The Botox Diaries (36 page)

“Lucy, baby, doll, it’s Gary,” says Lucy’s agent over the speakerphone. He sounds so hyper that I can practically see him unbending a pile of paper clips while he talks.

“We have Len Sunshine on the line, too,” Gary says. “Len, are you there?”

“Right here,” says the network president in a deep voice that’s still as smooth and syrupy as it must have been in his radio days. “Lucy, I’m gonna get right to the point. Your pilot’s great. You did it again. Gonna make a big commitment to you right now. You’re on for thirteen weeks.”

I love television. Thirteen weeks is a big commitment. I’ve had warts that lasted longer than that. Although not many relationships.

“That’s terrific,” says Lucy, glowing and looking prouder than I’ve seen her since Lily won the science fair. “Appreciate the vote of confidence. Coming from you it means a lot.”

“It should. We’re behind you on this one hundred percent. Very original. Great graphics. Great choice of music. Thought I’d hate seeing those fucking Olsen twins again, but you did an amazing take on
them. Loved everything. But one small little problem. Just a single change we’re going to need you to make.”

Len pauses to take a loud slurp—coffee? Slim-Fast? Cocaine? No, you don’t slurp cocaine. I don’t think. Lucy sits stone silent, waiting for the next shoe to drop. Over the speaker, Agent Gary is throwing the shoe. Or more likely, I’m hearing him rocketing a handful of mangled paper clips into his metal wastebasket.

“A single change?” Lucy prods. “You know I’ll work with you, Len. Glad to fix anything.”

“Great. Good. Right. I want you to fire Hunter Green.”

I look over at Lucy, but she refuses to catch my eye and just stares down at the speakerphone.

Gary issues a huge sigh of relief. “Fire Hunter Green? No
problemo
. He’s not my client.”

But Lucy’s not so ready to concede. “What didn’t you like about Hunter?” she asks cautiously.

“He’s fine. More than fine, he’s good. But there are a million guys out there just like him. He’s too expensive. We want to bring in someone cheaper. And younger.”

“You’re wrong,” Lucy says bluntly. “There aren’t any other guys like Hunter. If the show’s good, it’s as much because of him as me. He’s very special. More like one
in
a million than one
of
a million.”

Oh no, Lucy, don’t do this. Don’t put yourself on the line for Hunter Green. He’s not worth it. You’ve already risked your marriage. Now you’re going to risk your career? I want to shake some sense into her, but she’s already set her course.

“The guy just costs too much,” Len says.

“Then we’ll cut costs elsewhere,” Lucy says resolutely. “It would be a huge mistake to lose Hunter. You’d lose the whole show. Better if you replace me.”

“No way!”
screams Gary. There’s either a tornado in Los Angeles or he’s just thrown the entire metal wastepaper basket against the wall. “You’re too important,” he says, protecting Lucy—and his fifteen percent.

“Gotta agree with that,” says Len. “Network doesn’t want to lose you.”

“Pleased to hear it. I don’t want to leave the network, either,” says Lucy. “But I’ve been percolating another project. Let me move on to that one. I’ve done the hard part on this Hunter show. The format’s already set. Hire a producer who costs less than me. The show can run itself as long as you have Hunter hosting. The other project I have in mind could be even bigger.”

“Even bigger? How much money will it make?” asks Gary, not bothering to have Lucy explain her idea. The guy has his priorities straight. Who cares about the concept as long as it mints cash.

“New show I’m proposing is a sitcom that could make a fortune,” Lucy says confidently. “Len, somewhere on that pile of papers you call a desk is a treatment I sent you last week. Also scripts for the first two episodes. Read them. It’s a killer. Call me back.”

Only Lucy could fire off directives to a hotshot network president and not get shot down.

“Will do,” Len says. “Gotta run. Steven Bochco’s on the other line. He’s trying to resurrect that singing cop show.”

“Loved that show,” gushes Gary.

“Hated it,” says Len. “Never coming back.”

“Good call. I didn’t like it that much,” Gary amends.

“So listen, how are we leaving it with Hunter?” asks Len, ready to wrap up.

“You’re keeping him,” Lucy says firmly. “I’ll get him to agree to a five percent pay cut. And I’ll hand-pick my replacement myself.”

“I’m not totally convinced on Hunter, but I’ll trust your instincts,” says Len. “Got yourself a deal.”

Lucy hangs up and I’m speechless. Did Lucy really just give up her job for the man she … what? Loves? Didn’t the
Feminine Mystique
tell us that’s a feminine mistake?

“Don’t say a word to me. Not a word,” says Lucy, not knowing that I couldn’t talk even if E.T. himself asked me to phone home.

Lucy defiantly moves back behind her desk, in full executive mode. “I have one more call to make. Eat your sandwich,” she says, punching * 4 into the speakerphone.

Eat my sandwich? As soon as I hear the voice on the other end—and realize it’s Hunter—I start to choke.

“Lucy. My Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” Hunter warbles. “How’s my own personal LSD? My addiction. My drug of choice.”

John Lennon must be turning over in his grave. If he’d known how Hunter was going to abuse that song, he never would have written it.

“My Lucy,
my
Lucy. The woman who puts diamonds in my eyes and a song in my heart,” says Hunter, never one to stop just because he’s mixed his metaphors.

“Hunter, a couple of business things,” Lucy says, bypassing the schmaltz. “Actually, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“The good news,” says Hunter. Everybody else I’ve ever met in my life has always asked to get the bad news out of the way first. Not Hunter. I bet he eats his hot fudge sundae before his peas, too.

“Good news is that Len Sunshine liked the show. Network’s picking it up. Thirteen-week commitment.”

“Thirteen weeks!” Hunter crows. “That’s forever!”

“You’re right, it’s fabulous. Just a couple of sticking points.”

“Is this the bad news?” asks Hunter anxiously.

“Not yet,” says Lucy. “Our budget came in a little high. The network demanded some cutbacks. You’re not badly affected. Just five percent down.”

“And that’s
not
the bad news?” Hunter groans.

“I know how much you’re making. It’s still a great deal,” Lucy says.

“I won’t do it,” Hunter says arrogantly. “Tell the network I won’t take it. I won’t work for a penny less than I’m worth.”

“Yes, you will take it,” Lucy says, her tone quiet but firm. “Trust me, Hunter. There are a lot of younger guys who’d take this in a minute for half the salary.”

“And they’d only
deserve
half,” he says.

“That’s true, darling. When the ratings on this go through the roof, you’ll hit Len up for a huge raise.”

“You bet I will,” Hunter says, rallying, and already deciding
whether to spend the extra money on the Maserati or the beach house in Malibu. “So what’s the bad news?”

“I’m not going to be doing this show with you. Someone else will produce.”

Hunter thinks about it, obviously figuring bad news could be a lot worse. But he summons his chivalry.

“You have to produce. I won’t do it without you. I’ll talk to Len myself,” he says emphatically. “I’ll use my clout.” The clout he doesn’t know he’s lost.

“It won’t matter. I won’t do it,” Lucy says. Then taking a deep breath she adds, “We can’t keep spending time together. It’s what I talked to you about last week in L.A. I’m not going to be seeing you anymore.”

“You really meant that?” he asks. “But I sent you flowers afterwards. The big Happy Thoughts FTD bouquet. And my note. Didn’t you read my note?”

“I did,” Lucy says. “And I was very touched when you said that if we stay together I can go with you to Port St. Lucie. For your Lisa Marie Presley interview.”

“Lisa Marie’s a big ‘get,’ ” Hunter says proudly, now less focused on losing Lucy than on spending an afternoon—or more likely twenty minutes—with Elvis’ daughter. “As close to the King as any of us will ever come,” he adds reverently.

“I know,” Lucy says patiently. “But we can’t. Not anymore. It’s over.”

“Let me understand,” he says, finally trying to take in the big picture. “No Port St. Lucie. No more weekends away. No more good times. You weren’t joking last week. You’re really leaving me?”

“Just going back where I belong,” Lucy says, looking up from the phone and staring me straight in the eye. “Or trying to get back there.”

“That husband of yours,” Hunter says soberly. “I always understood where your heart really was. But I kept hoping.”

Lucy doesn’t say anything, so Hunter clears his throat.

“I’m really going to miss you,” he says quietly. But nothing can get
the man down. Not as long as he has show biz. “Real problem is nobody makes me look as good on the air as you do. So who can replace you, who’s going to produce?”

“We’ll find someone, I promise,” Lucy says briskly, eager now to get off the phone and on with her own life.

“Think Steven Spielberg could do it?” Hunter asks self-importantly.

“Too busy redoing his house in the Hamptons,” Lucy says, not bothering to explain that in addition to doing home repairs, one of our generation’s great movie talents isn’t pleading with the network to be Hunter’s new producer. “I have an even better idea. I was thinking of Tracey, my assistant. She’s learned a lot.”

“She’ll never be as good as you, but I could see that,” says Hunter, mulling over the idea—and probably Tracey’s twenty-something attractiveness—for a moment. “Why don’t I take her out to dinner to talk it over.”

The deal done, Lucy and Hunter say quick good-byes and I go over to give Lucy a big hug.

“You did the right thing,” I say. “I had no idea you’d told him last week you were leaving.”

“I know,” Lucy confirms. “Wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

“I’m so relieved it’s over,” I admit. “And you were smart not to stay on as his producer. I just wish you’d taken some credit. Told him that you’d saved his job.”

“Didn’t need to,” Lucy says. “Why hurt him even more? He’s not a bad guy.”

I ponder that for a second. Hunter is kind of charming. “Think you’ll miss him?”

“Probably not. Everything just seems so clear to me now. I can’t believe I’ve been behaving this way. Like some walking midlife crisis.”

“Do you think the next decade gets any easier?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope,” Lucy grins, flipping back her hair. “Hot flashes. Crepey necks. Upper arms that wave like a flag.”

“And too embarrassed to take off your clothes to have an affair,” I chime in.

“Which may not be a bad thing.”

* * *

When Lucy and I get to the Guggenheim Museum, Zelda is waiting for us in front of Max Ernst’s
The Kiss
. She’s standing so close that a guard inches over to make sure she’s not about to throw paint on it.

“Knew I’d find you here,” Lucy says, kissing her mother-in-law warmly on the cheek. “But I’ll never figure out why you like this picture so much.”

“It’s so erotic,” Zelda says. “Uninhibited sexuality. After all these years, I still get a tingle just looking at it.”

I stare at the colorful surrealistic blobs, hoping for my own tingle. But all I feel is a confused buzz. What does Zelda see that I don’t? I can’t even tell who’s kissing whom. Or who’s kissing what. Maybe 3-D glasses would help.

“What always strikes me is the Renaissance composition,” says Lucy, putting her fingers up in an L-shape as if framing the painting. “Very Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Hints of imagery from the Sistine Chapel,” I agree, hoping to sound cultured and not let on that it really reminds me of a finger painting Jen did when she was three.

“Sistine ceiling was Michelangelo,” says Zelda, tucking her arm in mine. “But don’t feel bad. The other day a student asked me if I’d read Leonardo’s new book,
The Da Vinci Code
.”

“At least she didn’t ask if you’d seen him starring in
Titanic,”
says Lucy.

Laughing, we begin to stroll down the museum’s spiraling ramps, stopping now and then to admire a painting, but mostly marveling at the architecture. Which is exactly what Frank Lloyd Wright intended. Designed a museum that’s more a showcase for itself than for the art. Talk about arrogance. Could have been a big success in television.

“Sorry I missed your birthday party,” Lucy tells Zelda as we pass by a Picasso. I turn to get a glimpse of his woman with yellow hair, step back, try to get some perspective, and—whoops—almost fall over the railing. Zelda grabs me but her attention is focused on Lucy.

“I know. It would have been nice to have you. For many reasons,” says Zelda.

“Did Dan seem to miss me?” Lucy asks.

“I think he’s lost without her,” I prompt. But Zelda doesn’t bite.

“Not really lost,” Zelda says. “I raised my son well. He’s a strong, independent man. Great with the kids. Perfect father. Can do everything. Rewired my VCR, helped rewrite my résumé and made charming repartee with all my guests.”

“Did he remember to bring you a nice present?” I ask, grasping for something the indomitable Dan might have missed.

“Very nice gift,” she says, flourishing her wrist to display a handcrafted silver bracelet. Just the sort of thing Zelda likes.

“Sounds like he doesn’t need me at all,” Lucy says, obviously hurt.

“Of course he doesn’t,” says Zelda. “And you don’t need him, either. That’s the thing about a marriage like yours. You don’t
need
to stay in it. Not like my day when the wife was stuck because she couldn’t support herself alone and the guy stayed because his wife took care of everything. Now you both have your own, full lives. Nobody’s trapped. You both have a whole world of possibilities out there. You and Dan have to choose to stay together. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” says Lucy earnestly. “I know that now. But I’ll admit this has been a really rough patch. I guess I’ve been pretty impossible these last few months.”