The Botox Diaries (30 page)

“I’m leaning toward pairs two, four, and six,” Jacques says, preening in front of the mirror in the last pair. “I’ll just try those on again. Unless you liked three.
Le troisième
is still in the running if you say so,
mon amour.”

“No, definitely not three,” I tell him. Figure I’ll just vote for the even numbers. A girl has to have some rational system for making decisions. “In fact, you don’t need to try them again, those pairs look perfect on you.”

“
Merci, mon chouchou
, but let’s just be sure.”

And oh, are we sure. He tries on pairs two, four, six followed by four, two, six, then six, two, four. And the big decision? I’ve lost track by now. But we leave with a huge shopping bag. Which also includes six polo shirts, all in various shades of light blue, selected to be worn
with the khakis. Why the shirts don’t need to be tried on eludes me. But I certainly don’t bring it up.

“Such fun shopping with you,” Jacques says grandly when we’re finally out the door. “I think we did well,
non
? And now we go buy you a little trinket.”

“A little trinket? How about one of these?” I suggest as we pass a street vendor hawking beaded necklaces and “gold” bracelets. The sign on his table makes an irresistible offer:
2 FOR 5 DOLARZ. YOUR CHOICE
. And just who else’s choice would it be?

“No, something I think you’ll like even more,” Jacques says, laughing.

He takes my hand as we stroll up Fifth Avenue and I feel my spirits soar. It’s one of the three or four days in the year when the city is perfect. The sun is shining but there’s no humidity. A gentle, light breeze stirs the air. The flowers in Rockefeller Center are blooming and so are the colorful umbrellas at the outdoor cafés. People are smiling and no one seems to be rushing. Jacques buys two salted pretzels from another vendor who even tells us to “Have a nice day.”

The six-block walk takes a little longer than usual because we stop every hundred feet to kiss and peer into store windows.

“Here we are,” Jacques says as he ushers me through the revolving door on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. Tiffany. Haven’t been here since I returned the three identical silver candy dishes Jacques’ relatives sent us all those years ago for our wedding.

“You know what this store is famous for,
non?”
he says looking around delightedly.

“The blue boxes,” I say.

“Yes, that too, my darling,” he says, chuckling. “But non. I mean diamonds. The most beautiful diamonds in all the world.” He clasps my hand close to his and we walk by the sparkling cases of glittery jewels. “I love you. Today we buy you a diamond.”

I stop short and pretend to study the baubles in one of the cases. A diamond? I feel a lump in my throat. A few dates, a few nights together, a few hundred flowers and he’s won me back? That’s all it takes? I promised myself that this time I wouldn’t be swept off my feet.
And appearances to the contrary, I’m not going to be. All week, I’ve been tamping down doubts about who could have called Jacques that night in Vermont. And where he is when I don’t hear from him for days at a time. But he still makes my heart beat faster than anybody else ever did. Or maybe ever will.

I must hesitate way too long because Jacques throws his arms around me and kisses me fervently.

“Why look so worried,
ma chérie?
Diamonds are to make you smile. You prefer the sapphires?”

“No, no, diamonds are fine. But maybe just not now.”

“Of course now. We’re here. Together. Come.” He turns to one of the perfectly chignoned saleswomen standing behind the nearest counter. “Diamond earrings. The most beautiful ones you have. For a woman I love.”

So we’re not going for the ring yet. That’s a relief. But what’s the matter, he’s not ready? We’re here. Together. How long should this courtship have to take? It is the second one, after all.

“Diamond earrings. That’s way too extravagant, Jacques,” I say, pulling myself together.

“For you, the moon,” he says. “You brought me back to life.”

Well, whatever I did, the saleswoman now brings me exactly what Jacques requested. The most beautiful diamond earrings she has.

“Not quite that big,” Jacques says with a wave of his hand. “Something more discreet.”

“Yes sir,” says the saleswoman, snapping shut the velvet tray and mentally scaling back her commission. “Just how much love would you say you’d like the diamonds to express?”

“Maybe that much,” he says, spacing his thumb and forefinger about an eighth-of-an-inch apart.

“About a half carat each,” she says, with a twinge of disappointment.

“Make it a carat each,” he says expansively.

The saleswoman comes back with four choices and I begin to scrutinize each one. Gosh, they’re beautiful. Look at them shimmer. Jacques has his arm tightly around me and the pleasure of our being here together shines as brightly as the diamonds. I don’t often feel bad
for Lucy, but right now I can imagine how she felt purchasing those chandelier earrings all by herself. Then again, wonder if they’re nicer than mine.

I tenderly cup the first pair in my hand, moving it every which way to catch the different light. I hold one up to my ear. Makes my whole face brighter. Better than the eyebrow shaping.

“All right if I try it on?” I ask the saleswoman.

“Of course. Try them all on. See which you prefer. I have others if you wish to see more.”

“
Non
, not necessary. We’ll take those. I like them the best,” Jacques says, pointing decisively to one pair. “You agree,
mon amour
?”

“They’re gorgeous,” I say. On the other hand, so are the other three pair. And who knows which will best complement my skin tone until I’ve tried them all on? Oh no, that’s pearls. Still, I’m sure there’s some difference between them. But I’ll never get to find out. Maybe that’s the advantage of buying jewelry for yourself. You can spend at least as much time deciding what you want as your boyfriend did at the Banana Republic.

The saleswoman wraps our purchase carefully, and we’re still out of the store with earrings and robin’s egg blue box in record time. Jacques has our next stop already planned—the obvious place to go after an extravagant purchase. His hotel. Conveniently located a block away.

“I want to see you wearing nothing but your diamond earrings,” Jacques says provocatively, kissing me in the elevator.

As aphrodisiacs go, I’ve gotta say that an afternoon at Tiffany beats oysters every time. I’m totally in the mood. We barely make it off the elevator and into his suite before our clothes are off.

“The earrings,” he reminds me. “Put them on.”

I tear off the ribbon, but I’m careful with the box. Might want to use it again sometime.

“Come over here. Stand in front of me, my darling. Let me look at you,” Jacques says, lying naked on the bed, propped against the pile of pillows for better viewing.

Instead, I slide next to him on the soft sheets and thrust one glittering
ear in his direction. “Gorgeous, so gorgeous. How can I ever thank you?” I ask seductively.

“Stand up. I want to see you all.”

“There’s only one of me,” I laugh.

“And that’s the one I want to see,” he coaxes. “You are beautiful.
Tu es très belle
. Let me enjoy.”

Reluctantly I swing my legs over the side of the bed and look down at my rounded tummy. How long can I hold my breath? And why is it so hard to believe that my lover finds my naked body beautiful? That looking at me in full he really would be appreciative, and not be making a mental list of my spider veins, my dimpled thighs, or the extra womanliness on my hips.

Trying to be brave, I stand up and toss back my hair. Probably a bad move. My neck has never been my best feature. But when I catch Jacques’ eye, I see a look of pure pleasure and I almost will myself to bask in his admiration.

He rises slowly from the bed and walks toward me.

“Très, très belle,”
he repeats, taking me in his arms. He kisses me ardently and I’m intoxicated by the passion of the moment.

“Come to me,” he says, and with one fell swoop, he scoops me up, one arm around my shoulder, the other anchored under my awkwardly flailing knees. Well, that’s a mood breaker. Maybe this sort of thing works in the movies, but all I can think about is how much I weigh. He probably didn’t realize I’d be this heavy, and now he’s too gallant to drop me.

“Put me down. You’ll get a hernia,” I tell him. How romantic. Why don’t I add that at his age, he should bend his knees to protect his lower back.

“Non, non
, you’re as light as a butterfly,” he says. But he does rush over and dump me on the bed pretty quickly.

“It’s the diamonds,” I joke. “You got me such big ones. I’m heavier with the earrings on.”

“Shhh,” he says, muffling my silly banter with dozens of kisses. “Ssshhhhh,” he repeats again, stretching out the sound, then lightly
kissing my breasts and slowly caressing the length of my body. Somehow, my insecurities vanish—as do any thoughts of anything. For the next two hours, all I do is feel.

For dinner, I want champagne and caviar in bed, but Jacques insists he’s made a reservation at a must-visit restaurant.

“It’s my favorite,” he says. “Everyone loves the Four Seasons.”

The Four Seasons? That’s up there on my list with Le Cirque and Le Bernardin. Who cares that my sundress isn’t swank-restaurant ready. With my new diamond earrings, I can go anywhere.

“I’d love to go over to the Four Seasons,” I say enthusiastically.

“
Non
, just downstairs,
mon amour
. Maybe you didn’t notice that this is the Four Seasons hotel. The restaurant has some silly name—Fifty-seven Fifty-seven—but I call it the Four Seasons.”

Oh good. And we can pretend we’re sitting in the Grill Room. Or is the Pool Room chicer for dinner? I can never remember.

“Should I just wear my diamonds?” I ask, still feeling flirtatious. “Or do I need to put on something else?”

“Something else,” he says. “I have something very important to talk to you about. You’ll want to be dressed.”

I feel that lump again in my throat. He’s bought me the diamonds. We’ve made passionate love all afternoon. Now he has something very important to say. Or is it that he has a question to pop? No matter how good I’m feeling right now, I’m still not ready. I don’t have to answer him tonight. I tell myself that again. I don’t have to tell him anything tonight.

The restaurant may not be the original Four Seasons, but it seems pretty nice to me. The maitre d’ is attentive and the service is elegant but restrained. The waiter, thank goodness, doesn’t feel compelled to tell us his name or what his favorite dish on the menu is. The wine steward offers three suggestions and Jacques predictably goes for the French Bordeaux.

“To us,” he toasts, once the wine has been poured into the oversized goblets. “Together again. It’s been so good.”

“We click,” I say, touching my glass to his and going for a metaphor.
Which he probably doesn’t get. Every so often, I wish Jacques knew the language well enough to share my humor.

He puts down the glass. “I’m not always serious,
mon amour
, but I must be tonight. I have it in my heart to tell you how much you mean to me.”

“And you mean a lot to me, too,” I tell him, reaching for his hand.

“Bien
. That is good,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. “But let me tell you. When I first came back to you, such a sad time. I had just divorced. She and I, it was never so good. She was like so many girls who meant nothing. I thought there would never again for me be love. And then I thought of you. Of us.”

I stroke his thumb with mine and he squeezes my hand then takes a long sip of wine. If I’m supposed to say something here, I don’t know what it is. So I wait. And Jacques continues.

“After all the years, I called and you let me back into your life. And I thought ‘This woman knows love. Knows that love is forever.’ I was no more sad. From you, I learned that I could love and be loved again. And for that,” he says, reaching across the table and taking my other hand in his, “I will thank you forever.”

If this is a proposal, it’s taking a long time. And there’s something in Jacques’ tone that tells me he’s about to go in a different direction.

“The week you couldn’t come to Dubai, I met a woman at the hotel,” he says, trying hard not to meet my eye. “Catrine. She is in my same business and was at the conference. A very smart woman, just like you.”

I pull back one of my hands to take a gulp of wine. Right now, I wouldn’t mind a nice light Californian. Wine or guy. Reflexively, I finger one of my earrings.

“And you slept with her?” I ask cautiously, thinking we’re back on familiar ground. Ground I don’t want to be standing on.

“Yes, of course,” he says a little too quickly. “But it’s much more. And it is because of you, my darling. You taught me that when you ask for love, sometimes it is there. So my heart was open again. And Catrine walked into it.”

Now I pull my other hand away. I suddenly have a vivid image of
Catrine—all blond, perfectly coiffed, 105 pounds of her—walking into his heart. I hope it was bloody.

“Jacques,” I say, steeling my nerves and trying to keep my dignity intact, “why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? Why did you keep coming back here?”

“Because we have such a wonderful time together, I didn’t want to spoil it,” he says blithely. “And I don’t want it ever to change. Catrine, yes, she will move to Paris to be with me. But I come to New York still often.”

Now there’s a different proposal than I was expecting. Good sex three or four times a year with a man who’s fallen in love because of—but not with—me.

“It’s not in me to do that, Jacques,” I say, struggling with all the different emotions I’m feeling. Here’s a man who clearly cares for me—I know I’m not fooling myself about that—who’s breaking my heart. Not quite tearing it out, but pretty darn close. I might not have chosen to make a life again with Jacques, but damn it, I wanted the decision to be mine.

“Whatever you decide, I will always be here for you,” Jacques says, playing with the bread basket since my hand is unavailable. “I’m so proud of you,
mon chouchou
. You have made a life. Your life with Jen. And now me, I am ready to start over, too.”