The Botox Diaries (3 page)

“What painter?”

“The guy you met before I left for L.A.”

I make a face. “One date. When I saw his license plate said BLWJOB I decided there was no future. With my bad knees and all it would never work.”

Lucy laughs so hard the sake dribbles down her cheek. I feel a secret thrill that my sexless love life can keep her entertained. If you’re going to go on 101 bad dates you might as well have a good audience.

“I may have somebody for you,” she says, toying coyly with her chopsticks.

“Oh please, not another personal trainer.”

“No, of course not. This one’s a plastic surgeon. Dr. Peter Paulo.”

“Lucy, honestly. Are you trying to fix me up or just fix me? Sometimes I think you should be scheduling appointments for me instead of dates.”

“One-stop shopping, babe. Imagine if you and Dr. Paulo fell in love. Maybe he’d give me a discount on the Botox.”

“You do Botox?” I shouldn’t be surprised but I am.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“Are you kidding? Dove Moisturizing Bar and I call it a day.”

I move to the edge of my chair and peer at Lucy’s perfect, porcelain complexion. Now that I’m unabashedly staring I can see that there’s not one furrow on her brow. None of the crow’s-feet under her eyes that have begun creeping up on mine. But is it true that she can never look scared or angry?

“Boo!” I say loudly, out of nowhere, possibly scaring myself more than Lucy.

Lucy jerks back, almost spilling a glass of water. “Jess, have you gone looney?” she squeals.

“Sorry, the Botox. I just wanted to see if your face still moves.”

“Of course it does,” she says, steadying the glass back in its place. “Except the forehead, I’ll admit. But how often do you express yourself with your forehead?”

I think about that one. But it still bothers me that Lucy—who pouts if the lettuce isn’t organic—happily injects her face with poison.

“I thought your body was a temple,” I say.

“My body
is
a temple,” Lucy laughs. “I just don’t want it to crumble like St. John the Divine.”

“Oh, Lucy. You’re the most fabulous-looking woman I know.”

“That’s nice of you, but in Hollywood they shoot women over thirty. Out there if you’re twenty-three and you haven’t had your first mini-lift it’s already too late.”

“Oh, come on. Get real.”

“If I did I’d be the only one,” she says wryly, pulling out a mirror to reapply her lip gloss. “Forget about the girls on camera—we don’t even want them in the audience. The demos on my shows have to be
eighteen to thirty-four because after that the only advertiser who still cares is Viagra.”

“Or Depends,” I say brightly.

That’s a conversation stopper. Before I have a chance to ask any more questions Lucy glances at her watch. “Darling, I hate to do this, but I have to run.” She nabs the check and leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Anyway, are you free Friday?” She doesn’t even wait for my answer. “That’s when I told Dr. Paulo you’d get together.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is all Lucy’s fault. No one else could get me to the gray granite hallway of a too-chic white box building on East Seventy-second Street at six forty-three on a Friday night. And here I am in brand-new Stuart Weitzman high-heels—I can already feel the blisters coming on—bought for a man I’ve never met. Wasn’t I the dry wit who used to say that “Love may be blind, but dates shouldn’t be?” And if I’m going out with Lucy’s plastic surgeon, shouldn’t he at least pick me up? Oh, that’s right. When he’d called to confirm our date for this evening, he’d said that as long as I had to take the train into the city and I’d be out anyway, why didn’t I come by his apartment? Certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience him. Maybe I should have called back to see if he needs a pint of half-and-half or a dozen eggs as long as I’m out.

I’m two minutes early, so I pull out my cell phone to give my daughter an early good-night kiss.

“Jen, Jen honey, you there?” I say, trying to hear through a staticky connection.

“Yeah, Mom. What’s up? You on your date yet?”

“What makes you think I’m on a date?”

“Lily’s here,” she giggles. “She told me all about it. What’s a plastic surgeon, Mommy? Are you gonna marry him?”

This is not the phone conversation I was hoping for. “No, Jen. We’re just having dinner. Nothing special. You’re the only one for me. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Sure, Mom. Whatever. Gotta go. Did you need me for something?”

“No, just wanted to make sure you were all right. Which, I guess, you are. Okay, then. See you later …”

Jen clicks off the phone before I can blow her a kiss, leaving me with nothing else to do but tuck in my tummy, straighten my skirt, and ring the bell.

On the other side of the door I hear loud howls and barking. But no one answers. I wait and ring again. No one answers. No one answers. Then the door swings open.

“You’re on time,” the plastic surgeon says, accusingly. All I can see at the moment is his head, and then he steps back. He’s wrapped in a skimpy terry cloth towel and his naked chest is dotted with thick clumps of wet matted gray hair. Obviously, I’ve interrupted his shower. He looks at me and tilts his head to one side, trying to dislodge some water from his ear. Beads of water are dripping down his leg and he reaches for a corner of the towel to start to dry off. “Don’t do that,” I think, panicked. He manages to dry his leg without revealing anything that I don’t want to see—now or ever, I have a feeling.

“Uh, I’m sorry. I thought we said s-six forty-five?” I say with a stammer. My voice—I
hate
when I do this—rises like a little girl’s on the “six forty-five” part.

“We did,” he snaps, turning his back to me and leading me into his mirror-walled lair. “But who ever heard of a New Yorker arriving on time? Well, not really your fault,” he says, in what I’m sure he thinks is a generous tone. “You’re not from New York, I mean New York ‘proper,’ now, are you? Just give me ten minutes to get dressed.”

He disappears into the bedroom, and I try not to think about his peeling off his towel. Maybe I should just leave now. On the other hand, the evening can’t get any worse, can it? Yes it can. The dog—an apso-lapso? a lapso-apso? an Alpo? I never can get these designer dogs straight—carries on for his absent owner and starts humping my leg.

I sit down on the white-on-white, never-been-touched-by-children’s-hands couch and flip through the copy of
Matisse-Picasso
that’s been too casually placed on the glass-and-chrome coffee table. Then I notice a copy of
Hustler
that’s been shoved under the sofa.

Why don’t I have a secretary who could call me with a pretend emergency to get me out of here? Maybe I could get hold of Jen again and beg her to phone me back with an imagined case of strep. No, Lucy. It’s Lucy who should get me out of this fine mess, I’m thinking as the dog, who’s now working himself into a frenzy, starts humping more furiously, as if he’s super-glued to my leg.

“Um, your dog …,” I call out.

“Yeah, I know. He’s adorable,” he shouts back. “I don’t want to make you jealous but he’s a real chick-magnet when we’re walking in the park.”

“Yes, I’m sure … but, um, at the moment he seems to have attached himself to my leg and I can’t seem to shake him.”

“Nonsense. Winston would never do anything like that. Would you, pookie,” he says, emerging from the boudoir in a Calvin Klein pullover and leather jeans. He walks halfway across the room toward me, then pauses and turns, posing like a male model at the end of a runway. I don’t applaud, so he keeps walking over to the wet bar in the corner of the living room. Wet bar. He must have picked up that decorating tip from
Hustler
. Circa 1978.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” he says in full smarmy-charmy Park-Avenue doctor mode as he uncorks a bottle of Chateau-something-or-other. “I’ve some cheese and things in the kitchen. Wanna stay in tonight?”

I’m confused. Have we been out so much this week that we have to stay home tonight?

I wouldn’t mind going to the Four Seasons. Le Cirque isn’t far. And I’ve always wanted to try Le Bernardin.

“Staying here would be lovely,” I hear myself say.

He sashays across the room, hands me the Baccarat goblet and cups his hands around my chin. Then he turns my face thoughtfully from side to side. Am I being kissed already or appraised for Botox injections?

“I know which side of your face is better,” he says, pleased to think he’s impressing me. “But I’m not going to tell you until later.” He actually winks.

Is this his best shot? I hardly know how to reply. And on top of everything, I’m incredibly annoyed to realize that I’m actually wondering which side of my face really is better.

He settles into the sofa and pats a cushion for me to come join him. “You’ll never guess who came into my office this afternoon,” he says.

“Who?” I ask brightly, sitting down one cushion over.

“No, you’ll have to guess.” He grins seductively.

Do we really have to play this game? Okay. “Meryl Streep.”

“No.” He sounds annoyed. I’ve guessed too high.

“Kathie Lee.”

“Getting warmer.”

“Go ahead, tell me now.”

“Dahlia Hammerschmidt!” he reveals triumphantly.

My face is blank. I can’t help myself—I’ve never heard the name in my life. I try to hide it but he can tell. And he’s immediately crestfallen.

Who knew there was going to be a pop quiz this early in the evening? I’ve blown it already and I didn’t even want him.

“I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I guess I should have renewed my subscription to
People
.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I only thought of it because you remind me a little of her.”

This could be a compliment. Dahlia Hammerschmidt is probably a once-famous actress, or at the very least, a rich socialite. Then again, she was last seen visiting a plastic surgeon.

I pick up the Baccarat goblet and take a sip.

“So what do you think?” he asks.

What subject are we on now? Ah, I’ve got it. The wine.

“It’s very nice,” I say.

He glares at me and then takes a large swig from his own glass. “Come on. That’s not a description for a wine. Try again.”

If I’d done this badly in college, I never would have graduated cum laude.

“Fruity,” I suggest.

“Nope. Oaky. With tinges of acorn. A bit nutty.”

A bit nutty. I won’t argue with that. I take another sip. “A wonderful kumquat aftertaste,” I say.

“Kumquat?”

“Very flavorful.”

“It should be, at a hundred bucks a bottle.” He’s mildly appeased. Maybe I’ll just get sloshed on hundred-dollar cabernet and call it a night. I take another sip and Winston, the sex-starved dog, chooses this moment to prove his undying affection for me by catapulting onto my lap in a single bound. As I jerk upright, the red wine sloshes around in the glass, and a few drops land on the snow white sofa.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

I jump up, dumping Winston unceremoniously from my lap, and rush to the kitchen. A moment later, I’m back with a wet dish towel and I drop down in front of the couch and start scrubbing at the stains.

“Don’t worry,” the good doctor says graciously. “It’s just a couple of drops.”

“I want to get them out.”

“It’s okay.” He leans over and grabs my wrist, and when I stop scrubbing, he starts rubbing the underside of my hand with his thumb. We look at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

I know I’ll get this wrong, so I don’t try too hard. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking”—his voice has gotten lower and his thumb-action has gotten faster—“I’m thinking that since I’m sitting here and you’re on your knees right there, we could have a little fun. Or a large amount of fun, if you know what I mean.”

Oh. My. God. And not even a license plate to warn me.

I scramble to stand up as quickly as I can, banging my knee against the glass-and-chrome coffee table and stepping on Winston’s tail. I yelp and so does he.

“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say, grabbing my jacket and purse. “Thanks
for the wine. It was very oaky. Sorry about the stains. You can send me a bill, okay? And good luck with Dahlia whatever-her-name-is …”

The rest of my sentence is lost to both of us, because I’ve slammed the door behind me and am back in the hallway, running toward the elevator. Poor Lucy. I hope she trusts someone else to give her Botox injections, because Dr. Paulo may never want to see her again.

AT NINE O’CLOCK
the next morning, Lucy’s husband Dan comes to pick up Lily.

“You look terrific,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek.

“I do?” I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt and since I’ve just applied Revlon Really Rosie to my toenails and they’re not quite dry yet, I’m flapping my feet around like a demented duck.

Dan glances at the toenails. How could he not? “Pedicure?”

“Not a pedicure. I do it myself. Saves twenty dollars and nobody has to sit at my feet.”

“Maybe you’ll teach my wife how to do that. But maybe not. She loves people sitting at her feet.”

Not going there. Girls stick together. “Your daughter was sweet as could be last night,” I say, switching topics. “I’m glad she decided to sleep over.”

“Nothing Lily likes better,” Dan says. “But I figured I’d take her out to breakfast this morning. The boys are at a tennis match and Lucy’s sleeping in.”

“Too late,” I admit. “We already ate breakfast. Waffles, made in our new waffle iron. Drenched in maple syrup.”

“I’m suitably impressed.” Dan unzips his jacket, revealing a red plaid shirt that offers that suburban-lumberjack look. He’s six feet tall, has big gray eyes and the requisite wavy black hair. He looks more muscular than the last time I saw him, which must mean he’s part of that pack of middle-aged studs working out at the gym. I don’t have to look down to guess that instead of shoes, he’s wearing all-weather, all-terrain L.L. Bean boots, even though there’s no snow outside and it hasn’t rained in a week. That’s what guys do around here. They buy four-wheel-drive Jeeps to cruise down paved suburban streets, too.