The Botox Diaries (31 page)

“Well, I wish you well,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say? I look down, and for several moments, we’re both quiet. Jacques picks up his menu, obviously relieved that he’s said his piece and I don’t seem too angry.

I pick up my menu, too, but there’s no way I’m making it through dinner. Even an appetizer sounds wholly unappetizing. I play distractedly with my wineglass. I’m not the kind of woman who does this. I’m pleasant. Affable. Always want everybody to feel good. Worry about their feelings more than mine. So it’s totally out of character—but feels surprisingly good—when I rise gracefully from my seat and dump the full glass of red wine over Jacques’ head. His
stupide
head.

“I’m sure someone as smart as Catrine is good with stains,” I say, making what I hope is a memorable exit from the restaurant. I’m glad we’re not at the original Four Seasons. I still hope to go there one day.

“BUT YOU KEPT
the earrings, right?” Lucy asks, leaning forward on the sofa and brushing back a strand of hair from my face.

“I already told you I did,” I say, blowing my nose for the zillionth time. Wish somebody would find a constructive use for snot. There seems to be no limit on how much your body can produce.

“I want to see them,” Lucy says, obviously worried about my morals. That they were too high. And that I sent back the earrings—or threw them away.

“I’ve put them in the safe-deposit box. For Jen. My legacy to her for having an idiot for a mother.”

“I told you weeks ago I hated Jacques,” Lucy says fiercely. “Anybody who screwed around on you once is going to …” She pauses, the subject hitting a little too close to home. Her own home. “Anyway, you’re as far from an idiot as anyone could be,” she says loyally.

“Right. A lot of women sleep with a man an hour before getting ditched. Happens all the time. Regular feature at the Four Seasons. The hotel’s probably considering a whole new promotional package—’the Hump-and-Dump Weekend.’ You have sex and then you break up.”

“Actually, they’re thinking of calling it the ‘Come-and-Go,’ Lucy says cheerfully, getting into the game.

“Yup. The restaurant could have a special section with extra-large glasses and wine-resistant seats.”

“I love that you threw the wine at him,” Lucy says, her eyes glistening. “It’s so Katharine Hepburn.”

For some reason, that makes me start crying again. I reach over to the mountainous pile of used tissues next to me, but Lucy efficiently sweeps them away into a garbage bag and hands me a new box of Kleenex.

“I have something to make you feel better,” she says. “I made you chicken soup.”

Now that stops my crying. “You
made
me chicken soup?” I try again. “
You
made
me
chicken soup?” This must be worse than I thought. Lucy would never go into the kitchen for a simple broken heart. I must have cancer. Inoperable cancer. If Jacques hadn’t dumped me, I never would have known.

“Why are you so surprised?” Lucy asks, genuinely abashed, as she pulls a plastic Tupperware container out of a Prada shopping bag. “Try it.”

I open the blue lid and look at the watery broth that has a few unidentifiable objects floating on top.

“Mmm,” I say. “I never saw pink chicken soup before.”

“Of course not. I added food coloring to make it prettier. That chickeny yellow can be so dreary.”

I stir the soup slowly with the silver spoon Lucy has thoughtfully provided and cautiously bring a taste up to my lips.

“For heaven’s sake, you don’t have to eat it,” Lucy says, stopping me.

“Might as well. Can’t make me feel worse,” I say, sipping. Then I take another spoonful. “Not bad. A little salty, maybe, but not bad.” I continue slurping my way through the half-gallon container.

“If you’re eating this, you’re in worse shape than I thought,” Lucy says. But she looks pleased. “Maybe I’ll bring some to Dan as a peace offering.”

“Peace offering. That’s good. You should do something. But if it’s soup, you might want to add some chicken. And maybe a noodle or
two.” I stare into the bowl. “How’d you make this anyway? Stones from the backyard?”

“Homemade chicken soup’s really not very hard,” Lucy says, my new Galloping Gourmet. “I just mixed Knorr’s bouillon cubes with some red food coloring.”

“Get that recipe out of
Budget Living
?” I ask.

“No, I made it up. I see why you like to cook. It’s very creative.”

“What’s floating in it?” I ask. “The little silver bits?”

Lucy looks into the container, then sticks her index finger in to pull out a sample. She holds it up to the light.

“Maybe some wrapping from the bouillon cubes,” she says. “They were sticky.”

“Festive,” I say, undeterred. I take a few more desultory sips, and when the doorbell rings a minute later, I look up wearily. Could be more people with food, though I don’t think word of my grieving state has spread around the neighborhood this quickly.

“I know it’s not Jacques,” I say, not moving to get up.

“And I know it’s not Dan,” says Lucy, also not budging.

“You get it, I can’t cope.”

“No, you get it, it’s your house. And while you’re up, would you turn off that depressing song? I don’t care if it’s the Beatles—I’m not listening to that loop of ‘Yesterday’ one more time.”

The bell rings again, and this time I shuffle to the door and hear Boulder’s buoyant voice. “Open up! Open up! It’s us! The Queers with Cheer!”

“The
what
?” I ask, swinging open the door to a grinning Boulder, who’s holding the largest cake I’ve ever seen. Standing right next to him, wearing the same grin and the same lime green shirt, is his doppelganger with dark hair. If this were a soap opera, I’d figure Boulder was playing both parts. But the evil twin, who doesn’t look very evil, comes in first.

“Hi, I’m Cliff,” he says, sailing past me with a huge cooler. “Sorry you got so screwed over by the French guy. But we’re here to make you forget all about it.”

Boulder steps behind me to fasten on a necklace of pulsating blue-and-orange neon lights. “Party time!”

I go over to the sofa and plop back down. “Thanks for trying, but I’m useless,” I say resignedly. “Anyway, meet my friend Lucy. She’s more fun.”

“Are you the one whose husband left her?” Boulder asks. “God, you must be in a lousy mood, too.”

Lucy glares at me. I squirm and mouth “Sorry.”

“Guess I’ve been having too many late-night conversations with Boulder,” I tell her. “But we won’t sell the story to the
National Enquirer
. I promise.”

“Scout’s honor,” Boulder agrees. “But come on. We came here to bring you some fun.”

“I can see we have our work cut out for us,” says Cliff, pulling a dozen CDs out of his backpack. “But if I can get rich, jaded thirteen-year-olds dancing at bar mitzvahs, you girls’ll be a cinch.”

“Cliff spent his first six months in L.A. as a d.j.’s assistant,” Boulder says proudly. “He taught the Electric Slide at Adam Sandler’s cousin’s friend’s bar mitzvah.”

Even I know that qualifies as fame in Los Angeles. So I’m suitably impressed. Still weepy, but impressed.

“First, drinks to loosen everybody up,” says Cliff, opening his cooler. “Daiquiris, margaritas and piña coladas. Which’ll it be?”

“Piña colada,” says Boulder, lining up for a cup.

“No way,” I tell him. “What are you going to say at your next AA meeting?”

“They’re all nonalcoholic, silly,” he says gaily. “Who needs rum? The best part of the piña colada’s the coconut, anyway. This is the party where nobody feels bad in the morning.”

I look over at the gigantic cream cake, now filling most of my dining room table. “I’ll feel pretty bad after I eat that,” I say. “And the way I’m going, I’ll devour the whole thing.”

“Can’t. It’s cardboard and shaving cream. Just like I got for my twelfth birthday at fat kids’ sleep-away camp,” Boulder says sadly, reliving the painful memory.

Cliff comes over and puts his arm around him. “That was a long time ago, sweetie. Look at those abs. You’re gorgeous now.”

Boulder, still feeling like a chubby twelve-year-old, doesn’t perk up, so Cliff says, “I’m not the only one who thinks you’re gorgeous, right? How about Barry Rivers? Tell the girls about Barry.”

What’s Barry Rivers have to do with Cliff and Boulder? I hope it’s not another romantic triangle. Give me squares. Circles. Octagons. Anything that doesn’t involve Pythagoras.

But Boulder smiles now and so does Cliff.

“TEEEEELLLLL HERRR!” Cliff calls out, turning the two syllables into an entire song. “No, better yet. SHHOOOOW HERRR!” Not a bad tune. If he thinks up a few more lines, he might make
Billboard
’s Top 100.

Boulder obliges and takes center stage in my living room. He bends his knees slightly, plants his feet about a foot apart, extends his arms like an airplane, and begins wiggling his hips.

“Party game! Party game!” says Cliff. “Everybody plays! Guess Boulder’s good news.”

Boulder’s knees are bent a little deeper and his hips are swinging in bigger and bigger circles. But I refuse to guess the obvious.

“Hula hoops?” I offer instead. “Something to do with hula hoops?”

“Genius!” says Cliff. “You’re in the right place already! Hula hoops! Hawaii! His good news happens in Hawaii!”

I don’t want to break his heart and tell him that hula hoops weren’t invented in Waikiki.

“Hawaii,” says Lucy, moving to the edge of the sofa, totally in the spirit of the game, and bursting with tropical word associations. “Luaus. Pig roasts. Leis. Are you getting laid in Hawaii?”

“Only if Cliff visits,” says Boulder righteously.

Not having hit the jackpot, Lucy keeps going. “Let’s see. Waterfalls? Volleyball? How about surfing? You’re going to Hawaii to surf?”

“Bingo!” says Cliff, the perpetual d.j.’s assistant, reaching into a goody bag and tossing Lucy a gold-wrapped Hershey’s kiss. “You win part one. Now WHHHYYYY is Boulder going to Hawaii to surf?”

“Because I got a Dr Pepper commercial!” Boulder screams, unable
to contain his excitement any longer. “Not even Diet Dr Pepper. The real thing!”

“Ohmygod that’s so great!” Lucy and I say, practically in unison, rushing over and hugging him so energetically that we almost knock him over.

“It’s all because of you,” Boulder says, hugging me back. “Barry Rivers saw me on our TV date and called. He’s only the biggest casting agent in the whole world and he had me come in right away.”

“Boulder had four callbacks,” says Cliff. “First he had to take off his shirt and Barry just loved his body. Second time, Barry asked him to smile. You know he aced that. Third time, he had to chug a can of Dr Pepper. No dribbling. And finally …” Cliff pauses for effect. Or maybe to get his vocal cords ready. “He got to RREEEAAADDDD.”

“You have a speaking part?” asks Lucy, grasping the profound meaning of shilling soda. “You’ll get great residuals. Money every time they run the commercial. Better than a credit line at Citibank.”

“Do your part for them, sweetie,” says Cliff, the proud partner.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” demurs Boulder.

“He’s only been practicing since yesterday,” Cliff explains. “He’s still getting the character.”

We nod solemnly. “We’re all friends here,” I remind him. “Go for it.”

Boulder resumes his surfing position. He bursts into the famous Boulder grin, then looks straight at us, camera ready.

“WHOOOOOSSSSHHHH,” he says, stretching out the syllable in what is clearly a Cliff-influenced performance. I’m waiting for the rest of the line, but it never comes. I look over at Lucy to see if a future fortune can be built on one word.

“Yup,” she confirms. “That’s a speaking part.”

“Isn’t he perfect? He’s going to be so famous,” says Cliff.

“He’s fabulous,” says Lucy. “That’s my professional opinion.”

“Everybody on the dance floor!” says Cliff, bouncing on his Pumas. “We’re celebrating!”

He puts music on the CD player that I’ve never heard before. “The
Electric Slide!” he announces with enough enthusiasm to end the California energy crisis. “Come on everybody! I’ll teach you!”

Bolstered by Boulder’s announcement and Cliff’s coaxing, we fall in line. Why not? If it’s good enough for Adam Sandler’s cousin’s friend, it’s good enough for me.

Those L.A. kids must have had some bar mitzvahs, because for the next hour, my living room rocks. I’m lousy at the Electric Slide but turn out to have a gift for the Macarena. We go through a Motown set and then on to the Rolling Stones. Sixties music is like Beethoven—lives on forever. Can’t tell me our kids will be dancing to 50 Cent forty years from now.

We scream out the lyrics “I can’t get no … SATISFACTION!” at the top of our lungs and act like a bunch of raving groupies at Lollapalooza. We’re rowdy and raucous, and after a riotous rendition of “I Will Survive,” we all collapse in exhaustion on the couch.

But Cliff’s not done. “One more song,” says our favorite d.j., who’s wrapped up enough parties to know how to do it right.

From the CD player comes James Taylor’s soothing croon, and we circle our arms around each other, swaying side to side. At the chorus, we all join in.

“Winter, spring, summer or fa-all … All you’ve gotta do is call,”
we warble emotionally.
“And I’ll be there … You’ve got a friend.”

We’re maudlin now, as if we’ve gotten tipsy on our alcohol-free piña coladas.

I lean my head against Boulder’s shoulder. “To Dr Pepper,” I say emotionally. “And to your future. May it be all you want.”

“To all of us. Making the future we want come true. Because we know we can,” Boulder says. Now it really does sound like we’re at a bar mitzvah. He’s good at sincerity. Maybe his next gig could be for Hallmark.

I’m teary-eyed again—but this time I’m happy. Because JT’s got a point. It’s nice to have friends.

* * *

I may be working with Josh Gordon these days, but it’s pretty clear I’m not going to be adding him to my buddy list any time soon. The next morning I’m at his office, having been summoned for an eight a.m. conference. At least I talked him out of meeting at seven.