Judy had debated having Dr. Weissman at the party. But the truth was, with that many glamour hard-hitters, you needed someone a little dowdy to take the edge off. Plus, Samantha seemed to genuinely like Frankie Weissman, and this was, after all, a dinner for her. Also, she had heard Frankie Weissman had become chummy with Jil Taillou, and having her there was one way to get him to accept.

There was a knock at the door, and Tina arrived in the room with a silver tray.

“Your snack, Mrs. Tremont.”

“Thank you.” Judy smiled as Tina put a silver tray in front of her.

Judy sat back and munched on her favorite midmorning pick-me-up—four soybeans, for protein, and a chocolate chip, for fun.

Although Judy had enormous energy, for a moment she felt truly drained. When she was an editor at Mademoiselle she dreamed of being one of the perfectly toned Upper East Side mothers picking up their children in chauffeured SUVs. But what she didn’t realize then was that keeping it all together and doing it absolutely right took enormous concentration and discipline. Some days she even secretly envied women who worked. It might just be easier.

·CHAPTER TWELVE·

Charlie

Clarice found Charlie Acton’s office surprisingly soothing. In fact, she was even a little ashamed of herself for having had so much anxiety before getting there in the first place. Both the walls and the furniture were a soothing pale white, and if Clarice hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she was in the waiting room of one of the better ladies’ spas. Although she immediately recognized both Adrienne Strong-Rodman and Grey Navez sitting across from her in saucer-sized Chanel sunglasses, she certainly felt no compunction in invading their space.

“Mrs. Santorini, Dr. Acton will see you now.” A pleasant older nurse came into the room. As Clarice got up, she saw Adrienne and Grey simultaneously flick their glasses and then return to their magazines.

Charlie walked into the examining room wearing his office uniform—a white coat and suede-covered wooden clogs.

“Mrs. Santorini, Charlie Acton. What can I do for you today?” He shook her hand.

“I’m not exactly sure. I thought you could tell me.” She smiled at him.

“Are you suffering from any skin irritation or have you noticed any new markings or moles?” Charlie always began his questioning as if his new patient had come to him with a genuine medical problem and not for elective reasons.

“Oh, I just wanted a second opinion. I’ve been getting Botox for the past five years from my internist for the lines on my forehead, but I’m wondering if it’s time to face the music and go for the complete lift. I understand the earlier you start the better. At least my mother says that’s why Barbara Walters looks so good.” Clarice knew she was trying to sound in the know.

Charlie looked at the attractive forty-something-year-old woman with the gleaming dark hair in his chair. She certainly could get by as she was. Anywhere but New York or Los Angeles, she’d be considered a middle-aged homecoming queen. Though she wasn’t particularly sexy, she had the affluent appeal of being very well-groomed and her features still reflected her Italian ancestry. These days, Charlie seldom came across a nose that betrayed any ethnicity, and he felt almost protective of his patients and their cartilage that did.