The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger Page B

“This is Hunter.”
    As if I didn’t know. He looks just like he did on television, though maybe a little heavier. How’s that work? I thought the camera added ten pounds. Maybe that only happens to women—another one of nature’s little jokes. Hunter’s skin is so smooth that I wonder at first if he’s wearing makeup. But no, I recognize the faint smell of Aveda for Men. Which means he’s probably just scrubbed, exfoliated, and self-tanned.
    “Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand, but Hunter has another plan and leans in to give me a hug.
    “Lucy says wonderful things about you. And now I see why,” he says. He squeezes my arm, offers a Clintonesque rub of my elbow, and gives me a heartfelt gaze.
    “Hope those blue eyes aren’t crying in the rain,” he says.
    I blink. Huh?
    “That’s a Willie Nelson song,” he says with a playful smile. “Remember? ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.’ And you have lovely blue eyes.”
    “Well, thanks,” I say.
    “So what’s your favorite Willie tune?” he asks.
    Oh no. I almost forgot he was a game show host. What is this? Country Music for $200? I can tell already I’m not going to win the Buick.
    “I like all of Willie’s songs,” I say stupidly.
    “Come on. One favorite,” he cajoles. “So I can make sure Willie sings it tonight.”
    Already he’s doing me a favor. I take a stab. “I used to love ‘I’m Walkin’ ’ when I was a kid.”
    He grins. “That’s Rick Nelson.”
    “Maybe Willie knows it, too,” I say, trying to recover. These country-music guys all sound alike, anyway.
    “I bet he does,” Hunter says graciously. “Little Ricky Nelson. You must watch a lot of
Ozzie and Harriet
on Nick at Nite.”
    “I guess I don’t get around enough,” I say, slightly embarrassed.
    Hunter throws back his head and laughs. “Good one,” he says. “ ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’ is one of my favorites, too.” And he gives me a wink, which makes me feel better.
    Decent of him. He put me on the spot, but then he saved me. And now that the quiz show’s finished, Hunter turns and locks arms with me on one side and Lucy on the other, turning us into a mini Rockettes line. “I must be the luckiest man in New York!” he gushes. “I’ve got the city’s two most gorgeous women.”
    Lucy smiles adoringly up at him. I don’t want to like him, but I kind of do. He’s chatty and charming and I can see why he earns the big bucks. As we walk down the street, I notice a few people glancing at him and he notices, too. Is this what Lucy likes? Being on the arm of a television star makes you feel pretty darn important yourself. I’m waiting for Joan Rivers to ask me whose dress I’m wearing. (I’d have to say: “Lucy’s.”)
    But maybe Hunter’s gotten a little too used to being in the spotlight. Walking into Madison Square Garden for the concert—we have VIP tickets, Lucy announces—he swaggers down the aisle, looking from side to side, expecting to catch someone’s eye. Most people are fumbling with their bags and adjusting the coats on their seats, but a thirtyish woman who’s sitting on the aisle glances at him then turns away to pull off her sweatshirt. He stops.
    “Yup, it’s me. Hunter Green,” he says, tapping her on the shoulder. “I saw you staring at me.”
    “I—I wasn’t …” she starts to stammer. But Hunter reaches over and snatches her program.
    “Here, I’ll sign that for you,” he says magnanimously, scrawling his name with a flourish.
    The woman takes back her program with a startled look on her face that suggests that since she has no idea who this man is, she doesn’t know whether to say thank you or call security.
    “I like to make my fans happy,” Hunter effuses obliviously as we press forward to our seats. “It was just a minute of my time but she’ll remember it forever.”
    Yup, she’ll be dining out on the story about the weird guy who grabbed her program at the Willie Nelson concert for