The Botox Diaries, page 5
“Hi,” Spencer says in a teeny, tiny voice.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, bending down to her eye-level. “I’m Jessie.”
When I stand up again, Amanda thanks me for coming. “I have four friends joining us. I hope that’s enough. We’re all really excited about getting involved.”
“That’s great,” I tell her. “I’m thrilled to be working with you.”
Within a few minutes, the room fills up with moms and various-sized toddlers, and I’m introduced in succession to Pamela Jay Barone, Rebecca Gates, Allison von Williams, and Heather Lehmann. I can’t place any of the names, though I have a feeling any money manager would know them. The women are cookie-cutter perfect—pretty and slim, with well-highlighted blond hair (except for Pamela, whose auburn mane is swept off her face by a paisley headband), and they sport huge diamond rings. But they’re dressed casually and there’s an easy familiarity as they play with each other’s children.
Just as I’m beginning to wonder how I’m going to integrate a gaggle of toddlers into my presentation, a girl who I quickly realize is the au pair appears in the doorway. She’s about eighteen or nineteen, with luminous skin, curves in all the right places and hair that gleams like it’s spun from pure gold. In a room full of almost-blondes, she’s the only one who looks like she’s never had to pay for it.
“Ilsa and I could take the children now,” she says to Amanda in a lilting Swedish accent.
“That would be great, Ulrike,” Amanda says. “There are only five kids and Heather’s nanny is coming in a few minutes, so you can take them into the playroom.”
“Or to our apartment,” Pamela offers.
“Either way,” Amanda says, then turning to me, she explains, “Pamela lives right across the hall and our au pairs are friends. We’re so lucky. Half the time we don’t even shut our doors so the kids can play everywhere.”
Ilsa comes in—she’s pretty, but not as drop-dead gorgeous as the sensuous Ulrike—and the two au pairs round up the children, who happily follow them out.
“I don’t know how you can bear to have that girl in your house,” Heather says bluntly to Amanda, as the moms settle into various leather wing-backed chairs, damask-upholstered sofas, and cushiony velvet love seats. “I wouldn’t want her within a mile of my husband. Why bring the chicken to the fox?”
“Well, Alden’s never home, so it’s not a problem,” Amanda says lightly.
“And Alden would never run off with an au pair,” Rebecca says, trying to be supportive. “It would be way beneath him.”
“She could definitely end up beneath him,” Heather says smugly. “You’ve got a girl who looks like a Swedish porn star prancing around in the next room, and a husband can’t be blamed for getting ideas.”
“I think we should start the meeting,” Pamela says, in a slightly high-pitched voice. “We’re here to talk about charitable work, so let’s get to it.”
“Absolutely,” says Amanda while the rest of us try to banish the image of a sweaty Alden and Ulrike going at it under the gaze of the trompe l’oeil cherubs. “Well then, you’ve all met Jess, who works with the Arts Council for Kids,” she says affably. “Alden and I …” she pauses for effect, then repeats, “Alden and I always make a contribution, but this year, I thought—writing a check isn’t enough. What really matters is getting involved. And that’s why we’re here. To form a committee that can do something to help this wonderful charity.”
I’m glad to hear why Amanda thinks they’re all here. I was worried that I was the post–Pilates class entertainment for a group of rich, bored women who weren’t quite rich enough to be on the boards of the New York City Ballet or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But these women aren’t the social-climbing piranhas I’d feared.
I launch into my spiel about what we do and how many inner-city children we reach. How we provide free dance, drama, music and art classes to kids who can’t afford them. I tell them about a boy named Rodrigo who came to our music classes every day after school for years to escape an alcoholic mother and who just got a scholarship to Juilliard. They all nod. They’re on my side.
“So how can we help?” asks Pamela.
I’m ready. I suggest an auction benefit they could run. An afternoon luncheon-cum-fashion show where we split the proceeds with the designers. If they want to put some sweat into the endeavor, I say, reaching for a joke, five-K runs seem to be in vogue.
“I’ve got a much better idea,” says Rebecca, the one supportive voice in the imagined au pair scandal. I’m prepared for it to be loopy … and it is.
“Why don’t we put on a show!” she says.
“Just like Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland?” I quip. They look at me blankly. If I want to keep working, I’ve got to stop referring to things that happened before my clients were born.
Rebecca forges ahead. “What I mean is, why don’t we take all the kids in your program and put on an opera—like Rigoletto or something— and that way we can combine music and drama and art. And we could do it at Lincoln Center. Off-season, of course.”
Allison, who hasn’t said much yet, is suddenly excited. “I love it! And our kids—the older ones of course—could be in it, too!” Quickly realizing she doesn’t want to sound self-serving, she adds, “They don’t have to have the starring roles. We could get a couple of professionals.… If you think we need them.”
How do I explain that Placido Domingo isn’t taking on any more gigs and that the logistics of their kids, the Arts Council kids and a performance of any kind—let alone an opera at Lincoln Center—is just not going to happen in this lifetime? I hate to be a wet blanket, but I think I better rein in their plans.
“A performance is a great idea,” I say cheerily. “But maybe we should do something small and intimate. We have a lovely stage at the Council Center.”
“No!” Allison roars. Five heads snap around to her direction. “We have to dream big. Isn’t that what your organization is all about? Lincoln Center. Rigoletto. All our kids together, rich and poor. If we think it can happen we can make it happen.”
How many therapy sessions has this woman had? Luckily, having said her piece, Allison retreats to her former docility, and the others quickly agree to ditch Rigoletto on the grounds that not all of the kids speak Italian. However, as bad luck would have it, one of their husbands plays tennis with the chairman of the board of City Center, and she’s sure there’s some small stage she can secure for the event. Great. The ideas keep brimming forth. They know which designer should make the costumes, which caterer will provide snacks after rehearsals, and who should choreograph the routines. I’m in the cross fire of five overexcited women who act like they’re the ones who put the exclamation point after Oklahoma! After twenty exhausting minutes of inspiration, the ideas start slowing down. In the end, it’s decided. A musical show starring all the kids. Tickets will cost one thousand dollars. Ten-thousand-dollar-and-above donors will be invited to a preshow dinner party with real-life underprivileged kids. Whether to hit up Kate Spade or Donna Karan for the goody bag gifts is left undecided.
They look at me expectantly. “It’s going to be wonderful, isn’t it?” asks Amanda.
“Wonderful,” I answer numbly.
As I collect my coat, say my good-byes and stumble into the foyer, I’ve thought of what I can ask the elevator attendant to do for me. Fetch two Advil.
Chapter THREE
LUCY TOOK OFF for Los Angeles two days ago without even calling me. I’m betting that she’s ticked off because I didn’t play the expected role of trusty sidekick at the lingerie store. But I happen to like her husband and I don’t happen to like what she’s doing. Doesn’t she realize this has to end badly? I know she’s a TV producer, but didn’t anybody ever make her read Madame Bovary or Anna Karenina?
But not talking to her is driving me crazy. We’ve talked almost every day for the past ten years, since Lucy first spotted me sitting alone in the Pine Hills playground and came over to offer a welcoming smile and a chocolate chip cookie. Lucy appeared so exotic in her white, fur-trimmed Dior parka—which frankly did stand out in a sea of blue peacoat–clad moms—that I suddenly felt like the most popular girl in seventh grade. But it didn’t take long to get beyond the faux fur and find her good heart. And boy does she have one. She always seemed to have a sixth sense about what I needed—late-night calls when I was lonely, Friday-night fix-ups that I complained about but secretly enjoyed (well, at least sometimes), and a calm voice when I was sure that Jen had scarlet fever. No, Lucy assured me. Pink cheeks are actually a sign of good health.
So what’s going on with her? She’s always been the one with the strong moral compass. After all, wasn’t it Lucy who absolutely forbade me to have what I told her would be “just an innocent drink” with my accountant—who just happened to be married? But I’m still her best friend and she needs to know I’m here for her no matter what. She needs my advice. She needs my support. And since I’ve sworn off All My Children, I need my daily dose of drama.
When I can’t get through to Lucy’s cell phone, I call her New York office and speak to her trusted assistant Tracey, the latest in a long line of just-graduated-from-Vassar protégées. In a mere six months on the job, Tracey has morphed into a mini-Lucy—she talks as fast as her boss and wears Club Monaco versions of Lucy’s designer clothes. She can’t afford take-out sushi so she eats tuna fish. She’s almost ready to conquer the world, but first, she has to answer the phones.
“I’ve been having trouble tracking her down this trip, too,” Tracey says. “Maybe her cell phone’s not working.”
No way. Don’t TV producers have their Nokias surgically implanted in their ears? If Lucy’s not answering, something’s up.
“You could leave a message at her hotel,” Tracey suggests. “That way she’ll get it when she comes back tonight.”
If she comes back tonight, I think.
I glance at the clock. Ten-ten in the morning, which means it’s only seven-ten in L.A. That’s when Lucy has champagne, as I remember. “Maybe I’ll call the hotel now,” I say. “Do you have the number?”
Tracey gives it to me, adding, “But I tried her room a while ago and she’s not in. Must have been an early meeting that I didn’t know about.”
And what kind of meeting would that be? Television execs don’t typically rush to the office before sunrise, as far as I know.
“Doing this pilot is really keeping her busy,” Tracey says, as if aware that she needs to explain something.
I bet it’s keeping her busy. Didn’t Lucy tell me that the host of the new pilot is the guy who …
Suddenly, I’m inspired. I take a deep breath.
“Lucy told me about the show. And she can’t stop talking about that fabulous host. What’s his name again?”
“Hunter Green.”
Hunter Green.
So now I know. Well, not really.
“Hunter Green?”
“The game show guy,” Tracey says. “He hosts Fame Game.”
Ah ha. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“When’s it on?” I ask innocently. “I’ll check him out.” Boy, will I check him out.
“It’s syndicated, so hang on. Let me look.” I hear her rustling through some papers, and then she says, “Looks like it’s on in New York at ten in the morning.”
“That’s right now.”
“I guess it is. Let me know what you think.”
I hastily say good-bye and flick on the TV in my bedroom. Remote in hand, I flip past morning talk shows featuring beauty makeovers, home makeovers, life makeovers, husband makeovers—isn’t anybody happy with what they’ve got?—finally landing on a game show. Wrong one. Another game show. A flashing sign on the set tells me I’ve found Fame Game. And the guy standing center stage must be Hunter Green.
I get as close as I can to the television and stare. Okay, Hunter’s cute. Kinda. Not exactly Brad Pitt, but not the pits, either. He’s mid-forties, I’d guess, and pudgier than a woman on TV would dare to be, but he’s appealing in a bearish, comfy sort of way. His eyes crinkle when he smiles, which seems to be all the time. He’s wearing a nice suit and an even nicer tie (maybe the one Lucy approved?) and I can tell from here that he has on a lot of cologne.
At the moment, Hunter has his arm around a slightly overweight contestant with a bad dye job. He’s making eyes at her and cooing as if she’s the only woman in the world for him, and she’s so smitten that a goofy grin is plastered across her face. I quickly figure out that she’s lost the round and is being sent packing. But in the thrall of Hunter’s heady seduction she wouldn’t care if she lost her job, her husband and her year’s supply of Lay’s potato chips. Hunter announces her consolation prize—a Day of Beauty at Sears (maybe she can have her legs and her car waxed simultaneously)—and she throws her arms around him and plants a big kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Hunter!” she screams.
Hunter hugs her as if she’s his long-lost grandmother, then turns to the camera and winks. “We’ll be right back with lots more.” He winks again. “Don’t go away.”
Wouldn’t think of it.
I wait impatiently through a commercial for an arthritis pill and another for Preparation H—ol’ Hunter’s not exactly pulling in a young demo, is he, Lucy—and when the show starts again, Hunter has his arm firmly draped around the shoulder of the next contestant. He’s cooing. She’s smitten. Big surprise.
I keep watching. To be fair (and should I bother?), he’s not a bad host. The game itself is thoroughly mindless, and Hunter at least livens it up with some clever banter. Which may be scripted, I remind myself.
By the next commercial break—Tums and a cream for vaginal dryness—I’ve got the pattern, and sure enough, Hunter comes back on camera flashing bedroom eyes and hugging another hapless contestant. Well, better her than Lucy. My only comfort is that if Hunter’s on the air this morning, he’s not cuddling with my best friend. But then the credits roll and the screen says, THIS SHOW WAS PRERECORDED. Should have thought of that.
I turn off the TV and start pacing up and down in my bedroom. Oh, Lucy, don’t you get it? You may be the most sophisticated woman I know, but you don’t stand a chance against Hunter Green. This guy is professionally charming. It’s his job to make women love him. If he clamps one of those beefy arms around your slim shoulders, you’re going down.
But what can I do?
The phone rings and I grab it.
“Hey, there, it’s me,” Lucy says.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“In my hotel room.”
“You are not.”
“I’m not? I think I am. Room 920. Kind of lovely, actually. I have a marble bathroom with a sunken tub and a Jacuzzi. Much nicer than what I have at home.”
“Tracey said you weren’t in your room.”
“Calm down. I just spoke to Tracey, which is how I know you’d called. I was at the gym early and grabbed some breakfast. Now I’m back.”
So she’s back. But I know she’s lying about the gym. She’s prepared a story in case Dan calls, and she’s trying it out on me.
“What’s going on in L.A.?” I ask.
She knows what I mean. But instead she turns industry on me. “Getting this pilot started is tough,” she says. “I’ve had three meetings already at the network. The guy I work with there says—”
“Lucy,” I interrupt, because I can’t bear her talking to me as if … well, as if I’m Dan. “Lucy. You have to tell me the truth. I want to know what’s happened with Hunter.”
“Hunter?” Her tone changes abruptly from overburdened exec to squealing teen. “Jess, how do you know his name? I never told you.”
I don’t say anything and she giggles. “Damn. Has this already made Liz Smith?” She sounds more pleased than panicked at the idea of being an item.
“Doesn’t matter, just tell me what’s going on,” I say. “I need to know everything.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You don’t really want to know, Jess. You know what I mean? You think you want to know, but in your heart of hearts, you don’t.”
She’s got me there. Of course I don’t want to know. Almost as badly as I do want to know.
“So you slept with him,” I say.
She giggles. She pauses. She relents. “That would be an affirmative.”
Now what the heck do I say to that? I’m going to be sophisticated about this. “Was he good at least?”
Another giggle. “Another affirmative.”
Isn’t that wonderful. I’d hate for Lucy to be throwing her life away for anything less than multiple orgasms.
And suddenly, I think of the one thing Lucy could do that would be even stupider than sleeping with Hunter Green.
“You’re not falling in love with him, are you?” I ask.
“No, of course I’m not in love with him,” she says, trying to sound scornful, but instead her voice is slightly goopy. So she gives in. “I’m in … I’m in infatuation. We have this amazing bond. I just feel so … connected to him.”
They’re connected? Big deal. You can get that with AT&T, too—and with a lot less static. But it also occurs to me that if she isn’t careful, Lucy’s gonna be slapped with roaming charges.
Time to appeal to her rational side, unless that’s been disconnected.
“Sex can make you feel connected to someone, even if you hardly know him,” I say, the professorial side of me asserting itself. “Prolactin or something. I read about it. The same hormone that’s released when you’re breast-feeding is released when you’re”—screwing? copulating? making love?—“when you’re having sex,” I say, avoiding any judgment calls. “It makes you feel all lovey and mushy, so you bond to your baby, which is good. But it does the same thing when you’re just”—here we go again—“having sex with a guy. Which isn’t always good.”
Geesch. Where did all that come from? I know Lucy, and she’s going to make fun of me now. Tease me for giving her a biology lesson when the subject is chemistry. Or promise me that her chemicals are strictly under control.
