and Ashley videos. Not to mention CDs, clothes, sheets, and perfume. They have a line at Wal-Mart. Their own magazine. They’re practically a bigger conglomerate than AOL Time Warner.”
“What isn’t?” Hunter asks. “AOL’s out of the name, and have you checked out that stock price lately? It’s sunk lower than Blackbeard’s pirate ship. Practically tanked my portfolio.”
“How much did you lose?” Lucy asks, sounding a trifle concerned for Hunter’s future. And her birthday present.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll always be a rich man,” he says cockily. “The network pays me a pretty penny.”
She nods, ready to get Hunter back on track. “And you get those big bucks because you’re so talented. All wit and charm. You could interview Al Gore and it would be exciting.” She pauses, overcome by her own hyperbole. “Well, maybe not Al, but definitely Tipper. Anyway, those Olsen girls will be putty in your hands. We all are.” She moves closer, straightens the knot on Hunter’s tie and playfully kisses his ear.
“Okay, I’ll do the interview,” Hunter says, momentarily mollified. “But only if somebody gets me a cappuccino. Double. Soy. With two Equals. No whipped cream.”
“Right,” I say, “you’re lactose intolerant.”
“Jess, I’m flattered,” says Hunter, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about me.”
More than you can imagine.
Lucy looks over at me. “Would you mind handling the cappuccino?” she asks. “I didn’t budget a go-fer for today’s shoot.”
Ah, yes. Still another career choice for me. Go-fer. And they say there are no opportunities for women my age.
“Don’t think getting coffee was in the job description,” I say, thinking I’m making a post-feminist joke.
Lucy shoots me a withering glance. “In TV, it’s a team effort. We all do what it takes to make a good show. Get coffee. Comb the talent’s hair. Stroke their ego—”
“Or stroke whatever else,” says Hunter, suddenly beaming. “Cardinal rule is to keep the talent happy. And lucky me, I’m the talent.” He puts his arm around Lucy and rubs her shoulder affectionately. “You give me what I need off the air and I give you what you need on the air. The best fucking show in television.”
