The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger Read Free Book Online Page A

expecting her,” she says.
    Thank goodness. I’d hate if she’d forgotten about me in the three minutes since I was last announced.
    I follow the maid into a sweeping persimmon-colored living room dominated by a huge trompe l’oeil frieze of naked cherubs circling an English garden. Uh-huh. On the far wall, another sensibility prevails and a silk-screened Warhol soup can screams for attention. Now I’m ready for anything.
    “You can wait here while I see if Mrs. Beasley-Smith is ready,” the maid says. She seems to like saying that name. Maybe she should go with Mrs. B.S. for short.
    But after all the pomposity, I’m not really prepared when a thirtyish woman in Levi’s and a white T-shirt glides in, cradling a baby in one arm and trailed by a golden-haired little girl of about four. Mom is sweetly pretty in a well-scrubbed way, with light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail with a dime-store scrunchie and just a trace of lip gloss.
    “Hi,” she says, shifting the baby to her other hip so she has a hand to offer. “I’m Amanda. This is Taylor.” She bounces the little boy until he grins and then says, “And behind me is Spencer.”
    “Hi,” Spencer says in a teeny, tiny voice.
    “Nice to meet you,” I say, bending down to her eye-level. “I’m Jessie.”
    When I stand up again, Amanda thanks me for coming. “I have four friends joining us. I hope that’s enough. We’re all really excited about getting involved.”
    “That’s great,” I tell her. “I’m thrilled to be working with you.”
    Within a few minutes, the room fills up with moms and various-sized toddlers, and I’m introduced in succession to Pamela Jay Barone, Rebecca Gates, Allison von Williams, and Heather Lehmann. I can’t place any of the names, though I have a feeling any money manager would know them. The women are cookie-cutter perfect—pretty and slim, with well-highlighted blond hair (except for Pamela, whose auburn mane is swept off her face by a paisley headband), and they sport hugediamond rings. But they’re dressed casually and there’s an easy familiarity as they play with each other’s children.
    Just as I’m beginning to wonder how I’m going to integrate a gaggle of toddlers into my presentation, a girl who I quickly realize is the au pair appears in the doorway. She’s about eighteen or nineteen, with luminous skin, curves in all the right places and hair that gleams like it’s spun from pure gold. In a room full of almost-blondes, she’s the only one who looks like she’s never had to pay for it.
    “Ilsa and I could take the children now,” she says to Amanda in a lilting Swedish accent.
    “That would be great, Ulrike,” Amanda says. “There are only five kids and Heather’s nanny is coming in a few minutes, so you can take them into the playroom.”
    “Or to our apartment,” Pamela offers.
    “Either way,” Amanda says, then turning to me, she explains, “Pamela lives right across the hall and our au pairs are friends. We’re so lucky. Half the time we don’t even shut our doors so the kids can play everywhere.”
    Ilsa comes in—she’s pretty, but not as drop-dead gorgeous as the sensuous Ulrike—and the two au pairs round up the children, who happily follow them out.
    “I don’t know how you can bear to have that girl in your house,” Heather says bluntly to Amanda, as the moms settle into various leather wing-backed chairs, damask-upholstered sofas, and cushiony velvet love seats. “I wouldn’t want her within a mile of my husband. Why bring the chicken to the fox?”
    “Well, Alden’s never home, so it’s not a problem,” Amanda says lightly.
    “And Alden would never run off with an au pair,” Rebecca says, trying to be supportive. “It would be way beneath him.”
    “She could definitely end up beneath him,” Heather says smugly. “You’ve got a girl who looks like a Swedish porn star prancing around in the next room, and a husband can’t be blamed for getting