Juliana took her “vitamins” out of their container. As she poured out a glass of water, she hoped no one would ever discover its true contents. She swallowed the Prozac, her only true ally in this battlefield of cocktail parties and plastic surgery.
She walked to her bathroom and stared in the mirror. Which is worse? She thought. Using so much Botox I can’t move my face or trying every cream on the market to no avail? Although she hated the idea of putting chemicals in her face, it was the only way she could maintain any semblance of beauty. She pulled her RAZR out of her Louis Vuitton bag, called her dermatologist, and set up an appointment for the next morning. If she had it tomorrow, she would look 10 years younger by Victoria’s soiree on Saturday.
Ever since they had been in their 20’s, Victoria had always thrown the “best” parties. By the “best”, she meant the most ridiculously decorated with the snobbiest guest list. The women always prattled on about men, soap operas, other women, vacations they had taken, extravagances they owned, and anything else that made them look like the most sophisticated women on earth.
Of course, the men talked as well. Usually about Porsches, Rolls Royce’s, Lambhorginis, Mercedes, and Bentley’s. Occasionally, they might shift to other manly topics, such as sports they didn’t follow or political issues they did not know or care about.
Many years ago, she had met Rick at one of these parties. As she was listening to Victoria prattle on about French vs. Italian wine, he spilled champagne on her. Apologizing profusely, he led her to a quiet room, away from the din of hollow minds and full wallets. As she got cleaned up, he introduced himself. He was an up-and-coming realtor, poorer than the others at the party but soon to be richer than all of them, or so he claimed. He may have announced that he was taking her home so she could change her dress, but everyone knew why they were really leaving. Not that Juliana minded. Spending the night with him proved to be more exciting than the party anyway.
They spent many more nights together, after fancy dinners, “cultured” show, other people’s parties, their own parties, yacht rides, visits to art galleries, and vacations around the world. After about a year, they were married in an extravagant affair at some church in southern France.
She sighed, trying to shove away her memories as she pulled out her cream for varicose veins and began to lather. They had chased him away about 10 years ago. Those, and the talons around her eyes that would become crow’s feet. Since he was still handsome, with thick hair dyed chestnut, a chiseled face, a fit body, and blue eyes that could captivate almost anyone, he did not have to settle for an aging redhead. Juliana remembered all too well the night she had walked in to one of their mansions and found a young blonde in the shower. Now she cavorted about with her much-older husband, drowning herself in luxuries while he propped up her career as a model/actress.
He’ll probably leave her in a few years, just like he left me, Juliana thought as she washed off the illusion she painted with makeup every morning. And she won’t even get away with because she signed an iron-clad prenup. Luckily, Rick hadn’t even heard of prenups when he married her, so she got 50 million dollars and the coveted penthouse apartment, while he was stuck with only the other 50 million and three mansions.
After donning a silk nightgown, she stared out the window at the garden of lights. New York City always looked to pretty from the 23rd floor, but there wasn’t much to say about it on the ground. Like a garden, worms, bugs, and dirt lie at the base of all the foliage. Like its inhabitants, the city tried to keep up appearances, but once you looked closer, it was garbage, street rats, homeless people, sewers, graffiti, and sheer filth. The city was tired to the lights, the people, the feigned excitement, and the people loathed the city. Yet the city could not thrive without the people, nor the people without the city. With those musings, Juliana shut her expensive silk curtains and went to bed.
The next morning, she woke up and got ready for her Botox appointment. She chose a Gucci top and a trendy Versace skirt. Her fellow socialites would be there, and she needed to look the part. After molding her face like she did every day, she descended down the elevator onto the street, the nervous system of the metropolis. Her dermatologist was only two blocks away. What a smart man, Juliana mused, setting up his practice in the rich part of town.
After a quick Starbucks run, she saw a little dark-haired boy with missing teeth and unwashed clothing. Probably a pickpocket, she thought. She continued walking. Suddenly, she felt a tug on her arm.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I think you dropped this.” Her $10,000 bracelet hung from his hand, catching drops of sunlight as it swayed. She hadn’t even noticed the clasp coming undone.
“Thank you.” She smiled as she took the bracelet and continued toward the clinic. Perhaps the city wasn’t completely hopeless.
