The Botox Diaries, page 9
“Oh, Jess!” She rushes over and gives me a quick hug. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” She tosses back her hair and then adds, “This is Hunter.”
As if I didn’t know. He looks just like he did on television, though maybe a little heavier. How’s that work? I thought the camera added ten pounds. Maybe that only happens to women—another one of nature’s little jokes. Hunter’s skin is so smooth that I wonder at first if he’s wearing makeup. But no, I recognize the faint smell of Aveda for Men. Which means he’s probably just scrubbed, exfoliated, and self-tanned.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand, but Hunter has another plan and leans in to give me a hug.
“Lucy says wonderful things about you. And now I see why,” he says. He squeezes my arm, offers a Clintonesque rub of my elbow, and gives me a heartfelt gaze.
“Hope those blue eyes aren’t crying in the rain,” he says.
I blink. Huh?
“That’s a Willie Nelson song,” he says with a playful smile. “Remember? ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.’ And you have lovely blue eyes.”
“Well, thanks,” I say.
“So what’s your favorite Willie tune?” he asks.
Oh no. I almost forgot he was a game show host. What is this? Country Music for $200? I can tell already I’m not going to win the Buick.
“I like all of Willie’s songs,” I say stupidly.
“Come on. One favorite,” he cajoles. “So I can make sure Willie sings it tonight.”
Already he’s doing me a favor. I take a stab. “I used to love ‘I’m Walkin’ ’ when I was a kid.”
He grins. “That’s Rick Nelson.”
“Maybe Willie knows it, too,” I say, trying to recover. These country-music guys all sound alike, anyway.
“I bet he does,” Hunter says graciously. “Little Ricky Nelson. You must watch a lot of Ozzie and Harriet on Nick at Nite.”
“I guess I don’t get around enough,” I say, slightly embarrassed.
Hunter throws back his head and laughs. “Good one,” he says. “ ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’ is one of my favorites, too.” And he gives me a wink, which makes me feel better.
Decent of him. He put me on the spot, but then he saved me. And now that the quiz show’s finished, Hunter turns and locks arms with me on one side and Lucy on the other, turning us into a mini Rockettes line. “I must be the luckiest man in New York!” he gushes. “I’ve got the city’s two most gorgeous women.”
Lucy smiles adoringly up at him. I don’t want to like him, but I kind of do. He’s chatty and charming and I can see why he earns the big bucks. As we walk down the street, I notice a few people glancing at him and he notices, too. Is this what Lucy likes? Being on the arm of a television star makes you feel pretty darn important yourself. I’m waiting for Joan Rivers to ask me whose dress I’m wearing. (I’d have to say: “Lucy’s.”)
But maybe Hunter’s gotten a little too used to being in the spotlight. Walking into Madison Square Garden for the concert—we have VIP tickets, Lucy announces—he swaggers down the aisle, looking from side to side, expecting to catch someone’s eye. Most people are fumbling with their bags and adjusting the coats on their seats, but a thirtyish woman who’s sitting on the aisle glances at him then turns away to pull off her sweatshirt. He stops.
“Yup, it’s me. Hunter Green,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder. “I saw you staring at me.”
“I—I wasn’t …” she starts to stammer. But Hunter reaches over and snatches her program.
“Here, I’ll sign that for you,” he says magnanimously, scrawling his name with a flourish.
The woman takes back her program with a startled look on her face that suggests that since she has no idea who this man is, she doesn’t know whether to say thank you or call security.
“I like to make my fans happy,” Hunter effuses obliviously as we press forward to our seats. “It was just a minute of my time but she’ll remember it forever.”
Yup, she’ll be dining out on the story about the weird guy who grabbed her program at the Willie Nelson concert for days.
In our front-row seats, Hunter sits between Lucy and me and drapes one Canali-clad arm around each of us. Cozy. But two songs in, he’s given up impressing me and has both hands firmly anchored on Lucy’s thigh. He massages her knee and nuzzles her neck. Should I tell them to knock it off? Come on, Lucy. Just maybe one of the eight thousand people at this concert knows you—or Dan. But Lucy’s lost in Hunter World and has forgotten that anyone else is around.
When Willie sings “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” Hunter reaches over to squeeze my hand, but a minute later, he’s back to pawing Lucy. And it keeps getting worse. Is it getting kind of hot in here? By the time Willie’s singing “On the Road Again”—which is where I’d like to be—Hunter and Lucy are going at it like they’re auditioning for a remake of Deep Throat. I’m expecting someone in the row behind us to tell them to get a room.
When the concert finally ends we make our way outside, apparently heading for Willie’s private trailer. A part of me would just as soon go home. Isn’t show-and-tell over? I’ve met Hunter, he’s made me laugh, and I’ve watched him make out—how much better can the evening get? Still, even though my feet are killing me I might as well stay. It’s not every day I get to meet Willie Nelson. I just hope I don’t end up calling him “Rick.”
I’m traipsing three paces behind Hunter and Lucy, like a six-year-old trying to catch up with her distracted parents, except I’m not wearing Mary Janes. Just as my heel catches on a sidewalk crack for the gazillionth time, we’re in front of the trailer. Three armed security guards pounce on us. Hunter pulls out his network ID card and says grandly, “I’m a friend of Willie’s.” One of the guards officiously pulls out a clipboard and runs his finger up and down the list. I guess we’re okay because he makes a sweeping gesture and motions us up the steps.
Inside the trailer, it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the smoky haze. When they do, I can see the guys from Willie’s band sitting on a tattered velvet sofa and downing shots of tequila. Each one has a half-dressed girlfriend/groupie/hooker snuggled in his arm. Willie himself is standing in the far corner, and when he spots Hunter, he strides over and gives him a big bear hug. Then Willie turns to Lucy and me, extending one hand and carefully keeping the other one behind his back. “Howdy, ladies,” he says.
Hunter laughs and walks around him, grabbing whatever it is Willie doesn’t want us to see.
“It’s okay, Willie, they’re cool,” Hunter assures him, taking a deep drag on the cigarette he’s snatched from Willie’s hand. He holds on to it, takes a second drag and then passes it on to Lucy.
Now I get it. I’ve never had anything stronger than a double dose of Motrin, but I recognize the smell. So the stories about Willie are true. The man’s survived all these years on chocolate chip cookies and marijuana. Sounds good. But look at that skin.
“You don’t smoke, do you, Lucy?” I trill nervously. She shoots me a drop-dead look, but sure enough, passes the joint on without taking a puff.
The pot smoke in the room gets thicker and the decibel level gets higher. I struggle to follow what Willie and Hunter are talking about until I’m distracted by a leather-clad musician, who’s sitting in the corner with a now completely naked girl. She’s straddled on top of him, vigorously rocking back and forth, doing things I’ve only read about in Penthouse letters. (Well, a girl can’t learn everything from Good Housekeeping.)
“Fuck me!” the girl screams above the din. “Take me! Fuck me! Ride me, Daddy!”
This certainly isn’t how we do parties in Pine Hills. Where are the canapés and the avocado dip? Still, the entertainment here is pretty darn good, although I’m the only one who seems to be paying attention. I glance around but the boys in the band are all busy with their own babes, and a new toy has appeared on the scene. A bong? Hey, I’m no rube. I saw a Cheech and Chong movie in college. There’s so much to take in, but the action in the corner is People’s Choice Awards–worthy and I’m riveted. I’d swear that the musician and the screamer are actually doing it back there. And now the young maiden seems to have a new request.
“Fuck me harder! Ride me, Daddy! Ride me!” she screams.
Another girl from across the trailer apparently thinks this sounds like an excellent idea. With a loud whoop, she pulls off her shirt and chimes in, “Do me, Daddy. Let’s show ’em how it’s done!” Suddenly I have the awful feeling that the whole scene is about to dissolve into a giant country-music orgy, with Lucy and the now stoned Hunter ready to jump right in.
I tug at Lucy’s sleeve, anxiously. “I have to get home to the babysitter,” I tell her through clenched teeth. “Let’s get out of here.”
She nods—maybe she’s feeling as uncomfortable as I am—and we grab Hunter and stumble toward the door. We step past the tight security and I have to laugh. Two dozen of New York’s finest are on high alert outside to protect Willie and his boys. If the cops stepped inside, they could make the pot bust of the week.
Blessedly a cab streams by and we all pile in. As we pull up to the Waldorf to drop off Hunter, Lucy looks like she wants to follow him inside, but it’s already two a.m. and even she can’t think of a good cover for arriving home at dawn. Hunter gives Lucy one last kiss, hands the driver a fifty-dollar bill and tells him, “Take good care of her. She means a lot to me.” Blecch. Sorry, Lucy. The only ride you’re getting tonight is home with me.
As the cab pulls away, Lucy looks out the rear window and gives a small wave.
“The best, right?” she says, turning back to me with a satisfied sigh.
“The best,” I agree. I’m not sure if we’re talking about Hunter, the concert, or the orgy, but hey, it was all just swell. Besides, at this hour I’m not up for deconstructing anything.
“Next week we’re invited to Cher’s party,” Lucy says, glowing. “And after that, dinner with Whoopi. It’s in L.A. or I’d beg you to come.”
“Whoopee,” I repeat. And I hope that’s enough to sum up the evening.
Chapter SIX
THE AUDITIONS for what I have come to think of as The Benefit Musical of the Century are this afternoon, and my committee of Park Avenue ladies are at the Broadhurst Theater on Forty-fourth Street waiting for the director—the one-hit wonder Vincent Morris—to arrive. Most kids rehearse in a high school gym. But thanks to the connections of one of our ladies, our budding Tommy Tunes will be warbling their off-key renditions of “Tomorrow” on the same stage where Man of La Mancha premiered. My hardest job today may be resisting making jokes about “The Impossible Dream.”
Just as we’re settled into the seventh row of the theater—best seats I’ve ever had—Vincent flounces in wearing a purple cape and a Sherlock Holmes hat. Kind of the cross-dressing equivalent of Phantom of the Opera meets Hound of the Baskervilles. I wonder if the wardrobe mistresses on either show noticed anything missing.
“I’m here!” Vincent calls, dashing down the aisle. Heather jumps out of her seat in a flurry of excitement and practically tackles him.
“Darling!” she exudes.
He stops to double kiss her. “You look mahvelous, darling,” he says, sounding like he’s channeling Billy Crystal, or whoever it was Billy Crystal was channeling.
“You’re so wonderful to do this for us, Vincent!” she says breathlessly. “Giving your time to our little charity!”
“There’s no such thing as a little charity, darling. Only little people.” He pauses and tosses his cape back as if this enigmatic tidbit of wisdom should be recorded in Bartlett’s. Then he repeats the kissy-kissy with Pamela, Amanda, Allison, and Rebecca and finally stops to shake hands with me. How could he tell I was just the hired help?
“So you’re the genius behind this production,” he says, pumping my hand and staring at my breasts. No, it’s not my breasts he cares about. He’s trying to decide whether the cashmere is from Kashmir or Daffy’s.
“So tell me,” he says, spreading his arms theatrically. “Do you know why I’m here? Why I agreed to direct your fabulous production?”
No, but I can guess. Your last play flopped. You’re out of work. Heather’s husband is the richest man you’ve ever met and you’re trying to get backing for your next real show—one that stars actors over four feet tall.
“You’re graciously giving us your time because the Arts Council for Kids is a terrific organization and we’re all here to help the children,” I say, spouting the party line.
“Well that, of course,” he says dramatically. “But mostly I’m here because I love, love, love, love, love children.”
Oh dear. This may be bad news.
“And I love The Sound of Music,” he says, practically clapping his hands.
Pamela steps in front of Heather and grabs Vincent’s arm.
“Heather didn’t tell you we’re doing The Sound of Music, did she?” Pamela asks anxiously. “The committee voted against it. That show is just too controversial. Too many Nazis. And then there are all those nuns. We don’t want to offend anyone.”
Right. And then there are all of those people who hate lederhosen and are allergic to edelweiss. Lucky for Julie Andrews that she didn’t have to deal with my committee.
If Vincent is disappointed that he won’t get to make the hills come alive, he recovers quickly. “Right-oh,” he says cheerfully, moving along. “What’s the new pick?”
“Chorus Line!” Pamela says brightly.
“No!” Allison retorts loudly. “We said no because that’s the show with a gay director.” She glances over at Vincent and then looks mortified. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“For goodness’ sake, Allison. Don’t you remember? I told you at the last meeting that the director in the play isn’t gay. It was the real director of the show who was gay. And he’s dead now.”
Vincent shakes his head. “I hate Chorus Line. Even though Michael Bennett was a dear, dear friend of mine. A brilliant man. A mahvelous man.”
We all bow our heads in a moment of silence.
But before a creative consensus can be reached, a busload of the ACK kids from Harlem come streaming in, flinging Phat Farm sweatshirts and JLo backpacks on eighty-five-dollar orchestra seats.
“West Side Story!” Vincent declares, snapping his fingers, obviously having found inspiration in two rowdy eleven-year-olds who are spontaneously staging their own rumble in the aisles.
“My Fair Lady!” says Pamela with a decisiveness that not even Judge Judy would mess with. So we all nod. Sure. My Fair Lady it is. And I can’t wait to see what the kids do with a Cockney accent.
The rest of the gang—the Park Avenue kids in their neatly starched uniforms from Brearley, Dalton and wherever else they go—stroll in accompanied by babysitters, nannies and iPods. They sneak glances at the earlier arrivals, who are bunched together on one side of the aisle, and take their own seats directly across from them.
With a flourish of his cape and a high-pitched “He-l-l-oooooooo,” Vincent takes the stage. Amazingly, the kids stop fidgeting, the chatter ceases, and all eyes are focused on the purple-clad figure in front of them.
“I’m your director,” he roars out to them in a voice he must have used last when he auditioned for the part of God. “We’re going to work, work, work, but we’re going to have fun, fun, fun.”
He tells about the fabulous play we’re all going to be doing together and gives his “heartfelt and deepest thanks” to the wonderful women who have made the show possible. Then he moves on to the auditions.
The kids sit up straighter. “You’ll come up and sing,” he says. “I may stop you, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t done a fine job.”
My Park Avenue mothers have figured out the order for auditions. By school. The girls from Spence—because it’s the former home of Gwyneth Paltrow?—are up first.
A tall, fine-boned blonde takes the stage, and she’s so pretty that it looks like the auditions might be over before they’ve started. But then she opens her mouth and Vincent bites his lip, resisting, for the moment, the urge to banish her from the stage—forever.
Three more girls follow her up and it’s painfully obvious that Spence is not currently harboring the next American Idol. But at least the ice has been broken and the first wave of my Council kids are up next.
A wispy twelve-year-old black girl with cornrowed hair and skinny legs climbs hesitantly up the steps to the stage. She looks around wide-eyed, takes a deep breath and says in a tiny voice, “I’ll be singing ‘Tomorrow.’ ”
Oh god, I think. Don’t do that, Tamika. But it’s too late. Let the warbling begin. Tamika takes center stage.
The sun will come out, tomorrow.
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow,
There’ll be sun …
Did Bette Midler sneak on stage while I wasn’t looking? Is Barbra Streisand hiding behind the curtain? Tamika must be lip-synching because no one that small could sing that big. She’s blowing the roof off the place and she’s not even on the second chorus. Vincent lets her sing the whole song and he’d probably like her to sing the entire score. I glance at my Park Avenue mothers, who look stricken. So much for acting classes and hundred-dollar-an-hour singing coaches. Tamika’s a natural.
The auditions lumber on for the next two hours and the kids stay surprisingly well behaved. By the end, Vincent even has both groups talking to each other. Amanda passes around petits fours and boxes of Godiva chocolate and doesn’t even seem to be offended when one of the kids asks if she has any Krispy Kremes. Day one has been a success and the kids look genuinely pleased to hear that parts will be announced next week and they’ll be back on Wednesday to start rehearsals.
“This is going to be even better than I thought!” Vincent says enthusiastically to our little committee after the kids have left. “Isn’t that Tamika amazing? Don’t you think she’ll be an incredible Eliza! Thank goodness we have our star!”
