The Botox Diaries (12 page)

“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.

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.

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!”

He pauses, waits a beat, and when nobody answers, goes for a wrap. “I’ll cast the rest of the parts and e-mail the list over to each of you,” he says.

Sensing that everybody’s about to leave, Amanda works up her nerve and clears her throat. “Um, I’m not sure how to say this but don’t we need to pay some attention to the people who, well, will be paying for this event?”

“Yes,” pipes in Heather. “And I thought that Nicole Walters—you know her father Jerry is the CEO of Morgan Stanley—was just divine.”

“I like the girl who’s father is the CEO of Citibank,” says Allison, who’s apparently confused our auditions with a leveraged buyout.

Vincent hesitates, probably trying to decide whether casting the girl with the most talent is worth alienating the man who might fund his next project. He looks at me, figuring I might referee this round.

“Before we get to Eliza,” I say diplomatically, “I think we can all agree that Pierce is our Henry Higgins.” Vincent looks at me, needing a little more help on this one.

“Nobody could possibly accuse us of favoritism on that,” I say. “He was just so much better than any of the other boys. Is that okay with you, Pamela?”

Pamela looks down at her Ferragamos in an effort to be appropriately humble.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to think that my Pierce got the part because I’m on the committee. But,” she says blushing, “his father and I
are so proud.” She turns to Vincent, solemnly. “If you believe in him as much as we do, I promise you, he’ll never let you down.”

I have to remember that speech. I’m sure I can score some points with it during Jen’s next parent-teacher conference.

Vincent’s sold on Pierce Barone, loaded with talent—and let’s face it, just plain loaded—and nods eagerly. “But of course Pierce’s role was never in doubt. I should have made that clear from the beginning.”

Now that a place for one of their own has been secured, there’s a palpable sense of relief.

“Well, that Tamika girl was pretty talented,” Amanda ventures.

“She was,” Heather agrees. “But don’t you think Nicole and Pierce would look just darling together on stage? And their parents are already such good friends!”

I keep waiting for somebody to point out that Nicole’s thin soprano voice won’t make it past the orchestra pit. But the Park Avenue moms are too busy cooing and envisioning where this perfect casting of Nicole and Pierce could all lead—the dating, the debutante ball, the inevitable nuptials at the Plaza. Or maybe the Plaza Athénée.

“No!” Allison cries out. Didn’t this happen at our last meeting? The girl doesn’t say much, but when she does, it’s a tidal wave. “The whole idea was that all our kids would be together, rich and poor, remember? So it has to be Tamika and Pierce. One from each side. That’s what this is about.”

A general hush settles over the group. Nobody dares argue and Vincent seizes the moment. “Well, well. Good, good. If that’s what you all want then I’m with you. Tamika and Pierce it is.” Still, he’s not quite sure whether he’s back in the director’s chair or still playing diplomat. “Anybody have any other favorites?”

“I’m sure you can figure out the rest of it, Vincent,” Heather says dismissively. Now that the leads have been cast, she’s done. Handling details is for the hired help. “But I do have some big news about the benefit party,” she enthuses to the rest of the ladies. “I called Kate and she’s with us.”

Where are we off to now? Kate who? Hepburn? Hudson? Couric?

“Kate’s going to donate her newest line of pink leather wallets for our goody bags,” Heather says triumphantly. “But only for donors over $1,000. I got her to throw in some notepads for contributors over $500. You know those wallets are
precious
. Everyone wants them. It’s fabulously generous of her.”

I get it. Kate as in Spade. I like her wallets myself. In fact, I bought a knockoff from a street vendor on the corner of Fifty-second and Sixth for five bucks just a week ago. I start to suggest that I could get some of those for the under-five-hundred-dollar donors, but I stop myself just in time. The ladies here probably don’t know that you can get anything from a street vendor besides a pretzel and I don’t want to burst their bubble.

We wrap up, do our kiss-kiss good-byes, and dash outside where a lineup of chauffered Town Cars are purring at the curb. Amanda quickly slips into one while Pamela and Pierce duck into another, and they wave to each other through the tinted glass windows. No carpooling for these girls, even if they do live across the hall from each other.

Having no Town Car, driver, or even taxi waiting, I cross the street until the Park Avenue posse have pulled away, so they won’t see that yes, my feet are actually going to touch the ground and I’m going to walk to the train station. I glance at my watch, trying to decide if there’s a prayer I can make the 6:11 train home. There’s always hope. I head crosstown on Forty-fifth Street at a pace that would impress Marion Jones, veer into a back entrance to Grand Central Station and come into the home stretch, sprinting breathlessly to Track 11, landing a seat in the front car with ninety seconds to spare. Damn! I could have stopped for a package of Twizzlers. A minute later, the crush of got-it-timed-to-the-last-second commuters jump on—all of them with Twizzlers, I bet—and start scrambling for seats.

“Mind if I sit here?” asks a man who’s apparently spotted the seat next to me and doesn’t mind asking me to push aside what I’d hoped was an intimidating pile of stuff.

“Sure,” I mutter sullenly. But then I look up and see that it’s Dan standing there, smiling at me.