The Botox Diaries (27 page)

He grandly tosses his head back and twirls his ever-present Phantom of the Opera cape. As the kids cluster around, he glances at the newly begun mural. “Who chose lilac for the flowers on the wallpaper?” he bellows, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “That’s just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Hasn’t anyone here ever been to London?”

“I have,” pipe up at least nine Park Avenue voices.

“Then you know that the wallpaper flowers
must
be yellow,” he says imperiously.

Nobody asks why, and with the Scene Three children in his wake, Vincent swirls dramatically to the other side of the hall.

“Okay, guys, yellow,” Chauncey instructs the kids who are left behind. “Let’s paint over that lilac.”

So much for my authority. I move over to watch Vincent’s rehearsal, tapping my foot as the stage fills with the cheerfully in-tune sounds of the children belting out “I’m Getting Married in the Morning.” This number’s going to be a showstopper. But at age twelve do the girls really need to know how hard it is to get a guy to church on time?

Behind me, I hear a brusque man’s voice rising over the last bars of the song. “Does anybody know where Lowell Chauncey Cabot IV is?” he asks officiously.

I look over my shoulder as none other than Joshua Gordon steps carefully across the concrete floor, trying to keep his perfectly polished shoes clear of the minefield of splattered paint.

“He’s over there,” I say, thrusting my chin in the direction of the mural.

“Oh, Jess. I didn’t realize it was you,” he says. Then catching a
closer look at me, his face breaks into a wry smile. “Nice look. Orange is a good color on you.”

Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Not again. Where’s Pierce with those paper towels?

I wonder how man-handler Dahlia would fawn her way out of this situation. I take a deep breath and decide to go for lighthearted. “The Origins facial was so much fun, I thought I’d try this,” I say saucily. “Could open up a whole new marketing line for Benjamin Moore.”

“I’ll mention it to them,” he says, parrying back. “They’re a client. So’s Quaker Oats, by the way.” He looks at me pointedly.

I’m blank. Does he want me to show up next time in oatmeal?

“I’m thinking of telling the CEO they’re doing way too much TV product placement,” he says. “Not worth the money they’re spending. Probably nobody but me noticed the oatmeal box in your kitchen.”

My kitchen? The oatmeal box? That would mean … Oh no, it can’t mean that. I clear my throat.

“You saw me on the
Cosmo
bachelor reality show?” I ask.

“Yup.”

His expression doesn’t give anything away, but I can guess what he’s thinking.

“Not my finest moment,” I say too apologetically.

“I can understand your wanting a hot date. But the surfer’s way too young for you. Go for someone your own age.”

“What’s wrong with young and laid-back?” I ask the man who’s obviously neither. I guess I’ll never make a guy feel taller than five-eight. Even one like Josh who’s already six-two. Took less than nine words to turn me into the anti-Dahlia.

“I don’t know what all you women find so appealing about these under-earning, pretty-boy jocks,” he says indignantly. “Wouldn’t hurt you to look for a grown-up man who earns a living.”

Wow. My TV date really touched a nerve. But Josh looks way too upset to be thinking just about Boulder. Then I remember about Josh’s ex-wife and the tennis pro. No wonder he’s overreacting.

“Just so happens Boulder’s gay,” I say, thinking that might be a comfort.

“You certainly do make interesting dating choices,” he says tersely.

We stare at each other for a few awkward moments. I could try to explain about Boulder. Or maybe tell Josh it’s not his fault that his wife is insane. But Joshua Gordon isn’t standing around waiting for a group hug.

“Listen, I’m just here as a Board member,” he says, reverting to business-only mode. “I came to see Chauncey so I can report back to his father.”

“I did a good job with the Chauncey problem,” I say, patting myself on the back since Josh is obviously not going to. “Turns out he’s a great kid. Once I talked to him I figured out pretty quickly he’d make a mean stage manager.”

“Smart solution,” Josh concedes grudgingly. “Glad you took care of that.”

“Happy to be of service. That’s my job. I’m good at it.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Josh says, scraping his custom-made English leather shoe against the concrete in an effort to wipe off some imaginary blob of paint. “Your judgment in men still leaves something to be desired.”

HUNTER IS PACING AROUND
the lobby of the Regal Hotel like a wildcat in the new Tiger Mountain habitat at the Bronx Zoo. Nice environment, but he doesn’t want to be here. And he’s pissed at his handlers—in this case, Lucy.

“Sweetheart …” he says through clenched teeth to Lucy. “Sweetheart.
Sweetheart
.”

“It’s okay. It’s really going to be okay,” she says, as he paces out tighter and tighter circles in front of her. She reaches over to pat his arm but he pulls away.

“Sweetheart, you’re a fabulous producer and I trust you,” he says, a little too loudly for the genteel surroundings. “You’re the best in the business. I’m proud to host your pilot. But what the fuck were you thinking dragging me here to do a fucking second-rate interview?”

“Darling, please don’t swear. It’s not good for your image,” Lucy says.

“Fuck my image,” Hunter says, voice rising. “You think the fucking Olsen twins are good for my fucking image?” He’s screaming above lobby limits and two out-of-towners standing at the concierge desk look up from their
Around New York
guide to check out the fracas. The show going on in the lobby is hotter than
Hairspray
—and the tickets are a lot cheaper.

“Lower your voice,” Lucy says, her own jaw tightening.

“Not until you tell me why you booked this interview. The Olsen twins. The
fucking
Olsen twins.”

“Excuse me, but despite what the tabloids say, I don’t think both of the Olsen girls are fucking yet. Maybe one of them,” I say, entering the fray to keep the facts straight. Lucy hired me for the day as a researcher, and if she’s shelling out a per diem, I’m damn well going to earn it. “I’ll stay on top of it. Could change any day.”

Both Lucy and Hunter look at me like I’m crazy. But today I’m just the lowly research girl, so Hunter doesn’t bother explaining that he meant fucking as an adjective, not a verb. Not that he’d be likely to articulate it quite that way.

“Lucy. Sweet. Heart,” Hunter says, speaking in measured tones. And making it clear that “sweetheart” is his Hollywood-speak for “moron.”

“You promised me a big-name interview. I was thinking Brad Pitt. Renée Zellweger. Julianne Moore. She didn’t win the Oscar, but I’d be okay with her. But not a couple of Mouseketeers.”

“The Olsens weren’t Mouseketeers,” I say, setting the record right once again. “That was Britney and Christina. And it was ages ago.” At least I learned something poring through two hundred back issues of YM. “The Olsens got their big break on
Full House
. On ABC, which is owned by Disney. But I don’t think that’s what you meant.”

“I don’t care if they fucked Walt Disney himself and every one of the seven dwarves!” Hunter roars, finally exploding. “I’m too important to interview mall rats!” His voice ricochets around the room and Lucy looks alarmed. An ever-growing group of fans at the concierge desk have tossed aside their theater guides. Our little lobby drama is standing-room-only. If Hunter keeps this up, the lights on Broadway may not go on at all tonight.

“Calm down,” Lucy says tersely. “These girls have a billion-dollar business. Every preteen in America collects Mary-Kate and Ashley videos. Not to mention CDs, clothes, sheets, and perfume. They have a line at Wal-Mart. Their own magazine. They’re practically a bigger conglomerate than AOL Time Warner.”

“What isn’t?” Hunter asks. “AOL’s out of the name, and have you checked out that stock price lately? It’s sunk lower than Blackbeard’s pirate ship. Practically tanked my portfolio.”

“How much did you lose?” Lucy asks, sounding a trifle concerned for Hunter’s future. And her birthday present.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll always be a rich man,” he says cockily. “The network pays me a pretty penny.”

She nods, ready to get Hunter back on track. “And you get those big bucks because you’re so talented. All wit and charm. You could interview Al Gore and it would be exciting.” She pauses, overcome by her own hyperbole. “Well, maybe not Al, but definitely Tipper. Anyway, those Olsen girls will be putty in your hands. We all are.” She moves closer, straightens the knot on Hunter’s tie and playfully kisses his ear.

“Okay, I’ll do the interview,” Hunter says, momentarily mollified. “But only if somebody gets me a cappuccino. Double. Soy. With two Equals. No whipped cream.”

“Right,” I say, “you’re lactose intolerant.”

“Jess, I’m flattered,” says Hunter, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about me.”

More than you can imagine.

Lucy looks over at me. “Would you mind handling the cappuccino?” she asks. “I didn’t budget a go-fer for today’s shoot.”

Ah, yes. Still another career choice for me. Go-fer. And they say there are no opportunities for women my age.

“Don’t think getting coffee was in the job description,” I say, thinking I’m making a post-feminist joke.

Lucy shoots me a withering glance. “In TV, it’s a team effort. We all do what it takes to make a good show. Get coffee. Comb the talent’s hair. Stroke their ego—”

“Or stroke whatever else,” says Hunter, suddenly beaming. “Cardinal rule is to keep the talent happy. And lucky me, I’m the talent.” He puts his arm around Lucy and rubs her shoulder affectionately. “You give me what I need off the air and I give you what you need on the air. The best fucking show in television.”

“The best,” Lucy says, kissing his cheek. “But could we stop with the ‘fuckings’ now?”

“Sure. Till later,” he says with a wink.

Hunter swaggers toward the hotel’s cavernous restaurant, where the cameras and lights are already set for the interview, and settles into a banquette. The audio engineer clips a wireless mike on Hunter’s lapel and hands him the remote to snap onto his belt.

“Actually, we’re not starting the shot right here,” Lucy says diplomatically. “Darling, I didn’t mention this to you, but the network’s having a little problem with the rough cuts of the pilot they’ve seen so far. They want a few changes.”

“What’s the matter, they don’t like me? They want a new host?” Hunter asks jocularly, confident that the network’s about as likely to replace him as the Pope is to announce his engagement.

“No, no, nothing like that. Not yet,” Lucy says. “We’re not nearly at that point.”

“At that point?” Hunter asks in disbelief. “What do you mean ‘at that point’?” His ego is so fragile that with three words he’s flip-flopped completely. Now he’s expecting that the invitations to the Pope’s wedding are already in the mail. And he’s not even on the list.

“Don’t worry, darling. I think we can solve it with more behind-the-scenes. The network thinks that’s where you’re stronger. So we’re going to start this shot in the kitchen. With you working with the chef to make the Olsen girls’ lunch.”

Now Hunter’s ego is flat-lining faster than WorldCom.

“You mean I’ve got this great opportunity to have a sit-down with the Olsen twins and you’re shuttling me off to the kitchen?” he asks in despair.

What’s happened to the teen twins not being worth his time? I guess compared to flipping burgers for them, an actual interview with Mary-Kate and Ashley is looking better every moment.

“It’s pretty nice in the kitchen,” I say, handing Hunter the just-brewed double soy Equal cappuccino no whip that I’ve fetched. “The chef’s terrific. Did you know they invented the rum-and-Coke right
here at this hotel?” And who’s to say not? Love this research gig. I wonder if encyclopedic knowledge of the Olsen twins and unprovable claims about mixed drinks will get me into Mensa.

Lucy, working hard to keep the talent happy, takes Hunter by the hand and leads him into the kitchen. “So here’s the lineup,” she says. “We’ll shoot the girls with their menus and then cut to you in the kitchen. You’ll give America all the behind-the-scenes on what really happens in a famous restaurant kitchen. Then—and this is the best part, darling—you’ll come out with the tray.”

Hunter is now too deflated to ask how his carrying a tray could possibly be the best part. Good for pumping up his pecs? So Lucy helps him out.

“I can just picture the shot, can’t you? The girls think the waiter’s coming and then it’s you. Hunter Green. They’ll be so thrilled to actually meet you. I can hear them squealing now.”

“That could work,” Hunter says, hearing those very same squeals of delight.

I, however, can hear only the steady buzz of the air conditioner. I guess you have to work in TV full-time to share an audio hallucination.

The Olsen twins arrive in a whirl of tight tees, long hair, and dozens of long-looped necklaces. They plunk down their pocketbooks and sit shoulder to shoulder, just as adorable as advertised. But gosh, they’re young. Maybe if you add their ages together with Hunter’s and divide by three you hit the key demo. There’s an equation Einstein never thought of. Mensa, here I come.

Even hidden away in the kitchen, Hunter knows how to make a scene shine. Once the cameras are rolling, he ties on an apron and schmoozes with the chef. You’d think that learning how to make the perfect Salade Niçoise is all he ever wanted to do in life.

“This is fabulous,” Hunter swoons to the chef, theatrically tossing olives into the bowl. “I never imagined the drama that goes on back here. So much hustle and bustle. So much tension. It all seems so calm when you’re sitting out there in the dining room. But now we’re seeing everything that really goes on.”

Well, not everything. The cameras carefully avoid the sous-chef who drops a piece of raw chicken on the floor and casually picks it up and throws it on the grill, as if it’s an everyday occurrence. Which I guess it is. Then there’s the recycled coleslaw. What’s left over on one person’s plate just gets sent out with a new order. And as a pièce de résistance, we have the assistant who’s garnishing the dishes. Alas, he seems to be having a sneezing fit. So along with the beautiful edible flowers, he adds his own finishing touch. A spray of germs. Not on the menu.