The Botox Diaries (24 page)

But on this trip I’m snuggled next to Jacques six thousand feet in the air, looking out the helicopter window at the rolling hills, meandering streams, and yes, cows. I’m loving Vermont, or maybe I’m loving that Jacques and I are kissing and caressing for the entire one-hour ride. When we land, I manage to get out from under the whirring blades with my head intact, if not my hairdo. As we dash away, Jacques has his arm protectively around my shoulders and I feel like I’m a 1940s movie heroine being whisked off by Cary Grant.

The Bradford Inn could be right out of a movie, too. Though not from the 1940s. Looks more like it was decorated by Betsy Ross—and updated by Terence Conran. There’s a huge antique brass bed, but instead of a handmade lace throw, it’s covered by a distinctly modern geometric-patterned comforter. An authentic hand-woven rag rug rests gracefully next to the bed, but sits on top of plush wall-to-wall carpeting. An oversized rosewood Early American hutch houses a flat-screened TV, a DVD player and a Bose sound system, all of which are controlled by remotes on either side of the bed. Another modern dilemma. Who drives the remote if you each have one?

But Jacques doesn’t need a remote to take control. We’ve barely closed the door when he pins me against the wall.

“At last,” he says, kissing me hard and urgently pressing his body into mine.

I drop the cashmere cardigan I’ve been holding and wrap my arms around Jacques’ waist, leaning in to kiss him languidly. But Jacques’ usual slow tempo seems to be on fast forward. With little prelude, he pulls my T-shirt over my head and grabs hungrily at my breasts.

“I want to make love to you right here,” he says, tugging at his belt and pushing me forcefully against the wall.

Well, okay. Sounds interesting. But I could use a little more buildup. Maybe he’s counting that hour of kissing on the helicopter as fore-play. But that was airplay. Aren’t there rules about starting over once you change altitude? I better stop thinking and just get into this.

Jacques is standing in front of me, completely naked now. Obviously ready to go. I’m a couple of steps behind.

“Are you all right, my darling?” he asks.

“No” seems like too complicated an answer. We can make love if that’s what he wants. So what if I don’t have an orgasm. It’s going to be a long weekend. My turn will come. And I remember reading somewhere that sex standing up is good exercise for your quadriceps.

Jacques doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not totally on his wavelength, and within minutes, he explodes with pleasure inside me. I don’t exactly fake it, but I make a few murmurings of satisfaction, truly enjoying his excitement.

“That was wonderful, yes, darling?” he asks, now gently stroking my cheek.

“Yes,” I whisper back, eyeing the bed and thinking how nice it would be just to lie down under that comforter and luxuriate in his strong arms.

But we seem to be totally out of synch today because Jacques has other ideas.

“So,” he says, pulling away and heading toward the bathroom. “I have a plan. Canoeing?”

Canoeing? Could we make that canoodling? I look longingly again
at the bed, which is clearly going to stay unrumpled for a while longer. Maybe we’re both getting older. Took me too long to get in the mood and now he wants a respite before round two. In the old days, making love with me was the only activity he seemed interested in. Now it’s just one item on the list.

Jacques quickly pulls on a pair of shorts—Nautica, of course, we’re going boating—and I head to the enormous double-sinked bathroom for a quick shower.

“Don’t take too long,” he calls out as I’m soaping up.

“Why are we rushing?” I ask.

“Don’t want the river to go dry,” he calls back, joking.

We get down to the boathouse with plenty of time and water to spare, and Jacques pulls a two-person canoe to the edge of the beach.

“Hop in,” he tells me, slipping two paddles into the bottom of the boat and extending a helping hand.

I climb awkwardly into the boat and perch precariously on the front seat.

“Get on your knees,” Jacques commands.

Figures. I just showered and now he’s ready for another go.

But he goes around to the stern, explaining that I need to kneel to keep the boat balanced. He manfully pushes the canoe away from the shore, running until he’s knee-deep in water, then jumps into the boat.

“Do you know how to stroke?” he asks, handing me one paddle and taking his own. He gives me a sixty-second lesson in paddling procedures and reminds me that since he’s in the stern, he sets the pace and I’m supposed to follow along. The theme of the day.

“Stroke, feather, stroke, feather!” he barks. I manage to keep up, and the boat moves briskly, cutting cleanly through the water. This is more fun than I thought. But in a few minutes, my unaerobicized arms begin to ache and my paddle strokes get weaker. Doesn’t seem to matter. The boat’s still going straight and fast.

“You can relax,
mon amour,”
Jacques calls out from behind. “I can handle this alone. Let me take care of you.”

I can live with that. I lean back, enjoying the warmth of the day,
the sun sparkling on the water, and the glorious backdrop of green mountains. We glide blissfully through the quick current, the water making a peaceful, thwacking sound as it laps against the sides of the aluminum canoe. Looking out at the passing panorama on the shoreline of thick maple trees, distant farmlands, and tiny twittering birds, I realize how nice it is to have a strong man behind me, guiding the way.

I close my eyes and settle into the moment. How easy life can be when you’re part of a couple. When there’s someone else’s strength to rely on. My mind is drifting when there’s suddenly a loud splash in the water, and the boat jerks precipitously to the side.

“What …” I spin around and see Jacques swimming powerfully alongside the boat.

“The water is delicious,” he calls out. “I couldn’t resist. Just a short swim. I’ll be right back.”

So much for someone to rely on.

Figuring I can keep pace with Jacques, I dip my paddle into the placid water. But instead of going straight ahead, the boat veers around in a circle to the left. Did I learn nothing at Camp Nepakawanee? Nope, I didn’t. Unless you count braiding lanyards. I try putting the paddle on the other side and now the boat makes a circle to the right.

Goddamn Jacques. Why did he leave me alone here?

Okay, I can handle this. I flex my arm, get the boat straightened out, and to my enormous surprise, start moving forward. I’m feeling confident and humming bits of a boating medley—“Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,”

“Bridge Over Troubled Waters,” and “Down by the River I Shot My Baby.” Given that last one, maybe I’m madder at Jacques than I realize. The current picks up, making my paddling all the easier. I notice some rocks just ahead and steer clear of them. Gosh, I’m good. A small swirling rapid coming up doesn’t look too dangerous, but just to be safe, I pull the boat in the opposite direction.

The canoe slams hard into a slab of jutting rock and I hear the heart-stopping crash of metal as the boat flies into the air and flips on its keel.

Suddenly it’s pitch-dark and I’m flailing around at the bottom of
the river, flapping my arms furiously, like a trapped otter. Water is filling my nose and my lungs feel like they’re exploding. Can I be drowning this fast? My foot seems caught between two rocks and I can’t pry it loose. Definitely drowning, except my life isn’t passing before my eyes. I can’t panic. Oh yes I can. Isn’t this how Meryl Streep died in
River Wild
? No, she couldn’t have died. That was her only commercial movie.

I reach down and with strength I never knew I had, push at the rock and wrench my foot free. I’m so disoriented that I’m not sure which way is up, but I kick as hard as I can and power myself to what I think is the surface. Only there’s no sky or sun—it’s still dark. I stretch my arm over my head and hear the echo of my hand banging on the aluminum boat. Okay, thank god, I’m safe. I’m in an air pocket. I take a deep breath and dive down to swim out from under the boat when all of a sudden I feel a pair of strong arms around my waist, holding me back. It must be Jacques, trying to rescue me, but this isn’t the way to do it. I try to shake free, but the harder I pull away, the tighter he holds on.

Now I do see my life passing before me. How the heck do you scream “Let me go!” underwater? We struggle—he pulling, me pushing, but both of us finally bobbing to the surface, sputtering and coughing.

“I have you!” Jacques calls, bracing his arm around me in the Red Cross–approved cross-chest carry position and dragging along my waterlogged body. “The shore isn’t far. Hang on. Just
deux minutes
.”

The shore? What about the boat? I catch a glimpse of it, still upside down, being whisked by the current far away from us downstream.

And then as we get to the sandy embankment on the side of the river, I utter my first words since tragedy struck.

“My Stephane Kelian sandals!” I scream at Jacques. “I bought them just for this trip! Why didn’t you rescue those?”

“I rescued you,” he says petulantly. “I saved your life. Am I not your hero boy?”

I look down at my sandalless foot, which is scraped and bleeding.
Is it fair to blame that on Jacques? You betcha. Who left whom alone in the boat?

“What do we do now, hero boy?” I ask, looking around at the river to the left and the thick forest to the right.

“Too far to swim back. We walk.
Marchons
,” he says, heading toward the trees.

I follow him and we pass single file through the thick underbrush. I’m soaked through and chilled to the bone. I should probably take off this wet T-shirt, but I’m not ready to have Jacques see me in a bathing suit. Even though he sees me naked when we’re making love. Maybe if I’d lost more weight he’d at least offer to carry me.

We trundle on for what seems like miles—but isn’t—until up ahead, I spy a ray of light and a clearing. I happily head toward the sunny field—and civilization.

“A farmhouse!” I say excitedly. I start a hobbled run, but I’m stopped short by a barbed-wire fence that is holding back a herd of—can it be?—Vermont’s fabled cows. Spotted brown and white, just like my Roy Rogers–splattered shorts.

“Don’t get too close, these fences are always electrified,” Jacques warns knowingly from behind. When did hero boy turn into Farmer Jack? He walks parallel, a few feet down the fence. “Look,” he says encouragingly. “This part’s slightly raised. We can crawl under right here. Flat on our bellies.”

I don’t have a flat belly. And then there’s the issue of my ample butt. But Jacques is already on the ground, and in an instant, he slithers snakelike right under the fence. I don’t hear any sizzling sounds, so I prepare to follow him. I tuck in my tush and pull in my tummy, just like they taught me at Lotte Berk. The instructor always said that good posture is a lifesaver, although I don’t think this is what she had in mind.

Once past the electrified fence, I stand up proudly, only to confront the next obstacle. A herd of curious cows coming toward us.

“Take off your shorts!” I scream to Jacques. “Quickly!”

“Not here, darling,” he says, taking my hand. “Let’s wait till we get back to the inn.”

“No, the shorts! They’re red!” I say frantically, tugging at his waistband. “Take them off now. The cows will charge!”

“Non, non, mon petit chouchou
,” he says tousling my wet curls and kissing my nose. “Cows are the women. They’re docile. It’s the bulls that charge.”

Docile? I’ll show him docile. Although I’m more than a little relieved to hear that Elsie’s not a killer.

But then a new thought crosses my mind.

“How do you know there aren’t any bulls around?”

“Never in the same field. They only get together to mate. Otherwise the males are too aggressive.”

Tell me about it.

We nudge aside the inquiring herd and pick our way through the cow patties. Well, this is pleasant. Now I’m bloody and muddy and I probably smell like dung—which is obviously an aphrodisiac, because Jacques chooses this precise minute to throw his arms around me and pull me close to him in a deep kiss.

“You know,
ma petite
, you’re right. We should make love right here.”

“In the pasture? Haven’t we already paid for the room?” I shake my head. “Anyway, don’t you think the day’s had enough drama?”

“Drama? What drama?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Surely he jests. “I almost drowned,” I tell him sternly. “The electric fence could have killed us. And who knows about these stampeding cows.”

Jacques bursts out laughing. “Oh, this was nothing more than a—how you say? Boy Scout hike.”

And my Boy Scout is always prepared. So why not. The sun is shining, the cows are mooing, and he’s deciding that I was right about those red shorts after all. They’re coming off.

That night, after one of our famous bubble baths, I’m finally nestled under the Pratesi comforter with my head cradled on Jacques’ shoulder. All is forgiven. Two orgasms, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a
candlelit dinner will do that for you. We’re drifting off to sleep when a loud beeping sound makes me drowsily lift my head.

“The fire alarm?” I ask, not sure whether to be worried or annoyed. And I thought today’s adventures were over.

“No, just my mobile,” Jacques says, getting out of bed. He glances at the caller ID, walks to the far corner of the room, and then, in a muffled voice, whispers into his cell phone,
“Bonjour, ma chérie
.”

Well maybe there is another adventure in store. Just not the kind I was planning. I roll over and pretend to go back to sleep.

“Oui, Vermont est très belle. J’ai vu les vaches aujourd’hui.”

He saw cows today. That doesn’t sound too romantic.

“J’ai nage, aussi.”

You’re damn right he went swimming. But who would care? Sister? Secretary? Girlfriend? Make that a girlfriend other than me.

He continues talking for a few more minutes, but the conversation never gets more exciting. Until the end.

“Je reviens tout de suite.”
I’ll be back soon. And then after a long pause, he adds,
“Moi aussi.”