The Botox Diaries, page 29
“The good news,” says Hunter. Everybody else I’ve ever met in my life has always asked to get the bad news out of the way first. Not Hunter. I bet he eats his hot fudge sundae before his peas, too.
“Good news is that Len Sunshine liked the show. Network’s picking it up. Thirteen-week commitment.”
“Thirteen weeks!” Hunter crows. “That’s forever!”
“You’re right, it’s fabulous. Just a couple of sticking points.”
“Is this the bad news?” asks Hunter anxiously.
“Not yet,” says Lucy. “Our budget came in a little high. The network demanded some cutbacks. You’re not badly affected. Just five percent down.”
“And that’s not the bad news?” Hunter groans.
“I know how much you’re making. It’s still a great deal,” Lucy says.
“I won’t do it,” Hunter says arrogantly. “Tell the network I won’t take it. I won’t work for a penny less than I’m worth.”
“Yes, you will take it,” Lucy says, her tone quiet but firm. “Trust me, Hunter. There are a lot of younger guys who’d take this in a minute for half the salary.”
“And they’d only deserve half,” he says.
“That’s true, darling. When the ratings on this go through the roof, you’ll hit Len up for a huge raise.”
“You bet I will,” Hunter says, rallying, and already deciding whether to spend the extra money on the Maserati or the beach house in Malibu. “So what’s the bad news?”
“I’m not going to be doing this show with you. Someone else will produce.”
Hunter thinks about it, obviously figuring bad news could be a lot worse. But he summons his chivalry.
“You have to produce. I won’t do it without you. I’ll talk to Len myself,” he says emphatically. “I’ll use my clout.” The clout he doesn’t know he’s lost.
“It won’t matter. I won’t do it,” Lucy says. Then taking a deep breath she adds, “We can’t keep spending time together. It’s what I talked to you about last week in L.A. I’m not going to be seeing you anymore.”
“You really meant that?” he asks. “But I sent you flowers afterwards. The big Happy Thoughts FTD bouquet. And my note. Didn’t you read my note?”
“I did,” Lucy says. “And I was very touched when you said that if we stay together I can go with you to Port St. Lucie. For your Lisa Marie Presley interview.”
“Lisa Marie’s a big ‘get,’ ” Hunter says proudly, now less focused on losing Lucy than on spending an afternoon—or more likely twenty minutes—with Elvis’ daughter. “As close to the King as any of us will ever come,” he adds reverently.
“I know,” Lucy says patiently. “But we can’t. Not anymore. It’s over.”
“Let me understand,” he says, finally trying to take in the big picture. “No Port St. Lucie. No more weekends away. No more good times. You weren’t joking last week. You’re really leaving me?”
“Just going back where I belong,” Lucy says, looking up from the phone and staring me straight in the eye. “Or trying to get back there.”
“That husband of yours,” Hunter says soberly. “I always understood where your heart really was. But I kept hoping.”
Lucy doesn’t say anything, so Hunter clears his throat.
“I’m really going to miss you,” he says quietly. But nothing can get the man down. Not as long as he has show biz. “Real problem is nobody makes me look as good on the air as you do. So who can replace you, who’s going to produce?”
“We’ll find someone, I promise,” Lucy says briskly, eager now to get off the phone and on with her own life.
“Think Steven Spielberg could do it?” Hunter asks self-importantly.
“Too busy redoing his house in the Hamptons,” Lucy says, not bothering to explain that in addition to doing home repairs, one of our generation’s great movie talents isn’t pleading with the network to be Hunter’s new producer. “I have an even better idea. I was thinking of Tracey, my assistant. She’s learned a lot.”
“She’ll never be as good as you, but I could see that,” says Hunter, mulling over the idea—and probably Tracey’s twenty-something attractiveness—for a moment. “Why don’t I take her out to dinner to talk it over.”
The deal done, Lucy and Hunter say quick good-byes and I go over to give Lucy a big hug.
“You did the right thing,” I say. “I had no idea you’d told him last week you were leaving.”
“I know,” Lucy confirms. “Wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
“I’m so relieved it’s over,” I admit. “And you were smart not to stay on as his producer. I just wish you’d taken some credit. Told him that you’d saved his job.”
“Didn’t need to,” Lucy says. “Why hurt him even more? He’s not a bad guy.”
I ponder that for a second. Hunter is kind of charming. “Think you’ll miss him?”
“Probably not. Everything just seems so clear to me now. I can’t believe I’ve been behaving this way. Like some walking midlife crisis.”
“Do you think the next decade gets any easier?” I ask hopefully.
“Nope,” Lucy grins, flipping back her hair. “Hot flashes. Crepey necks. Upper arms that wave like a flag.”
“And too embarrassed to take off your clothes to have an affair,” I chime in.
“Which may not be a bad thing.”
* * *
When Lucy and I get to the Guggenheim Museum, Zelda is waiting for us in front of Max Ernst’s The Kiss. She’s standing so close that a guard inches over to make sure she’s not about to throw paint on it.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Lucy says, kissing her mother-in-law warmly on the cheek. “But I’ll never figure out why you like this picture so much.”
“It’s so erotic,” Zelda says. “Uninhibited sexuality. After all these years, I still get a tingle just looking at it.”
I stare at the colorful surrealistic blobs, hoping for my own tingle. But all I feel is a confused buzz. What does Zelda see that I don’t? I can’t even tell who’s kissing whom. Or who’s kissing what. Maybe 3-D glasses would help.
“What always strikes me is the Renaissance composition,” says Lucy, putting her fingers up in an L-shape as if framing the painting. “Very Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Hints of imagery from the Sistine Chapel,” I agree, hoping to sound cultured and not let on that it really reminds me of a finger painting Jen did when she was three.
“Sistine ceiling was Michelangelo,” says Zelda, tucking her arm in mine. “But don’t feel bad. The other day a student asked me if I’d read Leonardo’s new book, The Da Vinci Code.”
“At least she didn’t ask if you’d seen him starring in Titanic,” says Lucy.
Laughing, we begin to stroll down the museum’s spiraling ramps, stopping now and then to admire a painting, but mostly marveling at the architecture. Which is exactly what Frank Lloyd Wright intended. Designed a museum that’s more a showcase for itself than for the art. Talk about arrogance. Could have been a big success in television.
“Sorry I missed your birthday party,” Lucy tells Zelda as we pass by a Picasso. I turn to get a glimpse of his woman with yellow hair, step back, try to get some perspective, and—whoops—almost fall over the railing. Zelda grabs me but her attention is focused on Lucy.
“I know. It would have been nice to have you. For many reasons,” says Zelda.
“Did Dan seem to miss me?” Lucy asks.
“I think he’s lost without her,” I prompt. But Zelda doesn’t bite.
“Not really lost,” Zelda says. “I raised my son well. He’s a strong, independent man. Great with the kids. Perfect father. Can do everything. Rewired my VCR, helped rewrite my résumé and made charming repartee with all my guests.”
“Did he remember to bring you a nice present?” I ask, grasping for something the indomitable Dan might have missed.
“Very nice gift,” she says, flourishing her wrist to display a handcrafted silver bracelet. Just the sort of thing Zelda likes.
“Sounds like he doesn’t need me at all,” Lucy says, obviously hurt.
“Of course he doesn’t,” says Zelda. “And you don’t need him, either. That’s the thing about a marriage like yours. You don’t need to stay in it. Not like my day when the wife was stuck because she couldn’t support herself alone and the guy stayed because his wife took care of everything. Now you both have your own, full lives. Nobody’s trapped. You both have a whole world of possibilities out there. You and Dan have to choose to stay together. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” says Lucy earnestly. “I know that now. But I’ll admit this has been a really rough patch. I guess I’ve been pretty impossible these last few months.”
Zelda smiles. “I remember my own dad saying that he’d had twenty-five good years of marriage. And that was on his thirtieth anniversary.”
“What an awful thing to say,” I complain.
“Exactly what I thought back then,” says Zelda. “Now I realize my parents were luckier than most. That’s a pretty good record.”
“Do you think Dan will come back?” Lucy asks anxiously.
“I know he still loves you,” says Zelda.
“And I love him,” says Lucy.
“Does he make your heart go pitter-patter?” I ask, applying my new Richter Scale for Relationships.
“He does. You wouldn’t think so after twenty years,” she says, smiling. “But I’d always look at him in the mornings and think how handsome he is. He still makes my heart skip a beat.”
“Then you belong together,” says Zelda simply.
“What if he thinks I’ve been too awful? Aren’t I supposed to end up throwing myself under a train or something?”
“So you did read Anna Karenina!” I say, impressed.
“It’s not the nineteenth century anymore,” says Zelda. “It’s not even the twentieth. Men have been having their little flings since Zeus. And women have been forgiving them. So now the tables are turned. Not a good thing when anyone strays, but not so awful that it can’t be excused.”
“Can you talk to Dan and tell him that?” Lucy asks.
“No. But you’ll figure out what to do.”
We spend a few more minutes admiring a de Kooning and Zelda’s favorite Jim Dine—painting of a heart, so this one I understand—and wind our way down to the restaurant on the Guggenheim’s first floor. It’s packed with Upper East Side mothers and their children who apparently prefer muffins to Modiglianis. They come to the museum only to eat. And they probably go to the Public Library only to use the bathrooms.
The moment we settle into our seats, Lucy’s BlackBerry starts beeping. “E-mails,” she reports apologetically. “Must have been no reception upstairs.”
She flicks through the messages. “Lily won the backstroke at her swim meet,” she says with a smile. “Dean’s going to be late at his tennis match. Dave wants to know what time I’ll be home and whether he can have the car tonight.”
Zelda laughs. “I guess the days of sitting by the phone and wondering where your kids are have vanished,” she says.
But instead of extolling the virtues of modern technology versus the time when you had to pray your kids could find a dime and a telephone booth, Lucy lets out a whoop of delight.
“An e-mail from Len Sunshine!” she reports excitedly. She frantically scrolls down to get the entire message. “He loves my new treatment. Says he wants to do the show I proposed. Most creative idea he’s heard in months. Well, today anyway.”
“That’s wonderful,” says Zelda, having no idea who Len Sunshine is or what Lucy is talking about, but knowing when a mother-in-law should be supportive.
“So what was the idea?” I ask. But Lucy is wildly typing onto the BlackBerry’s tiny keys. Finally she looks up, clearly thrilled. “It’s something completely different for me. A sitcom about two women in their forties. One married, one divorced.”
“You’re doing a show about us,” I squeal, somewhere between horrified and thrilled. “Who’s going to play me?”
“It’s not you,” Lucy laughs. “Not really me, either. Just about the things every woman our age has to cope with. Like bake sales and Botox. Not to mention sex and cellulite.”
“And shopping,” I offer, ready to co-produce.
“You got it,” says Lucy, grinning. “My pitch to Len was that there really is life between The Gilmore Girls and The Golden Girls. I’m calling it The Botox Diaries.”
“If Dahlia Hammerschmidt plays me I’m going to kill myself,” I say.
“That’s television,” Lucy says with a mock sigh. “The show is four minutes old and already everybody has an opinion.”
Chapter EIGHTEEN
WORD OF LUCY’S NEW SITCOM makes it into Variety and I expect her to rush out to L.A. for casting. Instead, she stays put in Pine Hills.
“Something more important to do first,” she says, sitting in her library in full producer mode. She’s made a list of twelve possible scenarios. For the next scene between her and Dan.
“First idea to get him back,” she says, consulting her yellow legal pad. “I go to his corporate apartment tonight, take off my trench coat, and I have on nothing underneath but fishnets and a garter belt.”
“Naked under a raincoat? You sound like a flasher,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s a Burberry,” Lucy argues.
“Okay, an upscale flasher. Besides, the All-Star Game is on. You could be Striparella come to life and you wouldn’t get his attention.”
“Point taken,” says Lucy, crossing that one off her list. “How about this. A little more subtle. I go to Sitting Pretty in SoHo and have my portrait done. Full-length.”
“That’s nice,” I say with a shrug, “if you think the problem is that Dan’s forgotten what you look like.”
“Please, darling, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of SP. Everyone’s going. Perfect present for your husband. They specialize in nude photos of middle-aged ladies.”
I make a face. “That sounds disgusting.”
“Not when they’re finished with you. They make you look fabulous. Body makeup artists. Great lighting. And they have Otto, the best air-brush artist east of Las Vegas. Forget lipo. Otto’s much cheaper and safer. He did wonders with Madonna’s thighs.”
“I thought that was Astanga yoga. Or Kabbalah.”
“Kabbalah. That’s an idea I hadn’t thought of,” says Lucy, jotting it down on her list. “Maybe I should join a prayer group.”
“Save the praying for world peace. Or November sweeps on your new show.”
“Oh, come on, I have to do something,” says Lucy, throwing her pad aside in frustration. “I’ve tried visualization. You know, imagining Dan’s coming back to me.”
“That’s called wishful thinking.”
“Something’s got to work. Last night I left a message on his cell phone. Played him the entire track of Lovin’ Spoonful’s ‘Darling Be Home Soon.’ He never even called me back.”
“I wouldn’t call you back, either, if you played me the Lovin’ Spoonful,” I say.
“I guess Dan’s more of a Bob Dylan kind of guy,” she admits. “But ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’ didn’t seem like the right message.”
“So tell me how a bike race fits into this whole plan?” I ask.
“That’s right,” says Lucy, looking at her watch and jumping up. “It’s late. We have to get to Grant’s Tomb.”
“I thought we were going to praise Dan, not to bury him,” I quip.
We rush to Lucy’s garage and climb into the car. We’re hurtling down the Henry Hudson Parkway when it suddenly dawns on me that my legs aren’t cramped and I’m not fearing for my life.
“Hey, what’s with the Volvo?” I ask. “What happened to your Porsche?”
“Wrong image. Traded it in,” Lucy says, driving at a sedate fifty-five. “The Volvo is so much more family, don’t you think? I thought this would make a real statement to Dan.”
“What statement? That you’re insane?” I ask. “You change cars the way other people change underwear.”
“Damn, I forgot to put on nice underwear,” Lucy says. “Think I’ll need it? We could make a La Perla pit stop.”
I wish I could answer yes, but I’m not sure what to think anymore. Dan’s not responding to Lucy’s advances, and he sure seemed ready to move on at the party the other night. I don’t kid myself that he was looking at me as his next One and Only. But the fact that he’s even thinking about being with someone other than Lucy makes me nervous for her.
The streets around upper Broadway are closed off for the bike race, but Lucy sweet-talks the guard at the security stop into letting her park in the Racers Only area.
“Can understand why he let you in,” I say as Lucy minces from the car in her tight pencil skirt and open-backed mules. “Definitely look like you just got off the Tour de France.”
“That’s what I was going for. The outfit’s French. Dior,” says Lucy, pulling Persol sunglasses from her pocketbook. Naturally a different pair of sunglasses than she wore when she drove the Porsche.
“This is the first time I’ve been to one of Dan’s races,” Lucy says as we head toward the starting line where a group of spectators is starting to gather near the base of the monument. “Pretty spot. All these years living in New York and I’ve never seen this place.”
“Reminds me of the old joke,” I say, looking up at the large marble building in the center of the small park. “Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”
“Grant,” Lucy says.
“Nope. Nobody’s buried in Grant’s Tomb.”
“Of course Grant. It’s Grant’s Tomb.”
“Gotcha,” I say, laughing as happily as I did in second grade. The last time I told this joke. “He’s not buried. He’s entombed. In that big building. Aboveground. Ha-ha. See? Nobody’s buried in Grant’s Tomb. Get it?”
Lucy sighs. “Yes, Jess. I get it. And I also know the one about not opening the refrigerator door because the salad’s dressing. And throwing the alarm clock out the window to see time fly. But knock-knock. We came here to watch the race.”
