Another ping.
Ah, there he is.
‘I LOVE IT WHEN U TALK DIRTY.’
Barberini, Rome, Italy
‘But how can it be an emergency?’
‘All right, fine, so it’s not an emergency exactly, but it’s definitely urgent.’
‘Urgent?’
‘Yes.’
The receptionist crinkles her tiny nose and looks me up and down. She has flawless features and perfect skin. No, I mean a hundred per cent perfect, like some kind of alien. It isn’t normal. I’ve never seen skin as perfect as hers. Not even Beth’s. Not even baby Ernesto’s. It’s like she was made out of some kind of plastic, spray-painted, perhaps, like a shiny new car. Her skin is so radiant I’m momentarily distracted. What does she do to it? How does she get it to glow like that? Perhaps she gets unlimited Botox because she works in this clinic? Or what’s that funny one, microdermabrasion, when they scrape off your top layer of skin like a snake? Vampire facials? Mud masks? Lasers? I wonder if they’re recruiting.
‘Helloooooooooooo?’ she says.
I think I was staring. Possibly drooling. What was I saying? Baby-soft skin.
‘Oh. Yes. I’m in a hurry, you see. I’ll need to leave at any minute, but I have to get this procedure done first.’
‘Right. I see. And where are you going?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Where the hell is Nino?
‘So let me get this straight,’ she says. ‘You want me to ask Dr Pirandello if she’s free to perform an emergency rhinoplasty operation?’
‘No, I told you. I want a nose job.’
‘Rhinoplasty is a nose job.’
‘Then why the fuck didn’t you say that?’ English is clearly not her first language.
She sighs. ‘This afternoon?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
I need to get going. I can’t hang around. Every second counts . . .
She looks at her watch. It’s an Omega, like Beth’s. (My wrist feels suddenly very naked. I sold Beth’s watch, but it’s OK. Now I’ve got this cuckoo clock and, you know what, it’s growing on me.) I can tell she’s confused, but it’s really quite simple.
‘Can’t you just call her and ask?’
She looks at me with deep blue eyes, as azure as Sicilian skies: coloured-contacts. ‘I’ve checked her schedule. It’s not really that easy. We usually recommend one or two consultations, and then patients wait at least a couple of weeks to ensure they haven’t changed their minds. That they’ve thought it all through . . .’
‘Uh-huh. It’s fine. I won’t change my mind.’
‘And then there’s the theatre; we need to book the room, the nurse, the anaesthetists . . .’
Her breath feels cool, like peppermint chews. When she said that word ‘anaesthetists’ it was like stepping off the plane in the icy tundra. It was like an Arctic breeze. I don’t want to think what my breath smells like. (I want to get an electric toothbrush, a nice one, like Ambrogio and Beth’s.) I hope she hasn’t noticed the wine. I can still taste blood from when I fell off the toilet: a deep gash in my lower lip. I’ll have to talk with my mouth half shut. I’ll buy some Hubba Bubba. I lean in closer over the counter so that I’m a few inches away.
She winces. To hell with it.
‘How much do you want?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just name a figure. How much do you need?’
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’ she says.
Someone give her a prize.
‘Dear Lord Jesus. I’m in a hurry. How much to do the thing today?’
I drum my fingers on the counter . . . Drum, drum, drum, drum. Ooh, that sounds like the intro to ‘Firestarter’.
‘It’s really not about the money.’
I can see I’m getting nowhere fast.
‘All right then. Fuck it. I’ll go somewhere else.’
‘Try Dr Baldassini? Over the road? He did my nose,’ she says.
I storm out of the door and fly down the stairs, out into the beating sun. Urgh. This is ridiculous. I am getting burnt. I wish I had an umbrella or a parasol. Umbrellas always remind me of him. No, not of Nino, Ambrogio. They remind me of the night we first met. We listened to ‘Umbrella’ by Rihanna, but I bet he wouldn’t remember that (and not just because he’s dead). It was only a one-night-stand, but I wanted more than that. I popped my cherry and got pregnant all in one night. Not bad. Pretty efficient. But I lost the kid and my twin stole my guy. I told you she was a bitch. Oh, Ambrogio, bello mio. He was such a disappointment. If only he’d had a bigger dick, then none of this would have happened.
I sprint down the road past the Fiats, Ferraris and Maseratis that line up by the kerb. I can hear the traffic bumping and grinding. The buzzing of Vespas. The honking of horns. I pass tall, white, elegant houses, all converted into surgeries, private hospitals and shrinks. ‘Dr Baldassini’ is engraved on a shiny brass plaque on the wall. Ooh, this place looks promising. It has a sign outside with a picture of a girl who looks a little bit like Beth. I scale the steps and slam the buzzer. Push through grand, imposing doors. Inside, it’s cool with nice high ceilings. The scent of Madagascan vanilla. A yucca in a pot. I march across the black and white tiles to the woman at reception.
‘Hello, can you help me?’ I say. ‘This is an emergency.’
* * *
*
‘Come in,’ says a male voice in an Italian accent.
I glance at the platinum blonde at reception. She nods her head and smiles.
I open the door and step inside, inhaling the clinical medical air. It smells like too much Mr Muscle; it seems impossibly clean and bright.
‘How can I help you, Miss Err, Miss?’
I take a sharp breath. ‘Beyoncé.’
I close the door behind me.
Wow.
Dr Baldassini is way too hot to be a surgeon. He stands before me dazzling, blinding, like some kind of god in his crisp white coat. Spotlights shine down from the ceiling. A stethoscope hangs round his neck. It looks quirky, cool, satirical, like some kind of fashion statement. I’m sure I saw accessories like that on the runway last spring at McQueen. His shirt is undone at the top (two buttons) and I catch a glimpse of hair on his chest. His designer stubble is sculpted and perfect. There are dimples in his cheeks when he smiles. He is well built. The ideal height. (I guess I must have a thing for Italians.)
It is such a waste.
I picture his lonely life in theatre, hidden away behind white gauze, surgical masks and funny blue scrubs. Waterproof boots. Do surgeons wear hairnets? A face like that should be plastered on billboards for women all over the world to see. I wonder if he was born with that all-American jaw. Is that his real chin?
He looks into my eyes; his gaze is sublime. I go all warm and gooey inside like a Swiss cheese fondue with white wine. He extends a hand for me to shake. His grip is firm like he really means it; his skin is warm and smooth. I step in a bit closer and breathe him in. His aftershave is something spicy: Neroli Portofino by Tom Ford. Bergamot, amber, rosemary, lemon . . . (My nostrils are wasted as a layman. I should have been a professional nose, a perfumer for Yves Saint Laurent or perhaps a nez for Chanel.) This surgery had better not ruin my excellent sense of smell.
‘Please, take a seat?’
I sit on a futuristic chair that could have been stolen from a spaceship and examine the table strewn with strange round blobs: they’re clear, translucent, like jellyfish bodies (without the stinging tentacles). It takes me a minute to work out what they are.
The doctor sees me staring. ‘Here.’
He reaches towards me over his desk and hands me a squidgy silicone ball.
‘They’re top of the range Allergan implants. That one’s 450cc.’
I pick it up and give it a squeeze. It feels a
bit like Play-Doh.
‘Oh.’ I put it back on the table. ‘Right.’ It’s all a bit weird to be honest.
‘So, what can I do for you today?’
S&M? Anal? A bit of light bondage? Perhaps a nice threesome: you, me and George Clooney? You could get naked and I could watch?
He leans back in his leather chair and folds his hands behind his head. ‘And please, you can call me Leonardo.’
Leonardo? Nice.
His voice is salted caramel: deep, low, smooth. I bet he has good bedside manners. That’s important for a doctor: a soothing voice. Great pillow talk. He could tell you you’ve got a week to live, but with a voice like that you’d just think, Fine.
Leonardo smiles. He reaches for three of the silicon balls and begins to juggle. He’s good.
‘My receptionist mentioned emergency surgery? It’s not usually something we do here at the clinic, but I’m sure if we can agree the right figure, to cover unavoidable extra expenses, we could work something out.’
‘Really? You could?’
‘Of course. It is a little last minute but, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Awesome. That’s brilliant. That’s great.’
I knew I’d find a cowboy doctor somewhere if I looked hard enough. Who cares about ethics? The Hippocratic oath? Everyone has a price.
I look at his hands, now clasped on the table; his nails, filed and polished, are naturally shiny, and his skin’s a creamy pinky-white. He looks like he gets professional manicures. I guess he has to look after his hands. He is a surgeon after all; they are his trade. I bet they’re insured for a bomb. I imagine his hands on my naked body. His palms massaging my shoulders, his fingers closing round my throat. He’d slide his hands down to my chest, teasing my nipples, cupping my breasts. He’d smooth his hands along my stomach, right down to my hips and part my thighs. He’d rub my clit. Go knuckle-deep. I want his fingers inside me.
‘Beyoncé?’
‘Oh yes? Where were we? Um . . .’
Leonardo, Leonardo, Leonardo. I like it. It rolls off the tongue like fellatio. Perhaps he’s a Renaissance man, like Da Vinci? An artistic genius? A mastermind? He’s clearly a heart-throb like DiCaprio. My first ever crush was Jack in Titanic. (He should have kicked Rose off that raft.)
Leo pulls on latex gloves. I shift a bit in my chair. Now I’m wet and my pussy is aching. I fantasize about sex on his desk.
‘Oh God, Alvie. You can’t sleep with your doctor. It’s unprofessional, or something . . .’
What is that annoying voice in my head? The voice of reason? Sensible Alvie? My conscience in overdrive? There’s no way it’s fucking Beth. Anyway, I don’t have time for sex. Nino’s out there waiting, gloating. I need to get a wriggle on.
Didn’t I just swear off men? I’ve got a memory like a goldfish. And didn’t I just swear off men?
‘I’d like a nose jo– I mean, a rhino operation. ASAP today,’ I say.
‘And what kind of look were you after?’
‘Well, I was thinking a cross between Heidi Montag and Madonna circa 1994.’
‘Hmm. I see.’
‘The smaller the better really,’ I say. ‘Like a Russian hamster.’
I draw the shape in the air with my index finger. It looks a bit like a comma: ,
Leo nods, but I’m not sure he gets it. His eyes linger on mine, searching, reading: a puzzled look on his handsome face. Why is staring at me like that? I’m sure he gets this all the time, twenty times a day at least. Ah, I know. He’s imagining me naked. He’s got that glazed and faraway look that guys get all the time . . . Perhaps he fancies me as well? I bet he does. I can tell.
* * *
*
‘Hello, Elizabeth.’
Mr Bubbles stands over me. I stare up into his face. Bloodshot eyes glare down at me from a chalk-white face. I am strapped to a gurney. I struggle and strain, but I can’t move a muscle. My ankles and hands are bound too tight. I wriggle and writhe. My eyes sting with the stench of whisky. His rasping breath lands on my cheeks. His mouth is just an inch away. He’s getting closer, moving in. There’s something stuck between his teeth. I think it’s human flesh.
‘Please, I want to be Alvie again.’
He laughs and laughs, a mad sound like a siren.
‘Please, please, please, please.’
His face turns into Beth’s.
* * *
*
I open my eyes and look around. What’s all this? Where am I now? Why am I connected to all these tubes? Is this a hospital? Clinical curtains. Bare white walls. The smell of industrial disinfectant. What the fuck am I doing in here? Have I been in an accident? Has someone tried to kill me (again)? I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my head. Am I paralysed? Am I dead?
‘Help. Help.’ What’s happened to me? ‘Nurse? Nurse? NURSE.’
There’s a red emergency cord by the bed. I give it a yank and a light flashes on. I hear a ping somewhere out in the ward. Breathe, Alvina, just breathe. It’s all all right. You’ll be OK. You probably drank too much again and passed out on a zebra crossing. I close my eyes. Something about the Ritz Hotel? Something about some Martini? Think, Alvina. Think. Did Nino do this? I scrunch up my eyes and furrow my brow. No, I know. I’ve had major surgery. The light bulb in my brain flashes on. A rhino job. A master disguise. Now I remember; it all makes sense (kind of). I’m on the run. I’m undercover. I need to find that twatwaffle. There’s no time for waiting around.
‘Buona sera, come stai?’
I open my eyes and glare at the woman now approaching my single bed.
‘And who the hell are you?’ I say.
The woman smiles. She looks like my gran: short, styled hair in a light dove grey, a wide, inviting smile. Laughter lines spread out from her eyes. She’d be good in the adverts for Bisto.
‘My name is Sister Romano. I looking after you today.’
Sister? Urgh. I don’t like sisters.
‘And what is this shit?’ I say.
I yank the needle out of my hand and the sticky tape catches. There’s a stinging pain and a globule of blood oozes out from my skin. I lick it; it tastes nice.
‘These are your painkillers,’ she says. She eyes the needle now dripping on the floor. ‘You don’t want it, the morphine? OK. No problem. I take it out.’
Morphine? Ooh, I do like morphine . . .
‘How do you feeling today?’
‘I’m feeling fine.’ I want to get out of here.
She flicks a switch on the side of the bed and the mattress moves. It whirs and groans under the strain of my weight as I inch up to sitting.
Holy shit.
‘What is that?’
I cross my eyes and look down at my nose. I can see some kind of white plaster . . .
The nurse peers into my face and beams a radiant smile.
‘Sì,’ she says. ‘Have a look.’
She hands me a mirror and I hold it up. She peels off the plaster.
‘You look like Pac-Man,’ offers Beth.
‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ I say.
My nose is gone. This is insane.
‘Isn’t it . . . too small?’ I say.
‘No, is nice. I want to see . . .’
She gives it a squeeze. I can’t feel anything.
‘Hey. Hands off. It will snap.’
I’m still staring at myself in the mirror. Leonardo, you miracle worker. The man’s a bone fide genius. A saint. A magician. (And he’s fit. Damn my sister and her voice in my head. She wouldn’t let me shag him.) There’s no way the cops will recognize me. I don’t look like Alvie.
‘You are in theatre for three hours and now you must to relax.’
‘Three hours?’ Shit, that’s ages. What about Nino? ‘I’ve got to go.’
She bites her lip. She looks ups
et. She reapplies the white bandage. I glare at her face.
‘Where are my things? I’m leaving,’ I say.
‘Signorina, but you just wake up.’
‘I’ve got to get out of here. Where is my phone?’ I open the drawer by the side of the bed. Found it. Back of the net. I grab it and slam the drawer shut.
‘You can’t leave now. Mamma mia. You don’t want Doctor Baldassini to check you first?’
Mmmmm, Dr Leonardo. Yes, I would. But not right now. I don’t have time. Not even for a quickie. It’s a race against time, like The Crystal Maze. And anyway, I have quit guys. Now I remember everything. The money. The vengeance. The plan.
I jump out of bed and nearly fall over. Wobble a bit and grab on to a rail. It must be all that anaesthetic. Or maybe with my tiny nose I’ve lost my centre of gravity. When my head has stopped spinning and the floor is still I look around for my clothes. I fling open the cupboard and spot the Chanel hanging on a little hook. I take it and pull it on. I find my shoes and slip them on, but there’s no way I can walk in these six-inch heels. I take them back off and carry them. It hurts to move. It hurts to walk. I already had the mother of all hangovers, and now it feels like my nose is alight. I want some more of that lovely morphine. Some horse tranquillizers? Some gin?
‘You need to wear that,’ says the nurse, pointing at the splint on my nose. ‘Keep it on for six weeks. Night and day. No take it off.’
‘Of course.’ Not a chance in hell.
I see Beth’s battered Hermès tote in the cupboard and shove in my phone. I check for the money. Yes, it’s still there in the cuckoo clock. I guess that’s it: my whole world in a handbag. At least I’m travelling light . . .
‘And these pills are for you. Four times a day.’
Ooh. Drugs ♥♥♥
‘Great,’ I say.
She gives me a paper bag bulging with packets of medicine. I stuff the pills inside the tote. It’s so full now, I can’t close it.
I pull the blue curtain aside and limp away across the ward with my cold, bare, icy feet. I spark myself a Marlboro Light. The nurse calls after me.
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