The Botox Diaries (9 page)

“Amazing, wasn’t it?” says Lucy as she wipes away a bead of perspiration and lets her towel slide down from her breasts. Naked again. Makes you wonder why she needs that personal shopper at Barneys.

“Amazing,” I agree. “How did you find out about this place?”

“I heard about it in Los Angeles. Ravi Master’s bicoastal.”

“Never a dull moment when you’re in L.A.,” I say.

“I find time for a couple of other things when I’m working,” Lucy says coyly, and I swear she flutters her eyelashes.

Oh no. Please, no. Not this. “Don’t tell me you and Hunter go to Ravi Master out there,” I say.

“Hunter?” Lucy squeals. Well this is something new. Lucy never squeals. My sophisticated friend is turning into a puddle, and it’s not just from the steam. “That’s a laugh. Hunter doesn’t have a Zen bone in his body. He’s a total guy’s guy.”

“Meaning?”

Lucy giggles. “You know, he does those guy-guy things, like he eats
beef and drinks Jack Daniel’s. You should see us in restaurants. He gets the steak with everything on it, I get the salad with dressing on the side. He teases me about what a girl I am. He’s just so cute.”

She pauses to take a sip of water, but I’m the one who gulps. Hello? Isn’t this the woman who considers meat the dietary equivalent of Enron? “Doesn’t sound like your usual type,” I venture.

“I guess not, but what I love is that he’s a take-charge kind of guy. In everything. If you know what I mean.” She grins slyly and looks up at me. Waiting to be asked. I don’t want to ask. But she’s primed. Lucy makes small circles on her chest with a well-manicured finger and she’s off and running.

“Want to know how we got together for the first time? We were in the elevator at my hotel and he started nuzzling my neck and whispering how beautiful I was. Then he started kissing me. Hard. He came to my room and there was none of the usual should-we-or-shouldn’t-we?—he just pulled off my sweater and carried me onto the bed.” She has that faraway look in her eye that you see in women in love and mental patients. And she’s not done. Lord knows, she’s not done. “He’s so forceful. So strong. For once I don’t have to make any decisions. He’s completely in control. I love that. Sex with him is a whole different thing. It’s so different than with …”

Okay, I get it. Different than with Dan. At least she has the decency not to finish that sentence. And I don’t launch into a speech about how sex with Dan is based on love and commitment and having a life together—while sex with Hunter is about an afternoon at the Four Seasons. Nice real estate, but she’s only renting.

Lucy runs her fingers through her hair. “I guess Hunter’s so successful because he knows what he wants and he goes after it. And right now he wants me.”

I think I saw this in
Gone With the Wind
.

“Here, listen to this,” Lucy says as if I’ve just begged her for another story. “I was driving to his apartment last weekend and he called me on my cell phone to say he was waiting for me and had some instructions. I think his exact line was, ‘Your job is to knock on the door. My job is to take care of everything else.’ And then he repeated it in
this really slow, sexy voice, ‘You knock on the door. I do everything else.’ I’m getting goose bumps just telling you. Imagine how that made me feel!”

I know how it would make me feel. Like a kindergartner. Still I know what’s appealing to her here. Someone else is in charge and taking care of everything. It makes her feel sexy. Post-feminist meets post-Neanderthal and loves it. Dan, Lucy’s wonderfully evolved husband with his dimples and denim shirts helps with the dishes and takes the kids to school. But he doesn’t throw her on the bed, Ravi-Master style.

“I have my own news,” I tell her. Am I desperate to change the subject or do I really need advice? “My ex e-mailed. He’s going to be in New York.”

“Your ex? You mean Jacques?”

“I don’t have any others,” I say with a laugh.

Lucy shakes her head. “You’ve been letting me ramble on all this time when you’re the one with the big news!”

How silly of me. Lucy’s been holed up in a hotel room with a game show host and a pair of handcuffs—I’m guessing on that one—and my e-mail rates as the big news here.

“So are you getting together with him?” Lucy asks.

“If I can lose five pounds before next Tuesday.”

“Stop it, you look great.” She looks me over carefully, and I’m grateful that my towel is still in place. “How long since you’ve seen him?”

“Eleven years and three lifetimes ago. Last I heard he was remarried. No, last I heard he was divorced again.”

“Maybe he wants you back.”

“Don’t be silly. He can get any woman he wants. Besides, he may be rich and sexy but I’ve been down that road.”

“So a little fling for old-time’s sake?”

“You’re having enough sex for both of us,” I say. “Anyway, I know how the story ends.”

“That’s the great thing about being with Hunter,” says Lucy, so self-absorbed right now that after ninety seconds of talking about my life we’re back to hers. “Who knows what will happen with us? All of a
sudden I feel like there’s a world of possibilities. Who knows how my life could change?”

“Yeah, it could change,” I say more archly than I mean to. She’s just spoiled my one chance to talk about Jacques so I’m not feeling very supportive anymore. “You could ruin everything you have at home. Which hasn’t been so bad, you know.”

“No, it’s been great,” Lucy says. She sighs and wipes her eye with the edge of the towel. “I’m not a complete idiot. Despite what you probably think.”

I don’t answer. Because what
do
I think?

“Look,” she says, taking a new tack. “I know what I’ve got. I love my family. I’m not looking to leave and mess things up. In a bizarre kind of way, Hunter might even help my marriage because he’s making me feel good. And when I feel good it’s good for the whole family.”

Now that’s creative. Trickle-down economics as applied to orgasms. I stare at Lucy in disbelief.

“So which is it?” I ask. “You want Hunter because he could change your life? Or because he’s your own personal Prozac?”

“Maybe I need Prozac, too,” Lucy says with a sigh. “You know what’s getting to me? The twins are sixteen. Pretty soon they’ll be in college. I feel like a major part of my life is already over.”

Is that what’s going on here? Classic midlife crisis? Preparing for the empty nest by flying away herself?

“You have a great job,” I say, looking for the silver lining. “That won’t change.”

She shrugs. “My job stopped seeming glamorous a long time ago. Especially when I race to catch the red-eye so I can be home with the kids the next morning at six a.m. And you know what? When the boys are gone and I can stay out in L.A. for all the big late-night parties, I won’t give a damn. The best part of my life is the kids. And now that’s ending.”

I wish the dreaded Cynthia could tear herself from the PTA long enough to hear that you can be a bicoastal, alligator-boot-wearing, Emmy-award-winning producer and still think your kids are the center of your universe. That’s what I’ve always loved about Lucy. She has her priorities.
Her life is under control. She knows what matters. At least she used to. If, on top of it all, Lucy’s boys get into Harvard—and they probably will—Cynthia’s going to need more than yoga to calm herself down.

“You’re only forty-one,” I remind Lucy. “Even with the boys in college, you still have your whole life.”

“Part of the problem,” she says, unconsciously toying with her wedding ring. “Dan and I got married when we were babies. Twenty years ago. Our whole life is built around being a family. So what are we supposed to do for the next twenty years?”

“You still have each other,” I say. “And Lily. A lot more years of Lily.”

“The one saving grace,” she says, agreeing with me. “But when it’s just Lily at home, we could move into Manhattan. Or out to L.A. She’d love it.”

“You’re making plans?” I ask, wondering if the L.A. fantasy includes Dan—or Hunter.

“Not plans, exactly, but I do think about things. How they are, how they could be.” She goes back to making those damn circles on her chest, and as I watch her, the world starts spinning. I’ve had more than enough.

“I’m dying from the heat,” I say, as I stagger to stand up. “Let’s get out of here before we’re permanently pruned.”

We head for the dressing room, and as I’m standing under the pulsating shower, I realize that Lucy’s affair is really pissing me off. Forget the moral issues. Now all of a sudden she’s not interested in me or my dates—or the e-mail from my ex, which once would have been good for at least twenty minutes of mind-numbing analysis. The one advantage of being unattached should be that your married friends wait breathlessly for the latest installment of your single-life soap opera. The drama! The dresses! The sex and no sex! Now Lucy’s one-upped me again. Her affair with Hunter is way better than a daytime soap—it’s got all the makings of a Jaclyn Smith Movie of the Week.

As I turn off the shower, I realize without any doubt—and without any advice from Lucy, god knows—that I’m going to see Jacques for dinner on Tuesday. Why wouldn’t I? I was married to the man once so
there’s no reason that we can’t be friends. Well, maybe not friends. I don’t exactly see us going to the multiplex together to catch the latest flick or sipping hot chocolate and chatting about the Paris-London Chunnel. But I’m curious about what’s happened in his life. And I guess I wonder if I’ll feel that old flutter when his hand accidentally grazes my sleeve or the lump in my throat that used to catch me off guard when he’d sit across a table from me and look soulfully into my eyes.

Besides, I’ve never had one of Balthazar’s famous green apple martinis. And with Jacques paying for them at fifteen dollars a pop, I may even have two.

As usual, I’m early. Balthazar is abuzz with its expected array of tall miniskirted models, squat predatory investment bankers, and—after all these years—average-looking people waiting to get inside. What’s the matter with me? Jacques has never been on time in his life. As I step inside, I figure I’ll be able to visit the ladies’ room, run a quick brush through my hair, and …

“Mon petit chouchou!”

Jacques’ voice rises above the din at the bar, and before I can turn around, he’s embracing me and kissing both cheeks. Then he hugs me tightly, holding me in his strong arms for a moment longer than I would have expected. I’d forgotten how muscular he is and forgotten also
petit chouchou
, his pet name for me. Only a Frenchman could call you a “little cabbage” and get away with it. He leans back, still holding on to my shoulders and looks tenderly into my eyes.

“
Mon amour
, you are as absurdly beautiful as ever!”

He looks pretty darn good himself. His curly hair is shorter than before and his deep brown eyes are still piercingly intense. Someone’s been spending a lot of time on the Côte d’Azur, because he has a deep even tan the color of cocoa butter, and of course he’s wearing a crisp white custom-made Turnbull and Asser shirt, just like in the old days, to show it off. His body is firm without a trace of middle-aged love handles. And is he admiring my equally trim silhouette? As long as I can
keep his hands off my waist, he’ll never know that I’ve poured myself into Saks’ finest Tummy Tightening Body Shaper. To tell the truth, I’m having a little trouble exhaling, but at least we don’t wear girdles anymore. Though damned if I know the difference.

Jacques slides over to the bar to retrieve his wineglass and the maitre d’ immediately leads us through the well-dressed throng of waiting patrons to a candlelit table for two.

“Perfect,” I say, impressed as always by Jacques’ effortless ability to jump the line and set the scene.

“Anything for you,” he says as we sit down next to each other on the suede banquette. Too close for comfort, I think. But just then a Château Margaux appears—and Jacques raises his glass.

“Together again,” he says. “Where we should be.”

We clink glasses and I take a sip.

Together where we should be?
Did I just drink to that?

Got to slow down the pace here. I’m not ready for any heavy-duty romancing just yet. “So,” I say, asking the world’s most boring question, “what are you doing in town?”

“Business and pleasure,” he says. “The business is done. You are the pleasure.”

The man’s not going to be easily sidetracked. Besides, I’m starting to remember how nice it is to have someone flirting with you. Ever since the FedEx man changed his route, nobody’s even tried.

“I’ve missed you,” Jacques says. “I think of you every day. Time has passed, but you’re always with me.”

That old classic movie stuff always did get to me. I feel that flutter, which could be my heart, or else I’m hungry and should go right for the bread basket. Damn you, Jacques, this is how you made me feel the first day we met. Don’t do this to me again.

“What’s going on in your life?” I ask, trying to keep this conversation on the ground. “I’ve heard only bits and pieces.”

“I’ll tell you everything. Business is good. And the rest? I’ve learned a hard lesson. I was foolish,
mon amour
. I had you. The love of my life. And I lost you. I’ve had many women,” he says, as if he’s talking about croissants, “but I never loved anyone the way I loved you.”

Jacques never did bother much with small talk. In a funny sort of way it feels like old times. But somewhere between me and the croissant-girls, he must have fed that never-loved-anyone-else line to someone else.

“Didn’t you get married again?” I ask.

“I did. But it wasn’t like what you and I had. Nothing could be.”

Should I let him get away with this? Another gulp of wine and I might, but we’ve got to fill in some blanks.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. “You found someone young and beautiful and you couldn’t resist?”

“No, I was
stupide
. After you left I was a … how you say?… a bachelor boy again. That was okay for a while. But then I had enough. Three years ago we married. Now I am divorced. And back in New York.” He smiles. “And your
histoire
?”