The Botox Diaries (16 page)

“You see, we’re in the same boat,” she says exuberantly. “I have Hunter, you have Jacques. Great sex for everyone.”

“I’m kind of hoping Jacques is more than a few nights of great sex,” I admit.

“You never know,” says Lucy, who’d been thrilled when I first told her about my night with Jacques. She’d even consulted an editor friend at
Modern Bride
about whether you wear white to a re-wedding ceremony and called me with the answer: Ecru.

“By the way, I’m sorry if all that with Manuel was a little over-the-top,” says Lucy, “but it might be something fun for you to try with Jacques. Keep him on his toes, so to speak. If Hunter went for it, anyone will. Oh, and about Hunter. Can I tell you what he did with me last night?”

“You could, but no, don’t,” I say just a little too harshly. I’m finished talking about toes, spleens, breasts, tantric sex and whatever the heck else they dreamed up last night. I promised myself I’d tell Lucy what I think about all this, and I’m going to. I take a deep breath.

“Look, I’m not mad,” I say, “but I’ve got to tell you the truth. I’m sure you had fun last night, whatever you did. But I look at you with Hunter and the whole thing’s just wrong. He’s not the guy you’re meant to be with. He isn’t your soul mate.”

“I don’t know about the soul mate thing,” she says, shrugging, “but we have so much fun. I love his life. It’s so different from mine. We go to fancy Hollywood parties. I never thought I’d like that sort of thing, but with him it’s fun. He knows everybody. Did I tell you that two nights ago he took me to dinner at Sting’s house?”

Sting’s house? I wouldn’t have minded eating there myself. Two nights ago I was at the mommy-daughter book club. Whatever Sting served had to have been better than the low-cholesterol Jarlsberg and low-sodium saltines that Cynthia offered up. But Sting’s seaweed-wrapped hors d’oeuvres are beside the point.

“Lucy, you say this is a little fling, but don’t you see what’s happening? It’s totally out of hand. You’re going out in public with the guy. You’re lying to Dan. You’re risking your marriage. You’re being totally self-centered. Plus you’re gaining weight.”

Lucy whips around so fast that I think she’s going to fly off the chair. “Oh damn, am I really?”

“Which part of that worries you?”

“The weight.” She takes her thumb and forefinger and starts pinching her inner thigh. “Maybe I’m just bloated.”

“No, you’re fine,” I say impatiently. “I was just trying to get your attention. Did you hear anything else I said?”

“Of course,” she says, still inch-a-pinching her thighs and moving on to her totally toned midsection.

“You’re not fat. Just stupid.”

Well, that was a bucket of cold water. Her face reddens—not from the sun—and her mouth quite literally drops open. I always thought that was just a figure of speech. Then she swoops around, eyes flashing.

“I’m
stupid? I’m
stupid? Really? I’m one of the goddamn smartest people I know. I’m a television producer, remember? Important people talk to me. I interviewed Carl Sagan three weeks before he died. Stephen Hawking gave me a full sit-down interview.”

“He always sits down. He’s in a wheelchair.”

Lucy glares at me with an expression that would wither Sting’s rain forest. But I’m not stopping.

“You know, if you had a single ounce of intelligence you’d be kissing Dan’s feet every morning. Rather than whatever parts of Hunter you’re doing I-don’t-care-what with.”

“This has nothing to do with Dan,” Lucy says imperiously.

“Nothing to do with Dan? If you think that then you really
are
stupid.”

I’m so furious that all I want to do is jump off the chair and storm away, but Marielle has me by the ankles. Who knows what will happen to my energy flow if I jerk my foot around—could end up needing my appendix removed. So I sit back with my arms folded across my chest, fuming. And the best I can tell, Lucy’s steaming, too.

Hours pass. The tide comes in. The sun sets. The leaves change. Stephen Hawking walks. Carl Sagan zooms back on a shooting star.

Or maybe it just feels that way.

Lucy ends the standoff. “If anything’s stupid, it’s this argument,” she says finally, sounding apologetic. “You’re my best friend, Jess. I’m sorry I lost my temper. I know you mean well. It’s just you can’t really understand.”

“What can’t I understand?” I ask, not quite ready to uncross my arms.

“What my life’s like.”

“Not really different than anybody else’s,” I say. But then I pause. “Well, you do have more men than the rest of us.”

We both smile and hell unfreezes. Lucy leans over and rubs my arm. “Jess, stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing. I love Dan, I really do. That will never change. I’ve got things under control.”

That’s what they all think. I decide to make one last stab.

“Want to hear how it feels from the other side?” I ask, as we slip our
totally massaged and relaxed toes back into our sandals and head up the beach. “I’ve never told anybody about this. But you know all those reasons I’ve always given you for why I left Jacques? You know, we didn’t have enough in common. He didn’t want a child. All that? Well, it’s all true. But there was one more. He didn’t think I’d get hurt, either.”

Lucy stops dead in her tracks. “He was having an affair?”

“Yup. It’s not something I’ve ever been able to talk about. Even to you. I was too embarrassed. I thought somehow it was my fault. But Jacques didn’t even think it was a big deal. He said it had nothing to do with me. Wouldn’t change our relationship. He loved me.”

“I bet he did,” Lucy says fervently. “Who wouldn’t love you?”

“Funny, you don’t feel so loved when you find out something like that,” I say, flooded with memories. All the bad memories I’ve been trying to keep at bay since Jacques has come back into my life.

“I’m sorry you got hurt. But Dan won’t find out,” Lucy promises.

We walk a few steps in silence and Lucy links her arm in mine. Maybe some of what I’ve said is starting to sink in.

“You never forgave Jacques?” Lucy finally asks.

“Hard to say,” I admit. “At the moment, the whole question’s up in the air.”

WHEN I GET BACK
from Puerto Vallarta, the message light on my answering machine is flashing like a Las Vegas slot machine. I try to count the neon pulses but give up at seventeen and press PLAY. First comes a round of irate calls from Park Avenue stage mothers, shocked—shocked—that their children’s talents at singing, acting, and sucking up haven’t been properly rewarded with a key role in
My Fair Lady
. I’m trying to figure out how they knew to call me when one mother reveals that my number was on the bottom of the casting announcement, put there by our ever-clever director Vincent. Who apparently takes calls only from Nathan Lane.

Then comes a series of increasingly agitated message from Jacques. He’s had a change of plan. Instead of New York, his business meeting will be in Dubai.

So sorry to disappoint you, ma chérie
, he says sorrowfully.
You were looking forward to seeing me, non? Another time. Soon. Je promis. Téléphone-moi
.

In the next message—an hour later? the next day?—he isn’t
très content
. Why didn’t I call him
immédiatement
?

I know you’re out of town
, he says, his voice now slightly agitated.
But you must call
.

Apparently he doesn’t know I’m the only person in the universe who shells out $150 a month to Verizon and still hasn’t mastered the art of beeping in.
Time
magazine may put me on the cover.

Are you mad at moi?
he asks in the next, an edge of panic creeping into his tone.
Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Do not be mad at moi
.

Two more calls to tell me I shouldn’t be upset. He’s had a change of plan, not heart. He’ll make it up to me. He loves me.

I kick off my shoes and sit down. This is taking longer than I’d bargained for.

Here’s what we will do
, he says, panic gone and confidence restored.
You will come with me to Dubai on Thursday. I am sending the ticket. You will have it tomorrow
.

There’s a plan. Fly out Thursday to Dubai. Which is where, exactly? I seem to remember it’s in Africa. Or possibly Arabia. Is there still an Arabia? Maybe I’m thinking of Abu Dhabu. Abba Dabba? Yabba dabba doo. No, that’s what Fred Flintstone said.

I take a deep breath. Never mind where Jacques wants to send me, my mind seems to wander all on its own.

Next beep. Next message.

My Chauncey doesn’t go to Dalton so he can be cast as a fishmonger!
screams a furious mother’s voice.
Chauncey will not be in the play! He’s joining the lacrosse team instead! Get someone from Stuyvesant to be your fishmonger
.

I guess that’s not Jacques.

But maybe this last one will be.

Thursday, ma chérie. My car will meet you at the airport
. Jacques’ voice is smooth as crème fraîche.
We will make love every night. During days I have meetings, but for you there is shopping. A tour of the city. A hike in the mountains. And I will arrange a desert camel ride, je promis
.

The desert. At least that helps me pin down the continent. And here I am lusting after a man who’s promising me camel rides. But enough. I click off the machine and notice the International FedEx package sticking out from my pile of unopened mail. Jacques’ secretary always was efficient. How is it that all of a sudden, I’m everyone’s favorite travel companion? My biggest trip last year was to the opening
of Sam’s Club. Now between Jacques and Lucy, it’s raining airline tickets.

Still, meeting Jacques in Dubai, Dubuque, Des Moines, or wherever the heck he has me going is out of the question. Because unless some family in Appalachia has decided to take her in, Jen will be home this afternoon. I can’t wait to get her back. Come on, Jacques. Please tell me you remember I have a daughter, and that I can’t pick up and fly six thousand miles to have sex with you. Though god knows I’d like it.

I take my suitcase to go unpack and, as if on cue, the phone rings. I wish I had caller ID. I’m not talking to Chauncey’s mother about the indignity of her precious progeny playing a fishmonger. And I’m not prepared for Jacques just now. But what if it’s Appalachia calling and the nurse is on the line? I warned Jen about those power tools. There’s been an accident, a horrible, bloody accident. My poor baby’s been hurt.

I drop my suitcase and grab for the phone, almost knocking it off the desk. “Hello, is everything okay?” I ask anxiously.

“Oui, oui, mon amour
. Now that I have you I am happy again,” Jacques says, his honeyed voice calming me even from so far away. “So you got the ticket? I will see you in two days?”

“I wish,” I say, surprised at how glad I am to hear from him. “But it’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible. Not where we’re concerned.”

“I can’t meet you this time. My daughter. You forgot about Jen.”

“Ah, Jen. Your little wren. But that’s easy—another ticket! Think how much she will love the camel ride!”

I laugh and cradle the phone closer to my ear. Yes, I’d love to see Jacques on Thursday. Would do anything to see him. Except leave my daughter. “Unfortunately, school vacation’s just ending and it’s going to be a big week in history class,” I joke, thinking ahead to next week’s schedule. “They’re just getting to Lewis and Clark.”

“Lewis? Jerry Lewis?” Jacques asks, perking up to Jen’s academics.

Oh please, not that French thing with Jerry Lewis again. Best just to ignore it. “I’m sorry, Jacques,” I say. “I wish you could still come here. I miss you.”

“Moi aussi,”
Jacques says, crestfallen. “I’ve been dreaming about our being together. But
c’est d’accord
, I understand. Your little girl. She’s the only reason I would take no for an answer. But I must hold you in my arms again soon.”

“I want that too.”

“A thousand kisses.”

For the first three days after she gets back home from Appalachia, Jen drives me crazy and I can’t figure out what’s going on. Maybe I should have gone to Dubai. She insists on dragging me to the mall and trying as hard as she can to max out my Discover card. Limited Too isn’t good enough for dresses and we have to go to Betsey Johnson. Never mind that the styles are too sophisticated for her and too teenagey for me—she loves them. She wants fancy sandals with heels and I should get the same pair. Her wish list includes dangling earrings for me, a sparkling bracelet for her, glossy pink lipstick for both of us, long-lasting lash-enhancing mascara (which I won’t even discuss) and seventy-five-dollar José Eber haircuts. Thinking I’m being a sport, I give in on the dresses and splurge on the bracelet. But when I won’t pony up for the rest, my usually even-tempered sweetie stomps away in a huff.

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything,” she pouts, turning her back to me on the escalator.

This time she’s right. I don’t.

Sunday morning, for some reason, Jen wakes me up unnaturally early. She’s a vision in the new Betsey Johnson, the glittery bracelet, and the six bejeweled barrettes that Lily gave her last birthday.

“You gotta get up, Mom,” she says urgently. “Put on your new dress. And I picked out a pair of shoes for you. They’re not as good as the sandals you wouldn’t buy, but they’ll be okay.”

I blink, trying to figure out what’s going on. Why is she all dressed up? Is it Easter again so soon?

“I’ll be okay for what?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you later. C’mon. You’ve got to make pancakes. You’ve gotta hurry.”

Jen and I always have pancakes on Sunday morning, but today she’s so jumpy she can barely sit still long enough to eat one, never mind her usual stack of four with fresh banana topping.

When the doorbell rings, she shoots up like a rocket. “Get it! Get it!” she shrieks, so excited you’d think Clay Aiken was coming for a playdate. “You should have worn the new dress, but I guess your jeans are okay.”