Mine Are Spectacular! (23 page)

“I like my mother's rules a lot better than yours.”

“Then why didn't you stay with her?” I ask, finally losing my cool.

Skylar slams shut the magazine. “Because she's never there,” she says defiantly.

I start to answer, but then go over and sit at the edge of her bed. Skylar's a teenager and I'm a grown-up. Hard as that may be to remember sometimes, she's still a kid. And probably doesn't know how to ask for help.

“I know there've been a lot of changes,” I say quietly to Skylar. “It must be hard for you. Maybe even confusing.” Skylar doesn't say anything, she just stares at the back of the magazine, with its ad for Cover Girl lipstick. So I go on. “I don't know why your mom's not home a lot, but I do know your dad's in Hong Kong on business. That's hard for me, too. Maybe we can make it all a little easier for each other.”

Skylar sighs and uses her finger to trace the outline of a heart over and over again on her quilt. “Yeah, okay,” she says. She seems to be waiting. But what else can I tell her?

“Anything you want to talk about?” I ask.

Skylar looks at me for a long minute. “Maybe sometime,” she says finally. And then kicking back her covers, she climbs into bed and turns out the light.

Chapter FOURTEEN

I'M GLAD
Kate's got her guy, but on the scale of demanding lovers, Owen is turning out to be a ten. Now that they're living together, it's not just Tuesday afternoon trysts and the occasional quickie that Kate has to make time for. Her schedule is packed at work, but Owen still expects her to be available to shop for his Hermès ties, attend boring client dinners and fly off with him whenever he gets the whim.

“I hate to whine about being dragged to the Bahamas again,” Kate wails, “but all we do there is walk around the luxury resort Owen's trying to buy.”

“A luxury resort,” I say, trying to work up my sympathy. “No fabulous dinners and amazing sex?”

“That, too,” Kate admits. “But it's getting old—and so am I. You should see the wrinkle I suddenly have from being so tired.”

“The wrinkle? Most people get those in the plural. In fact, most shirts get those in the plural.”

“All right. But I am feeling stressed. Being with him all the time isn't quite what I expected.”

“Why not?”

She pauses. “How can I explain it? Owen's used to owning things, and now that he's moved in, he sometimes acts like he owns me. It's like I'm one of his buildings. I'm supposed to be perfect or he demands immediate repairs.”

“Repairs? On you?” Maybe that wrinkle's deeper than she's letting on.

“Are you ready to hear this?” Kate asks. “The other night, Owen asked if I'd ever considered a butt implant. He said mine is lovely but he prefers slightly rounder.”

A man who pays attention to details. Let him worry about the flying buttresses on his buildings and leave the butt on my perfect Kate alone.

She sighs. “Anyway, he's still a wonderful guy. I shouldn't be complaining.”

“Sure you should. That's what I'm here for.”

“I do love Owen, you know,” Kate says, backtracking just in case I'm getting the wrong impression. Now that they're together, she's allowed to complain about him, but she wants to make sure I don't.

So I don't. “I know you love him,” I say.

“Anyway, Owen's away this weekend looking at some property to buy near the Grand Canyon. Or maybe he's buying the Grand Canyon. I wasn't paying attention.” She chuckles. “Since I'm on my own, I have a few beauty treatments planned. Give him some nice surprises when he comes back.”

“You're not doing the implant,” I say worriedly.

“No way. I have too much work to do on my face.”

“Bravo,” I reply. I can't imagine what Kate could possibly do to improve her face. But who knew that no butt implant would be the good news of the day.

As soon as I hang up with Kate, I head into the city to meet Kirk. Our bus ad is supposed to be debuting today, and we've decided to catch the premiere. Since the bus isn't rolling down the red carpet in front of the Ziegfeld Theater, we're going to watch for the first ads from a bistro on Lexington Avenue. Kirk is waiting when I get there, and he's already claimed a table by the window. He's wearing dark sunglasses and he hands me a matching pair.

“Now that your picture's going to be everywhere, you have to travel incognito,” he says, kissing me on the cheek when I join him. “You don't want to be mobbed by screaming fans.”

Yes I do. That's the whole point of my being here. Having just one person recognize me would be as exciting for me as not having blackout dates on my frequent flyer miles. And just about as likely to happen—because we see lots of buses go by, but not a single one with our picture. As we make our way through one cappuccino after another, I see buses promoting the downside of drug addiction, the upside of Viagra, and six Christmas movies about the end of the world. Promises to be a cheery holiday season at a theater near you.

“All these buses and no ads for
Afternoon Delights
anywhere,” I say, playing disconsolately with my plastic stirrer. “Aren't you disappointed?”

“How could I be disappointed when I'm with my beautiful cohost and having a delightful afternoon,” Kirk says, leaning back in his tipply metal chair.

I shake my head. “You're impossible,” I say affectionately. “You can't turn off that charm spigot for a minute.”

Kirk laughs. “Being charming is part of the job. But with you it's not hard work.”

I take aim and flip my stirrer at him. Kirk good-naturedly wipes the foam off his chin and leans over to dab it on the tip of my nose.

“I'm impossible but you still love me,” he says.

“I do, and you'd be my best friend if I didn't already have two,” I say with a grin. “But they at least tell me about their love lives. What's going on with yours?”

“Not much,” he says, unwilling to make any commitments. He may use an unusual amount of hair product, but he's a typical male.

“What about your costar Vanessa Vixen?” I ask. “
Soap Opera Digest
has been reporting all about your steamy affair with her.” I've hit a new low admitting that I read that rag. On the other hand, I'm admitting it to Kirk, who's always in it.

Kirk laughs. “Our dating was all a publicity stunt. Got a lot of attention for the plotline where Dr. Lance Lovett fell in love with Vanessa's character after he found her wandering through the streets naked.”

So that's what a woman has to do these days to get a man. No wonder everyone always says it's tough being a single girl in New York City. Kirk stares out the window, maybe hoping to spot his next girlfriend.

“You really don't date your soap costars?” I ask him.

“Never,” he says. He turns back to me, and catching my dubious look he adds, “Okay, sometimes. There's always some pretty actress available for dinner and a movie. Finding sex has never been the problem. What's tricky is finding a relationship with some meaning.”

I keep forgetting that he's a philosophy major.

“So what gives a relationship meaning?” I ask.

“Honesty. Sincerity. You've reminded me what it's like to be with someone who's down-to-earth. The genuine article. Unfaked, unfeigned and unfanciful.”

“And what about that do you find attractive?” I ask, interrupting him before he gets to the part about my being twenty-four-carat dyed-in-the-wool boring.

“It's so different,” he says. “For one thing, I had to drag you to get some blonde highlights. I can't imagine anybody in the business who doesn't have them. And then you nearly collapsed when you heard someone was getting her pubic hair dyed.” He shakes his head. “I don't often meet women with such lofty values.”

Lofty values? An aversion to hydrogen peroxide and all of a sudden, I'm in a league with Nelson Mandela.

I finish off my third cup of cappuccino and my second lemon–poppy seed muffin.

“That's another thing I like about you,” Kirk says, looking at the few crumbs left on my plate. “You eat absolutely everything and you're not even bulimic. The only other women I know who scarf down that much food scarf it right back up.”

“I think I have to start introducing you to a different sort of woman,” I say, thinking that if Kate doesn't last with Owen, Kirk might be a good choice. She did say he was cute after they met at the Food Network. And she has an impressive metabolism.

“Introduce away,” he says. “But now it's your turn. Is Bradford still in Hong Kong?”

“Yup,” I admit, wishing my turn were over.

“But you two are still together?”

I hesitate. “The party line is that he's just away on business and we're getting married,” I say, flashing him my engagement ring. “But I guess I'll find out if Bradford still wants me when he gets back from his trip.”

“Bigger question is whether you still want him,” Kirk counters.

“Of course I do,” I say quickly.

“Think about it,” Kirk says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table, ready for a deep talk. “You've told me all the stories. The guy works impossible hours. You're worried about his ex-wife. And now he's run off to Hong Kong. I'd say there are a couple of problems.”

I want to tell Kirk that none of those things matter. I love Bradford. When he was around, I convinced myself that all our silly problems were making me unhappy. But maybe I was just making myself unhappy.

“I'm lonely without him,” I admit.

“Lonely isn't the reason to stay with someone,” Kirk says. “If you need something to do at night, come visit me.”

I groan. “Are you ever going to stop that flirting?”

“You better hope not,” he says with a wink. “Our fabulous chemistry is what pulls those viewers in every week. That and those disgusting desserts you keep coming up with.”

I laugh. “But what's going to pull Bradford in?”

Kirk rubs his fingers across his stubbled chin. I've never figured out how he manages to keep that perfect two-day growth every single day. “Let me be serious for a minute,” he says. “If you want Bradford back all you have to do is go get him. You can have whatever you want, Sara. My advice is that you just have to figure out what that is.”

I pick up a crumb from the plate, lick it off my finger, and look out the window. I think I know what I want. But for now, I'd settle for seeing a bus with our picture on it.

 

Kate calls Sunday morning and asks me to come over because she can't leave the house. Her Owen-free beauty weekend has gone awry and she's all but hysterical.

“Everything's red and swollen. You won't even recognize me. My face looks like I went through a car wash in a convertible.”

I'm prepared for the worst, but when I get to the house, it looks to me like all Kate needs is to comb her hair.

“I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder but you look fine to me,” I say, coming into Kate's darkened kitchen with the special strawberries I've brought to cheer her up. Since starting my show, I've gotten a little too creative. After dipping the imported berries into a honey glaze, I probably should have quit instead of swirling them into a cup of multicolored sprinkles.

“I look awful,” Kate says, taking my gift plate and skeptically eyeing my latest masterpiece. “And these look as bad as I do. Did you pick them off the rejects pile at Dunkin' Donuts?”

I'm slightly hurt, but then again, Kate's clearly out of her mind. She's taking critical thinking to a new extreme.

“So what happened to you?” I ask, starting to pull up one of the shades to get a better look at her.

“Don't let in any light!” Kate cries, pulling me away from the window.

Why is she sitting here in the dark? Kate had told me she had a bad injection. Hadn't occurred to me it was a shot of vampire blood.

“Light sensitive?” I ask.

“Sensitive to being seen,” Kate says. “My left cheek is so puffy I could be storing nuts for the winter.” If I look carefully enough I can make out the slightest bit of swelling on one side. But Kate's response is more inflamed than anything on her face.

“Who did this to you?” I ask, not quite sure what it is they've done.

“Idiot chief resident,” Kate says grimly. “Didn't I teach her anything? I've given hundreds of Hylaform shots and nothing's ever gone wrong. It's a natural substance, for god sakes. Plumps out your wrinkles. You inject it as a gel and it draws fluid to the skin to fill out your smile lines. I don't know how much of the stuff she injected but I've got so much water that I could live in the Gobi desert for six months.”

“And why were you doing this in the first place?”

“That wrinkle I told you about,” says Kate, glumly. “I believe in taking immediate action. Let one wrinkle go and pretty soon you have two.”

“Which is reason enough to kill yourself,” I offer. Before Kate can. “But help me out here. I thought you were supposed to use Botox to get rid of wrinkles.”

Kate shakes her head at my ignorance. “Botox if I had wrinkles on my forehead. It paralyzes the muscle. But you never use it for filling in lines. That used to be collagen. Now we use the hyaluronic acids, like Hylaform or Restylane, which last a lot longer. And half a dozen new ones are coming down the pike.” She sighs. “Maybe I should have waited for those.”

“Will they be better?” I ask.

“Who knows,” Kate says. “Everyone's charging a fortune now for Juvederm. It's got two things going for it. One, it's French. And two, it hasn't been approved by the FDA. Makes it much chicer.”

If it's chic and French it must be okay. Has anybody ever had a bad word to say about brie, Beaujolais or Gauloise? No, wait a minute. I think Gauloise are cigarettes. Still, I'd rather the FDA spent time looking at a cure for the common cold than focusing on face fillers. But I may be the only person in America who feels that way. More women seem to be upset by a wrinkled face than a runny nose.

“So what else did you do on this beauty weekend before the great tragedy?”

“Just the usual. Salt sea scrub, green tea mask, and Pudabhynga foot ritual.”

“I don't know if that's a toe massage, a new sneaker or a country not yet recognized by the UN,” I say.

Kate laughs.

“And can you spell Pudabhynga?” I continue. “Because I'm betting not. And if I've learned anything in this world, it's that you should never have any treatment that you can't spell.”

She laughs again. “Okay, okay, you've done your job,” she says. “Make fun of me.”

“Can I convince you to get dressed?” I ask, although I'm not sure why I'd bother. Her strappy silk Eres nightgown is elegant enough for the Black & White Ball. Except it's blue.

“I'll put on clothes, but I'm still not going out,” Kate says, obviously feeling slightly better. We amble up to her bedroom and she disappears into her dressing room. I nosily poke around the pile of books on her bedside table. Some light reading. Two hefty dermatology textbooks, a stack of the
New England Journal of Medicine,
and a deluxe illustrated copy of
The Art of Sexual Ecstasy.
I guess she's making a point of keeping Owen happy.