The Botox Diaries (22 page)

“It is,” he says thoughtfully. “I’m just not sure if he’s the forever person.”

He? Did I hear that right? Okay, I was born in Ohio, but I’ve lived
in New York for a long time. I shop on Christopher Street. I watch
Will & Grace
. I’m not shocked. But “he” sounds a lot like “she” and I don’t want to jump to conclusions.

“So, tell me about your … forever person. What’s … their name?” I ask, searching for the right pronoun.

“Cliff,” says Boulder happily. “He’s gorgeous. He looks just like me. And we’re both Aries.”

“And me a Sagittarius. Guess you and I just weren’t in the stars, Boulder.”

“Maybe that was it,” he says, nodding. Because obviously it was astrology and not our slight difference in sexual orientation that kept us apart.

“So why isn’t Cliff your forever person?” I ask.

“Maybe he is,” Boulder says. “We’re so right together. The only big problem with the relationship is my mom.”

That I can understand. “Is she having trouble accepting Cliff?” I ask sympathetically. “At least she won’t have to deal with a daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, she really loves Cliff,” Boulder says eagerly. “She loves everything about him. She just can’t get over the fact that he’s not Catholic. She’s pretty strict about my not dating boys outside the religion.”

A nice post-modern twist. Mom’s good that he’s gay. But she’s a traditionalist. Still yearns for a church wedding. No matter what the Pope says.

“Your mom’s pretty devout?” I ask.

“You bet. She’s the last person I know who still eats fish on Friday. She doesn’t care that Vatican II declared the Mass can be in English—she reads it in Latin. Well, she doesn’t really read Latin. All she knows is
veni, vidi, vici
. Doesn’t get her very far.”

“Only Latin phrase I know is
carpe diem
. Seize the day,” I say. “Which is exactly what you need to do here.”

“I’ll do it,” Boulder says eagerly. Then pausing, he asks, “But do what?”

“Take action. Go for what you want. Have you talked to Cliff about converting? Might solve the problem for your mom.”

“I never thought to ask,” Boulder says.

“You have to,” I say resolutely. “If this is a serious relationship, everything gets put on the table. You make sacrifices for each other. Every relationship has obstacles, but if you want to be together, you work them out.”

Boulder looks at me wide-eyed. “You’re right, I’m going to talk to Cliff. Thanks, Jess. You’re smart. How do you know so much?”

Now there’s the question of the evening. I seem to be good at everyone’s relationships but my own.

“Mostly I read a lot,” I say. “Everything I know is from Chekhov.”

Boulder stares at me blankly. I better explain it in a way he’ll understand. “Chekhov. Think of him as the guy who wrote the original
Sex and the City
. Russian version.”

Boulder grins affectionately. “See, you really are smart. And I was so smart to pick you as my date. We’re going to be BFF.”

Now I’m the one who doesn’t get it. It’s late and he’s speaking in initials. “Help me out on this one,” I say.

“BFF,” Boulder says, coming over and locking pinkies with me. “Best Friends Forever.”

Boulder spends the night on the couch, and in the morning, he brews a pot of coffee for me, leaves a note signed with a happy face, and is gone before Jen or I wake up. I have to get out of the house quickly, too. I’m meeting my Park Avenue benefit friends Amanda Beasley-Smith and Pamela Barone for a fashion show at Chanel. And what in heaven’s name can I wear? I’ve read about the quandary celebrities face before these events—put on a Versace for the Versace show and a Prada for Prada or is that too much pandering? Lacking couturier choices, I settle on a little black dress. It isn’t Chanel, but I think of it as my
homage
to the great Madame Coco, who, when her lover died, vowed to put the whole nation in mourning. And darned if every fashionable woman in New York isn’t still wearing black.

Three blocks from the store, I realize that I’ve forgotten my invitation,
and my name probably won’t be at the door. Even the security guard will know at a glance that the dress isn’t the real deal. But I don’t have to worry because Amanda and Pamela are standing outside, politely waiting for me. Those girls were well brought up. Swiss finishing schools are good for more than snagging a rich husband.

“Thanks for inviting me here,” I say as we head up the grand staircase to the private showroom.

“We thought it would be fun,” says Pamela. “Private viewings are always so much better than those big fashion-week productions.”

“Always such a terrible crowd at those,” agrees Amanda. “You can never buy anything. And the private viewing is all about buying.”

I’d love to buy, but I forgot to bring my trust fund. Best I can do is spring for the Chanel Pink Mink nail polish. Yummy color, but at $16, is it really worth it? Any better than my $2.50 Wet ’n’ Wild? I know this outing is Amanda’s way of thanking me for all the work on the benefit and making me feel like one of the girls. But it’s making me feel like one of the poor girls.

As we step into the private viewing room, a salesgirl who’s barely older than Jen hands us each an elegantly embossed pad of paper—definitely better stock than my wedding invitations—and a gold pen.

“Feel free to mark down the numbers of as many outfits as you want,” she says, standing in a perfect pose to show off the classic pink Chanel suit she’s wearing. I wonder if the rules here are like McDonald’s and she had to pony up for her own uniform. If so, that pink number should be fully paid for by the time she’s ninety. Maybe I should tell her about the economic advantages of babysitting in Pine Hills. And she can do that in jeans.

The show begins, heralded by hip-hop music pulsating so loudly that I wonder if they’re trying to drive out everybody over thirty. The fifty or so young socialites in the audience give a smattering of applause as the models prance out in the latest variations of the classic Chanel suit—this season, micro-mini short, Pilates-body-tight, and finished—or not finished—with frayed edges. Maybe hems cost extra. The traditional ladylike links that used to be strung delicately at the
waist have been replaced by clunky metal biker chains ripped off from the Hell’s Angels. I used to think you had to be old enough to wear Chanel. Now you have to be young enough.

Amanda and Pamela, obviously in their element, are delightedly nudging each other and scrawling down notes faster than Joyce Carol Oates churning out a new novel. I’m very busy, too, trying to identify the lovely thin blond woman in the front row, wearing jeans and a wispy, sheer blouse with sprays of flowers on it. Her perfectly highlighted hair is gathered back loosely in a rubber band. It couldn’t be Gwyneth Paltrow. Maybe it is Gwynnie. Gee, her pale features look washed out when she’s not done up in movie makeup, and that painted porcelain pendant hanging from her neck definitely didn’t come from Harry Winston. Look at that—five minutes at Chanel and I’m already a snob.

Each model—none of them weighing more than a lettuce leaf—struts past, thrusting her angular hipbones from side to side, showing off the last of the daytime ensembles. Then the hip-hop music changes to Ella Fitzgerald, the lights go from bright white to amber and a model sways toward us, wrapped in a pale-nude column of fluttery chiffon. There’s a murmur of pleasure, and a stirring of excitement as pad pages flip and numbers are furiously recorded. Entranced, I make a note about the diaphanous, mint green strapless gown. Wouldn’t that look spectacular hanging in my closet? Maybe not, because I have nothing to hang next to it. I bet half these women have whole rooms dedicated exclusively to their designer evening wear. As they say on Park Avenue, you can’t have too many ball gowns.

The music stops, the lights go back up, and there’s a pause in the action while the models regroup—maybe it’s time for their vitamins—and the first wave of orders are placed.

“I have to get that floaty chiffon,” Pamela says eagerly. “Gorgeous, wasn’t it? And so romantic. It reminds me of the tulle skirt I wore last year to the Metropolitan Opera Ball.”

“Didn’t save it?” I ask.

She looks at me askance. “I could never wear anything from last season,” she admits.

I could. And I accept hand-me-downs. Because even if I won the lottery, would I ever plunk down four thousand dollars of my own for a designer dress? Seems so frivolous. But just looking at clothes this beautiful makes me feel good, so I can imagine how I’d feel wearing them. Completely spectacular. Completely invincible. Ready to take on the world. For now, though, I guess I’ll have to conquer the world in khakis. Easier for getting in and out of the subway.

Amanda and Pamela trade notes, making sure that they’re not going to end up at some gala in identical dresses. There’s a little brouhaha over the absolutely divine number nineteen. Neither of them can remember exactly what it was, but they’re both sure that they have to have it.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” I suggest helpfully.

“No, that’s okay,” Pamela says with a little smile. “Amanda can have this one. But the next one we both want goes to me.” I wonder if the pact applies only to Chanel—or if Pamela will invoke it to claim the best nanny, the choicest Aspen ski rental, or the ground-floor coop they’ve each been dying to buy for their housekeeper.

They hand their forms to the girl in pink, who seems surprised that I don’t offer up mine, too. “You didn’t find anything you liked?” she asks with concern. “Is there something I should tell Mr. Lagerfeld? He always loves feedback.”

“Not that he does anything about it,” sniffs Pamela, who’s obviously expressed her opinions before.

“It’s true,” says Amanda politely. “Calvin takes our comments much more seriously.”

“So does Ralph.

“And Oscar.”

“Mr. Lagerfeld has been very busy lately,” the young salesgirl offers in his defense. “You know he just lost ninety-two pounds.”

Amanda and Pamela nod, as if this non sequitur actually means something. Maybe it does. Hard to take feedback on an empty stomach.

The salesgirl wiggles away on her stiletto kitten mules and Amanda and Pamela wriggle around on the hardback gold chairs. As with everything I’ve seen here, the chairs are a triumph of form over function.

“By the way,” Pamela says to me with her best Cheshire cat smile. “Amanda and I have something for you after the show. A little gift to thank you for the benefit. You deserve it. Everyone on the board’s been talking about what a great job you’re doing.”

“Everyone?” I ask. “That’s really nice. But I’m betting there’s one exception.”

“Why would you think that?” asks Amanda quizzically.

I bite my lip. Should I admit it? “I had a little run-in. With Josh Gordon,” I say, trying to figure out how much to tell them. “The man hated me sight unseen and once he did see me”—with my face slathered in fruit goop; okay, some things you don’t share even with the girls—“and once he did see me, it only got worse.”

“I haven’t heard a thing about it,” says Pamela with a shrug.

“Probably not your fault anyway. Josh’s having a hard time lately,” says Amanda, looking over to Pamela to see if she’s heard the gossip. But Pamela looks blank and realizing that she’s the one with the scoop, Amanda tantalizingly adds, “Alden told me all about what happened with Josh’s wife. Everyone kept it quiet for a long time. It’s so, so sad.”

“My gosh, what is it?” asks Pamela, concerned. “An accident? Is she sick?”

“Worse,” says Amanda, serenely crossing her hands in her lap. “She left him and ran off with her tennis pro.”

That happens in real life? Wives still run off with the tennis pro? Now that we’re into a new millennium, I would have thought it would be her Bikram yoga instructor.

“Oh my god,” says Pamela. “She ran off with Dawson? The guy with the ponytail and the silver stud earring? He’s the best pro at the club. I always liked him.”

“Everyone does. Or did. He’s adorable,” says Amanda.

“But he’s going to suffer,” says Pamela archly. “I don’t care if he has a great backhand. Nobody will go to him anymore.”

“You’re right. Such a scandal,” Amanda says, pursing her lips.

“No, no, not that,” says Pamela huffily. “If Dawson’s hooked up with Mia, he’s just not going to be available off the court. So what good is he? Won’t be able to go out to lunch. Or to those black-tie
things our husbands think are so boring. He had such a gift. I took Dawson with me to the Polo Dance two summers ago and I have to say, he was divine.” She looks off dewy-eyed, leaving us to wonder just where else Dawson might have been divine.

But Amanda’s not worried about Dawson’s career or Pamela’s need for a new pro. She has more details that must be shared.

“Anyway, Josh was devastated. As you can image. He had no idea. He didn’t even know she was taking tennis lessons.”

“Mia’s a fool,” Pamela says. “You have your little affair, fine. But you don’t walk away from a good husband for a tennis pro. I’m sure she’ll come back.”

“Josh won’t let her. Filed for divorce. Alden says he gave her a huge settlement and it’s over.”

Pamela pauses, too well bred to ask how much.

“Who got Ireland?” she asks instead.

“The country?” I ask, thinking that these people are so rich they even divide Europe between them.

“No, the daughter,” says Pamela.

“Joint custody. Josh is such a dear,” Amanda says loyally. “He has such a good heart and he takes care of everybody. Including Mia. What could she have been thinking?”

“Just another woman facing forty and panicking. Promise me we’ll stay with our husbands,” she says to Amanda. “If we need some rejuvenation, we’ll just go off and have face-lifts together.”

“Let’s start with our eyes and go from there,” says Amanda conservatively. Then turning back to me, she explains, “So with all that, you’ve got to understand that Josh isn’t quite himself. He’s been on edge all year. I’m sure it was nothing personal against you.”

Abruptly, the music starts up again and more gossip about Josh Gordon is tabled as the models swirl out to tempt us a few more times.

“So did you pick your favorite?” Amanda asks me when it’s all over.