The Botox Diaries (26 page)

“Howya doin,
Hoib?”
Dahlia asks in a perfect New Yawk accent, which reveals that she isn’t old money, she just married it. “Everything still hunky-dory?”

“I’m great,” he says, beaming. He stands up a little straighter—not taller, but straighter—blossoming under her doting attention.

“You all know this boy’s the best, don’t ya?” she asks, squeezing his arm and pressing herself a little closer to him.

“You’re too nice to me,” he says, pretending to be modest, but obviously basking in her adulation. I always wonder how some women do that—make a man feel ten feet tall even if he’s barely five-foot-eight. If I went all honey-tongued and pressed myself against a guy, I don’t think I’d get the same results. I’ve never been good at obsequious. Can spell it, though. Which gets me almost nowhere.

“Another drink, sweetie?” asks Dahlia, still hanging—make that dripping—on “Hoib.”

Another drink? Isn’t he going to be wielding needles soon? I’d like to think the AMA is at least as strict as the pilots’ union. No alcohol consumption for six hours before going on the job.

Dahlia signals a waiter who takes away one empty glass and hands the enthralled Herb a refill. Thank goodness. Seltzer.

“Bottoms up,” Dahlia says, taking wine for herself and clicking glasses with her guest of honor. “As soon as you’re done, I have seven guests ready for their Botox. Don’t worry. They’ve already bought your book. All you have to do is sign and shoot.”

Herb takes a final gulp of seltzer, and lacking a scrub sink, wipes
his palms along the side of his pants. Then moving to the center of the ballroom, he sits down at a white and gilded Louis XVI desk and lines up half a dozen ballpoint pens and an equal number of hypodermics.

A nurse—or at least someone in a white uniform—makes her way through the gaggle of waiting women. “Ladies, who wants Emla? Emla anyone?” she asks perkily.

“Numbing cream,” Lucy translates for me.

Most of the women accept her offer. Using a long cotton-tipped stick, the nurse swabs their foreheads with a greasy ointment, then slaps a piece of white gauze over it.

“Starting to look like a war zone,” I say to Lucy. “What’ll happen when they’re done?”

“Just some light bruising,” Lucy shrugs. “Usually, anyway. Though there was that one time when I got collagen and the needle marks looked like a row of bullet holes.”

“Great. Maybe after this Botox party we can stage a little reenactment of the War of 1812.”

Could be I really am the only virgin in the room, though, because nobody else seems to be paying much attention to the shooting gallery in the middle of the party. I, on the other hand, am riveted as the good—we hope—doctor yanks on a plastic surgical glove and picks up an oversized needle. His first patient eagerly comes forward.

“So the most beautiful woman steps up first,” he says with an easy charm. A flattering line beats a Harvard Medical degree anytime. Especially if you want all the rich women in New York flocking to your door. “Scrunch that pretty forehead for me and we’ll see if there’s anything at all we need to fix.”

She scrunches and he nods. “We can take care of this little problem quickly,” he says, and rapidly begins shooting into the offending wrinkle. Three, four, five, six quick injections. I stop counting.

“Done,” he says, smiling and bidding the nurse to get an ice pack. “You’ll be perfect. But we want to make sure the Botox doesn’t move around. You know the rules. Don’t bend over or lie down for the next four hours.”

“Another reason I could never have Botox,” I say to Lucy as the
first patient moves away, ice pack pressed to her forehead. “How could I ever go four hours without touching my toes or having sex?”

“You can have sex standing up,” Lucy counters.

“I know,” I say grimly. “Did that in Vermont.”

“Good, then there’s no reason not to have Botox,” Lucy concludes, gently nudging me forward. “You can go ahead of me.”

“That’s okay.” I snag the last of the bacon wraps from a passing waiter. “For now, I’ll stick with food fat to fill in the wrinkles. Although usually what it does is fill out my hips.”

“We can make that work to your advantage,” Lucy advises with a laugh. “Herb can liposuction the fat from your thighs and inject it into your face. It’s like winning the daily double.”

An X-ray-thin octogenarian standing behind us waves her cane excitedly. “I’ve done it three times,” she chirps. “You don’t have to worry if you don’t have enough fat of your own, because Herb will arrange for a lipo donor.”

Lipo donor. Now there’s a job I’m well equipped for. I pat my wholesome thighs. Who knew these chubby babies could open up a whole new career for me?

One woman after another comes up to Dr. Parnell for the scrunch and shoot. When it’s finally Lucy’s turn, she gives her copy of
The Needle of Youth
to Dr. Parnell who scrawls, “In Beauty We Trust,” and hands it back to her.

“So what’s up for you today?” Dr. Parnell asks, quickly getting down to business. “I don’t see a lot of problems but give me a scrunch.”

Lucy tries mightily but she can’t. I know because I can see her nostrils flaring and her eyes half-closed. But her forehead is scrunch-proof.

“I just had Botox five weeks ago,” she says apologetically. “But I was thinking I could use a booster.”

“Don’t think so. Nothing’s moving,” says Dr. Parnell. “Maybe some place other than the forehead?”

“Be careful not to overdose her or she’ll die,” I pipe in, as if I know what I’m talking about.

Dr. Parnell laughs tolerantly. “Nobody’s ever died from Botox,” he says.

Right. Botox is just botulism. I spent my whole life avoiding dented cans and now it’s the choice
du jour
.

“One thing
has
been bothering me,” Lucy says, glancing down at the deeply cut V-neck on her wrap dress.

Surely she can’t be expecting Dr. Parnell to do on-the-spot breast implants. And why would she need them? Another new toy? Aren’t the Porsche and the boyfriend enough?

“The top of my breasts are starting to get crinkly,” Lucy whispers so softly you’d think she was a mole for the CIA. “There’s some creasing.”

Dr. Parnell traces an imaginary fault line on her chest. “I think it’s just cleavage. But if it’s bothering you, consider it gone,” he says.

“How can you—” Lucy starts to ask. But Dr. Parnell’s done talking. Before the question’s even out of her mouth, he’s stabbing a needle into her chest.

Lucy squeals and looks up, too startled to say anything.

Dr. Parnell points the glistening, used needle into the air and smiles proudly. “Botox. Love it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a miracle drug. Right up there with penicillin. Cures headaches. Backaches. Wrinkles. And why not cleavage crease. Can always find a new way to use it.”

“New way?” Lucy asks, slightly tremulous from the unexpected shot. And the news that she’s a guinea pig in the war against aging.

“The line is disappearing before my eyes,” the doctor says approvingly. The line he never saw.

Lucy, slightly hunched over and rubbing the tender shot spot, walks away, looking vaguely shell-shocked as the octogenarian steps up for her turn. I step back, having seen enough, when suddenly Dahlia’s at my side. I look her up and down, remembering that on my ill-fated blind date with Dr. Peter Paulo he’d said that Dahlia reminded him of me. He must have been really desperate for a line. Because except for the ten fingers and ten toes, I don’t see it.

“You goin’ next?” Dahlia asks me, eager as a Lucille Roberts tele-marketer to initiate me into the club.

“Not doing it,” I repeat for the thousandth time. “Not today.”

Though I have to wonder why I’m holding out. The Botox babes look pretty good—in fact, darn good. Not at all like the androids I’d expected. And nobody’s acting like it’s a big deal. With Botox becoming as common as an American Express card, why leave home without it? Being natural might have once been a point of honor, now it’s a point of embarrassment. To these women, aging without Botox is like wearing Birkenstocks—philosophically correct and comfortable, too. But you don’t want anybody to see you doing it.

“I’d think twice about saying no to Botox,” says Dahlia, who has two more cents to add. “No wedding ring, I notice. Gotta do what you can to compete.” She winks and gestures grandly around her palace. “Think I got all this on my natural charms? Becoming Mr. Hammerschmidt’s third wife wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, ya know.”

I pause reverently to think what might have been involved. The three B’s? Back rubs, Botox and blow jobs? Given the size of this place, Dahlia probably made her way further through the alphabet than that. What starts with Z?

Lucy comes over, looking pale and clutching her chest.

“I think …” Lucy says, gasping for air. “I think I’m having a heart attack. The Botox. It must have paralyzed my heart muscles. I can’t breathe.”

“I’m sure that can’t be,” I say soothingly. Though who knows. What if she bent over or had sex while I wasn’t looking?

“Not here, not here! You’ll ruin Hoib’s book party!” says the pint-sized Dahlia, rushing over and grabbing Lucy. With the strength of a Navy SEAL commando, she hauls her out of the room and dumps her unceremoniously in a royal bathroom which is twice the size of my living room.

“Lie down here,” Dahlia directs, gesturing to an overstuffed love seat. Lucy, misunderstanding, settles onto the bidet.

“Maybe you should call an ambulance, just in case,” I say, hustling in after them.

“Absolutely not,” Dahlia says staunchly. “I’ve planned this event for months. There’s a reporter here from the
New York Post
. No way I’m letting it be known as the heart-attack party.”

She turns on her red suede Christian Louboutin heel and swivels out, slamming the door behind her. I have a feeling it’s locked.

Lucy gets up and, clutching her chest, begins pacing around the bathroom. “Oh god, what an embarrassing way to die.”

She lurches over to the medicine chest and throws it open.

“What are you looking for?”

“Aspirin. I heard it prevents heart attacks. Though maybe it’s too late.” She starts rifling through the vials and reading off labels. “Xanax, Zoloft, Lipitor, Ambien, Ativan, Percocet. Just what every well-stocked house needs. Everything but a goddamn aspirin.” She pauses, studying two more bottles. “Viagra and birth control pills. How’s that for a match made in heaven.”

If Lucy’s making jokes about Dahlia’s sex life, she’s probably not destined to die on the bidet.

Instead of swallowing a pill, Lucy turns on the gold faucet and runs some cold water on her wrists. She takes a few deep breaths, delicately rubs her temples, and sits down on the love seat as the color returns to her face.

“Feeling better?” I ask her.

“Feeling kind of stupid,” she admits. “I think I just panicked. Maybe you’re right. Pretty idiotic to put your life on the line for vanity. We’re all getting way too obsessed with trying to look perfect.”

Great. I’m starting to see the value of some renovation work and she’s going natural.

Lucy rubs her chest. “He really did jab that needle in kind of deep,” she says apologetically. “Scared me. For a minute there I had a flash that my obit would read
TV PRODUCER AFRAID OF FORTY DIES OF BOTOX IN THE BOOBS.”

“I can top that,” I say, shaking my head. “Last weekend, mine was almost
CLUMSY CANOER LOSES LIFE AND SHOES.”

“At least neither of us ended up
HEADLESS WOMAN IN TOPLESS BAR,”
Lucy says, invoking our favorite tabloid headline.

We both chuckle and I go over and put my arm around her shoulder. “Listen, of course you panicked. You’re having a tough week,” I say sympathetically.

“It’s been more than a week,” she says dispiritedly.

“Let’s just get out of here,” I say. “Grab an Atavin if you want. Or better idea. I saw a Baskin-Robbins down the street.”

After Dahlia’s party, I don’t have much time to think about worry lines, because I’m too busy worrying about the lines the kids are learning for our
My Fair Lady
benefit. With not much time to go, the kids are in the rehearsal hall every day, practicing songs and painting sets. And today they’re brandishing gigantic brushes like swords as gobs of red, yellow and blue poster paints are flying everywhere.

“Hey, guys, get some of that paint on the mural,” I call out over the cheerful din. Not that I’m complaining. The Park Avenue and Arts Council kids have merged so seamlessly that nobody but their mothers could tell them apart.

“Yeah, let’s get going,” urges the new stage manager. “The Coventry Garden mural is looking great. But we still have to do Professor Higgins’ apartment.”

Amazingly, the kids troop over and follow him to the next stretched canvas panel. My idea to make Chauncey the stage manager was inspired, but even I didn’t know it would turn out this well. The kid can’t sing but he sure can organize. He’s got the cast sewing costumes, building sets and getting to the rehearsals on time. Knows how to get people working. And the Krispy Kremes he always brings along don’t hurt.

“Ms. Taylor, what color should the flowers be on the Professor’s wallpaper?” Tamika, our star, asks me politely.

Now there’s an executive decision I can handle. “Lilac,” I say, basing my choice on absolutely nothing. But five kids immediately dip their paint brushes into the light purple paint. Heady with power, I spin around to pick the color for the wood paneling on the bottom half of the set and land smack against Pierce’s outstretched brush. I yelp, realizing I’m now covered with orange paint from cheek to chin.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’ll get some paper towels.”

“You look silly,” Tamika says to me, starting to giggle.

“Not the first time,” I say, smearing my hand across my face, probably making matters worse. And definitely making my hands orange, too.

Vincent, our flamboyant director, sweeps over in a dither to collect the children who are supposed to be rehearsing Scene Three. But he’s stopped short by my orange face.

“Goodness, Jessica,” he says disapprovingly, “don’t tell me you still use Coppertone.”