The Botox Diaries (11 page)

“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.

“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.