The Botox Diaries (39 page)

“He was just trying to make conversation.”

“No, he was deciding whether it was okay to make a pass.”

“You’re so wrong. Josh and I met a couple of times to talk about the benefit. That’s about it between us.”

“He did mention you were doing a good job.”

“Glad he noticed. He’s usually more focused on his gorgeous girlfriend and his annoying ex-wife. Anyway, his only interest in me is professional.”

“Too bad, I thought you’d be good together,” Dan says with a shrug. “Oh well. Maybe not. Win some, lose some.”

I start to change my position and say Josh
might
be interested, but I’ve already done too good a job convincing Dan otherwise. That’s the problem with men. They don’t know when they’re supposed to argue with you. It’s really pretty simple. “This dress makes me look fat” demands “No, it doesn’t.”

“I should get a face-lift” requires “Never—you’re beautiful just the way you are.” And “Josh couldn’t be interested in me” calls for some serious disagreeing. If I were talking with Lucy, we could dissect every luscious detail of everything Josh has ever said to me. How he said it, why he said it, when he said it, what he meant, what he could have meant, what he should have meant, what he meant to mean. By then we’d be so exhausted, who’d care what was going to happen.

But Dan just grabs a brownie from my cookie jar and heads to the door. “Don’t worry, Jess. If it’s not Josh, it’ll be someone else. Someone terrific,” he says, giving me a warm hug and a sympathetic slap on the back.

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound as disgruntled as I suddenly feel.

Dan offers a quick peck on the cheek and adds, “Thanks for the brownie. Lucy’s cooking dinner for me tonight. Don’t know what to expect.”

“Josh did ask me to sit at his table,” I mumble to myself as Dan closes the door behind him. The dinner plan had sounded good for a few minutes. But now it occurs to me that I’ll probably be sitting next to the gorgeous Ice Queen, Marissa.

Friday night, two hours before the fund-raiser, Lucy’s flitting around the benefit hospitality suite at the St. Regis Hotel. So far, I’m the only member of the committee here. Probably because I’m also the only one without a plush Park Avenue pad to change in—and I couldn’t quite imagine wearing my ten-thousand-dollar Chanel loaner on Metro-North. Might have to buy an extra seat for it. And ticket prices just went up.

“Great place,” Lucy says, twisting open the small Bulgari body cream in the amenities basket and rubbing it on her wrist. “Love a hotel that gives you a free suite.”

“Free with the ballroom and four hundred paid dinners,” I say, peering into the mirror to put on another coat of mascara before I get into my dress. “You and Dan want to use the suite later?”

“Don’t need it,” Lucy says happily. “We’re doing just fine back in our own bedroom.”

“So absence made the heart grow fonder?”

“Definitely,” she says, sighing blissfully. “Dan and I are over the moon. We’re back in love. I finally realize he’s the man of my dreams. And the second time around is even sweeter.”

I roll my eyes. What is it about being in love that makes people talk in clichés? “I know everyone loves a lover, but I don’t know how much syrup I can stand. You’re getting sappier than Aunt Jemima.”

The suite door opens and Amanda Beasley-Smith and Pamela Jay Barone rush in—decked out in slinky long gowns and enough jewels to make Elizabeth Taylor jealous. Amanda throws a triple air kiss to me and a nod to Lucy, who I quickly introduce. Amanda, eyeing Lucy’s beaded Armani, her who-knows-what-they-cost chandelier earrings, and her priceless aplomb takes about seven seconds to recognize Lucy as one of her own.

“You should be on the benefit committee next year,” Amanda says.

“Yes, let’s have lunch,” Lucy says, pulling out the standard Hollywood answer.

A moment later, a tall, lanky man trails in, carrying oversized luggage in each hand. He’s dressed in a ten-gallon hat, chaps, and red-and-turquoise Tony Martin cowboy boots. Not appropriate for riding a bull in a rodeo, but might work for throwing some bull in New York.

“This is my favorite hairdresser, Nebraska,” Amanda says proudly, dashing over to him. “I corraled him into donating his talents for tonight. For anybody who stops by our suite and wants a touch-up.”

“Howdy,” I say, welcoming him in.

Nebraska goes into one of the suite’s bathrooms to set up a
mini-salon—pulling out gel, moussant, defrizzer, shiner, pomade, spray, and glistening crème.

“I just brought the essentials,” he says apologetically. “A little makeshift, but we’ll get by.”

I look over his collection. “Maybe a touch of shiner for me,” I say tentatively. “Tonight’s really important. I’ve been worrying about it for weeks. I mean, not worried about how I look but worried that everything goes smoothly. Donors happy. Kids do well. You know.”

“You should
always
worry about how you look,” says Nebraska. “But you don’t have to think about it when I’m around.” He steps behind me with a spray bottle and douses my head with water so quickly that I don’t even realize what he’s done until I feel drops splattering down my neck. Apparently he didn’t notice the twenty minutes of careful straightening and styling I did at home. Or maybe he did.

The rest of the committee—Rebecca Gates, Heather Lehmann, and Allison von Williams sweep into the hospitality suite, each wearing an otherwise-stunning designer gown in the season’s most touted color. Biscuit. Doesn’t matter what they call it—it’s still beige. A color that’s not even flattering to a wall.

“Lots of activity downstairs,” Rebecca announces excitedly. “The band’s warming up and sounds great. People are starting to arrive. And Amanda, you were so right not to go with flowers for centerpieces. We’re a serious charity. Those photos of ghettos-around-the-world in the Tiffany frames are much more moving.”

“And so cheerful,” I add.

Rebecca seems to notice me for the first time. “You better get going,” she says archly. “You’re dripping wet and not even dressed yet.”

“She’s not?” asks Allison, stopping to peer closely at my hotel-issued cotton bathrobe. “Isn’t that Yves Saint Laurent? I thought it was his new take on the smoking jacket.”

I pull the sash on the robe tighter. And, why not? Couture gets stranger every year. But it would take more panache than I have to wear a bathrobe to dinner. Unless dinner was at Hugh Hefner’s house.

“I’ll have you ready in no time,” says Nebraska, pulling the dryer
out of his hip holster and brandishing it in the air, in his best Clint-Eastwood-as-hairdresser fashion.

He flicks on the 2400-watt handheld tool—and suddenly everything comes to a stop. The blow dryer is dead. The lights go out. The air conditioner stops whirring.

“Sheeeiiit,” Nebraska twangs.

“Must have blown a fuse,” says Pamela, looking around the room, as if she might find the fuse box conveniently located next to the minibar.

Suddenly alarms start blaring, and there’s a commotion in the hallway—doors slamming, people calling out. A moment later, sirens sound from the street under our window.

Nebraska glances at me in the mirror and then down at the Professional Strength dryer still in his hand. “This critter’s more powerful than I thought,” he says, with what may be a tinge of pride.

“Don’t think your blow dryer did all this,” says Lucy, rushing over to the television. When it doesn’t turn on, she bangs on it like a broken soda machine, as if she can force the news out of the recalcitrant box.

“Power lines must have fallen,” says Heather importantly. “This happens all the time at our house in Barbados during hurricane season.”

I look out the window for signs of a hurricane. Or a driving rain. Or even fog. But the sun is shining brilliantly and there’s not even a ripple of wind.

Lucy cracks open the door to the hallway where red strobe lights are flashing.

“Probably not a hurricane, but might be a fire,” Lucy says. “We’d better get out of here.”

“I can’t leave,” I complain, not budging from my chair. “My hair’s sopping wet.”

“It’ll dry,” Amanda says briskly. “Nebraska, do something for her. We have to go.”

Nebraska, sharing the sense of urgency, grabs the nearest tube, squeezes some goop onto my hair and quickly crimps various sections
of my head. “You’re done. You’ll be gorgeous,” he says, abandoning me and rushing toward the door.

“What did you put on?” I ask, getting up.

“Product,” he calls back.

The alarm in the living room of our suite starts clanging and Nebraska looks anxious. “All products are basically the same,” he shouts, the screeching noise apparently jolting the truth out of him. But will he admit he ever said that once everything is back to normal?

We charge down the hallway—Lucy, one cowboy, five socialites in strapless gowns, and me with my wet hair glopped with unidentified product and wearing the robe that I never managed to change out of. The elevators aren’t working, of course, and in the emergency stairwell, Amanda, Pamela, Rebecca, Heather and Lucy hike up the hems on their body-hugging gowns, whip off their high heels and proceed barefoot down the stairs. The crush of people ahead of us are clambering in controlled panic—no screaming or hysteria, just a steeled determination to get the hell down the stairs.

“What floor are we on?” asks Allison.

“The top. Got them to give us the penthouse,” says Amanda, looking for credit. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I can’t make it!” wails Allison. “I barely fit in the staircase! My dress is too wide!”

That’s a new one, but she’s right. Her huge hooped skirt—she could get a job at Colonial Williamsburg—gives her a cute little waspish waist but is so voluminous she could be hiding the entire Confederate army under there. Plus General Lee.

“Get moving, will ya?” barks a man who’s trying to push down the staircase. Well-bred Allison spins sideways to let him by and practically knocks over the person in front of her—who shrieks in alarm. Allison grabs at the stiff satin skirt fabric, trying to mangle it into a more manageable form, but no luck. Damn well-made dress.

“Move it!” bellows the man again.

“Screw you!” Allison hollers, losing her cool.

“I don’t know why you bought that ridiculous wedding-cake dress in the first place,” carps Heather.

Allison looks flustered, but this is a crisis—and she’s ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. As easily as the others pulled off their shoes, she pulls off her hoop skirt—revealing a slim silk gown beneath it. These girls are prepared for anything.

“Definitely like the slip much better than the dress,” says Heather approvingly.

Allison looks at the hoop skirt, which is now standing all by itself on the landing. “What should I do with it?” she asks.

“Just leave it there,” advises Heather. “You can tell the insurance company you lost it.”

They start charging down the stairs again, and somehow in the midst of the din, I hear my cell phone ringing and pull it out of my robe pocket.

“Where are you?” asks an anxious voice.

“In the hotel stairwell,” I tell Josh into the phone.

“I’m in the ballroom and it’s pitch-dark,” he says. “You have to get down here.”

“I’m trying,” I say, as a charging man behind me brushes against my shoulder. “It’s kind of scary in here.”

Josh hears the tremulous tone in my voice.

“Hey, calm down. We’ll be okay. I’ve already sent somebody out for candles. And we can use flashlights if we have to in the theater. Cheaper than those damn pink gels, anyway.”

I try to laugh but at the moment nothing seems funny. “Do you know what happened?” I ask.

“Transformer blew and the power grid went down,” Josh says. “Affected a ten-block area. Con Ed’s already working on it.”

I sigh with relief that it’s not a major disaster. “If Con Ed’s on the scene, it’ll be fixed by next week,” I say.

“My money’s on Tuesday. But don’t worry. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

I pass the news about the power outage along, and there’s a palpable sense of relief in the stairwell. Blown transformer is annoying but not dangerous. We’re going to be okay. Twenty minutes later as we turn the stairs to the first floor, the women around me begin smoothing
their dresses, putting their fancy shoes back on, and combing their fingers through their shiny hair. Since my dress and shoes are still in the penthouse, all I can do is check my hair. Bad news. Forty flights on a sweltering stairwell, and I’m no threat to the Breck girl.

We make it to the ballroom where all the worried husbands immediately swarm around us, full of comfort and hugs. Amanda’s Alden is handsome and doting and obviously hasn’t run off with the au pair—though Heather’s distracted spouse looks like he might want to. Dan kisses Lucy for a long time—right now even an hour apart is too much—and then breaks to ask how I’m doing.

“Josh was looking for you,” Dan says, gesturing toward the throng at the bar. “You should go find him.”

Lucy and Dan and the other reunited couples melt into the crowd, and I’m left standing alone in my bathrobe. Not exactly how I imagined I’d look when I was sitting with Josh Gordon tonight.

But apparently I shouldn’t have bothered imagining anything, because coming toward me now is a vision in a white sequined dress, white sequined slingbacks and that almost white stick-straight hair that’s swinging nearly to her waist.

“Nice outfit,” purrs Marissa, stopping in front of me, her white frothy martini glass cocked in her left hand. Her favorite drink or did she order it to match her hair?

“Thanks,” I say. “Yves Saint Laurent. Next year’s collection.”

“Would have guessed Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Last year’s collection,” Marissa says, shifting her drink-prop to her other hand and posing again. Woman can’t take a joke. Woman
is
a joke. How could Josh like her?

“I heard you’re sitting with us, even though you’re just staff,” Marissa says, icicles starting to form around her lips. From the drink? No, they’re always there. “Josh is always so nice to people who work for him. Too nice, I tell him.”

“Right. Got to get him to stop. Way too much of that nice-to-the-staff thing in this world. But excuse me,” I say, backing away. “As staff, I have a lot to do. See you later.”