The Botox Diaries (19 page)

“I saw her getting her husband some coffee a minute ago,” Cynthia says promptly. “Wearing a new diamond necklace, I think. Very pretty, but a bit much for a school event, if you want my opinion.”

No, I don’t want her opinion. And besides, for anyone who needs to know, it’s not diamond, it’s Swarovski crystal. Given how much Cynthia supposedly dislikes Lucy, she sure pays a lot of attention to her. But then again, who doesn’t?

I’m about to say good-bye and look for that coffee urn when Martha grabs my arm. “Oh, Jess, before you go. I meant to call you
anyway. Can you drive my Marian to dance class on Saturday morning? Cynthia’s called an emergency PTA meeting.”

PTA emergency? A vote on whether to serve lemonade or fruit punch at the school picnic? Could take hours. “Glad to drive her. I always take Jen,” I say generously.

“Dance class? Saturday?” Cynthia asks, in a tone that suggests she’s Mother Superior. “Don’t tell me you two still go to Miss Adelaide.”

Martha looks slightly cowed, but sticks to her guns. “Of course we go to Miss Adelaide,” she says. “Everyone tells me Miss Adelaide is the best.”

“Not anymore,” Cynthia gloats. “Now it’s Miss Danielle in Glendale. Forty-minute drive—each way—but worth it. She’s
definitely
the best.”

Martha looks stunned. “I didn’t know about her,” she murmurs. “I’ll switch Marian immediately. If Miss Danielle’s the best, we’re there.”

Ah, yes. The Best. Here we go again. Do any of us settle for anything that’s not The Best? Cynthia once poured out all her Absolut vodka in the middle of a party because someone told her Grey Goose was better. I regularly schlep to the Upper West Side of Manhattan to prove I can buy New York’s best bagels. It goes without saying that nobody would dare have her daughter’s overbite corrected by the “second best” orthodontist. And ever since a cabal of mothers declared Sal the best barber in Pine Hills, no one will go to anyone else. Now all the boys in town have identical haircuts that make them look like cloned miscreants in
The Matrix
.

So dare I ask, why does Martha’s Marian, the chubby little girl in the beginner ballet class, need the best dance teacher? The best nutritionist, now that I could support.

Martha sighs heavily and turns to me. “You’ll switch, too, Jess, right?”

No, I won’t. I like Miss Adelaide, all 102 tyrannical pounds of her. And life’s too short to keep chasing the new best.

“Ballet’s not very important right now,” I say dismissively, making the decision on the spot that Jen can join the chorus of our benefit
My Fair Lady
. She’s been begging and Vincent won’t mind. “Didn’t I tell you? Jen’s making her musical debut on Broadway in a few weeks.”

Cynthia looks stricken. Trumped twice. First Lily’s blue ribbon and now Jen’s shot at a Tony Award.

“Does your daughter sing?” Marian asks reverently, desperately trying to figure out why my daughter—and not hers—is slated for Broadway.

Cynthia’s way ahead of her. “I’ll definitely get a singing coach for Isabella,” she says, pulling out her Palm-Pilot and efficiently adding another hoop for Isabella to jump through. “You must have a good one. We’ll go to him.”

“Won’t happen, sorry. Jen’s working with a very famous director who simply isn’t taking on new students,” I say condescendingly. “I’m sure you’ll find a coach for Isabella, someone capable. Too bad though. Our Vincent is … 
the best
.”

Someone should give me my own blue ribbon. Because for once, the supermoms are speechless.

I’m getting a stomachache. Joshua Gordon, new vice-chairman on the Board of Directors of the Arts Council for Kids, has left me three icy messages. I can tell I’ve done something wrong, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is. My little part-time job doesn’t usually require massive doses of Pepto-Bismol. But every time I hear Mr. Gordon’s steely voice, I want to reach for that bright pink bottle.

“Am I’m finally speaking to the
real
Ms. Taylor and not her machine?” he asks officiously, after his weary-sounding assistant puts him through at nine o’clock on Wednesday night. So the man works late. I’m impressed. Wonder how his assistant feels. “I don’t have a lot of time but there’s an issue we need to talk about. I’m sure we can settle it quickly, in person. Does tomorrow around five work for you?”

Five o’clock? Must be his lunch break. “Sure,” I say, trying to be accommodating. “I’ll come into the city. Do you mind someplace near Grand Central?”

“Grand Central’s fine. How about the Oyster Bar? This won’t take more than ten minutes.”

Yes, it will, I think when we hang up. He’ll run over from his office. But I’ll spend the morning blow-drying my hair, changing outfits, fishing around my drawers for my good jewelry, poking a nail through the first pair of pantyhose I put on—for ten bucks can’t DKNY make them last longer than ten minutes?—and changing outfits again. If I have any time, I should probably run out and buy a new pair of shoes. Lucy insists my Nine Wests are embarrassing to wear in front of board members.

At three-ten, I’m standing in the middle of Grand Central trying to figure out what deep trauma from my childhood requires that I arrive early for everything. Must I leave enough time for traffic, train breakdowns and tornadoes every time I travel? And I’ve really outdone myself today. Getting here an hour and fifty minutes early may be a new record, even for me. I’m not sure why this Joshua Gordon character is causing me such anxiety. Usually I at least have to meet a man before he can make me nuts.

I waste half an hour in the bookstore at Grand Central, reading the first twenty pages of a bestseller I’m too cheap to buy. Sure it’s funny, but I’ll wait until it’s in paperback. I browse through a pen shop, a cigar-and-chocolate emporium, and an expensive stationery store. Who decided that this is what every commuter needs? The Origins store at least is my style. I browse the shelves, picking up the Fret-Not body soufflé and the Gloom-Away cleanser. Why down a Xanax when you can just wash your face? Then there’s one that has Lucy’s name written all over it—the Never A Dull Moment spray. The label says the crushed papaya in it gobbles up lackluster skin cells. My luck, the papaya will eat the wrong cells. And another one not to miss—the Perfect World Gift Collection. Although I think that’s setting expectations for bubble bath just a tad high. Still, I go wild, buying grapefruit body scrub for Jen, tangerine-scented candles for two friends who have birthdays coming up, the complete line of Plum Passion lotions for my mom, and an oversized loofah back-scrubber with an extra-long handle just for me. Because nobody else is around to scrub my back lately.

“If you have time, I could do your makeup and give you some of our product samples,” says the ever-helpful salesgirl.

“Not short on time,” I admit, looking at my watch and seeing it’s not even four yet.

“Really?” She seems startled. Am I the only person in Grand Central not rushing somewhere? “I could do a quick-foam facial, which takes about ten minutes. Then your makeup should take another fifteen. Still okay?”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but why not?” I say, climbing onto the makeup stool. Maybe this will help me relax. And better to wait here than in the cigar shop.

“By the way,” says my salesgirl/aesthetician/makeup artist, “my name is Eve.”

That’s too good. I wonder if everybody at Origins is named Eve.

In seconds, Eve’s slathering a thick, ginger-scented goop all over my face.

“Should tingle, but feel good,” she says pleasantly. She places two thin slices of cucumbers on my eyes and a spritz of citrus balm across my lips. I’m starting to turn into the fruit plate special.

“Just sit here for a few moments and let all the botanicals make you younger-looking,” she instructs. As if I could leave looking like this. But I’m afraid if I sit here too long I’ll start to ferment.

I settle back into my chair, enjoying the sensations of my pores tightening and my lips softening. But just how is this fruit-on-the-face thing going to make me younger-looking, anyway? Fruit doesn’t seem to age all that well if you ask me. Never seen a wrinkle-free raisin or a smooth prune. And then there’s that old puckered apple at the bottom of my refrigerator. Oh well, at least the fruit facial is cheaper than Lucy’s Botox.

“Feeling pretty?” Eve asks, as she comes back over to me. “We’ll take off the mask in another minute. And I’ve wrapped your purchases. They’re at the register.”

“Do you have my credit card?” I ask, remembering that I didn’t take it back.

“Did I leave Jessica Taylor’s card over there?” Eve calls out loudly to a colleague across the room.

“Yup, right here,” another salesperson sings back. “Jessica Taylor. Got it.”

Eve removes the cucumber slices from my eyes just in time for me to see an impeccably dressed, silver-haired man put down the oversized gift basket he was considering and look at me quizzically.

“Jessica Taylor? The Jessica Taylor I have an appointment with at five?” he asks, taking a few steps toward me.

“Um, no,” I say, mortified, turning the swivel chair around and furiously wiping the glop off my face with the nearest wad of cotton. “Not me. No appointment.”

He pauses and stares conspicuously at my blue Arts Council for Kids tote bag sitting on the counter. My god the man is handsome. Chiseled features. Perfect profile. I bet his picture looks great in the annual reports. And me? A gucky mess with ginger mask coagulating around my ears. I try to brush my hair back and end up with a fistful of foam.

“You’re not the fund-raiser Jessica Taylor? You sure about that?” he asks dubiously.

“No, I don’t raise funds. I raise … um … poodles,” I say, thoroughly humiliating myself. “I’m the poodle-raiser Jessica Taylor.”

He’s not buying it. What’s the matter, don’t I look like a dog person? “Listen, Jessica,” he says, glancing pointedly at his watch, “we can talk right here and save some time.”

This can’t be Joshua Gordon. It just can’t. Not now, not like this. I’ve been planning all day how professional I’ll look when he sees me. I’ve got on my best business suit and I brought a briefcase instead of a pocketbook. The only reason I agreed to the makeup here in the first place was I thought Eve could give me that understated-but-polished-working-woman-of-the-world look that Lucy knows how to do all by herself.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, tucking my chin down as far as it’ll go. Go away, please just go away. “Nope,” I shake my head vigorously.

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing off. “I’m supposed to meet someone
with your same name. My mistake. I guess no top-flight fund-raiser would be so frivolous as to get a facial in the middle of the workday, now would she?”

He leaves and I watch him dissolve into the crowd at Grand Central. What was I thinking, having my makeup done here? How many people come through this terminal a day? Let’s take a wild guess. Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? But of all people, why Joshua Gordon? Why him? The real surprise is that I didn’t see more people I know. Or that more people didn’t see me. Maybe they did. There’ll probably be a picture of me getting a facial on the front page of the
Pine Hills Weekly
.

But for now I’m stuck sitting here licking my wounds. Not to mention licking citrus balm off my lips. So much for my dignity. I want to disappear, but somehow, I have to make myself go to that meeting. And it won’t help my case to show up without makeup, even if I am freshly foamed. I try to sit patiently while Eve applies her magic creams and chatters on about the latest light-reflecting foundation, the silicone-smoothing eye cream and the retinol moisturizer that’s supposed to take ten years off my face. Between that and the fruit, I’m going to end up looking younger than Jen.

The fifteen minutes of makeup turns into thirty, because Eve tells me that putting on enough makeup to get the natural look takes longer. I don’t want to look natural. I want to look like someone Joshua Gordon has never seen in his whole life. Maybe he won’t recognize me, anyway. It was just a quick glance.

While Eve’s busy applying three different blushers to accentuate the apples of my cheeks, I swipe my lips with my own color-tinted ChapStick and jump off the chair. Enough. I have to get out of here.

“You look gorgeous,” Eve says. “Hope you’re going somewhere special.”

“Business meeting,” I say, bustling toward the door. And then I stop. “But damn, I can’t go to a business meeting carrying Origins shopping bags. Can I leave them here until afterward?”

“Sure, but they’re excellent bags,” Eve explains innocently. “Recyclable. All natural. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Well, that would be the only thing not to be embarrassed about today.

Despite everything, I arrive at the Oyster Bar at five o’clock on the dot, but Joshua Gordon is already seated, drumming his fingers on a table.

I take a deep breath. I can do this. I’ve raised a child on my own. I’ve dated on TV. I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro. Not really, but I read about someone who did. All it takes is a little faith in myself. I walk over to the table.

“Hello,” I say, blooming with confidence as I extend my hand. “I’m Jessica Taylor. You must be Gordon Joshua.”

“Joshua Gordon,” he corrects me.

“Right. Sorry. You have two first names. It could go either way.”

“No it couldn’t. It’s Joshua Gordon.”

“I bet people do that all the time.”

“No, this is the first time, actually.”

“Of course. Joshua Gordon. Got it. Check.” I wait, knowing it’s his turn to say something. But anxiety gets the best of me.

“I had another friend with two first names,” I say, babbling into the silence. “Steve Roberts. Only his real name was Steve Robert Gravano. Dropped the Gravano when he was buying a co-op on Fifth Avenue because he thought it sounded too Italian.”

“I’m not Italian.”

“No, of course you’re not,” I say. “I mean, you could be. I could be, too. But I’m not, either. Not that it matters. For either of us. You know, some of my best friends are. Italian, I mean. And some are not. Italian. And I’m friends with, um, all my friends.”

I want to die. Lord, please kill me right now. This minute. Do that lightning-bolt thing you do so well. But no such luck.