Bergdorf Blondes (15 page)

“Can we talk about something else?” I said.

Entre nous
, the truth is that when Eduardo was out of town—which he was a lot because of business—I sometimes felt a little Advil-y again. I’d thrown away all the pills in the apartment, but when I was alone at night those Ritz-robe-type feelings would come back and freak me out. Whenever I remembered Zach even for a second I felt like going straight out to Bigelow’s Pharmacy on Sixth Avenue and buying the biggest damn tub of tablets I could find. I could never seem to call Eduardo at the really bad moments because his cell hardly ever worked in these godforsaken places like Iowa that he had to travel to. A lot of the time he was away on weekends, too. On top of all this, when I’d called the Palm Beach heiress to rearrange, she’d replied, “I already did the interview. The magazine sent someone else.”

One Sunday—and Sundays are murderous, aren’t they?—I almost felt like running out to The Wiz again
and buying a DVD player. Eduardo was unreachable on one of his trips. I was a reject, the stale bagel that no one wanted. I kept staring at Zach’s
Drowned Truck
photo. I’d never noticed before, but it looked slightly out of focus. Maybe it wasn’t such a great photo after all. I decided to take it down, but it left such a gaping hole I had to put it up again, which made me even more miserable. By the time I called Julie, it was four in the morning, but she was awake: she was fasting on blueberries now and the hunger pangs were keeping her up.

“Julie,” I said, “I’m so sad.”

“Why sweetie, I thought you and Eduardo were in total bliss,” she said.

“I adore Eduardo but Zach’s the one I want. I’m thinking of calling him. I’m sure he misses me.”

“Ooohhh. Hold on,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Fensler first thing and make an appointment for you. You’ll never get in otherwise.”

Dr. Fensler has the glammest waiting room of any shrink in the city. It’s definitely nothing like the lunatic asylums I’ve heard most rich people like Julie go to in New York. Everything about it is gorge, including the Christian Liaigre table that is beautifully arranged with fashion and gossip magazines, even
the ones that are really hard to get like
Numéro
. I scanned the room. It was better than a front row at a Michael Kors runway show. All the other girls there were beyond stunning and almost all of them looked like actresses or socialites. I am sure I saw Reese W., but I couldn’t quite make out if it was her because her sunglasses seemed to cover almost her entire face. The really important detail about the waiting room was that all the girls looked
très
happy: everyone was just gorgeous and surrounded by shopping bags and decked out in those new Tod’s strappy sandals that you can’t find anywhere and were perfect for the warm June day outside. They were all discussing very nontherapy subjects like their next vacation in Capri and how great St. Barths was last Christmas. These girls looked like they didn’t have any problems at all. In fact, they looked like they didn’t even
know
what a problem was. There wasn’t a frown or a cross face among them. I was definitely the most miserable and underdressed person there. Dr. Fensler was obviously a genius. I could hardly wait to meet him. I was sure he didn’t take health insurance.

About ten minutes after I’d arrived, a pretty young nurse in a white velour sweat suit showed me into a treatment room. It was very new therapy: no old leather couch, no analysis books on the shelves, just a bright light and a high lounger exactly like the ones by the pool at the Mondrian Hotel in LA. I sat and
waited. I was a little nervous. Anyone who’s had therapy knows it’s excruciating having to reveal everything about yourself to a total stranger and then be informed that you better try to change. The thought of it was very unappealing. But if I left looking as hot as those girls in the waiting room I’d do it gladly.

The door opened. Dr. Fensler—coiffed and tan—peeked in.

“He-e-e-y! Hi!!! Am I thrilled to see you!” he said. He sounded way overexcited. He obviously hadn’t noticed that I hadn’t dressed up for him as though I were off to a cocktail party. “You look fan-tastic! My god, that
skin
. Have you been living in a
refrigerator
?”

Before I could reply he chirruped, “Just gotta inject two lips. Back in
ten seconds
. No one does a lip fix quicker or prettier than Dr. Fensler.”

Lizardlike, he darted out. Julie was deranged. She hadn’t sent me to her analyst. She’d sent me to her dermatologist. I called her immediately on my cell.

“Julie,” I said sternly, “Dr. Fensler is a cosmetic dermatologist!”

“I know. He’s a genius. Everyone who’s anyone wouldn’t be seen at a party without stopping by Fensler first.”

“But Julie, I’m not going to a party. I’m already at my own party and it’s not fun and I’m trying to leave and I’m not sure Dr. Fensler is the man to get me out of it. I thought you said I needed therapy.”

“Darling, dermatology
is
the new therapy,” said Julie. (Julie thinks that anything that is new is good just because it is new.) “Have you seen how tragic people who go to shrinks are? Shrinks make people unhappy. But here’s the thing about Dr. F—you go in for an innocent little Botox shot and you come out feeling happier than if you’d done ten years of therapy. You look pretty, you feel great. Easy. Some girls in New York have got a bit compulsive about it, they go every day. Now, I
do not
want that happening to you but I think a little dermatological therapy would be a very positive experience for you. It’s kind of like cheating but cheating in a good way.”

Now I understood why all those girls outside looked so happy. They were classic Botox junkies. No frowns, no expression, just smiles.

“Julie, I don’t think this is right for me. I want to talk to someone about what’s been happening. I don’t want that frozen Botox look everyone thinks is so in.”

“No one is saying you have to get Botox. I’m saying, get a peel, maybe get an enzyme jab. You can tell Dr. F. everything. Five percent of the time he’s injecting, the rest of the time he just listens, which is what you need. Look, he understands the whole Manhattan relationship thing better than any couples counselor I’ve ever met and I swear I’ve met every single one on the Upper West Side. Would I ever send you anywhere but the best?”

“No.”

I was
très
tempted. I mean, I’d never heard of therapy that made you look like a Michael Kors girl before. If I was going to be miserable at least I could be attractive with it. I try not to be as tremendously vain as Julie, but sometimes you’ve got to be when your sanity is at stake.

“Okay. So try it. It’s on me. And by the way, did you see K. K. in the waiting room? I’m convinced she’s been doing that new Botox mask thing from Paris but she swears her motionless face is just from rubbing in Persian rose oil for twenty minutes a night. She’s a lousy liar. No one looks that good with herbal remedies.”

Dr. Fensler popped his head around the door and trotted in. “Julie,” I said, “I gotta go, he’s here.”

“So, tell me everything,” he said. “Broken up with your boyfriend?”

I nodded.

“I am going to make you beautiful, and happy, like all my girls. You’ll never think about him again. Don’t worry! You can come every day if you need it. A lot of girls do when they’re going through a trauma like this.”

He came closer and started examining my skin.

“Ee-wchhh!” he yelped. “I see a pimple. Have you been flying recently, to Europe?”

“Yes,” I answered. Maybe this man was a genius after all.

“Jet lag acne. Everyone’s got it. It’s new, totally
new. You’re depressed, you’re stressed, you’re circling the globe like a maniac, you can’t handle the time zones, your hormones are up the wazoo—
bang
! Jet lag acne. You know all the supermodels come
straight
off the Air France flight from Paris to me. In, out, peel, jab, and they’re fantastic again. They look better and they
feel happier
. Now tell me about this boyfriend you lost.”

I told him the whole story, exaggerating a few parts to make it more entertaining. Naturally I left out the most humiliating bits, like the thing about never going to Brazil. I didn’t want Dr. F. knowing really private stuff.

“There’s more,” he said. “You’re hiding something.”

Reluctantly I told him about my Parisian suicide attempt, which I’d edited out. I also admitted the excruciating truth about never getting any Rio after the trip to LA.

“Well, he was either blind or gay,” joked Dr. Fensler, trying to cheer me up. “That kind of rejection is very upsetting.”

“I feel really bad about myself,” I said. “The feelings won’t go away.”

“Nothing that a quick Alpha-Beta peel won’t remedy,” said Dr. Fensler, snapping on plastic gloves.

He prepared some bottles of potent clear liquid and asked me to lie down. He dabbed the first solution on my face. It stung.

“Ouch!” I squealed.

“Ah. Very good! Your skin is going to look immaculate when you leave here. Every cell will be perfection. You will never let anyone hurt you like that again. You must be wondering why you stayed so long with such an unpleasant person.”

I nodded. I couldn’t speak because the fumes from the chemicals were so strong.

“You know what that’s all about? Staying with a jerk?”

I shook my head. I was still very confused about my attraction to someone who, I realized after the fact, had been completely horrible to me.

“Classic dysfunctional relationship. They chip away at you until you feel like you’re nothing without them. No one can understand why you stay. But you do. From your end, it’s a typical case of low self-esteem. My dear, you build up that self-esteem and no one will be able to touch you. When you get it back, men will be drawn to you
uncontrollably
. Self-confidence is highly sexually attractive. You have to love yourself before anyone decent will really love you. I can make you beautiful on the outside but you gotta make yourself beautiful on the inside, too. Lecture over. Okay, I’m putting the second solution on now.”

This burned even more than the first one. I couldn’t imagine how this could possibly be good for your skin
or your soul. I managed to utter, “Well, I think my self-esteem is improving. I’ve met this new guy who looks out for me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.”

“Where is he?” asked Dr. F.

“Oh, travelling. For work. He travels a lot,” I replied.

“Well, just make sure he isn’t married and living in Connecticut with three kids!”

I giggled. Dr. Fensler was really amusing me.

“Now I am going to leave this last layer to sit for five minutes and then you will be glowing, my dear. You are a fabulous girl. Don’t settle for anyone who doesn’t treat you like the princess you are. No more bullies, no invalidators, no energy drainers.”

I had no idea what an invalidator was, but I would avoid it. Maybe the right dermatologist is the secret to personal happiness in New York, like Julie says.

Dr. Fensler fussed around his countertop for a while and then asked, “How was the sex with the guy you were engaged to?”

People ask the most personal questions. It’s so intrusive the way they just ask you about Brazil as though they were talking about a casual vacation to Palm Springs or something.

“Well, I mean, hmmm. When we had it, it was…the best,” I said, embarrassed.

“Uh-oh!
Beware!!!
” said Fensler. “Never, ever
marry the best sex of your life. It only happens with someone who is very dangerous for you. It’s passionate, exciting, but it generally indicates that you are pushing each other’s dysfunctional buttons. Be very wary of men you are crazily sexually attracted to—they’re the dangerous ones for you. That’s what all analysis says in one form or another.”

I didn’t choose that particular moment to admit that sex with Eduardo was a million times better than sex with Zach. What was I supposed to do? End it with him precisely because I was so attracted to him? Date someone I found repulsive? This was where the whole therapy thing cancelled itself out. You couldn’t actually do anything about the things you were supposed to do things about. Dr. Fensler held a mirror up to my face.

“Now, take a look at yourself. Phenomenal.”

Dr. F. had done something amazing. My skin was glowing. I looked more like someone who’d just come back from a month in the islands than a girl recovering from a French suicide attempt. I suddenly felt overflowing with self-esteem. The feeling was on a par with how good I felt the first time I bought a silk Pucci headscarf and actually wore it on a yacht in the manner of Christina Onassis.

“I feel wonderful, thank you so much,” I said as I got up to leave.

“Keep that feeling. The second you don’t have it,
come straight back here for some more wonderful, got it?”

The thing about going to the dermatologist, unlike seeing a therapist, is that it makes you feel really happy about yourself right away. As I passed through the waiting room, I promise you I literally
waved
at all those gorgeous girls in there. Eduardo adored me, Zach was all in the past, and I looked like a million bucks.

Honestly, if I’d known about Alpha-Beta peels before, I’d never have ended up with someone lousy like Zach in the first place.

It was auspicious that Dr. F. had plumped my epidermis, because Eduardo was due back in town that night, and I was anticipating some more best-Proust-of-my-life with him, regardless of the doctor’s advice. Aerin van Orenburg—the young reclusive daughter of Gustav van O., who always says he has more art than the Gettys—had decided to come out of her seclusion and throw a wild costume party. The rumor was that since college all Aerin had done was stay home and knit gold lurex shoe bags for her massive collection of Christian Louboutins. Everyone wanted to go to Aerin’s party. But Aerin, being the contrary kind of girl she is, had invited only half of everyone who wanted to be there.

Aerin loved her own contrariness. Her theme was super-obscure and confusing for everyone: it was “Robert and Ali.”