The Botox Diaries (21 page)

“I do love room service,” Lucy says. “Especially those rolling trays with a single red rose.”

She’s missed the point. I take some cellophane out of the drawer
to wrap up the extra herbs—not that I think Lucy’ll be sprinkling them on tomorrow night’s dinner—and then wave the box at her.

“Saran Wrap,” I say as if I’ve just discovered a new twist in DNA. “That’s the solution. I remember reading about it years ago. You meet your husband at the door dressed in nothing but plastic wrap and a smile. Then he throws you to the ground and makes mad, passionate love with you.
Voilà
. The marriage is saved. Works every time.”

“I read about it too but I never got it,” Lucy says. “Doesn’t sound practical. For one thing, how flattering is Saran Wrap? I’d probably look like a side of USDA choice beef.”

“Prime beef,” I suggest, going a grade better.

“Well, fine, but then there are all those sticky layers of plastic. Dan’d give up. It took him long enough to learn how to unhook my bra.”

“You’re impossible,” I say, heading into the living room with a bowl of lime-and-thyme-scented salsa for the crudités. On the way, I pause at the dinner table, which Lucy has creatively arranged with her collection of antique china and silver. To Lucy, eating well has more to do with the plates than with what’s on them. Each setting is different, with unusual pieces she found at quaint New England consignment shops and get-there-before-dawn flea markets. If I tried to pull this off, I’d have a jumble of mismatched crockery. But Lucy turns the mélange into a work of art. Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party has nothing on Lucy’s.

“You set a nice table, but you’re still impossible,” I say. “Do you have a spoon for the salsa?”

“Try this one. London fiddle pattern circa 1845. Bought it from a British importer in Vermont, but I’m sure it’s authentic.

“So’s the salsa,” I say, putting down the bowl. “New Jersey tomatoes. Bought at ShopRite.”

Lucy goes upstairs to change and I set to work on the first course, individual chèvre-and-pine-nut tartlets drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette. In the time it takes to make these, I could probably solve the national debt crisis. I’m just putting the tart crusts in the oven to bake when I hear the back door open.

“What’s all this?” Dan calls out as he walks in. “Smells great in here. Are you really
cooking
tonight, honey?”

I take my head out of the oven—the tarts will be fine—and turn around, face flushed from the heat. Dan stops, startled, and puts down the case of wine he’s carrying. “Oh, Jess. Wow. I’m sorry. From the back, I thought you were my wife.”

“No, darling, I’m your wife,” says Lucy, as she drifts into the kitchen, dressed now in a gauzy white blouse, flowing black palazzo pants, and spike-heeled Jimmy Choos. Guess she’s not planning on getting up to serve.

Dan gives Lucy a peck on the cheek, then comes over and gives me a kiss, too. “Well, it does smell amazing in here. I got that part right,” he says.

“Everything should be great,” I say, talking about the food. “All under control.”

Dan nods, then hands Lucy the
Post
he has tucked under his arm. “So what’d you think of your picture in the paper?” he asks casually.

“Lousy picture of me,” she says without missing a beat. “My nose looks funny from that angle.”

I gulp and start putting away the peppers, but Lucy seems unfazed.

“Everyone else seemed to like it,” Dan says. “At least four people in my office gave it to me, so I have extra copies, if you need them.”

I try desperately to decide if there’s an edge of anxiety to Dan’s voice, but instead he starts unpacking the wine bottles.

“Heitz Cellar. Great vintage,” he says, holding out one of the bottles. “A nice cabernet sauvignon.”

Or nice enough. Probably not nine hundred dollar a bottle.

Lucy frowns. “Jess is making a fish for dinner,” she says disapprovingly. “Shouldn’t we have white?”

“Oh,” Dan says, slightly abashed. “I thought you’d like the Heitz. But the other half of the case is Sonoma chardonnay. Is that better for you?”

“Either is perfect,” I say. “The sauce for the fish is spicy and a little heavy. Why not serve both?”

Spirits restored, Dan heads off with the wine, and as soon as he’s out of the room, I hiss to Lucy, “You said he’d never see the
Post
. He saw it. Now do you feel bad?”

“Of course not. It was no big deal,” she hisses back. “Just like I told you.”

“You’re lucky, but you can’t stay lucky forever,” I tell her.

The guests arrive and I meet everybody, but by the time we sit down to the table, which Lucy has bedecked with a dozen glowing candles, I can’t remember a single name. And all I’ve had is one glass of Diet Coke. What is it about me with names lately? I was trying this time, too. When Dan introduced me to the man who’s now sitting to my left, I did that memory-by-association thing. He’s bald, so I visualized a bald eagle. Eagle. America. Uncle Sam. Was his name Sam? Probably not. Maybe I just went from bald eagle to birds. Robin? Nah, too English. Woody? In that case, I would have visualized his … oh, never mind.

After the proper oohing and aahing about Lucy’s gorgeous table and my amazing tartlets, the mousy woman across from me downs her second glass of wine and asks for a third. I’m pretty sure she’s married to bald eagle—she’s small and timid so I visualized an eagle eating a mouse. Maybe she’s Mickey. That’ll do.

“I saw your picture in the paper,” she says to Lucy, in a rush of chardonnay-boosted confidence. “Your life must be
so
glamorous. A party at Cher’s and you’re there with Hunter Green. I watch him on TV every morning. I just love him. Seems like the nicest man in the world. So charming. Is it just the most fabulous thing in the world to work with him?”

“He’s a bit of an egomaniac,” Lucy says grandly, rolling the warm chèvre around on her tongue. “But so’s everyone I work with. And can you believe these tabloids? Can’t even stand next to someone at a party anymore.”

“You mean you didn’t arrive together?” asks the woman I now think of as Mickey.

“Bread sticks, anyone?” I ask loudly, figuring I can derail the conversation. What could be more neutral than bread sticks?

“Please, no, get those off the table, immediately!” calls out a moon-faced woman in a blue dress. “Don’t you know carbs kill?”

So much for a neutral topic. I’m glad I didn’t mention seven-layer cake. The woman would have gone straight into cardiac arrest.

Mickey ignores the carb controversy and keeps her attention glued to Lucy. “I once tried to get on Hunter’s show,” she says. “I took the Internet quiz but I never heard back. Any chance you could put in a good word for me with Hunter when you see him again? Are you two really close?”

“Wine? Who needs more wine?” I jump up, grabbing for the bottles. “Dan has red and white,” I say as if these are the two most original colors to hit wine stores in fifty years.

But Mickey—what made me think she was mousy? The woman’s starting to sound like Janet Reno—stays riveted to Lucy and persists in her line of questioning. “Isn’t Hunter the host of your new pilot? You must be together day and night.”

“Oh, you know Lucy, always busy, busy, busy,” I say, interrupting yet again. “Where do you get your information?” I ask Mickey, hoping to divert her attention. “You seem to know a lot about TV.”

“I’m on the fan websites all the time,” Mickey says, as if that’s the first step toward her Daytime Emmy. “I know everything about Hunter Green. His favorite color, which isn’t green. Where he gets his ties. His shoe size.” She stops for a moment, trying to decide if she should share her information, then decides to take the plunge. “The only bad news is he has very small feet,” she confides. “And you know what that means.”

“Very small socks?” I ask hopefully.

“But the good news is he just got back from a fabulous weekend with his secret girlfriend at a really romantic hideaway. I forget what it’s called. Oh that’s right,” she says triumphantly. “Le Retreat.”

Lucy manages not to spit out her wine, but she looks up just a little too anxiously at Dan. And their eyes lock for a beat too long.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Dan says calmly. “Lucy was there last weekend, too.”

For once the unflappable Lucy seems shaken. Her usual quick
comebacks aren’t coming, and she carefully smooths the napkin in her lap with the palms of her hands. Nervous gesture or wiping off the sweat? Come on, Lucy, say something. “Jess was there with me,” she ventures lamely.

“Yes I was,” I say boldly, speaking on behalf of my very, very guilty client. “And it didn’t seem at all romantic to me.”

“Me either,” Lucy quickly agrees. “How do these places get their reputation, anyway?”

I get up to clear the first course plates. And, I hope, the air. “Snapper Vera Cruz coming up next,” I say. “Mickey? Would you mind helping me clear?” I look over at Hunter’s number-one fan but she doesn’t respond. Nikki. That was it. Nikki. I guess I’ll clear the plates myself.

When I finally get home from the dinner party, I find Boulder fast asleep on my mid-century modern sofa. Paid a small fortune for it, and the couch looks just like the one my mother bought from Sears when I was growing up. Hated it then—what made me think I’d like it now? And I don’t know why Boulder’s sleeping on it.

“I had to use my judgment, and I thought it would be okay to let Boulder in,” says Jen’s babysitter, Maggie, walking into the room. “Everybody in town knows about you two.”

“That’s fine,” I say, wondering what brought Boulder to my doorstep when there’s not a camera crew in sight. “Sorry I’m so late.” Party was over by midnight but I wasn’t in a rush to leave. Figured I’d stick around in case Dan had anything more to say about Lucy’s weekend, the picture in the
Post
, or
l’affaire
Le Retreat. But Dan seemed tired, and after he dried a few dishes, he went to bed. With or without Lucy I can’t say, although I’m sure she’ll tell me tomorrow.

I empty out my wallet to pay Maggie. When did babysitters in Pine Hills start earning ten bucks an hour? I know she’s saving up her money to go to college—but should I tell her that any job she gets after graduation won’t pay nearly so well? Once Maggie’s gone, I turn my attention to Boulder, who’s curled up like a sleepy puppy. He looks so comfortable that I’m certainly not going to wake him. I toss a light
afghan over his bare feet, start to tuck it around his toes, then stop myself. Wait a minute, I certainly
am
going to wake him. What the heck is the boy doing on my couch at two a.m.?

But how to rouse him? A gentle shake to the shoulder? A kiss on the cheek? A glass of cold water dumped on his head? I settle on the shoulder shake. Which does nothing. Nice to be young and male and a sound sleeper.

“Boulder?” I say loudly. “Boulder?
Boulder?
”

He finally sits up, wide-awake immediately. Nice to be young and male and wake up on a dime.

“Hey, Jess, how ya’ doin’? Did you hear our show’s going to be on next week?”

“No, really? I thought it was scheduled for August.”

“Everyone at the network loved it and they put it on the fast track for sweeps,” he says, stretching. “I figured we could all watch together. It’d be cool.”

“Cool,” I agree, wondering whether he’s planning on sitting on the couch until next week. “Is that what you came here to tell me? It’s kinda late.” I rub my eyes and yawn for emphasis.

“You sure had some night partying,” he says with a grin. Here we go again with the grin. “You can tell me about it if you want.”

“Nothing to tell,” I admit. Still, good manners require I offer him something to eat. He’s a growing boy and he’s probably hungry. But I’m not going back into the kitchen at this hour for anything. Well, maybe some grapes.

“So what’s going on? Why’d you come over?”

“Actually, I want to talk to you seriously,” he says.

Then not grapes. I have some leftover beef stroganoff. That sounds serious.

But now the grin is gone and his expression has turned solemn. His range is increasing. He must be studying hard in acting classes.

Boulder clears his throat and summons his lines. “Listen, Jess, I know that after the show’s on everyone’s going to think we’re a couple. And I like you a lot. I really do. Love Jen, too. We really all could be very happy together.”

No, we couldn’t. But I don’t want to interrupt his big scene.

“Unfortunately, that being together can’t happen right now, and I wanted to tell you the truth myself.” He pauses for effect, stroking his perfectly one-day stubbled chin. “I’m already involved with someone.”

This doesn’t sound too upsetting. I’ve been kissed off before. And by people that I’ve actually kissed. “That’s okay,” I say, probably a little too quickly.

“Really? You’re not upset?”

“No. I understand. We met on a TV show. These things can’t last,” I say philosophically. Should I add how great it was getting to know him? And that I’ve learned from the experience? No, I think I’ll leave well enough alone.

“My agent got me to do the whole thing,” Boulder says, still apologizing. “I said I didn’t want to mislead anyone, but he said a break’s a break.”

“It’s a tough business. You do what you can,” I say, trying to make him feel better.

“So can we just be friends?” Boulder asks. “I’d hate to lose you completely. Especially now that I’m sticking around New York for a while to go on some auditions.”

Oddly enough, I realize that I’d be glad to have sweet, spike-haired Boulder as my friend. He’s fun to be around, and I wouldn’t mind walking into the PTA Parents Spring Swing on his arm. For once I’d have a good time dancing—and Cynthia would have a seizure trying to figure out what was going on with me and Surfer Dude. Win-win.

“Glad to be buddies,” I say. And now that we’re confidantes, I get to ask, “So, who are you seeing? Are you happy?”

“Happy most of the time,” he says, getting comfy again on the couch. “We have so much in common. We met surfing. We’re both trying to break into acting.”

Surfing and acting. Relationships have been built on less. Although not much. “Sounds good,” I say supportively.