The Botox Diaries (20 page)

“I’m glad for you. I’m relieved to hear you have friends.” I’d like to think there’s a little glimmer of a smile when he says that, but I’m probably deluding myself.

“Anyway, it’s good to meet you,” I say. “After all our phone calls.”

“You’re right, I feel like we’ve already met,” Joshua says. He looks meaningfully at my Arts Council for Kids tote bag to let me know he
knows. I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. But civility reigns and the subject is ignored. Though with both of us so in the know, so intelligent, you’d think this conversation could move up a notch.

But instead, it turns monosyllabic.

“Fishmonger,” he says, finally getting down to business.

“Pardon?”

“Fishmonger,” he repeats, as if that explains everything. “Did you really cast the son of Lowell Cabot III as a fishmonger?”

Now I’m the one who’s silent. Nice technique, it turns out, because he keeps talking.

“His son is Chauncey. Goes to Dalton. Tried out for your play. The mother tried to reach you.”

I get it. That call I ignored in the midst of all Jacques’ messages. Though I took her advice. Cast a boy from Stuyvesant as the fishmonger.

“Not happy with his part and his mom pulled him out,” I say, to prove I’m keeping up.

Joshua Gordon nods. “His father’s one of my partners. Good man. But he and his wife are furious and threatening not to send a donation to the Arts Council this year. So your little production has made our biggest benefactors angry—which isn’t the point of having a benefit.”

“I know the point of having a benefit,” I say tartly.

“You need to raise money, not alienate donors,” Joshua says patronizingly.

“I’m sorry if your partner’s not happy—but a lot of other people are,” I say steadfastly, surprised at how strongly I’m reacting. “The benefit committee’s actually humming along, which is more than I can say for a lot of benefit committees. They’re raising lots of money and getting new people involved.” Then going on just one point too long, I add, “They’ve gotten Kate Spade to donate wallets.”

He ignores the wallets. In fact he ignores my whole speech. “The bottom line here is the bottom line,” he says. “You need to apologize to the Cabots.”

“For what?” I ask archly. “For letting them know that their money can’t buy everything?”

He pauses and I wonder if he’s deciding whether he can fire me right on the spot. On the other hand, they hardly pay me enough to fire me.

“Look, tell them whatever you want,” he says, issuing an executive command. “Just take care of it.”

“Don’t worry. I always take care of everything,” I say.

“Good.”

“This is going to be the best benefit the Arts Council has ever seen,” I add enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically. “You’ll see. Everyone’s going to love it.” When did I turn into the cheerleader from Delta Delta Delta? And to think they rejected me all those years ago.

“Glad to hear that go-get-’em spirit,” Joshua says. Does he mean it or is he making fun of me?

“I’ll figure out the Cabots,” I tell him. I don’t know how, but I will.

“Thanks. Listen, as long as we’re here, can I get you something to eat? A cup of clam chowder?”

I’m starved, but I don’t dare risk having soup dribble down my chin. Maybe a salad. Something small and green with fresh grilled tuna? No, I’m not eating with the arrogant Joshua Gordon.

“I really should be going,” I say, gathering my things together. “We said ten minutes and I don’t want to keep you.”

“Maybe another time,” he offers distractedly. But he’s already pulled out his cell phone and has moved on to his next task.

“By the way,” I ask boldly, before he finishes dialing. “What were you doing in Origins?”

He looks up, surprised by my admission, then sits back in his chair and takes me in from head to toe. “I got to Grand Central early. Figured I’d pick up a gift for my assistant. Have her working late a lot.”

“Thoughtful,” I say.

“But I didn’t get anything. Couldn’t make up my mind. Good thing my clients don’t see me trying to shop. They’d never trust me with million-dollar mergers.”

“Here,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “You might want to get your assistant these. Origins’ Peace of Mind gumballs. Don’t really know if they work as advertised. But it’s worth a shot.”

He pops one in his mouth. “Not bad. Peace of Mind, huh? I feel better about the benefit already.”

“I should have thought of this when I first came in,” I say, laughing, handing the whole box over to him.

He clicks the cover open and shut a few times, then picks up his cell phone to get back to work. “I’d never been in Origins before,” Joshua says, giving me one final meaningful glance. “But from what I can see, they do nice work.”

LUCY IS PERCHED
at the gleaming counter in her Poggenpohl-perfect kitchen, leafing through
The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook
, while I’m hunched at her travertine-granite cooking island, gazing in disbelief at the
New York Post
.

“Lucy, we need to talk about this,” I tell her.

“Sure, eventually. But right now we need to get back to making the sauce,” she says.

“We?” I ask dubiously.

“Okay, you,” she agrees, with a half laugh. “Anyway, I have plenty of recipes, if you want a different one.”

“I don’t, but why exactly do you collect cookbooks?” I ask, looking at the stack in front of her. “You never cook. You’re like a nudist subscribing to
Women’s Wear Daily
.”

“My great vice. Recipe pornography. I read and drool. Like listen to this,” she says, opening another book from her pile. “Lusciously Rich Sugar-Glazed Fruit Trifle. Slather raspberries with brown sugar and molasses, cook it all in butter and serve it hot with vanilla ice cream. Mmm. Don’t even need to eat it to feel satisfied.”

“And you’d only eat it if you were on the All-Sugar Diet.
Sugar-Boosters
. That’s the book I’m waiting for someone to publish.”

“It’d make a fortune,” she agrees, smacking her lips seductively.

“I’m into real estate porn myself,” I admit. “Read listings for country houses I can’t afford. Lust over ads for six-bedroom mansions with three fireplaces and five wooded acres. And probably kitchens like this one,” I add, pulling a glinting, high-carbon tool from her maple block.

“Use it anytime you want,” Lucy offers as I cross to the inlaid cutting board to prepare the herbs for the dinner party she’s throwing tonight for Dan.

“What’s that green stuff you’re chopping?” she asks.

“I’m mincing. And it’s cilantro.”

“And the other stuff?”

“Basil. And this one’s parsley,” I say pointing with the knife. “Come on, you’ve seen parsley before.”

“Why does everything come in green? It’s confusing,” Lucy says, playing with the lemon grater I left in front of her, foolishly thinking she might actually grate. “Even those other things you’ve got there. The ones that look like Christmas decorations. Green.”

“They’re serrano chiles, imported from Mexico and twice as hot as jalapeños,” I say, sounding like I’m auditioning for Nigella Lawson’s job on Style Network.

“How hot are jalapeños?” Lucy asks.

I put down the chopping knife. “Lucy, you couldn’t possibly care. The sauce will be delicious, I promise. Dan will be thrilled. His guests will be awed. Now are we going to talk about parsley—or that picture of you and Hunter in the Post?”

“Parsley,” Lucy says. “Much more interesting. Lots of pictures in the
Post
. But nobody’s ever chopped herbs in my kitchen before. Or used that Wüsthof Culinar Chef’s Knife, if you can believe it.”

“Why wouldn’t I believe it? I’ve seen kitchens at Expo Showroom that get more use than this one. If the Viking range people knew you tried to fry chicken in the microwave, they’d probably come over and haul this baby right out of here,” I say, patting the barely-been-used ten-thousand-dollar commercial-quality stove.

“Want it?” Lucy asks, as if I could cart off the 30,000 BTU range along with the pile of slighty worn cashmere sweaters she’s donating to
the Aruba Relief Fund. Nice of her to want to help. But only Lucy would send cashmere-aid to Caribbean hurricane victims.

“What I want is for you to talk to me about the
New York Post
. I warned you something like this would happen,” I say stubbornly, shaking my head.

“It’s not a big deal,” she insists. “So there’s a picture in the paper of Hunter and me together at Cher’s party. We work together, remember?”

“You’re so in denial. Hunter has his arm around you. He’s grinning. He’s eyeing you like you’re the icing on a cupcake. What’s Dan gonna think?”

“Dan? Come off it. If it’s not above the fold in the
Wall Street Journal
he never sees it.”

“Used to be you wouldn’t let me whisper Hunter’s name in the house. Now a lusty picture in the
Post
doesn’t even faze you?”

“Stop worrying about this. We’ve got more important things to do. I’ve been waiting all day to see you butterfly a fish,” she says, changing the subject. “Sounds vaguely against the laws of nature to me.”

“As so much is,” I say, delicately filleting the red snapper with the haute cuisine flair I learned back in the days when I was married to Jacques. Never made this Snapper Vera Cruz before but it’s looking good. Maybe I’ll whip it up for Jacques when he gets back to New York. Won’t tell Lucy that I’m using her dinner party as a test run.

Lucy comes over and puts her arm around me. “You’re such a great friend, Jess,” she says. “You worry about me even when it’s not necessary. And I’ll tell you again—this is the best birthday present anybody ever gave me. A dinner party cooked in my very own kitchen. A personal chef. I feel like Oprah.”

“Don’t get too used to it,” I joke. “This is one night only. And by the way, I thought the party would be for you. Sweet of you to make it for Dan’s clients.”

“I thought this would mean a lot to him,” Lucy says tenderly. “I’ve never cooked a gourmet meal for him before.”

“You still haven’t.”

“Technicality,” Lucy says, laughing. “And you don’t mind being
regifted, do you? You’re in good company. I usually only do that with Gallo wine and Godiva chocolate.”

I finish filleting the fish and begin blackening the chiles in one of the dozen copper pots Lucy has hanging overhead. I guess it’s easy to keep them shiny when they’re never used, but they must be a royal pain to dust.

“So what’s Dan giving you for your birthday?” I ask, staring into the pan and trying to decide if the chiles are looking properly blistered.

“We’ll see. He wants to take me shopping Sunday,” she says indifferently, “but there’s nothing I really need.” Then perking up she adds, “The big question is what I’ll get from Hunter.”

“Heartache?” I suggest.

“Very funny,” Lucy says. “I’m expecting something pretty fabulous, though. He brought a nine-hundred-dollar bottle of wine to Cher’s party to celebrate her comeback tour.”

“That woman has a comeback every two months. Hunter’ll go broke,” I say, searching through the sleek, modular pantry for sea salt. The one ingredient I forgot to bring. But never mind sea salt, I can’t even find a box of Morton’s. Maybe Lucy’s worried about hypertension.

“Did it taste any different than an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine?” I ask facetiously, trying to figure out if some extra onion will make up for the missing salt.

“Wasn’t for drinking. It was for showing off. You should have seen the way he carried it in, cradled in his arm like it was Michael Jackson’s love child. He was so damn proud of himself.”

“Do I hear a tinge of disapproval?” I ask hopefully.

Lucy takes a second to mull. “Hunter wants everyone to like him. I know that. He’s all about the grand gesture, which can make him seem kind of shallow. On the other hand,” she says, “shallow has its advantages. Being with him makes birthdays more interesting.”

“Dan would buy you anything you want for your birthday,” I remind her. “You don’t need Hunter.”

“Gifts from your lover are different than gifts from your husband,” Lucy explains patiently. “When your husband gets romantic, it comes
out of joint checking. Like Dan bought me that diamond bracelet from Cartier last year, and all I could think was that we should have been putting that money into a 401k. But Hunter can blow a fortune on me and I don’t feel guilty. It’s sheer indulgence.”

“Having an affair is nothing
but
indulgence,” I say righteously, on behalf of Pat Robertson. And my mother.

“Well, maybe it is,” Lucy says defensively. “But that’s what’s so incredible about having a lover. With Hunter I feel totally pampered. We take bubble baths together. We have sex in the afternoon. When was the last time Dan squirted whipped cream all over my body and licked it off?”

“You mean Hunter did that?” I ask, interested. Maybe there’s something to this affair thing after all.

“Not yet, but we’ve talked about it. We’ll have to use soy cream, though. Hunter’s lactose intolerant.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lucy,” I say, slamming the knife back into its slot. “The problem is you stopped trying with Dan. You take him for granted. You don’t realize what a great guy you’ve got.”

“Of course I do. Dan’s the best. I want to be with him forever. I just want to have sex with someone else for a change. Is there anything so wrong with that? I’m forty-two now, which is a woman’s sexual peak more or less. Aren’t you having the best orgasms of your life?”

“I probably would be if I had someone to have them with,” I say ruefully. “My vibrator’s not up to par lately.”

“Check the batteries,” Lucy advises. “Duracells never let you down.”

“Thanks for the tip. And here’s one for you. You want great sex? Next time you go to Le Retreat, take Dan. Or go to the Mandarin Oriental for a weekend and have rousing orgasms for two days without worrying about the kids. Bring Reddi-wip, if you want. As far as I can tell, the best thing about an affair is you have sex in fancy hotel rooms and you don’t have to make the bed afterwards.”