The Botox Diaries (29 page)

“I don’t know about great, but the kids still come to me for everything. I’ve been giving Dave girlfriend advice. How’s that for irony?”

“No irony. The boys are both so gorgeous, girls must be falling at their feet. And they look just like you. No question here who the father was.” Well, that was a clever comment, given Dan’s current situation. Another reason I’m not in the diplomatic corps.

But my careless remark seems to have gone right by Dan, who continues on with his story.

“Anyway, Dave’s got this girl named Emily he’s been best friends with all year. And now he’s trying to figure out if he can ask her out, make her a girlfriend, rather than a friend. I told him absolutely. Best way to start a relationship is to pick someone you already like a lot. Don’t you think?”

“You bet,” I say emphatically. “Sometimes I think the biggest mistake I made with Jacques the first time around was falling in love with love. It was all about romance and not enough about real friendship. Now I’m older and wiser. I won’t make that mistake again.” At least I hope not. Most of me understands that there’s more to marriage than cow pastures and moonlit nights.

“Dave took my advice. He and Emily are going to the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert this Friday night at Madison Square Garden. I’ll let you know how it turns out,” Dan says, opening my car door for me.

I slide into the driver’s seat and turn on the ignition, but Dan’s still resting on the door.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?” I ask.

“No, my car’s right over there. Thanks,” he says. But he lingers another minute before leaning in to give me a light kiss on the cheek—and then he finally closes the door.

“Keep me posted on the Chili Peppers romance,” I call out after him, through the open car window.

“Yup, I’m hoping I’m right about this one,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up sign as he walks away.

When I get home, there’s an emergency message from Lucy in L.A. She’s the only person I know who actually uses the “Urgent” option on the voice mail system. Is she that desperate to find out what happened in sex ed tonight?

“I got the most unbelievable earrings for my birthday,” she gushes, the moment I call her back. “From David Orgell on Rodeo Drive.”

Who’s this David Orgell? Another man in her life? Oh no, that must be a store. And from the address, a very fancy store. Must be that Hunter came through.

“They’re three-tiered gold filigree chandeliers with pearl and ruby drops. Very Nicole Kidman. Terribly expensive but absolutely exquisite. I’ve been coveting them in the window for weeks. And now they’re mine. So gorgeous. I’m looking at myself in the mirror right now. Stunning.”

“That’s great,” I say, genuinely pleased that she’s happy. “Good for Hunter. I can see what you like about him. Jen was thrilled with the autographed photo he got for her.”

“Yeah, Mr. Thoughtful,” Lucy says, not quite as warmly as I might have expected.

“He’s starting to grow on me,” I admit grudgingly.

“What, like a fungus?” she snips.

“Lucy, for once I’m being nice about Hunter.”

“Well, I’m not.”

What, she was expecting the matching necklace? I sigh. “Help me out here, Luce. You got the guy. You got the present. What’s wrong? Are you upset because he spent too much money?”

“Ha. Did you hear any mention here of Hunter spending money? Apparently he spends oodles of money—on everybody but me. I bought the earrings myself. Hunter gave me a heart-shaped Christofle paperweight for my birthday, inscribed
TRUE LOVE.”

“Not earrings, but that sounds nice, too,” I say. “At least it was romantic.”

“Might have been, if it wasn’t the second one I got this week. Came in a beautiful red-velvet box. Publicist at NBC sent them out. Promos for a new sitcom. At least Hunter remembered to take out the press release before he passed it on. Rewrapped it, too.”

“Maybe he didn’t know you’d already gotten one,” I offer.

“He does now,” Lucy says venomously. “I left it outside his door. And just so he didn’t miss the point, I rewrapped it—in the press release. Then I marched over to David Orgell and bought the earrings.”

“My, my, you’ve been a busy girl,” I say. And all I’ve been doing is learning how to put a condom on a banana. “I’ve never bought jewelry for myself that wasn’t costume.”

“Don’t think it was easy,” Lucy says. “The salesman was properly unctuous, but he kept asking if he should hold them so I could come back with my husband. Or boyfriend. Or even both, he joked. That he could picture. What he couldn’t imagine was my buying them myself. But goddamn it, I can. And why shouldn’t I? I don’t need Hunter or Dan. I’ve had it with the both of them.”

“Oh, Lucy. Calm down,” I say.

“No, really. I’ve been making my lists for both of them. Columns. Pluses and minuses. Okay, mostly minuses. Did I ever tell you about Hunter’s penis?” she asks viciously.

How much am I going to have to hear about penises tonight? “No,” I say cautiously. “But Nikki, at your dinner party, did say something about Hunter having really small feet.”

“Turns out that little axiom is true,” she says ruefully.

“And Dan?” I ask, not really wanting to know, but not being able to stop myself.

“That was one of his big pluses,” she admits. “But he hums.”

“When?”

“Never mind,” she says mysteriously.

I’ll be deciphering that one for months. “But I bet he doesn’t snore,” I say.

“That’s true. And I have to confess, Dan got mostly pluses,” she says, momentarily softening. “I’ve always said I loved him. He’s the guy I can count on. The one I want in my lifeboat. But he left me, so screw him. Hunter’s big attraction was that he made me feel on top of the world. Really special. Then came this sorry regifted Christofle. So screw him, too.”

“You’ve regifted things yourself,” I remind her. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. A person without a lot of time to shop, maybe.”

“I’ve never regifted anyone I was having an affair with,” Lucy says indignantly, making a moral distinction that I’d never really considered before.

“I give up,” I say, sighing. “But I still better not ever get a box of Godiva from you.”

“Promise,” she says, with a grudging laugh. Then clearly done with Lucy’s Top Ten Problems of the Day she moves on. “Hey, this is the weekend Jacques is coming in, right? Did you do what I told you?”

“The Brazilian bikini wax thing? I can’t possibly. It’s just not me. I have a feeling I’m more the Polish bikini wax type. Instead of removing hair, they paste on some extra.”

“You’re hopeless,” Lucy says, laughing, but I can practically hear her shaking her head at the sorry state of my glamour goals. “Can I at least talk you into an eyebrow shaping? It takes six months to get an appointment with Miss Barrett but I have one tomorrow and I’m not going to be home in time. Take it. Please.”

“Six months’ wait, huh? Maybe I could sell it for you on eBay.”

“No, you won’t. It’s my present for you. Not even regifted. But tell Ms. Barrett you want threading. It’s the latest. No more tweezers. They just tug away with knots of string.”

“So it doesn’t hurt?” I ask hopefully.

“Of course it hurts. What doesn’t?”

“Are we still talking about eyebrows?” I ask, hearing the plaintive note in her voice.

“Everything hurts,” Lucy repeats. And then she quickly hangs up the phone.

I’VE BEEN PREPARING
for this date all week, and I have nothing to wear. The pink flowered sundress is completely wrong. I stare at myself in the hallway mirror on the upstairs landing. What was I thinking? I head back to my bedroom closet for the third time in fifteen minutes. This may end up being a record-setting day, even for me. But I don’t really have another decent outfit to change into. Maybe that first yellow skirt didn’t make my hips looks so big, after all. I put it back on. Yes it did. How about blue jeans? This is an afternoon date. I could just go casual.

The doorbell rings and I freeze. No, I can’t possibly answer the door in these Levi’s. I have to remember to buy the Gap Modern Retros. Lucy says they look great on everyone.

“Jen sweetie, will you get that?” I call out, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. You’d think that a simple date—especially with somebody I’ve already married and divorced—wouldn’t be so hard. “It’s Jacques. Tell him I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

That buys me a hundred and twenty seconds to knit myself a new outfit. Or see how quickly the Gap delivers. Oh, what the heck. I’ll go back to the sundress. At least it shows off my Wonderbra-ed cleavage. Which Jacques won’t notice anyway because I’m sure his total attention will be focused on my fabulous eyebrows.

I gently trace my fingers across them. How could getting rid of a few stray hairs make me so happy? The now perfectly curved arches seem to have changed my whole face. Bigger eyes. Fresher look. Or maybe I just have to believe that some good came out of twenty minutes of being yanked and tugged and tortured. For the record, though, I’m not ready to go Brazilian. What’s the point? By the time a guy has a chance to take that in, he’s either interested or he’s not.

From downstairs, I hear Jacques trying to make conversation with Jen. They say hello and talk briefly about the weather. After an awkward pause, he turns down Jen’s offer of cookies and chocolate milk—I’ve taught her well about being a hostess—and then flails around for another topic. Given the fractured dialogue I realize he’s probably never bothered to talk much with anyone under the age of consent.

“Such a nice house,” he finally says to Jen, in his most charming manner. “What made you decide to move here?”

“My mother,” says Jen. I hold my breath, but mercifully she doesn’t add, “Duh.”

“How are the taxes?” he asks, thinking he’s hit on a topic that crosses international boundaries. “In France they’re
très terrible
.”

“I like your accent,” Jen says, non-sequitur-ing onto something that for her is more interesting. “I know a song in French. Everyone at school is singing it. Wanna hear?”

I expect Jen to break out into
Frère Jacques
, but apparently that’s not what they’re singing around the old schoolyard these days.

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir,”
my little baby trills in an innocent, sing-song voice.
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

Blue jeans be damned, I’m going down there.

I rush down the steps and give Jacques a quick kiss hello. “I’m sure she doesn’t have any idea what that means. You know kids,” I say, putting my arm protectively around Jen’s shoulder.

“Non, non. C’est très charmante,”
Jacques says.

“What’d I do wrong, Mom?” Jen asks. “I like that song. It’s pretty. What’s it mean in English?”

“Nothing, sweetie. I’ll tell you later.” In about two years, maybe.
No, sooner than that. Can’t leave it to Ms. Deitch to translate “Would you like to sleep with me tonight?”

“Tell her what it means now,” Jacques says, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll wait. Do you have a comfortable chair?”

“Not a single one,” I say, grabbing his arm. “We should get going. Banana Republic closes in eight hours.”

Jen looks me up and down and I can see my outfit hasn’t made the grade. Maybe I should have taken the extra minute to put on the sundress.

“You’re not going out like that, Mom, are you?” Jen asks, her voice dripping with disapproval. What happened to the bright-eyed ten-year-old who thought everything I did was perfect? She turned into an eleven-year-old who’s afraid I’m going to embarrass her in front of her friends. I used to tell her what to wear. Now she’s telling me.

“Jeans, Mom, jeans. Is that what you wear on all your dates?”

“All her dates?” Jacques asks, turning for the first time with real interest to Jen. “Tell me about your mother’s dates.
Les rendez-vous
. So many, I’m sure. After all,
elle est très belle.”
He strokes his hand appreciatively across my cheek. Has he noticed the eyebrows?

“Yes, tell us both about them,” I say, baffled. I can’t remember having any dates, never mind any where I wore jeans.

“Mom!” Jen says, exasperated, her voice rising in that contemptuous teenage wail that I expect to hear for the next nine years. “Boulder! How could you forget! We love Boulder!”

Jacques looks at me quizzically. “Who is this Boulder we love?” he asks. “I am sure I do not love him.”

“You would,” Jen promises. “He’s so much fun.”

“Actually, you would,” I say, going upstairs to change into my sundress. “I’ll tell you about it in the car.”

Five minutes later—with all this practice I’ve become a quick changer—we’ve dropped Jen at Lily’s and are speeding toward the city. Jacques’ first destination really is Banana Republic, and for some reason it has to be the one in Rockefeller Center.

“The biggest. The most American. The best,” he says authoritatively, as we step inside the long, cavernous store. The best? Did he
catch that disease passing through Customs at JFK? Or has Jacques met Cynthia?

Jacques enters the men’s department, jaw set, as determined as Napoleon at Waterloo. Except Napoleon lost that battle and Jacques never does. He’s ready to put in whatever effort it takes to find effortless-looking clothes. He thoroughly inspects each rack, selecting eight nearly indistinguishable pairs of chinos. All size 32 × 32. Love that slim French waist, but I never thought of him as a perfect square.

“Eight pairs. Good idea. You won’t have to do laundry for a whole week,” I say, as if my French prince knows there’s a Tide other than the one at the Côte d’Azur. I start toward the cash register, but Jacques is going in the other direction.

“I have to try these on,
mon amour
. They must fit just so.”

Jacques goes in and out of the dressing room eight times, trying on each pair and modeling them for me as he stares intently into the three-way mirror. At least he’s not lazy. He comments on the placement of the pockets, the width of the cuffs, and the length of the leg. Which happens to be the same thirty-two inches long in each case, but I don’t point that out. Then there’s the color, alternately described by Jacques as “a little too khaki” or “not khaki enough.” He says “khaki” so many times that it starts to sound like a French epithet. Which I’m thinking of using.