The Botox Diaries (14 page)

I smile to myself at her polished technique. No way I can argue when she’s agreeing with me—whether she means it or not.

As the yellow bus pulls away, I wave madly and swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I always hate when my baby leaves. But this time I have something to ease the separation anxiety. I reach into
my pocketbook and pull out the packet that Lucy dropped off last week. First class plane tickets to Puerto Vallarta. Our own little escape, she called it. She’s jetting down from L.A., and we’ll meet up tomorrow. As for the tickets—she wouldn’t hear of my arguing. Or paying. And with all her frequent-flier miles, it would be foolish if I
didn’t
go first class.

I haven’t traveled alone in ages, and I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to fly solo. Usually I’m on a plane with Jen, my trusty travel companion, and we pull back the armrests on our seats—invariably Row 36, next to the bathroom—and snuggle together to see who can make the three-ounce juice can and miniature pretzel-snack last longer. This time after I’ve boarded, I take the iced goblet of Perrier that the flight attendant offers—I’m in the first row window seat, no less—and fumble with the personal-video screen attached to my oversized seat, trying to pretend that it’s not my first time out of coach.

“Need help with that?” asks the male flight attendant.

“No,” I say, but then I look up and realize that the cute ones obviously get assigned up front. “Well, sure,” I amend. “It seems stuck.”

He reaches across my body to get to the controls and when his arm grazes against my shirt, he winks and says, “Sorry.” Is this how Erica Jong got over her fear of flying?

As soon as we take off, the woman next to me in 1B stretches back in the leather seat, which is suddenly as big as a bed, and falls asleep immediately, apparently not as excited as I am by the warm cashew nuts that start off my three-course, gourmet meal. She wakes up just as I’m polishing off the last teaspoonful of the crème brûlée, and politely asks the flight attendant for the special Zone-Diet dinner that she’d preordered.

I glance over at her and realize she looks vaguely familiar. I can’t quite place her—and then I think I do.

“Did we go to high school together?” I ask.

She smiles. “That’s what people always think. I look familiar, right? No, you probably know me from TV.”

“Oh, of course,” I say. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to fly first class. Is she the wife on a sitcom? No, not blond enough for that. One
of the girls from
Saturday Night Live?
No, too thin to be funny. Maybe she picks the Power Balls for the lottery on the Metro Channel.

After an awkward pause she decides I’ve probably placed her by now. “I so love Puerto Vallarta,” she says, continuing the mile-high chitchat. “Where are you staying?”

“Le Retreat,” I say, feeling first class again.

“Really? It’s supposed to be glorious. And so romantic. Meeting your guy there?”

“My girlfriend.”

“What a drag. I hear it’s the place for sexy couples massages. And sexy …” She pauses awkwardly, and looks at me. “Oh, okay. I get it. I’m down with that. Rosie’s a personal friend.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but the conversation is apparently over because she slips the sleep mask back down over her eyes and nestles into the farthest side of the seat. Her Zone-Diet meal sits untouched on the white-tableclothed tray in front of her for the rest of the trip. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t wake up either for three grains of rice and a palm-sized portion of tofu.

At the airport, a limo from Le Retreat whisks me away, zipping along the highway before turning off onto a dirt road that has been hacked out of the jungle. For forty-five minutes, the car meanders along, finally pulling into a clearing near a turquoise reflecting pool where I’m greeted by swaying palm trees and a thicket of richly scented fuchsia-and-white tropical flowers. When I step out, I notice iridescent-beaked toucans perched in the trees, and since, blissfully, there are no chirpy counselors handing out mai tais like there were on my one and only visit to Club Med, I think I’m going to like it here.

The concierge meets me smartly at the front entrance—I’m guessing the driver called ahead—and apologizes endlessly for my room not being ready. “But your friend’s already here, Ms. Taylor,” he says grandly, taking my bag and escorting me inside. “I’ll call her suite.”

We’re not sharing a room? I should have realized this isn’t the economy tour. Lucy said she’d take care of everything, but I didn’t expect all this. I’ll need to bake more than a couple of dozen cupcakes to repay her this time. Maybe a bundt cake.

I plop into a plush rattan chair in the lobby and a handsome waiter glides over immediately, offering champagne, on the house. I’m sipping peacefully, gazing dreamily at the ocean and not even minding all the happy couples walking hand in hand on the beach. Then the happiest couple of all breezes in, heading in my direction. I’m looking at them contentedly without registering who they are.

Until everything comes into focus.

Lucy’s not alone.

She’s wearing a bikini top and a clingy flowered sarong. Her red manicured toenails peek out from strappy pink sandals and there’s a freshly cut hibiscus tucked behind her ear. Her best accessory, however, is the glow on her face that came either from the ninety-five-dollar oxygen facial in the spa or from fabulous sex with Hunter—at even greater cost. And since Hunter is standing right next to her, I’m betting she didn’t have a facial.

I stand up uncertainly and Hunter leans in and gives me a kiss. “How was the flight?” he asks buoyantly.

I’m still too stunned to speak, but Hunter never needed another person to have a conversation.

“Great place, isn’t it?” he asks expansively, spreading his arms to take it all in. “They love me here. Wait until you see the suite they gave us. And your room should be just fine. I’ve already told them to send you a fruit basket. On me.”

“Nice,” I sputter. “Really great.” I pause, distracted for a moment by the swirling pink pattern on his Hawaiian shirt. Could those be flamingos? But I have to stay on course. “I didn’t realize
you’d
be here,” I say, my voice a little edgier than I’d intended. “I thought it was just me and Lucy.”

He chuckles. “You and Lucy at
Condé Nast Traveler’s
Most Romantic Resort in the World?” Hunter chuckles again. “I don’t think so. You’re cute, but she’s mine.” He puts his arm around Lucy and squeezes her.

Lucy cuddles into the nook of his arm, but then she catches the expression on my face and straightens up. She, too, leans in for the air kiss. “You look terrific, Jess,” she says. “I hope you’re not too surprised
that Hunter’s here, but it’s going to be great. Wait till you see the spa. I’ve already got you booked for a full body aromatherapy massage. I’m told it’s heavenly. But if you’d rather do the rose petal facial, I can change it, no problem.”

I decide to ignore the spa menu. “Why didn’t you tell me Hunter would be here?” I ask, not worried that the man under discussion is standing right in front of me.

“I was just trying to spare you another one of those awkward scenes on the train with Dan. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have to be part of the cover-up.”

“But I
am
the cover-up,” I say.

She pauses. It’s hard to argue when I’ve hit it on the nose. But Lucy didn’t get to be a powerful Hollywood producer without a full load of charm and an arsenal of comebacks. “You know me, I always think I deserve everything,” she says earnestly. “My best friend and my favorite guy together in the most beautiful place in the world.” She smiles at Hunter who, ever the pro, picks up his cue.

“In fact, I insisted that you join us,” he says magnanimously. “Come to think of it, having you here was all my idea.”

We all know he’s gone a little too far with that one. But at least it’s on the table. My getaway vacation is really about Lucy and Hunter trying to get away with something. And from the look on Hunter’s face, he’s already scored. He has that shit-eating grin men get when they draw a straight flush. And his hand is a doozy—he’s got the girl, had the sex, took a nap, ordered room service, chugged tequila and now expects to shmooze-over the situation with the best friend.

I have a few options. I can throw a tantrum right here in the middle of the lobby, jump in the limo and head straight back to my house. Make that my empty house. And spend the weekend doing what? Finally repotting those azaleas? Next option: I can do a Dr. Phil and lecture Lucy on moral turpitude:
Who the hell do you think you are, woman? Lying to your best friend and betraying your husband! That’s two for two on how to screw up your life!

There’s one other possibility: I can keep my flip-flops planted firmly where they are and try to enjoy that rose petal facial. My storming out
isn’t going to save Lucy’s marriage or make life any better for Dan. But I’m not going to wimp out, either. When I finally get Lucy alone, I’m going to point out that her little midlife fling has crossed over into
Dangerous Liaisons
territory. If this is how she’s saving her marriage, I’m glad she’s not in charge of Homeland Security.

But for the moment, if I’m going to stay, I might as well be gracious about it.

I look outside at the long stretch of pink sand glowing under the bleached light of the midday sun.

“It’s glorious here,” I say. “Maybe I’ll just take a walk on the beach by myself until my room’s ready.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it,” says Hunter, ever convivial. “Come on, you must be hungry. Let’s have a snack.”

I glance at Lucy to see if three’s more company than she’d planned on this afternoon. But she’s all welcoming smiles.

“Let’s eat down by the beach,” she says enthusiastically. “It’s already our favorite place.”

“And great food,” says Hunter. “They have killer filet mignon enchiladas.”

“Told you,” she says, playfully rolling her eyes at me. “I adore everything about this guy except the way he eats. But he’ll come around.” She giggles girlishly and slips her arm through Hunter’s. “Before the end of the weekend I’ll have him munching the wheatless tacos.”

Okay. I’ll keep my mouth shut if she feeds him a taste of her taco. But if she tries to cut his meat, I swear, I’m leaving the table.

Hunter and Lucy stroll down the flower-bedecked path on the beach, while I veer onto the talcum-powder-smooth sand, relishing the warmth beneath my toes and relaxing as the sun beats down on my shoulders. Maybe I’ll get an early start on a summer tan.

“Watch out for the sun,” Lucy calls out solicitously. “It’s dangerous here. Do you need some SPF-40? I have SPF-80, too.”

“That’s okay. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink much. Figure I’m entitled to one vice. I’ll make mine sunshine.”

I reach into my straw bag and pull out my own tube of Bain de Soleil SPF-8. The highest I’m willing to go right now.

Lucy leaves Hunter and hurries to my side.

“Darling, really,” she warns in a low voice. “This is too irresponsible of you.”

“I know. Risk of skin cancer. I’ve read the articles.”

“That too,” Lucy says. “But I’m talking age spots and wrinkles.”

“I hear you. But I look better with a little color in my face. And I don’t care if in my old age I end up as wizened as Georgia O’Keeffe. Doesn’t seem to have hurt her. Maybe she looked like a tiny old raisin, but at ninety, she snagged a twenty-year-old lover.”

Lucy looks impressed. And I can tell she’s tempted to switch to my SPF-8. Instead, she points out the couple a few paces ahead of us—a stunning twenty-something blonde on the arm of a much older man whose face is the color of a worn baseball glove and just as leathery.

“Looks like around here, May-December romances work only in favor of the men,” she says.

She’s right. Due north, I see another young blonde in a stunning string bikini doting over an old bald guy sporting an ill-advised Speedo. I’m sensing a trend. A lot of rich old sugar daddies escorting lithesome young girls tells me this place doesn’t cater to people celebrating their wedding anniversaries. I never thought I’d have anything good to say about Lucy’s affair, but at least Hunter picked someone his own age.

“And here we are,” Hunter says, coming over to both of us. “Not such a long walk. I sure am ready to eat.”

Here we are? I’m looking around at beach, ocean, palm trees and a big, blue open sky, but I don’t see a restaurant. Or a café. Or even a lone pool boy with menus. Could it be that Hunter’s been out in the sun too long and he’s hallucinating? But then Hunter stoops behind a tree and seems to disappear, which, frankly, at his size and with those pink flamingos on his shirt, is pretty hard to do.

“Come on into our cabana,” Lucy says, and then I notice that what I thought was just overgrowth is a thatch-roofed hut, tucked between two trees.

We duck inside, but this is no modest beach shanty. Instead of the usual plastic lounge chairs, the lush interior boasts a huge silk-covered chaise, piles of overstuffed pillows, and a teakwood table set elegantly for two. Hunter is already on the resort-issued mini-PC ordering the filet mignon, the wheatless tacos, and oh yes, an extra place setting.

“Now I really feel like I’m intruding,” I say, looking helplessly at Lucy. “Couldn’t we just go to the restaurant?”

“Not really,” she explains. “Everything’s served in your own cabana. Le Retreat is
very
discreet.”

“Very discreet,” says Hunter, caressing Lucy’s shoulders and swiveling her around for a kiss. A very long kiss. A very, very long kiss. Am I supposed to look or look away? Where’s Emily Post’s granddaughter when you really need her? After several minutes of staring at the patterns on my chipped pedicure, I hear a gentle rapping from outside.

“May I disturb you?” a deep, velvety voice asks.

Thank goodness, food is here. I rush to the doorway to welcome room service but the buff, good-looking guy standing there isn’t holding a tray. Instead he has a small blue bag slung over his shoulder and a huge, colorful beachball tucked under his arm. He has slicked-back hair and his muscular legs gleam with a perfect tan. Doesn’t look like the sun has done
him
any harm. His biceps are bulging under a white polo shirt emblazoned with a pink logo:
LE RETREAT THERAPY
.