Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  We head into the pale pink lobby of the French-sounding doggy day spa, Le Beastro. We’re given the day’s menu and I study it, but Kate’s already preregistered Mr. Rich for a massage and a late afternoon hot oil bath.

  “You might consider doggie liposuction for Pal. I hear they’re experts at it here,” Kate says, running her fingers over what I consider his beautiful shiny flank. He’s supposed to have that little bulge, isn’t he?

  “He just needs a haircut. Besides, nobody in my family is having lipo before I do,” I deadpan.

  I look around the multifloored facility and realize we’re the only dog owners here. All the others have dropped their pets and gone off to work—presumably so they can earn enough money to pay for their dog’s lifestyle. But they’re missing so much. We walk down a corridor past the Doggie Hall of Fame, featuring pictures of Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Toto, and Beethoven—the movie-star Great Dane, not the composer.

  “Mr. Rich, with a little effort, you can be on that wall, too,” Kate says, bending down and trying to direct his gaze to the inspirational portraits.

  But instead of striving to achieve the greatness of Huckleberry Hound, the crazy cockapoo jumps up onto a low-lying table and pees on an orchid plant.

  “No, no, no,” Kate says, grabbing him. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.” Turning to me, she says, “We’d better get him to the swimming pool.”

  I hope the dogs shower first.

  I pick up a few doggie breath mints that have been carefully laid out in a silver bowl and feed them to Pal. Maybe he’ll meet a female pooch and want to make a good impression. I reluctantly skip the perfume atomizer, figuring that not every lab alive loves Chanel No.5.

  At the Olympic-size pool, a team of shapely swim instructors who look like they wandered off the set of Baywatch take Pal and Mr. Rich.

  “First a little test to see if they can go into the deep end,” explains one, swatting down Mr. Rich, who has the edge of the instructor’s tight red Speedo clamped between his teeth. “Then we’ll assign them to the proper class.”

  Kate and I take seats in the bleachers, and I watch proudly as Pal shows off his proficient doggie paddle. But I’m embarrassed when he gets put in the beginners’ class because Bradford and I never helped him master the backstroke.

  When the classes get underway, Kate spends a few minutes worrying about Mr. Rich, who’s been outfitted with two bright orange water wings on his front paws. From the way he’s flailing around the shallow end, it looks like he could use them on his back ones, too. But then Kate decides he’s in good hands and she can spend some time worrying about me.

  “Have you used your wok yet?” she asks, checking her manicure, which has somehow survived the leash lashing from the daft dog.

  “Don’t be nasty,” I say. “Any man can send you diamonds. It takes real effort to find something as original as a wok.”

  “Especially hard to find a wok in Hong Kong. Probably took Bradford—well, minutes to come up with one,” Kate teases, but then glimpsing my grim expression, she pats my knee. “Seriously, I think it was very cute and sweet of him.”

  “Do you really?”

  “I do,” Kate says, playing with the diamond bracelet on her wrist. I’m not going to ask her where she got it, because I’m pretty sure I know. “I’ve always liked Bradford. He’s smart. He adores you. You have great sex.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “You’ve told me enough times,” Kate says, poking around in her purse. “Here. A little something for when he gets home.”

  She hands over a clear plastic lipstick container that says Lip Venom on it.

  “Venom,” I say, studying the name. “Interesting idea. Kiss and kill?”

  Kate laughs. “It’s for lip fullness. Increases the plumpness by one point seven millimeters over twenty-eight days.”

  “I don’t usually look for things that increase my plumpness,” I remind her.

  “But this one’s special,” says Kate. “Gloss it on and it feels like you’ve been stung by a thousand bees.”

  “And how long did scientists work to create this?” I ask, holding the tube as far away from me as possible.

  “Probably decades in the making,” she says. “It’s a real breakthrough. Makes the blood rush to the surface of your lips so they feel all hot and tingly. The best part is that it hurts. That way you know it’s working.”

  I usually know my lipstick’s working by looking in the mirror. And fifteen dollars to buy a vial of pain? Just add it to all the plucking, pulling, piercing, and plastic surgery women put up with for beauty. But this one apparently has a secret bonus.

  “Owen loves it, too,” Kate confides. “Drives him wild when I kiss him with my hot lips. You have to try it with Bradford when he gets back.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen when Bradford gets back,” I tell her, putting down the tube.

  Kate eyes it, then rubs my arm sympathetically. “You have to stop worrying,” Kate tells me.

  “I’m trying,” I say. “And you know what? I’ve actually been feeling better lately. I’m not as scared about what might happen anymore. Bradford went to Hong Kong, and I didn’t fall to pieces. Maybe James’s being back has been a help. I suddenly realize there are options in my life.”

  Kate looks at me worriedly. “Is James an option?”

  “James is back and so some of that old pain is gone,” I say slowly. “And I realize the future can be whatever I want. Who would have thought that I’d have a whole new career in TV at forty-one?”

  “Aren’t we thirty-eight?” Kate asks.

  I smile. “You may need to be thirty-eight. But I’m happy with what I am. So many things seem possible now. You know what? Getting older and smarter and more confident isn’t that bad.”

  “I like the way that sounds,” Kate says, nodding.

  “I’m feeling pretty good,” I admit. Without thinking, I squirt a dab of the Lip Venom onto my pinkie and swipe it across my mouth. Within seconds, my lips are burning, my eyes are tearing, and I feel like my face is on fire.

  “Oh my god, this hurts!” I say, letting out a yelp and frantically searching for a tissue. There are lots of beauty options out there as you get older, too. But you have to be careful about your choices. This is one I wish I hadn’t picked. Next time I’m sticking with my own Clinique lip gloss.

  Well after midnight, the newly primped and pampered Pal pushes open my bedroom door and places his front paw on the edge of my mattress. Usually he just barks when he wants something, but this is a very Lassie-like move, so I think the day at the spa has been good for him.

  “What’s up, Pal?” I ask.

  Great, now I’m talking to the dog. He curls up on the floor next to the bed and stares at me with his big brown eyes. But I don’t care how cute he is, he’s not spending the night. A rule I’ve tried to enforce with all males who pass through my life.

  “Come on, Pal,” I say, leading him back downstairs to the kitchen, where he has his very own monogrammed L.L. Bean bed. And maybe Pal did have an ulterior motive in coming to fetch me because I smell something burning. I go over to the Viking stove, where a pot of milk is scorching on a high flame. I quickly turn it off. Then looking around the dark room I notice Skylar huddled on the windowseat in the breakfast nook. She has a chenille throw pulled around her, and she looks miserable.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Skylar says. “I wanted some hot chocolate, but I wasn’t sure how to make it.”

  “Let me do it for you,” I say, pulling a new pot out of the cabinet and going to the refrigerator for some soy milk. The only kind, I’ve learned, that Skylar will drink.

  “Don’t bother,” she says, squirming around on her perch. “I don’t care about the cocoa anymore. I don’t care about anything. Life sucks.”

  I think about going over to her, but decide to stay at the stove and give her a little space. I stir the milk, keeping my back to her,
and cautiously ask, “Anything particular that sucks?”

  “School. Boys. Friends,” Skylar ticks off, hitting the big ones immediately. And then because she’s fourteen and everything seems like the end of the world, she adds, “I gained two pounds. I got my period during gym. My math test was hard and geometry is just the dumbest thing ever. And I spilled ketchup on my Dolce & Gabbana skirt and it will never come out. Never.”

  I mix a little bit of sugar into the Droste cocoa, put in a dab of vanilla, my secret ingredient, and pour the mixture into two mugs. I bring one over to Skylar.

  “Yup, that qualifies as a lousy day,” I say.

  “You’re not supposed to say that,” Skylar says, taking the mug and blowing on the top. “You’re a grown-up. You’re supposed to tell me that everything will be okay.”

  “It probably will,” I say. “But it never feels that way when you’re in the middle of it.”

  “How would you know? Your life is perfect.”

  “My life is pretty good, and so is yours. Some things make me happy and some things don’t.”

  “Now you do sound like a stupid adult,” Skylar says. “You have no idea what it’s like to be fourteen. And don’t tell me you were once my age, because everything’s different now. Nothing like a million years ago when you were in high school.”

  “More like a million and a half years ago,” I say.

  “Right. And in those days, if somebody had a party, she probably had to invite the whole class, right? So nobody was left out.”

  I flash on all the nights I stayed home watching reruns of The Love Boat while everybody else was at parties, but I don’t mention it, because that’s not really what Skylar cares about.

  “Who didn’t invite you?” I ask.

  “A girl at school. She’s having a party Saturday night in the city with a DJ and everything. I asked her why I couldn’t come, and she just walked away. I’m the only one in the whole school not going.”

  I’m betting that’s an exaggeration, but Skylar doesn’t need to be challenged on details. Not when she’s feeling like her entire universe is falling apart.

  “Maybe she’s jealous of you because you’re so pretty,” I venture. “She doesn’t want the competition.”

  “No, she just hates me. Everybody hates me. The whole world hates me.”

  I could commission a Gallup poll right now to prove how many people love her, but it wouldn’t matter. Skylar still wouldn’t be convinced. So I offer something better.

  “You can’t go to the party anyway,” I tell her, sipping a bit of my own hot chocolate. “You have something more important to do on Saturday night.”

  “Oh right,” she says, sarcasm dripping. “If you want me to baby-sit for Dylan, it’s not happening. I don’t care what you pay me.”

  “Actually I want you to come with me to L.A. and meet Tobey Maguire. You know, the cute one from Spider-Man.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she grumbles.

  “I’m not. I need your help. I don’t know a thing about him, and I just found out that Kirk and I are flying out to shoot an episode of our show in his kitchen. He’s going to teach us how to make hot fudge sundaes. Though maybe I should cancel it because I probably make better sundaes than he does.”

  “Don’t cancel!” Skylar screams. “Tobey Maguire’s the hottest! Are you dense?”

  I grin at her and Skylar suddenly realizes that I was teasing about calling it off—but serious about the trip. She jumps up and throws her arms around me.

  “Could I really come with you?” she asks exuberantly. “I have the prettiest yellow Versace skirt I could wear.”

  I guess the ketchup stain on the Dolce wasn’t the end of the world after all.

  “Having you there will be the best part of the whole trip,” I say, playing affectionately with her hair.

  “I can’t believe it!” Skylar gloats. “Nobody’s even going to care about Delia’s stupid party and her stupid DJ. I’m going to have the best stories in school on Monday. The best stories for the whole year.”

  “You can be my official assistant on the trip,” I say. “We’ll even put your name on the credits.”

  “Sara, you’re the best,” Skylar gushes, hugging me again. “You’re so cool. Nobody’s cooler. I hope my dad’s still marrying you.”

  I grin, completely thrilled. Skylar actually wants her dad to marry me. And I’m even more delighted by something else. A fourteen-year-old girl thinks I’m cool.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  OUR CALIFORNIA TRIP TURNS OUT even better than I could have hoped. Skylar spends the entire six-hour flight to the west coast chatting, and I’m thrilled to be her confidante. In L.A., we check into the Regent Beverly Wilshire and have a first-night pajama party, complete with room service snacks and a Julia Roberts movie marathon.

  “Are you sure I can come with you to the shoot tomorrow?” Skylar keeps asking me.

  “You’re my official assistant,” I tell her.

  And I’ve never had such a good assistant. In fact, I’ve never had an assistant before at all. The next day, Skylar hands me a carefully thought-out list of interview questions I can ask Tobey Maguire.

  “These are really good,” I say, surprised as I read through them.

  “You don’t have to use them,” she says modestly. But she’s obviously pleased.

  At the shoot, Skylar is poised and helpful. And over-the-top delighted when I end up using three of her questions verbatim. At the end of the interview, Tobey Maguire gives her a signed picture and a kiss on the cheek, and Skylar looks at me—not Tobey—like I’m the most amazing person in the world.

  Right after we get back, I tell Berni all about the trip.

  “Congratulations. Your first big celebrity interview,” she says.

  “Even better. My first real connection with Skylar.”

  “That’s great,” says Berni. “And did you hear that your show in Spiderman’s kitchen got the highest ratings the network’s ever had? Ken Chablis’s so thrilled he’s sending you and Kirk each a hundred dollar gift certificate for dinner at the new Per Se.”

  “Terrific,” I say.

  “Not really,” Berni admits. “Prix fixe there is three hundred dollars.”

  “Then I can’t thank him enough,” I laugh. “By the way, you deserve some congratulations, too.”

  While I was away, Berni had her first online sale for her Celebrity Kids’ Clothes project and netted an unbelievable forty-five thousand dollars for underprivileged tots. One of the tabloids had a two-page spread of pictures of the star-studded items Berni had for sale, including Gwyneth Paltrow’s old diaper bag and her baby Apple’s old diapers. Cloth, of course.

  And Berni’s just getting started. There’s not a new celebrity mother in town who’s safe from Berni’s zeal. If her target’s not a former client, a current friend or the second cousin twice removed of somebody she once met at a party, Berni still finds a way to hunt her down. Her latest prey is Teri Ann Thomas, nickname “TAT,” the rising young movie star who was almost nominated for a Golden Globe last year.

  “Teri brought in a ten-pounder three weeks ago,” Berni says as if she’s reporting on a fly-fishing contest. “That’s one big baby.” She shakes her head. “Bad news is she must have had a helluva labor. Good news is the baby’s probably outgrown plenty of things by now.”

  Preparing to ambush the ambitious actress, Berni drags me to the Equinox Fitness Club on the Upper West Side. Reports are that having delivered her baby, Teri is now delivering on her promise to be hard-body ready for a new action flick. She’s coming to the gym three times a day and working her tush off. Literally.

  We change quickly in the locker room, and as I pull on my mesh shorts and T-shirt, I realize that I no longer have to go to a chic New York restaurant to feel unfashionable. I can look oh-so-last-season right here in the gym. All these other women must be training for the Olympics, because they’re decked out in the latest performance-enhancing apparel that takes t
wenty minutes to haul on.

  “Amazing that I ever exercised in plain old Lycra,” I hear one slim woman telling another, as she squeezes into her new breed of workout wear. “You really should try this. The corrugated panels compress the joints and relax the hamstrings. I only wear the muscle-hugging Italian brand.”

  I wouldn’t mind a muscle-hugging Italian. But I don’t have twenty minutes to get into one. And as far as relaxing my hamstrings, I’d rather do that in a hammock.

  We spot Teri Ann in the locker room and follow her as she strolls into the gym toward a room marked “Hard-core Training.” Berni starts pushing forward but I’m reluctant. I don’t even go into the hard-core room at Blockbuster. Could be why I’ve never seen any of Teri Ann’s early movies.

  The well-built instructor in the front of the room bounds over to Berni and me and looks us up and down dubiously.

  “Newbies,” he says, sounding like a gleeful Marine drill sergeant facing virgin recruits. “You’ve picked the toughest class, but you’ve picked right. I call this Cardio Combat. We’ll get your heart rate up, your stress down, your aggressions out. You’ll want to kill me while we’re doing it, but you’ll kiss me afterwards, because your endorphins will be flying.”

  I look around at the intimidating kick-ass cardio machines and the unbudgeably heavy weights. The instructor comes over and clamps his strong hands around my breasts.

  “Heart rate monitor,” he says, as I realize it’s not his hands, but a black, stretchy strap that’s now embracing me. “Get started on the exercise bike over there and remember, max heart rate for you,” he pauses, barely missing a beat, “one hundred forty-three.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Simple formula. Two hundred twenty minus your age. Then you work at eighty percent of that. I figure your age for forty-one.”