Читать книгу Being Lily - Qarnita Loxton - Страница 7

Thankfully I had Shelley’s marathon Botox session to distract me during the long wait for Owen’s phone call. Even so, the time stretched.

“We talked honeymoon this morning,” I said as I pushed the thin diabetic needle into the corrugator muscle on Shelley’s forehead, squeezing in the Botox, then slowly pulled the needle out. I like the idea that I can easily relax a muscle that reminds me of stiff, ridged cardboard. I’m not usually the kind of person who relaxes a situation, smooths things over. I have the personality equivalent of resting bitch face: I can ruffle things up, piss people off, make them wonder what the hell is wrong with me with just one word. All without ever meaning to. Botox makes me feel what it must be like to be the other kind of person. The kind most people like.

“Oh?” Shelley said softly, exhaling through her mouth without moving her lips. We had crossed the finish line. Hands, face, and feet to stop her from sweating herself into a puddle in the February heat. Eyes and forehead to make her look like she had nothing to worry about.

“I was hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way. I practised how to bring it up and everything, even chose late breakfast where there is a time limit so that we don’t carry on too long and get wedding rage,” I said, pulling off my gloves, for once careful of my engagement ring. The latex kept snagging on the claws holding the diamond.

“Look at you, practising what to say,” Shelley said, finally relaxing. “Daddy’s little girl is growing up at last. Learning not to stomp her feet to get what she wants.” She smiled, scrunching her face this way and that, as if she needed the Botox to spread all the way around. “Owen has taught you well.”

I laughed even though it stung. Shelley was a truth speaker, and she was right. I had learned. In the past two years Owen had simply ignored what the others called my rich-bitch tantrums, taught me there were things money couldn’t buy. Showed me how to be nice. It’s not something everyone automatically knows how to be.

“Shelley, you are worse than me! Why does no one ever complain about you? In any case, I stuffed the whole thing up properly. And in the middle of it, this ex of his from Durban suddenly appeared from fuckin’ nowhere. She didn’t stay, said she wanted to see him at the office …” My voice trailed off.

“It’s in the delivery, darling,” she said, smiling again, patting my hand, “and it’s easy to hate someone pretty and smart and rich like you. No one expects you to be nice. But me? A sweaty strawberry shortcake with a baby pouch for a stomach and a laugh like a hadedah? People laugh at whatever I say.” She must have seen something extra in my resting bitch face because she stopped smiling and frowned while she still could. “Are you worried about the ex? She was probably looking for a rental. Believe me, you are at no risk with Owen – that guy only has eyes for you. Nothing like his father.” I’d told her how I thought that Riccardo’s hands had lingered too long on my bum when I’d hugged him hello that one time; how he had gone on to flirt outrageously with the waitress. He’d asked for her number (which she’d given!) when Owen had paid the bill. Then he had asked Owen for a loan (which he’d given!). I’d freaked out, but spared Owen my horror at his genetic makeup by venting at Shelley. People in glass houses, I’d reminded myself, thinking of how my dad’s body had followed his wandering eyes.

“Thanks, man. You’re a real pal, I will remember all your pearls of wisdom,” I joked. I wish I didn’t have to be so damn awkward when someone is nice to me. “And after today, my beautiful Botox pincushion, you will be sweat- and worry-free right into winter. I am a modern medical genius.” I rolled my eyes at the obvious untruth of what Dad had hoped I would become. “And see,” I pushed my hair up, off my face, “I had Healy touch up my forehead and eyes yesterday – now we will both be ready for the wedding.” Shelley stared at the space between my eyebrows, nodding as if she could see something. I knew she couldn’t.

“Yep, I am eternally grateful for your genius,” she mocked, letting me off the hook, “and,” she screeched, sounding exactly like the hadedahs did in the front garden this morning, “four weeks to Saturday, 11 March, luveyyyy. It’s going to fly! The others are going to be jealous of our faces, even if they say they’re not.”

Di and Kari were holding out, not yet ready to admit that laugh lines are not all that funny.

“Give them time. I reckon they will be jealous long before the wedding. Maybe even by Di’s Valentine’s party on Tuesday,” I said, holding up the hand mirror for her so she could have a look. She glanced from my face to hers, trying to see if there was any difference between my plastic surgeon Botox and her aesthetic practitioner Botox.

“That’s no maybe, time sorts us all out. I would look like the mommy monster I am if it weren’t for you, my darling doctor. Now my face is sorted and the sweat is dialled down, I must move my ass and find a dress I can force it into.” She pulled off the thin Alice band I used to hold her hair back and arranged the red-blonde curls so they puffed up around her face, ruffling the fringe gently over her forehead to hide the tiny lumps that showed where I had injected.

“Don’t worry about those, you know they’ll go away in a couple of days. If anyone notices, it’s only because they know what to look for because they’ve done it themselves,” I said as I checked my phone for anything from Owen.

Two-thirty and still nothing. All this nonsense chat while I waited for him.

I took a quick photo of Shelley so that we had a ‘before’ image. She made like she was a troll but she was my poster girl client. Perfectly groomed, from her curls to her French gel nails to her leather Louis Vuitton Neverfull. Diamonds big enough to make you wonder for a minute if they were real – until you clocked the rest of her and knew for sure they wouldn’t be fake.

That laugh again. “You know how I need to hear that – I always feel like there is a giant sign over my head, saying ‘I just had Botox!’” She got up from the bed, looked around. “I love what you’ve done here, by the way. It feels like a resort spa. That Nespresso Pixie is the cutest.” She pointed at the little white coffee machine that matched the white, coral and rose-gold colours I’d chosen for the room. “I couldn’t have done it better myself,” the ex-interior decorator in her said approvingly while she rummaged in her bag. A rose-gold iPhone appeared in her hand. “Look, I got the same phone as you! Might get the watch too – just don’t you track me on the stupid fitness apps.” She flashed the SnapScan payment confirmation on her screen at me. “How’s your dress? And the seating? Are you going to do the cake tasting at Charly’s today? Or is that next week?” Shelley’s questions jumped like microwave popcorn. I knew to wait until the popping stopped – only then was it safe to open the door and answer a question.

“Seating is sorted. Neither of our parents is sitting anywhere close to each other. The tasting is next week, after the dress fitting. I had to double up on my cardio for a few days before I could even think about either of those things.” I shrugged my shoulders, testing the last bits of crease that the Botox in my forehead allowed. Cake was another story. My jeans still squashed my stomach same as always. Skinny jeans do not actually make me look or feel skinny – quite the opposite, and that’s even after this morning’s five o’clock double-session spinning class. “I thought about tasting and spitting, but I didn’t want the bakery girls to think I am neurotic – and besides, I can never do that spit thing at a wine-tasting either. And don’t talk about the dress, there are some ass alterations it needs. Or I need. But Healy says it’s too late for that.” Healy had said it was time for fillers in those nasolabials. Bastard.

“Ugh, okay, have you got more patients this afternoon? Let’s sneak off to Eden for a late lunch? Early Friday cocktails?” Shelley’s blue eyes were hopeful. “I’m stupid tired, those kids wouldn’t sleep last night but were still full of bloody beans this morning. Theresa can have them for the rest of the day.” Shelley said she was tired, but I knew she was bored. She and Jerry didn’t need the money, and after the struggle to have babies, her long-time dream of full-time motherhood was turning out to be a nightmare. Di and I were planning an intervention; we were just waiting for Kari to get here to soften the blow. Go back to work, your kids will be fine, and you might get your mind back, was the gist of it. Jerry, thankfully, agreed with us. Besides, we had seen her pool guy. Not pretty. Boredom was totally not worth the risk of that.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a new client this afternoon for Dermapen, she’s already coming into the estate,” I said, pointing at the message on my watch. “Then I’m going to Lucio for my hair. I’ll catch up with you over the weekend, otherwise next week? I want to hear all about Di’s Valentine’s thing.”

“Oh ja, okay.” Shelley applied fresh nude lipstick, adjusted her bag over her arm, and gave herself another once-over in the full-length mirror across from the bed. Without warning, she sucked her stomach in and shoved her boobs up, holding them in her hands at a spot they’d last lived in when she was eighteen. “Do you think I need a boob job?” she said, squinting her eyes at her reflection.

“You are fine. But see Healy if it bugs you – my mum is happy with what he did to her boobs and that was ages ago.”

“I think I will. Babies are such bad news for your body.” She exhaled, releasing her stomach and dropping her boobs to where they lived these days, making me think she did need a boob job. “No sleep, no sex, no boobs. Days like these I think you are onto something about not wanting babies.” Other than my mother, Shelley was the one most convinced I would change my mind about never having children. “But you watch, that clock ticks when you are not looking. I was never having them and now here I am with twins. Fine,” she said, seeing my face, “they drive me crazy,” I knew her disclaimer was coming, “but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” Her message delivered for the hundredth time like the smoker who has quit smoking and is determined to convince the world how everything tastes better on the other side. I’d heard it all before.

“Ja, ja. You tell that to your boobs. Go now – my next client doesn’t like to bump into anyone when she comes for her treatments.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go. I thought you were practising being nice?” She stuck her tongue out at me. “I think I’ll have a mosey around the Waterfront, get in some last-minute shopping to see me through to Monday. Get that watch.”

I walked Shelley out through the door opening to the courtyard that all the downstairs rooms looked onto, and watched her walk around the pool to the garden gate.

“Byeeee, enjoy the shopping and don’t be a wimp. Let’s link up our watches, then our asses will fit into our dresses for the wedding,” I shouted after her. “And remember to tell all the other rich women at the Waterfront about your fabulous doctor friend who does Botox in the privacy of a seaside spa-like home surgery!” I added, only half-joking, as she rushed towards her Range Rover parked on the other side of the wall.

“Yeah,” she shouted back, laughing, “I know: if their faces are not becoming to them, they should be coming to you!” It was a line I’d stolen from my famous friend Zak; he and his mate Wim were known as the cosmetic and dental magicians to the stars, but Zak was the only one who could say it with a straight(ish) face.

Still nothing from Owen.

Why was he taking this long?