The Botox Diaries, page 8
Sitting here, I realize that crash diet be damned, in Jacques’ eyes I’ll always be a fresh-faced girl of twenty-four. And it feels pretty darn good to be basking in that reflection. Who needs the dermatologist when I have Jacques? No amount of lasering could possibly peel off the years more effectively than seeing yourself through an old lover’s eyes.
“So,” he says, squeezing my fingertips lightly and taking a last sip of cappuccino, “shall we leave? I’ll take you home.”
I’m really not ready to leave, but we’re going to have to say good-bye sometime.
“I guess I’ll get a cab to the train station,” I say, wishing desperately that I still lived in the city and could make the evening last a little longer with a romantic walk home through the cobblestoned SoHo streets. “I don’t have the apartment anymore.”
“Don’t worry. I know you’ve moved,” Jacques says. “I planned to drive you home.”
Nobody has a car in the city, and even if they did, there are DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING HERE signs plastered all over the street in front of Balthazar. (Where else but New York can you get a ticket for even thinking about parking?) But as always, Jacques has made his own rules and we step outside into a waiting black Mercedes.
I don’t bother giving Jacques directions to Pine Hills because the way the evening’s gone, I figure the flight plan’s already programmed into the car. The CD player’s been programmed, too, starting slowly with U2’s “Beautiful Day,” moving on to Lenny Kravitz singing “Can’t Get You Off My Mind,” and heating up to early Barry White, a little clichéd, but it works. I hold my breath, but I know my Jacques is always discreet. Whatever he’s planning, Nirvana’s “Rape Me” isn’t going to be one of the tracks. As he cruises up the West Side Highway, I nestle into the cushiony leather seat and start to drift. Jacques reaches over to stroke my arm. Ah, how lovely. A man who can steer and stroke at the same time.
When we pull into the driveway, he runs around to my side of the car to open the door, walks me onto the porch, and wordlessly follows me inside. I fumble with a light switch and blink a couple of times in the suddenly bright foyer, realizing that back on my own turf, my mood has quickly shifted. That reminiscing romantic who surfaced at Balthazar has been deep-sixed.
“My daughter’s at a sleepover tonight, so I’m sorry you won’t get to meet her,” I say, back to sounding like a suburban mom. “But can I show you around the house?”
“Bien sûr.”
We begin to walk around and I feel like an idiot. If I’d wanted to give house tours, I would have joined the Pine Hills Garden Club.
Uneventfully we do the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, which I brilliantly identify as being the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. What am I supposed to do? Point out the Sub-Zero? Jacques cooperatively looks around my kitchen as reverently as if he’s just stepped into the cathedral at Notre Dame.
“C’est magnifique,” he says.
Okay, I think we’ve milked this floor for all it’s worth.
We traipse single file up the stairs to pay homage to Jen’s bedroom—also known unofficially as The Shrine to Justin Timberlake—and my IKEA-decorated study. We’re really moving now. We pass by my bedroom quickly, with only a nod to its purpose, and somehow land in the guest bathroom.
Jacques peers inside, honing in on the claw-footed soaking tub.
“Old house, old tub,” I say cheerfully. “I never replaced it because I think it’s kind of quaint.”
“Does it work?” he asks.
“Sure.”
Jacques strides across the wood-planked floor, kneels next to the tub and turns on the water. He plays with the old faucets until the water is the temperature that he wants. “A stopper?” he asks.
A stopper? Yes, we do need a stopper, but not for the tub. I thought once we’d passed the bedroom we’d made it to the safety zone. How could I have forgotten that Jacques’ smoothest moves start with bath oil?
I’m still trying to decide what to do when I spy the cork stopper sitting on top of the wicker hamper and pick it up. I weigh it in my fingers until Jacques comes over, takes it from me, and puts it into the open tub drain.
Jacques, we can’t do this, I say, only I guess I don’t say it out loud, because his hands are around my shoulders and his lips are brushing lightly against my cheek. When I don’t pull away he gently kisses my neck, then nuzzles against my ear, whispering soft nothings in French. I can’t make out the words, but I can feel the heat. Tantalizingly, he kisses my eyelids and holds me tighter. My body sways closer to his until our lips find each other and we melt into that timeless space that erases the moment along with the years.
I’m not thinking anymore. He’s unbuttoning my blouse and I’m letting him. He runs an appreciative finger across my chest and I can hardly breathe. Maybe some of those six pounds I’ve gained in the last years have landed on my breasts because when he unhooks my bra and steps back, I see a hint of surprise glinting in his eyes.
“You’re more beautiful than ever,” he says.
“Older,” I say.
“But more beautiful,” he repeats.
I resist pointing out that the breasts aren’t quite as perky as they once were and the little freckles on my chest are ungenerously referred to as “age spots” by the good dermatologist.
Instead, I let him unzip my black satin skirt and I pull it off in one smooth move, taking the body shaper with it.
“No fair,” I say, because he’s still fully dressed and I’m now standing in nothing but my black lace bikinis.
But he’s not in a rush. Jacques is never in a rush. He kisses my breasts lightly, then just a little harder, and his hips press against mine. I start to undress him and he leads me toward the tub. I dip a tentative toe into the water and let out a small yelp.
“It’s freezing!” I say, laughing. Jacques laughs, too, and Sir Walter Raleigh–like, spreads a towel over the wood floor, changing the plans from water to land.
“That floor’s still going to be too hard,” I say, wishing I’d bought the plush Fieldcrests instead of my Target bargains.
Jacques moves closer to me and cups my face gently in his hands. “Where shall we go, mon amour?” he asks.
I think about it for only a moment, looking at his almost-nude body, which is muscular and smooth, and to my great surprise, I hear myself whisper, “Well I have a very, very soft bed.”
* * *
Hours later I half wake to realize that Jacques and I have fallen asleep with our bodies wrapped around each other in the cozy entanglement of arms and legs that was our way for all those years. I can feel his warmth and the weight of his thigh pressing against mine. He rouses and gently caresses my shoulders, then cups his hand around my breast. My eyes flutter open and I find Jacques gazing at me with a tender smile. “It’s still the same, mon amour,” he whispers. “I still love you.”
I snuggle closer and bury my head in his chest. “You’re wonderful, Jacques. As wonderful as ever.” I glance at the bedside clock and it’s only four a.m., but I realize that it’s almost time for him to go. He’s booked on the seven a.m. Air France flight. I’m ready and I’m not.
He gets up reluctantly and as he dresses, I groggily go to the closet and reach past my normal terry cloth robe to find the silk one from Victoria’s Secret that’s been sitting there unused for umpteen centuries. Jacques stops in his tracks and comes back toward me.
“You’re mine,” he says, wrapping me in his arms and pressing me against the wall. He kisses me deeply, ready to make love one more time, but Air France waits for no man.
“You … it’s time to … you’ll miss your flight …,” I stutter between kisses.
“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t want to let you go.”
But he encircles his arm around my waist and we walk slowly down the stairs. At the front door we have a final, lingering kiss. And then he takes both my hands in his.
“It’s like we were never apart, mon petit chouchou,” he says. “So it’s settled. When I come back in three weeks we’ll be together forever. This time we won’t make the same mistakes.”
I want to believe him and I kiss him back wordlessly. Forever sounds pretty darn good.
Chapter FIVE
I FALL BACK into a dreamy sleep almost immediately after Jacques is gone. Nothing wakes me for several blissful hours until Jen comes bounding into my bedroom, lugging her purple Gap backpack, her black overnight bag, her red cushiony sleeping mat and a pink pillow emblazoned PRINCESS. She looks like she’s just back from trekking in the Himalayas, not overnighting with Lily.
“How was your evening, Mom?” she asks as I sit up abruptly, trying to pretend that she hasn’t just awakened me from a sound sleep. I laugh to myself as I get a good look at my big daughter. The earphones from her American Girl Walkman are dangling around her neck and she’s carrying a stack of CosmoGIRL! magazines. At age eleven all she knows is she’s a Girl. Whether it’s one who plays with dolls or reads about boys is a toss-up right now.
“My evening was fine,” I say. I try to stifle a yawn. “I guess I’m still a little tired.”
“Did you have sex?” Jen asks, casually throwing all of her gear onto my bed.
I gulp. What’s that about? Is she guessing here or did she sneak back last night and look in the window? No, more likely telling Jen I was going out with my ex-husband was a mistake. I gotta remember that all those books say single moms shouldn’t confide too much in their kids.
So I do the obvious. I lie. “Of course I didn’t have sex, sweetheart. You don’t have sex if you’re not married, remember?” I have to stop letting her watch reruns of Friends. Why believe me when all the singles on TV are having so much fun? “Jacques is just an old pal now,” I say.
Jen buys it. “That’s good,” she says animatedly. “Because Lily and I found a better husband for you.”
A better husband? I want to tell her that Jacques wasn’t so bad when you come right down to it. But that would be back in that category of “Too Much Information.” So I clear my throat and say chirpily, “I didn’t know I was looking for a husband. But who’d you have in mind?”
She reaches for the stack of magazines and fumbles around until she finds the mother lode—a copy of the real Cosmopolitan, that hasn’t been “Girl-ed.”
“Right here, Mom,” she says, waving the magazine at me. “ ‘The Twenty-Five Most Eligible Bachelors.’ I picked one for you. His name is Boulder, like the rock.”
“He certainly sounds solid.” I laugh. But Jen is distracted, because she’s busy flipping through the pages of the magazine.
“All the models in here have big boobs,” she says. Jen looks down at her own flat T-shirt and rubs her hand against the fabric, as if willing her breasts to grow.
I could lecture about calling them breasts, not boobs, and promise her that she’ll get some soon enough. But she won’t believe me right now.
“So tell me about Boulder,” I say instead. Rocks and boobs. What a magazine.
“He’s thirty-three.” She looks at me and frowns slightly. “He’s the oldest one, so I hope he’s not too old. But he’s got big muscles and he’s a professional surfer. Isn’t that cool? I don’t think we should move to California for him, but Lily says we have the Atlantic Ocean right here so it shouldn’t matter. I’m writing him a letter.”
“I’ll help with the spelling,” I say gamely. I’d hate for there to be any grammar mistakes when pledging my love to the oldest-known bachelor in America, who still happens to be way too young for me.
“Good, because I’m going to tell him all about us.”
Us. Of course. Jen’s not just trying to nab a husband for me. It’s a package deal. She’s looking for a dad.
I reach over and take a look at the picture of this Boulder guy—bare-chested, holding a surfboard and offering up such a dazzling grin that I check to make sure I haven’t accidentally flipped to the ad for BriteSmile. Doesn’t strike me that I’m looking at my destiny, but I can imagine what Jen sees in him—the perfect guy to carry her on his shoulders for a wave-jumping romp into the ocean.
Jen’s looking at me expectantly.
“He looks like he’d make a pretty fun dad,” I say tentatively, because the old guilt is seeping back. Most of the time just being the two of us seems perfectly fine. But as much as I love her to pieces, I’m still only one parent. Okay, on my good days, maybe one and a half. Still, I can’t help worrying about how much she misses having the standard-issue matched set.
Jen, however, is hankering to make the date and ignores my cue to bare her innermost thoughts on Life with (Single) Mom.
“So I’m writing him a letter to enter the contest,” she says, explaining the rules for winning yourself a Boulder. “He’s going to read them all—”
Or maybe someone will have to read them to him, I think.
“—and then he’ll pick the girl he wants to marry. Cosmo will send you on a date first. And oh, Mom? Just so you know. The date might be on TV, too. Is that okay?”
“Sure, hon, if we win, I’m there,” I say. At least it’s not The Bachelor—I don’t have to get into a hot tub with the guy. And anyway, what are the odds of any of this happening? Jen scrunches her freckled nose and appraises my chances.
“So, Mom, you know how you’ve been talking about having your hair streaked? Maybe you should do it now.”
“What? Don’t think I can land a husband like this?” I say, joking. I give a pretend sigh. “All right, I’ll do it. I don’t want to let you down.”
But for Jen this is serious business. And now she thinks she’s hurt my feelings.
She comes rushing over, throws her arms around me, and gives me a big, mushy kiss. “I love you, Mom. You’re perfect just the way you are. You could get any husband you wanted.”
“Oh, you’re a sweetie. I love you, too.” I give her a big hug and trace a heart on her back with my finger. Jen giggles.
“Go unpack your stuff and we’ll grab breakfast,” I say as she dashes off loaded down with her bags. “Wait, you forgot your pillow,” I call after her, but she doesn’t come back and I have to smile. What self-respecting “Princess” would carry her own?
With Jen gone, I get out of bed and slip into the silk robe. Good thing Jen didn’t notice it lying in a heap on the floor—I’m not sure she would have believed I was wearing it to impress Jay Leno. I pick up my own pillow and hug it tightly to my body. It seems impossible that just a few hours ago Jacques was lying here beside me. Maybe I dreamt it. I look around for signs, but there’s no telltale forgotten sock. I breathe deeply and get the merest hint of Jacques’ cologne. How could last night have been so amazing?
And this morning—when he told me he still loved me. I throw the pillow back on the bed. Oh, god, what did I answer? Something about how wonderful he is. Why couldn’t I just say, “I love you, too?” Now that would be simple. The man I’d loved so passionately, so long ago, comes back into my life. After all this time apart, we finally get the fairytale ending. Just like a romance novel. And as Jacques and I fell asleep last night, wrapped in each other’s arms, I was sure I did love him.
But now?
I pace around my bed fussing with the books on my nightstand and bend down to straighten the fringe on the throw rug. I walk into the bathroom to get a glass of water and stare into the mirror. Do we really have a future? What was it he said at the door as he was saying good-bye? It’s settled. I feel that familiar clench in my stomach. Whatever else has changed about Jacques, he hasn’t lost that old habit of assuming he can decide things for both of us.
I wander back toward the bed. No, this time, I’m going to have to make my own decision. I put the pillow back against the headboard and get another whiff of his cologne. Maybe I won’t change the sheets just yet. And maybe I have to give the man another chance. That is, of course, unless I fall for Boulder.
For the next three days I keep waiting for Lucy to ask me about my date with Jacques, but she never does. And I can’t bring it up because Hunter’s in town and he’s already demanding every moment of her attention. By day four, Lucy’s bursting because I have to, absolutely have to, meet her boyfriend. She’s forty-one and married—you’d think she could come up with a better word.
“You’re going to love him,” she says breathlessly when she calls me with the invitation. “I mean, I’m sure you’re going to love him. But I really need to know what you think.”
Since Lucy insists that introductions be made over something more exotic than a simple latte or even green apple martinis, she’s come up with a plan. Hunter’s been invited to a star-studded party for Willie Nelson and we’re both going to tag along. We’ll even get to go to the concert. Works for me. If I’m chief advisor on my best friend’s Hollywood affair, at the very least I should get some perks out of it.
Lucy calls me twice more to ask what I’m wearing, clearly more worried about my making a good impression on Hunter than the other way around. Since I don’t own a pair of alligator boots, Lucy agrees that I can wear my fake pleather skirt and she’ll lend me her third-favorite pair of Jimmy Choos. Two days later she panics about the pleather and drops off her own real leather skirt—from Ralph Lauren, no less—along with the Choos.
That night, I’m standing on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street feeling like a hooker in my four-inch stilettos when Lucy and Hunter walk by without even noticing me. They have their heads huddled close together, sharing some secret that has them both grinning.
“Lucy?” I call out.
