The Botox Diaries Read online

  The restaurant has no name out front, and I walk up and down the block where it’s supposed to be located three times before I venture up a flight of stairs and push open an unmarked wooden door. A perfectly beautiful Asian woman in a sleeveless black dress, bare legs, and black spike mules is standing behind the lacquered front desk.

  “Is this Ichi’s?” I ask, trying to close my umbrella and managing to spill a large puddle of water on the gleaming marble floor.

  She looks at me blankly. I’ve pronounced it ITCH-ies, which is obviously wrong.

  “ICK-ies?” I suggest.

  Still no response.

  “EYE-cheese?”

  Blank.

  “EYE-keys?”

  She takes pity. “Welcome to AH-SHAY’s,” she says.

  No way do you get AH-SHAY’s out of a place spelled like ICK-ies, but I’m not arguing with a woman who’s gone sleeveless on the third wettest day of the year.

  “I’m meeting Lucy Baldor. We have a one o’clock reservation.”

  She looks carefully through her book, as if she can’t believe that I actually belong here.

  “Ms. Baldor hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to be seated?”

  “I’d like a ladies’ room first.” Maybe I can squeeze some of the water out of my hair and turn it from wet mop to dry mop.

  She gestures elegantly. “Just behind you to the left.”

  “Thanks.” I try to step away from the desk, but my dripping umbrella has turned the floor into the Antarctic ice shelf and I immediately go flying: my umbrella in one direction, my bag in another, and my butt in the most obvious direction—straight down until it slams into the cold marble. Ms. Sleeveless Dress pretends like she hasn’t seen a thing.

  Nobody offers to help me up, so I slip and slide my way back to my feet and scurry off to the ladies’ room, which is plastered with wall-to-wall mirrors. What fresh hell. The hair that I’d spent twenty minutes blow-drying into a sleek ’do has been water damaged into a mass of stringy ringlets, and the blotchy black circle running down my cheek proves that the waterproof mascara isn’t. A hasty comb-through and a swipe across my cheek with a wad of toilet paper are the best I can muster. An hour and a half out of the house and I’ve gone from having a vague resemblance to Cybill Shepherd to looking like Courtney Love, the Kurt Cobain years.

  Back out front, I’m led to a table and I heap my wet coat on the back of my chair. Nobody comes by to take it, to offer menus, or to plunk down a measly glass of water. It’s okay. I can wait. I fumble through my purse, looking for props and trying to pretend that I have something to do. Seventeen minutes, two Altoids, and one phone call to check my messages—there are none—later, I’m strumming my fingers on the water glass when Lucy comes in. She makes her way across the restaurant with a lean, coltish stride that makes heads turn—literally—at every table. Her makeup is flawless, her streaked blond hair swings at the perfect angle around her chin, and her Burberry raincoat and spike Manolo Blahniks look like they just came out of the box. Does this woman walk between the raindrops? Even if she came by limousine, and I bet she has, she had to get from the curb to the door, and as I glance out the window I see, yep, it’s still pouring.

  “You look fabulous,” I say, getting up to kiss her on both cheeks.

  “You too, Jessie,” she says, going for the newly chic third kiss. Left, right, left. I never remember that last one and our noses bump.

  A maitre d’ materializes from nowhere to help Lucy out of her coat and whisk it away. He apparently doesn’t notice my coat, still heaped on the seat. With Lucy settled into her chair, two waiters and a busboy scramble over with water, menus, and a chorus of greetings, confirming my taxi-hailing suspicion. Maybe I am becoming invisible.

  “I’m so glad to be at this restaurant,” Lucy says to me spiritedly when the minions have left. “I’m told the best plan here is to let the chef prepare whatever’s freshest. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure.” I’m willing to risk my life at Kmart sale days but not on day-old sushi.

  Lucy orders for us, chatting with the waiter about the quality of the uni. “That’s a sea urchin,” she explains, turning to me, to keep me in the loop.

  “The uni. Ah, it’s superior, today,” the waiter confides, with a wink. But of course. For Lucy, he’ll probably find a cache of uni-uni. She orders a few more dishes I’ve never heard of and gives the menus back to the waiter. Then she turns her radiant attention toward me.

  “Before we say another word, I just have to thank you for making those cupcakes with Lily,” she says. “She hasn’t stopped talking about them.”

  “Oh, it was fun,” I tell her honestly.

  “But you went to a lot of trouble and I’m really grateful,” she gushes.

  “I told Dan to come for dinner with the boys the night we made cupcakes,” I say, determined to prove I could have done even more, “but he’d already promised them Taco Bell. He’s such a great dad.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Lucy says half-heartedly.

  “No, really,” I say with enthusiasm. “Of all the husbands I know, he’s the only one I’d consider. You don’t mind that I’m jealous, do you?”

  “No, go ahead,” she says. “I’m having trouble getting too excited about my life these days so you might as well enjoy it. Sometimes your life can look perfect to everyone else and feel flat when you’re living it, you know? You should understand.”

  What intrigues me about Lucy is that despite her fabulous job, her three wonderful children, and oh, yes, the Mercedes and the six-bedroom house, she has moments when she feels truly and sincerely miserable. She calls it a classic midlife crisis, and for some reason, she’s decided that I am the one person who gets it.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” she asks, leaning forward.

  Well, maybe I do. I felt that way once myself. After all, I did leave Jacques.

  “After all, you did leave Jacques,” she says.

  What? On top of everything else she’s a mind reader?

  “Yeah, I did,” I say. “Do you want to hear for the four-hundredth time why everyone thought I was crazy but I knew it was the right thing?”

  She grins. “No, I think I’ve got it.”

  “But what’s up with you?” I ask. “When you called from L.A. it sounded like you had news.”

  “Not really news.” Lucy takes a deep breath and looks as if she’s about to tell me something important. But instead she shakes her head. “It was nothing. Just a guy I work with who was flirting with me. Kind of fun for a day or two. But hey, I’m married. I stopped thinking about sex a long time ago.”

  We both laugh and I know she wants to get off this subject. Much as I’d bet there’s more to the story, I let her get away with it.

  “And what’s up with your love life?” she asks, moving on with lightning speed. “Are you still going out with that painter?”

  “What painter?”

  “The guy you met before I left for L.A.”

  I make a face. “One date. When I saw his license plate said BLWJOB I decided there was no future. With my bad knees and all it would never work.”

  Lucy laughs so hard the sake dribbles down her cheek. I feel a secret thrill that my sexless love life can keep her entertained. If you’re going to go on 101 bad dates you might as well have a good audience.

  “I may have somebody for you,” she says, toying coyly with her chopsticks.

  “Oh please, not another personal trainer.”

  “No, of course not. This one’s a plastic surgeon. Dr. Peter Paulo.”

  “Lucy, honestly. Are you trying to fix me up or just fix me? Sometimes I think you should be scheduling appointments for me instead of dates.”

  “One-stop shopping, babe. Imagine if you and Dr. Paulo fell in love. Maybe he’d give me a discount on the Botox.”

  “You do Botox?” I shouldn’t be surprised but I am.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? Dove Moisturi
zing Bar and I call it a day.”

  I move to the edge of my chair and peer at Lucy’s perfect, porcelain complexion. Now that I’m unabashedly staring I can see that there’s not one furrow on her brow. None of the crow’s-feet under her eyes that have begun creeping up on mine. But is it true that she can never look scared or angry?

  “Boo!” I say loudly, out of nowhere, possibly scaring myself more than Lucy.

  Lucy jerks back, almost spilling a glass of water. “Jess, have you gone looney?” she squeals.

  “Sorry, the Botox. I just wanted to see if your face still moves.”

  “Of course it does,” she says, steadying the glass back in its place. “Except the forehead, I’ll admit. But how often do you express yourself with your forehead?”

  I think about that one. But it still bothers me that Lucy—who pouts if the lettuce isn’t organic—happily injects her face with poison.

  “I thought your body was a temple,” I say.

  “My body is a temple,” Lucy laughs. “I just don’t want it to crumble like St. John the Divine.”

  “Oh, Lucy. You’re the most fabulous-looking woman I know.”

  “That’s nice of you, but in Hollywood they shoot women over thirty. Out there if you’re twenty-three and you haven’t had your first mini-lift it’s already too late.”

  “Oh, come on. Get real.”

  “If I did I’d be the only one,” she says wryly, pulling out a mirror to reapply her lip gloss. “Forget about the girls on camera—we don’t even want them in the audience. The demos on my shows have to be eighteen to thirty-four because after that the only advertiser who still cares is Viagra.”

  “Or Depends,” I say brightly.

  That’s a conversation stopper. Before I have a chance to ask any more questions Lucy glances at her watch. “Darling, I hate to do this, but I have to run.” She nabs the check and leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “Anyway, are you free Friday?” She doesn’t even wait for my answer. “That’s when I told Dr. Paulo you’d get together.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is all Lucy’s fault. No one else could get me to the gray granite hallway of a too-chic white box building on East Seventy-second Street at six forty-three on a Friday night. And here I am in brand-new Stuart Weitzman high-heels—I can already feel the blisters coming on—bought for a man I’ve never met. Wasn’t I the dry wit who used to say that “Love may be blind, but dates shouldn’t be?” And if I’m going out with Lucy’s plastic surgeon, shouldn’t he at least pick me up? Oh, that’s right. When he’d called to confirm our date for this evening, he’d said that as long as I had to take the train into the city and I’d be out anyway, why didn’t I come by his apartment? Certainly wouldn’t want to inconvenience him. Maybe I should have called back to see if he needs a pint of half-and-half or a dozen eggs as long as I’m out.

  I’m two minutes early, so I pull out my cell phone to give my daughter an early good-night kiss.

  “Jen, Jen honey, you there?” I say, trying to hear through a staticky connection.

  “Yeah, Mom. What’s up? You on your date yet?”

  “What makes you think I’m on a date?”

  “Lily’s here,” she giggles. “She told me all about it. What’s a plastic surgeon, Mommy? Are you gonna marry him?”

  This is not the phone conversation I was hoping for. “No, Jen. We’re just having dinner. Nothing special. You’re the only one for me. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Sure, Mom. Whatever. Gotta go. Did you need me for something?”

  “No, just wanted to make sure you were all right. Which, I guess, you are. Okay, then. See you later …”

  Jen clicks off the phone before I can blow her a kiss, leaving me with nothing else to do but tuck in my tummy, straighten my skirt, and ring the bell.

  On the other side of the door I hear loud howls and barking. But no one answers. I wait and ring again. No one answers. No one answers. Then the door swings open.

  “You’re on time,” the plastic surgeon says, accusingly. All I can see at the moment is his head, and then he steps back. He’s wrapped in a skimpy terry cloth towel and his naked chest is dotted with thick clumps of wet matted gray hair. Obviously, I’ve interrupted his shower. He looks at me and tilts his head to one side, trying to dislodge some water from his ear. Beads of water are dripping down his leg and he reaches for a corner of the towel to start to dry off. “Don’t do that,” I think, panicked. He manages to dry his leg without revealing anything that I don’t want to see—now or ever, I have a feeling.

  “Uh, I’m sorry. I thought we said s-six forty-five?” I say with a stammer. My voice—I hate when I do this—rises like a little girl’s on the “six forty-five” part.

  “We did,” he snaps, turning his back to me and leading me into his mirror-walled lair. “But who ever heard of a New Yorker arriving on time? Well, not really your fault,” he says, in what I’m sure he thinks is a generous tone. “You’re not from New York, I mean New York ‘proper,’ now, are you? Just give me ten minutes to get dressed.”

  He disappears into the bedroom, and I try not to think about his peeling off his towel. Maybe I should just leave now. On the other hand, the evening can’t get any worse, can it? Yes it can. The dog—an apso-lapso? a lapso-apso? an Alpo? I never can get these designer dogs straight—carries on for his absent owner and starts humping my leg.

  I sit down on the white-on-white, never-been-touched-by-children’s-hands couch and flip through the copy of Matisse-Picasso that’s been too casually placed on the glass-and-chrome coffee table. Then I notice a copy of Hustler that’s been shoved under the sofa.

  Why don’t I have a secretary who could call me with a pretend emergency to get me out of here? Maybe I could get hold of Jen again and beg her to phone me back with an imagined case of strep. No, Lucy. It’s Lucy who should get me out of this fine mess, I’m thinking as the dog, who’s now working himself into a frenzy, starts humping more furiously, as if he’s super-glued to my leg.

  “Um, your dog …,” I call out.

  “Yeah, I know. He’s adorable,” he shouts back. “I don’t want to make you jealous but he’s a real chick-magnet when we’re walking in the park.”

  “Yes, I’m sure … but, um, at the moment he seems to have attached himself to my leg and I can’t seem to shake him.”

  “Nonsense. Winston would never do anything like that. Would you, pookie,” he says, emerging from the boudoir in a Calvin Klein pullover and leather jeans. He walks halfway across the room toward me, then pauses and turns, posing like a male model at the end of a runway. I don’t applaud, so he keeps walking over to the wet bar in the corner of the living room. Wet bar. He must have picked up that decorating tip from Hustler. Circa 1978.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he says in full smarmy-charmy Park-Avenue doctor mode as he uncorks a bottle of Chateau-something-or-other. “I’ve some cheese and things in the kitchen. Wanna stay in tonight?”

  I’m confused. Have we been out so much this week that we have to stay home tonight?

  I wouldn’t mind going to the Four Seasons. Le Cirque isn’t far. And I’ve always wanted to try Le Bernardin.

  “Staying here would be lovely,” I hear myself say.

  He sashays across the room, hands me the Baccarat goblet and cups his hands around my chin. Then he turns my face thoughtfully from side to side. Am I being kissed already or appraised for Botox injections?

  “I know which side of your face is better,” he says, pleased to think he’s impressing me. “But I’m not going to tell you until later.” He actually winks.

  Is this his best shot? I hardly know how to reply. And on top of everything, I’m incredibly annoyed to realize that I’m actually wondering which side of my face really is better.

  He settles into the sofa and pats a cushion for me to come join him. “You’ll never guess who came into my office this afternoon,” he says.

  “Who?” I ask brightly, sitting down one cushion
over.

  “No, you’ll have to guess.” He grins seductively.

  Do we really have to play this game? Okay. “Meryl Streep.”

  “No.” He sounds annoyed. I’ve guessed too high.

  “Kathie Lee.”

  “Getting warmer.”

  “Go ahead, tell me now.”

  “Dahlia Hammerschmidt!” he reveals triumphantly.

  My face is blank. I can’t help myself—I’ve never heard the name in my life. I try to hide it but he can tell. And he’s immediately crestfallen.

  Who knew there was going to be a pop quiz this early in the evening? I’ve blown it already and I didn’t even want him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I guess I should have renewed my subscription to People.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I only thought of it because you remind me a little of her.”

  This could be a compliment. Dahlia Hammerschmidt is probably a once-famous actress, or at the very least, a rich socialite. Then again, she was last seen visiting a plastic surgeon.

  I pick up the Baccarat goblet and take a sip.

  “So what do you think?” he asks.

  What subject are we on now? Ah, I’ve got it. The wine.

  “It’s very nice,” I say.

  He glares at me and then takes a large swig from his own glass. “Come on. That’s not a description for a wine. Try again.”

  If I’d done this badly in college, I never would have graduated cum laude.

  “Fruity,” I suggest.