The Botox Diaries, page 24
I stop short and pretend to study the baubles in one of the cases. A diamond? I feel a lump in my throat. A few dates, a few nights together, a few hundred flowers and he’s won me back? That’s all it takes? I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be swept off my feet. And appearances to the contrary, I’m not going to be. All week, I’ve been tamping down doubts about who could have called Jacques that night in Vermont. And where he is when I don’t hear from him for days at a time. But he still makes my heart beat faster than anybody else ever did. Or maybe ever will.
I must hesitate way too long because Jacques throws his arms around me and kisses me fervently.
“Why look so worried, ma chérie? Diamonds are to make you smile. You prefer the sapphires?”
“No, no, diamonds are fine. But maybe just not now.”
“Of course now. We’re here. Together. Come.” He turns to one of the perfectly chignoned saleswomen standing behind the nearest counter. “Diamond earrings. The most beautiful ones you have. For a woman I love.”
So we’re not going for the ring yet. That’s a relief. But what’s the matter, he’s not ready? We’re here. Together. How long should this courtship have to take? It is the second one, after all.
“Diamond earrings. That’s way too extravagant, Jacques,” I say, pulling myself together.
“For you, the moon,” he says. “You brought me back to life.”
Well, whatever I did, the saleswoman now brings me exactly what Jacques requested. The most beautiful diamond earrings she has.
“Not quite that big,” Jacques says with a wave of his hand. “Something more discreet.”
“Yes sir,” says the saleswoman, snapping shut the velvet tray and mentally scaling back her commission. “Just how much love would you say you’d like the diamonds to express?”
“Maybe that much,” he says, spacing his thumb and forefinger about an eighth-of-an-inch apart.
“About a half carat each,” she says, with a twinge of disappointment.
“Make it a carat each,” he says expansively.
The saleswoman comes back with four choices and I begin to scrutinize each one. Gosh, they’re beautiful. Look at them shimmer. Jacques has his arm tightly around me and the pleasure of our being here together shines as brightly as the diamonds. I don’t often feel bad for Lucy, but right now I can imagine how she felt purchasing those chandelier earrings all by herself. Then again, wonder if they’re nicer than mine.
I tenderly cup the first pair in my hand, moving it every which way to catch the different light. I hold one up to my ear. Makes my whole face brighter. Better than the eyebrow shaping.
“All right if I try it on?” I ask the saleswoman.
“Of course. Try them all on. See which you prefer. I have others if you wish to see more.”
“Non, not necessary. We’ll take those. I like them the best,” Jacques says, pointing decisively to one pair. “You agree, mon amour?”
“They’re gorgeous,” I say. On the other hand, so are the other three pair. And who knows which will best complement my skin tone until I’ve tried them all on? Oh no, that’s pearls. Still, I’m sure there’s some difference between them. But I’ll never get to find out. Maybe that’s the advantage of buying jewelry for yourself. You can spend at least as much time deciding what you want as your boyfriend did at the Banana Republic.
The saleswoman wraps our purchase carefully, and we’re still out of the store with earrings and robin’s egg blue box in record time. Jacques has our next stop already planned—the obvious place to go after an extravagant purchase. His hotel. Conveniently located a block away.
“I want to see you wearing nothing but your diamond earrings,” Jacques says provocatively, kissing me in the elevator.
As aphrodisiacs go, I’ve gotta say that an afternoon at Tiffany beats oysters every time. I’m totally in the mood. We barely make it off the elevator and into his suite before our clothes are off.
“The earrings,” he reminds me. “Put them on.”
I tear off the ribbon, but I’m careful with the box. Might want to use it again sometime.
“Come over here. Stand in front of me, my darling. Let me look at you,” Jacques says, lying naked on the bed, propped against the pile of pillows for better viewing.
Instead, I slide next to him on the soft sheets and thrust one glittering ear in his direction. “Gorgeous, so gorgeous. How can I ever thank you?” I ask seductively.
“Stand up. I want to see you all.”
“There’s only one of me,” I laugh.
“And that’s the one I want to see,” he coaxes. “You are beautiful. Tu es très belle. Let me enjoy.”
Reluctantly I swing my legs over the side of the bed and look down at my rounded tummy. How long can I hold my breath? And why is it so hard to believe that my lover finds my naked body beautiful? That looking at me in full he really would be appreciative, and not be making a mental list of my spider veins, my dimpled thighs, or the extra womanliness on my hips.
Trying to be brave, I stand up and toss back my hair. Probably a bad move. My neck has never been my best feature. But when I catch Jacques’ eye, I see a look of pure pleasure and I almost will myself to bask in his admiration.
He rises slowly from the bed and walks toward me.
“Très, très belle,” he repeats, taking me in his arms. He kisses me ardently and I’m intoxicated by the passion of the moment.
“Come to me,” he says, and with one fell swoop, he scoops me up, one arm around my shoulder, the other anchored under my awkwardly flailing knees. Well, that’s a mood breaker. Maybe this sort of thing works in the movies, but all I can think about is how much I weigh. He probably didn’t realize I’d be this heavy, and now he’s too gallant to drop me.
“Put me down. You’ll get a hernia,” I tell him. How romantic. Why don’t I add that at his age, he should bend his knees to protect his lower back.
“Non, non, you’re as light as a butterfly,” he says. But he does rush over and dump me on the bed pretty quickly.
“It’s the diamonds,” I joke. “You got me such big ones. I’m heavier with the earrings on.”
“Shhh,” he says, muffling my silly banter with dozens of kisses. “Ssshhhhh,” he repeats again, stretching out the sound, then lightly kissing my breasts and slowly caressing the length of my body. Somehow, my insecurities vanish—as do any thoughts of anything. For the next two hours, all I do is feel.
For dinner, I want champagne and caviar in bed, but Jacques insists he’s made a reservation at a must-visit restaurant.
“It’s my favorite,” he says. “Everyone loves the Four Seasons.”
The Four Seasons? That’s up there on my list with Le Cirque and Le Bernardin. Who cares that my sundress isn’t swank-restaurant ready. With my new diamond earrings, I can go anywhere.
“I’d love to go over to the Four Seasons,” I say enthusiastically.
“Non, just downstairs, mon amour. Maybe you didn’t notice that this is the Four Seasons hotel. The restaurant has some silly name—Fifty-seven Fifty-seven—but I call it the Four Seasons.”
Oh good. And we can pretend we’re sitting in the Grill Room. Or is the Pool Room chicer for dinner? I can never remember.
“Should I just wear my diamonds?” I ask, still feeling flirtatious. “Or do I need to put on something else?”
“Something else,” he says. “I have something very important to talk to you about. You’ll want to be dressed.”
I feel that lump again in my throat. He’s bought me the diamonds. We’ve made passionate love all afternoon. Now he has something very important to say. Or is it that he has a question to pop? No matter how good I’m feeling right now, I’m still not ready. I don’t have to answer him tonight. I tell myself that again. I don’t have to tell him anything tonight.
The restaurant may not be the original Four Seasons, but it seems pretty nice to me. The maitre d’ is attentive and the service is elegant but restrained. The waiter, thank goodness, doesn’t feel compelled to tell us his name or what his favorite dish on the menu is. The wine steward offers three suggestions and Jacques predictably goes for the French Bordeaux.
“To us,” he toasts, once the wine has been poured into the oversized goblets. “Together again. It’s been so good.”
“We click,” I say, touching my glass to his and going for a metaphor. Which he probably doesn’t get. Every so often, I wish Jacques knew the language well enough to share my humor.
He puts down the glass. “I’m not always serious, mon amour, but I must be tonight. I have it in my heart to tell you how much you mean to me.”
“And you mean a lot to me, too,” I tell him, reaching for his hand.
“Bien. That is good,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. “But let me tell you. When I first came back to you, such a sad time. I had just divorced. She and I, it was never so good. She was like so many girls who meant nothing. I thought there would never again for me be love. And then I thought of you. Of us.”
I stroke his thumb with mine and he squeezes my hand then takes a long sip of wine. If I’m supposed to say something here, I don’t know what it is. So I wait. And Jacques continues.
“After all the years, I called and you let me back into your life. And I thought ‘This woman knows love. Knows that love is forever.’ I was no more sad. From you, I learned that I could love and be loved again. And for that,” he says, reaching across the table and taking my other hand in his, “I will thank you forever.”
If this is a proposal, it’s taking a long time. And there’s something in Jacques’ tone that tells me he’s about to go in a different direction.
“The week you couldn’t come to Dubai, I met a woman at the hotel,” he says, trying hard not to meet my eye. “Catrine. She is in my same business and was at the conference. A very smart woman, just like you.”
I pull back one of my hands to take a gulp of wine. Right now, I wouldn’t mind a nice light Californian. Wine or guy. Reflexively, I finger one of my earrings.
“And you slept with her?” I ask cautiously, thinking we’re back on familiar ground. Ground I don’t want to be standing on.
“Yes, of course,” he says a little too quickly. “But it’s much more. And it is because of you, my darling. You taught me that when you ask for love, sometimes it is there. So my heart was open again. And Catrine walked into it.”
Now I pull my other hand away. I suddenly have a vivid image of Catrine—all blond, perfectly coiffed, 105 pounds of her—walking into his heart. I hope it was bloody.
“Jacques,” I say, steeling my nerves and trying to keep my dignity intact, “why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? Why did you keep coming back here?”
“Because we have such a wonderful time together, I didn’t want to spoil it,” he says blithely. “And I don’t want it ever to change. Catrine, yes, she will move to Paris to be with me. But I come to New York still often.”
Now there’s a different proposal than I was expecting. Good sex three or four times a year with a man who’s fallen in love because of—but not with—me.
“It’s not in me to do that, Jacques,” I say, struggling with all the different emotions I’m feeling. Here’s a man who clearly cares for me—I know I’m not fooling myself about that—who’s breaking my heart. Not quite tearing it out, but pretty darn close. I might not have chosen to make a life again with Jacques, but damn it, I wanted the decision to be mine.
“Whatever you decide, I will always be here for you,” Jacques says, playing with the bread basket since my hand is unavailable. “I’m so proud of you, mon chouchou. You have made a life. Your life with Jen. And now me, I am ready to start over, too.”
“Well, I wish you well,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say? I look down, and for several moments, we’re both quiet. Jacques picks up his menu, obviously relieved that he’s said his piece and I don’t seem too angry.
I pick up my menu, too, but there’s no way I’m making it through dinner. Even an appetizer sounds wholly unappetizing. I play distractedly with my wineglass. I’m not the kind of woman who does this. I’m pleasant. Affable. Always want everybody to feel good. Worry about their feelings more than mine. So it’s totally out of character—but feels surprisingly good—when I rise gracefully from my seat and dump the full glass of red wine over Jacques’ head. His stupide head.
“I’m sure someone as smart as Catrine is good with stains,” I say, making what I hope is a memorable exit from the restaurant. I’m glad we’re not at the original Four Seasons. I still hope to go there one day.
Chapter FIFTEEN
“BUT YOU KEPT the earrings, right?” Lucy asks, leaning forward on the sofa and brushing back a strand of hair from my face.
“I already told you I did,” I say, blowing my nose for the zillionth time. Wish somebody would find a constructive use for snot. There seems to be no limit on how much your body can produce.
“I want to see them,” Lucy says, obviously worried about my morals. That they were too high. And that I sent back the earrings—or threw them away.
“I’ve put them in the safe-deposit box. For Jen. My legacy to her for having an idiot for a mother.”
“I told you weeks ago I hated Jacques,” Lucy says fiercely. “Anybody who screwed around on you once is going to …” She pauses, the subject hitting a little too close to home. Her own home. “Anyway, you’re as far from an idiot as anyone could be,” she says loyally.
“Right. A lot of women sleep with a man an hour before getting ditched. Happens all the time. Regular feature at the Four Seasons. The hotel’s probably considering a whole new promotional package—’the Hump-and-Dump Weekend.’ You have sex and then you break up.”
“Actually, they’re thinking of calling it the ‘Come-and-Go,’ Lucy says cheerfully, getting into the game.
“Yup. The restaurant could have a special section with extra-large glasses and wine-resistant seats.”
“I love that you threw the wine at him,” Lucy says, her eyes glistening. “It’s so Katharine Hepburn.”
For some reason, that makes me start crying again. I reach over to the mountainous pile of used tissues next to me, but Lucy efficiently sweeps them away into a garbage bag and hands me a new box of Kleenex.
“I have something to make you feel better,” she says. “I made you chicken soup.”
Now that stops my crying. “You made me chicken soup?” I try again. “You made me chicken soup?” This must be worse than I thought. Lucy would never go into the kitchen for a simple broken heart. I must have cancer. Inoperable cancer. If Jacques hadn’t dumped me, I never would have known.
“Why are you so surprised?” Lucy asks, genuinely abashed, as she pulls a plastic Tupperware container out of a Prada shopping bag. “Try it.”
I open the blue lid and look at the watery broth that has a few unidentifiable objects floating on top.
“Mmm,” I say. “I never saw pink chicken soup before.”
“Of course not. I added food coloring to make it prettier. That chickeny yellow can be so dreary.”
I stir the soup slowly with the silver spoon Lucy has thoughtfully provided and cautiously bring a taste up to my lips.
“For heaven’s sake, you don’t have to eat it,” Lucy says, stopping me.
“Might as well. Can’t make me feel worse,” I say, sipping. Then I take another spoonful. “Not bad. A little salty, maybe, but not bad.” I continue slurping my way through the half-gallon container.
“If you’re eating this, you’re in worse shape than I thought,” Lucy says. But she looks pleased. “Maybe I’ll bring some to Dan as a peace offering.”
“Peace offering. That’s good. You should do something. But if it’s soup, you might want to add some chicken. And maybe a noodle or two.” I stare into the bowl. “How’d you make this anyway? Stones from the backyard?”
“Homemade chicken soup’s really not very hard,” Lucy says, my new Galloping Gourmet. “I just mixed Knorr’s bouillon cubes with some red food coloring.”
“Get that recipe out of Budget Living?” I ask.
“No, I made it up. I see why you like to cook. It’s very creative.”
“What’s floating in it?” I ask. “The little silver bits?”
Lucy looks into the container, then sticks her index finger in to pull out a sample. She holds it up to the light.
“Maybe some wrapping from the bouillon cubes,” she says. “They were sticky.”
“Festive,” I say, undeterred. I take a few more desultory sips, and when the doorbell rings a minute later, I look up wearily. Could be more people with food, though I don’t think word of my grieving state has spread around the neighborhood this quickly.
“I know it’s not Jacques,” I say, not moving to get up.
“And I know it’s not Dan,” says Lucy, also not budging.
“You get it, I can’t cope.”
“No, you get it, it’s your house. And while you’re up, would you turn off that depressing song? I don’t care if it’s the Beatles—I’m not listening to that loop of ‘Yesterday’ one more time.”
The bell rings again, and this time I shuffle to the door and hear Boulder’s buoyant voice. “Open up! Open up! It’s us! The Queers with Cheer!”
“The what?” I ask, swinging open the door to a grinning Boulder, who’s holding the largest cake I’ve ever seen. Standing right next to him, wearing the same grin and the same lime green shirt, is his doppelganger with dark hair. If this were a soap opera, I’d figure Boulder was playing both parts. But the evil twin, who doesn’t look very evil, comes in first.
“Hi, I’m Cliff,” he says, sailing past me with a huge cooler. “Sorry you got so screwed over by the French guy. But we’re here to make you forget all about it.”
Boulder steps behind me to fasten on a necklace of pulsating blue-and-orange neon lights. “Party time!”
I go over to the sofa and plop back down. “Thanks for trying, but I’m useless,” I say resignedly. “Anyway, meet my friend Lucy. She’s more fun.”
