Before she left, Margot told Elle about a “darling plastic surgeon” who was living in the Palo Alto area. His name was Austin. Serena had met him in Aspen, and was anxious to get him together with Elle. “Serena says he’s gorgeous,” she promised. “Can we give him your number?” Looking critically at Elle’s book-littered condo, she added, “You really should get out more.”
Elle shrugged, a bit embarrassed, since things weren’t working out with Warner. “But I haven’t been on a date for ages. I’m totally out of practice.”
“All the more reason,” Margot said, turning to leave. “He’ll call you soon. He’s dying to meet you.”
From Margot’s brief description, Elle couldn’t tell if a date with Austin would violate any of her rules about dating. There were three types of men she would not date: men with pinkie rings, men with more than one alimony obligation, and men with children older than she was. She figured she’d give Austin a try.
And he did call quickly, before the week’s end. Whether he was dying to meet her or just plain hard up, she couldn’t tell. They agreed to meet for drinks.
Elle wasn’t sure at first how she was going to pick out Austin at the restaurant. All she had to go on was what Margot had told her, he was a “darling plastic surgeon”; but it didn’t take a minute for her to recognize the “status doc” sitting at the bar. He wore a big Breitling watch around a dark, hairy wrist, and a snug Prada suit. His Porsche keys were prominently displayed next to his cellular phone, and he was drinking Campari and soda. His complexion was dark and he swam in hair gel: just the type Serena would swoon over.
“Austin,” Elle said as she approached him and offered her hand. He nodded, looking slightly surprised, but extended his hand in return. “Elle?”
She nodded. The doctor looked approvingly at her little black dress and the figure that filled it. “Nice to meet you, Elle. Allow me to say that you are great raw material.”
“Raw material,” Elle muttered under her breath, dreading the time she would have to spend with him.
The flashy couple drew stares as they headed together for a table. The waiter scowled when Elle announced she could only stay for drinks. She was actually glad that she had a twenty-page memo due the next day. She explained this to Austin, saying she’d have a late night ahead.
He nodded, understanding a busy schedule.
When Austin was seated, Elle excused herself to “powder her nose.” In the ladies’ room Elle glanced at her Wolff-bed tan, which looked a bit yellowish in the light. Hurriedly she whipped the Chanel compact from her bag and dotted powder on her cheeks, smoothing it across her face to even her flesh tone. In her rush the narrow, almond-shaped nail on her ring finger caught the tip of her nose with a sting.
“Ow.” Elle drew back sharply, and the bathroom attendant, who had been sitting quietly, leaped up with a hand towel to lend her assistance. That was when Elle realized her nose had started bleeding.
“Oh, God,” Elle gasped in the mirror as a thin red line trickled above her lip. She grabbed the towel thankfully and pressed it against the cut.
“Use cold water,” the attendant advised. Elle nodded and dipped one end of the towel in the sink. She replaced the chilly corner against her nose and held it there, peeking every so often until the bleeding stopped.
“Thanks,” she said, tipping the attendant, whose job, she thought, might possibly be more boring than law school. With an anxious glance in the mirror, she dashed nervously back to the table. She had been in the bathroom about ten minutes, and Austin had finished his drink. He looked at her with curiosity, but resumed conversation easily when she asked him about himself.
Elle learned that Austin, though never married, was being stalked by a woman who had offered herself under his surgeon’s knife after sending to his home a card signed, “Your canvas.” At the time, he considered her formalities to be a little weird, but he decided to perform the operation anyway. He changed his mind when the woman ripped off her hospital gown and threw herself on the operating table, declaring: “My love, cut anywhere! This will prove that I trust you completely!”
“Business took the backseat,” Austin laughed, “after that exhibition.” He had his nurse escort the humiliated patient to a changing room, with orders not to return.
Elle threw her hands to her mouth and laughed. “Oh, Austin, how terrible,” she said. She reached for her drink and noticed a small red streak on her index finger. Austin noticed it also.
“Oh no,” she said, reaching into her purse for her compact. She opened it quickly and confirmed that her small bathroom gash had reopened. Her eyes darted up to Austin.
“Excuse me,” she said, and hurried back to the “powder” room. The attendant rolled her eyes but obligingly provided Elle with a fresh towel.
Elle returned to the table thankful to see Austin standing, claiming his beeper had gone off. “I know you’ll be up late tonight anyway,” he said. Elle blushed. She was sure he had a certain suspicion about her sudden nosebleeds, but she didn’t feel the need to explain she had merely injured herself in spastic application of face powder. He wouldn’t believe her anyway.
In the lull before the waiter returned with his credit card slip, Austin reached out his hand and held Elle’s arm gently. “Elle,” he smiled, “are you seeing anyone right now?”
Elle knew she didn’t want to date Austin again, but didn’t want to admit to her life as a law school hermit. “Yes, Austin, I’m seeing a few people.”
He looked puzzled but interested. Gripping her arm with fatherly concern, he asked, “Why do you see more than one therapist at a time?”
“Oh,” she said, realizing that Austin had been asking about psychiatrists. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m more complicated than I look.”
“I see,” he said. From the tone of his voice, Austin seemed doubtful.
“Two heads are better than one?” she tried again.
“Sure,” he said. Clearly she’d need to add a new rule to her dating commandments: Never date men named after cities in Texas.