The Botox Diaries (32 page)

I take the elevator to the thirty-second floor where his assistant Peggy leads me into an enormous corner office with breathtaking views in three directions. So this is what they mean by on top of the world.

“He’s just finishing up a conference,” says Peggy, an efficient sixtyish woman who, making small talk, has already told me that she’s been with her boss for twenty-two years. Considerably longer than his wife lasted. “Just make yourself comfortable until he gets back. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. But the moment she walks out, I’m not. I want to look settled—but not too settled—when Josh Gordon walks in. Give the appearance that I don’t mind that I’ve been kept waiting, but that I do have many other pressing things on my agenda for the day.

I go over to a bookcase and peruse the silver-framed family photos gracing the second shelf. The cute blonde who morphs in the pictures from baby in a pram to little girl riding a pony must be Ireland. Cute kid. In every photo, she’s either alone or with Josh. No apparent scissor cuts where the ex-wife has been expunged, but she’s nowhere in sight.

Five minutes pass. I’ve got the pictures down pat and I’ve memorized all the titles on the bookshelf. Milton Friedman’s
Economics
I understand, but why is he reading
Atlas Shrugged?
Time to sit down. I lower myself carefully onto the couch. It’s way too soft and I sink down deep into the cushions. Better move since this position always makes my legs look too fat. Maybe the hardback chair in front of his desk. I give it a try. But this is worse. If I’m sitting up this straight while I’m talking to Josh, he’ll feel like he’s taking a meeting with Queen Elizabeth. One’s too soft, one’s too hard. What am I, Goldilocks?

I stand up and notice that the zipper on my skirt has managed to make its way to the front. I try to swivel it back around but the hook snags on the top of my panty hose and won’t move. I’m tugging furiously at it when Josh makes his entrance. At least there’s nothing on
my face this time. He glances at me. He’s busy—clearly fitting me in between deals—and my disarray barely registers.

“Have a seat,” Josh says, gesturing to a comfortable chair near his desk. Why didn’t I try that one before? It’s just right.

“I’ve been going over the finances for the benefit,” he begins, not bothering with small talk. Guess I didn’t have to spend an hour last night boning up on CNN’s headline stories.

“Contributions look good,” Josh continues, rifling through a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Ad sales for the program are strong. But I’m confused about some of these costs.”

“Everything’s been donated,” I assure him confidently, or as confident as I can be with my arm twisted into a contorted angle as I try to cover up my errant zipper. “Except a few minor costs for the production. Vincent said he’d send those off to you.”

“I got them,” says Josh, coming around with his papers and leaning on the side of the desk. “Some interesting ones. For example, did you approve the four thousand dollars in pink gels?”

“Of course not,” I say stalwartly. “No expensive gels or powders or pancake makeup. I told Vincent to buy Maybelline at Duane Reade. Under no circumstances was he to splurge on real greasepaint.”

“The bill wasn’t for makeup,” says Josh, handing me the invoice, which is labeled
THEATER LIGHTING SUPPLY, INC
.

Oh, those gels. Boy, I’m in total control today. Josh must be impressed. But even looking at the bill, I’m still baffled.

“All that money for extra-soft lighting? Pink gels?” I ask. “Doesn’t make sense. These are twelve-year-old kids. Even Joan Rivers doesn’t need that much help.”

Josh gives me one of his little smiles. From him, that’s like seeing the sun in Seattle. Doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s warmer than you’d think.

“How about this one?” Josh asks, pulling out another bill. “A thousand dollars to Millicent M. Who’s she?”

“Definitely not Vincent’s girlfriend,” I say quickly.

I take the receipt and realize it’s for artificial flowers. Probably for the Covent Garden scene. Would have been cheaper to grow our own.

I sigh and reach over to take the whole pile of receipts. “Sorry, Josh,” I say. “Vincent’s used to overblown Broadway budgets. You know, where they pay for union musicians who don’t play. For stagehands who don’t move anything. And for dressers who stand around during the nude scene in
The Full Monty
. Broadway has more padding than Tim Allen in
The Santa Clause
. But I’ll try to rein Vincent in.”

Josh nods, apparently softened by my rant. “I appreciate that. I’ve heard Vincent’s a little temperamental. I’ll talk to him if you want. I deal with financial problems every day.”

“I can do it,” I say tentatively. “I’m no Alan Greenspan, but I’m not bad at managing money.” He can’t argue. He’s never seen my checkbook.

But Josh, amazingly, picks up on my hesitancy. “Look, not a problem for me,” he says generously, with another small smile. “You’ve been doing a great job on the benefit. I can help you out. Let your director be mad at me instead of you.”

What’s going on here? That’s so nice of him. I better check the weather in Seattle. Global warming seems to be affecting everything.

Peggy peeks her head in the door before I get a chance to thank Josh and take him up on his offer.

“Sorry to bother you, but Mia’s on the phone,” Peggy says. “I told her you were in a meeting, but she asked that I interrupt.”

“I’ll call her back,” he replies tersely.

“I offered. She says it’s an emergency.”

Josh glances over at me.

“Should I step out?” I ask.

“No. I’ll just be a moment. Sorry. My ex-wife.”

More irritated than worried, Josh snatches up the phone.

He issues a brusque “Hello” into the receiver then paces behind his desk as Mia talks. And talks. And talks. He seems to be losing patience.

“I don’t call this an emergency,” he says, finally hearing enough. “You could have waited. You interrupted an important meeting.”

So now I’m important. Hey, that’s not bad.

Josh listens to Mia for a couple more minutes.

“Of course I paid your therapy bills,” he says, exasperated. “I told you I’d take care of them for as long as you need.”

Which could be a long time, from the sounds of this conversation. Poor man. First the benefit’s bills and now Mia’s.

“Mia, if your psychiatrist doesn’t want to see you anymore, it’s not because he hasn’t been paid,” Josh says tartly. “It must be something else.”

And I can guess what it is. I don’t know Mia, but I do know shrinks. Could be she’s whining too much. Or not keeping her therapist properly entertained. It’s not enough just to go into your therapist’s office and cry anymore. In New York, you’re competing against some of the unhappiest people in the world. Bored with your husband? No longer satisfied with Frederic Fekkai? Anguished by recovered memories of inadequate SAT scores? Oh, please. They’ve heard it all before. You’ve got to dig deeper and constantly come up with new material. Keeping your shrink happy is tougher than holding on to a stand-up gig at The Comedy Club.

“Mia, I have to get back to work,” Josh says in a tempered voice that he’s obviously honed after too many calls like this. “You know I’m here for you if you really need me. But we’re divorced now. You can’t keep calling me for things like this.”

He hangs up the phone and distractedly thumbs through some messages on his BlackBerry. Looking up, he seems surprised to realize that I’m still there.

“Anything you need?” he asks randomly.

Sure. I can think of a few things. I’ll take a husband, a house in Montauk, a better prescription drug plan, and a DVD of the first season of
The Sopranos
. And I’ll settle for any two of the four.

“No, I guess we’re okay,” I say.

“Fine, then we’re done,” he says. “Keep going with the benefit. And talk to Vincent about his expenses. Let’s get this under control.”

I hesitate. Not the time to remind him that he said he’d deal with Vincent for me. Mia’s ruining things for everyone.

“Call me if you run into a problem,” he says dismissing me. “I take all sorts of trivial calls from women.”

Guess we’re not his favorite species right now.

* * *

“Maybe Josh Gordon would be nicer to you if you got a face-lift,” Lucy suggests to me an hour later, as we’re sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Gloria Roget, the latest addition to Lucy’s beauty maintenance crew.

Lucy peers into the large daisy-shaped mirror that dominates an entire wall of the outer office and immediately makes “The Face”—the one every woman over forty regularly tries out, though usually in the privacy of her own home. She draws up the skin across her cheekbones with her forefingers and pulls it tight, then uses her palms to stretch out her jowls. Or what she worries are jowls.

“What do you think?” Lucy asks, turning to me with her pulledback face. “Wouldn’t I look better?”

“You look good now.”

“I’m thinking future perfect,” she says. “Try it.”

I copy the same maneuver and study The Face—mine—in the mirror. This firmer, smoother me is an improvement, but I’m not ready to go under the knife. Maybe I’ll just get some duct tape on the way home. Wouldn’t matter as far as Josh Gordon is concerned, anyway. My face could be as taut as an Army recruit’s cot and it still wouldn’t change his grumpy opinion of women.

“This isn’t what we’re here for, anyway,” I remind Lucy, releasing my hands and letting my face fall—literally—back into place.

“I know. That’s for another time. Today’s about boobs,” Lucy says, still looking into the mirror. She moves her hands from her face and cups them under her breasts, pushing them forward. “Breasts like this would change my life,” she tells me. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re lucky. You’ll never need implants.”

“You don’t, either. You’re just unhappy with everything right now.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m not unhappy about my boobs, too. Who isn’t? You spend your whole preadolescence waiting for them, and then they’re never right. Too big, too small, too round, too flat. You hate it if men look at them, and you hate it even more if they don’t.”

“I know. We all knock our knockers. Look at this,” I say, putting
my hands under my own slightly heftier breasts and hoisting them up a few inches. “This was me in 1989. And this,” I say, pulling my hands away and letting my breasts fall back into the underwire of my Maidenform, “is me today.”

“Oh, Jess, you look fine,” Lucy says.

“That’s only because of my new 18-hour bra. Figure I’ve got six more hours left on this baby. Don’t ask me what I do after that.”

“At least you’re not worried about springing a leak,” Lucy says, playing with the padding on her own bra. “This water-filled stuff is supposed to look more natural than foam. But it makes me nervous.”

“If you’re smaller, you never sag,” I parry, jiggling from side to side, now thoroughly mesmerized by watching my own breasts in the mirror.

“It’s amazing we ever became friends at all,” says Lucy. “You’re the kind of girl I hated in high school. Great tits, and always pretending they were such a
burden
.”

“Let’s call it a draw,” I say, refusing to explain how embarrassing it was all those years ago being the first one in my class to sprout. All my friends were still in training bras. Although I could never figure out what they were training—or training for. I spent the whole year slouch-shouldered so boys wouldn’t stare at my chest. Something else not likely to arouse Lucy’s sympathy. But I’m still not sure why she’s making such a big deal about this.

“Lucy, you’re gorgeous. You’re perfectly proportioned. What’s wrong with a 34-B anyway?”

“In Hollywood, everything,” says Lucy. “I must be the only woman in town who has her original set. California’s the land of plenty. People talk about grapefruit and cantaloupe and they don’t mean fruit. And Hunter’s a watermelon guy. I catch him ogling big-chested women all the time.”

“So this is about Hunter?” I ask, fairly incredulous that she’s made a decision about the man in her future. And that it requires surgical enhancement. Not his. Apparently she’s over the small birthday present. Not to mention the small penis.

“Not really,” Lucy says. “I’m not doing this for Hunter.”

“For Dan?”

“He likes my breasts.”

“Then who?”

“Jess, I’d never do this for a man. What kind of woman do you think I am?”

“The kind we all are. Insecure. Tell me the truth. Do you think Jacques’ new girlfriend has better breasts than me? Is that why he picked her?”

“Who knows why any of us are doing anything lately,” Lucy says with a sigh.

I sit back. “I’m not going to let you do anything stupid,” I say.

“Right,” Lucy says, as a nurse finally ushers us into the doctor’s office. “Ask all the questions I forget to.”

Lucy gives the nurse all her vital stats, including health history and insurance policy. Implants aren’t covered on her plan, but a case could be made, I suppose, for including them under her mental health rider. Then a procession of stunning assistants bustle in and out of the consultation room. Either God or Dr. Roget is responsible for their firm breasts, and since none of the young ladies seems older than twenty-five, I’m betting on God. But Lucy would call me naïve.

Finally, the good doctor herself comes in. She’s tall and sinuous with pixie-short blond hair and—I’m not being naïve about this one—collagen-plumped lips. The diploma on the wall says Harvard Medical School, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see “Playboy Pin-up” also listed on her résumé.

Dr. Roget seems ready to give a peppy presentation, but first she needs to know which speech to give. She stares at Lucy’s chest, then searches through the notes the nurse has handed her.

“So, your breasts,” she says finally. “Are you here to make them larger or smaller?”

If the contractor has to ask whether to paint the inside or the outside of the house, I figure you don’t need any work done at all. But Lucy’s taking no such cues.

“Larger,” Lucy says.

“Good choice,” counters Dr. Roget.