‘Are you sure they’re OK?’
‘Course they are. Vogue wouldn’t let just anyone advertise in the back, would they?’
‘I guess not.’ Vix seems unsure.
‘So, I was wondering . . . I know it’s a lot to ask on top of helping me find Dad, but will you both come with me? I’m a bit nervous about going on my own.’
‘Course we will,’ says Vix, without hesitating, and Rosie agrees. But they give each other another conspiratorial look. I pretend not to notice.
‘After school, next week, would be good. I was thinking, if we all skip phys ed on Wednesday afternoon, it should give us plenty of time to see a few.’
We have another coffee, then walk back onto the High Street and say our goodbyes. Rosie’s off to meet Laurie and Vix has to go to Sainsbury’s to buy a few things for her mum. I’ll probably go round to her house later tonight, to watch a DVD. On my way home, I take a detour past Dot’s Music Shop. Dad smiles at me from the ‘missing’ poster in the window. I can’t help wondering – or hoping, really – if soon he’ll be smiling at me for real.
’m lucky that Harley Street, where all the plastic surgery doctors seem to work, is very close to Camden Town, just on the other side of Regent’s Park. If we had the time and the inclination, we could walk there. But today, we’re getting the 27 bus from just behind Camden High Street instead. And hoping we don’t bump into anyone from school or, even worse, our parents. I’ve got out of double netball by saying I had to go to the doctor (just not which sort). It was harder for Vix and Rosie because they’re both in the same class at their school, which looks doubly suspicious. Rosie developed a ‘migraine’ and Vix said she had something important she had to do at home. Vix has never bunked off before, but everyone knows her mum is sick, so nobody doubted her. She feels guilty, which is making me feel guilty too, because she’s only done it for me.
I was hoping my enthusiasm would be infectious, but I can tell that Rosie and Vix have been discussing my nose ‘fixation’ again and plotting about how they can talk me out of having surgery. I can tell by the sympathetic glances they keep giving me. Honestly, I think they only agreed to come with me because they’re worried that someone might give me a nose job this afternoon, on the spot, and they want to make sure that doesn’t happen. If only.
The afternoon isn’t going well. So far, we’ve been to three of the clinics I found through the magazine listings, and I haven’t got past the reception desks. It’s always the same story.
‘I’m here to see a doctor about my nose,’ I tell the receptionist.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, I didn’t know I needed one.’
‘A referral letter?’
A what? ‘Um, no, sorry.’
The receptionist eyes me suspiciously. ‘How old are you, dear?’
‘I’m nearly fifteen,’ I say.
‘I very much doubt any of our surgeons will operate on you at your age. And the doctor certainly won’t agree to see you without a parent present, I’m afraid. I suggest you ask your mother to give us a call and make an appointment.’
‘Look, we might as well go home,’ says Vix, when we’re outside on the street again. ‘Like they all keep saying, you’re too young for surgery. It’s a waste of time.’
‘They might not all say that. Someone might think I’m a special case.’
Vix sighs. ‘OK. Where to next then?’
‘Just up the road. Number 14B. The Metamorphosis Clinic.’
I like the name. It makes me think of caterpillars turning into beautiful butterflies, or ugly ducklings into swans. I’m dying for my chance to become a swan.
The Metamorphosis reception area is very plush, like a posh hotel, with huge leather sofas and an antique wooden table. Just being there makes me feel like I’m someone important. The table is covered with leaflets showing before and after pictures of smiling, satisfied patients. Trust Metamorphosis for a perfect result, they declare.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ asks a heavily made-up woman with huge lips from behind the desk.
‘Yes, I’m here to see someone about a rhinoplasty.’ This time I call it by its proper name; I’m sure it makes me sound older and more serious. I’ve decided that if anyone asks my age again, I’ll say I’m sixteen. If I’m going to have a nose job it doesn’t matter if lying makes my nose grow a fraction (and I’m starting to doubt that it makes any difference); there’ll just be a tiny bit more to shave off. By the time I have the actual operation, I’ll have persuaded Mum to give her consent.
The receptionist pouts at me. It’s probably the only expression she can manage. Her lips are so big that she can’t close her mouth properly.
‘The thing is, I don’t have an appointment. Can somebody see me now?’
‘Yes, you can have a preliminary consultation.’ She stares at me for a moment and I think she’s trying to work out if I’m old enough. ‘Right. Well, the consultation fee is one hundred pounds. If you’d just like to fill in this form.’ She hands over a questionnaire, attached to a clipboard.
A hundred pounds? I don’t carry that kind of money around with me. I thought I wouldn’t have to pay anything until I had the actual operation, which would have given me heaps of time to come up with a plan. ‘Can I pay later?’
‘No, I’m afraid you have to pay upfront. You can use a credit card if you like.’
Credit card? ‘No, it’s OK, I’ll just go to the cashpoint. Is there one nearby?’
She directs me to a bank, five minutes’ walk away.
‘Did you see her lips?’ Rosie says, taking my arm, as we march back up Harley Street. ‘They were like two lilos stuck in the middle of her face!’
Vix giggles. ‘Yeah, she’s not a very good advertisement for the plastic surgeon. She couldn’t move her eyebrows either.’
‘Yeah, well,’ I say. ‘She had a nice nose, though, didn’t she?’
‘We’re not actually going to the cashpoint, are we?’ Vix asks. ‘I mean, do you have a hundred quid?’
‘Just about. Luckily my card is in my purse for emergencies.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see Vix and Rosie exchange one of their concerned glances. ‘Are you sure about this?’ asks Vix. ‘It’s a lot of money just to see a doctor when you don’t —’
I don’t let her say, ‘don’t need to’. ‘I know. But it’ll be worth it.’
We’ve reached the cashpoint. Anxiously, I put my cash card in the slot. I’m not meant to use it; the account has my birthday money and savings in it and Mum only got it for me in case of emergencies. (Which this is, kind of.) I think I’ve got about two hundred pounds left. But, if I’m careful with my allowance for the next few months, and do a bit of babysitting for the neighbours, I should be able to replace the money before Mum notices it’s gone. It takes me a moment to remember my PIN but then I punch it in and the machine makes a whirring sound, before dispensing five crisp twenty-pound notes into the slot. ‘Right,’ I say, folding up the money and putting it into my purse. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Listen, we really don’t have to go back, Sky,’ says Rosie. ‘We could just walk through Regent’s Park, have a coffee, or even an ice cream, and then go home.’
‘No.’ I’m determined. And nobody’s been able to buy me off with an ice cream since I was about eight. ‘You can go home if you like. I’m going to see the doctor.’
Rosie shrugs. ‘OK, then, we’re coming too. We’re not letting you do it alone.’
We walk back to the clinic in silence. I hate knowing that my best friends aren’t on my side; I’ve always thought they understood me completely. I hurts that they think I’m stupid or even crazy to want to have my nose fixed, and it makes me feel terribly alone.
I hand over my money and Big Lips passes me the questionnaire again. It asks me all kinds of questions about my health – most of which I can’t answer – like whether I have any allergies, or if my relatives have heart problems. I fill in what I can, remembering to
alter my birth date by two years.
Big Lips glances at the form and files it away in a tray. ‘Right, Miss Smith. Take a seat. The doctor will be with you soon.’
Vix and Rosie sit down on either side of me. ‘You promise you won’t say a word when I see the doctor?’ I say. ‘Swear? You’ll just sit there with me. Otherwise I’ll go in on my own.’
Vix looks at Rosie. ‘OK,’ she agrees. Rosie nods.
There’s nobody else in the waiting area, and so it isn’t long before I’m ushered through to a consultation room. The doctor is sitting behind a large desk.
‘Hello, I’m Dr Sierra,’ he says, getting up to greet me. He’s rather fat for a doctor and he hasn’t shaved, but he looks jolly. He shakes my hand, a little too firmly. ‘So what can I do for you, Miss Smith?’
‘I’d like a rhinoplasty, please,’ I say, brightly. It comes out a little too much like I’m ordering a burger at McDonald’s.
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He glances down at the questionnaire I’ve filled in, then nods and peers at my nose. I flinch. He takes my face in his hands and gently moves it from left to right. I watch his eyes dart around as he studies my profile, then his brow furrows. I’m waiting for him to say, ‘You don’t need a nose job, your nose is perfectly OK,’ like everybody else has, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, ‘Yes, yes, I can see why you’re concerned about the bend here, and the length. But don’t worry. We can give you the perfect little nose.’
‘Really? Seriously?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I correct deformities like yours all the time. Take a seat, ladies, please. Half the celebrities you see on TV and in movies had a nose just like yours when they started out. You don’t know it because they’ve had a subtle rhinoplasty.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise.’ I rack my brains, thinking of all the celebrities I know, wondering which of them was born with a nose like mine.
‘So what were you thinking of? A Nicole Kidman, perhaps? That’s very popular. Or a Kate Winslet? An Angelina, if you prefer?’ He takes a folder out of his desk drawer and flips it open. Inside are pages and pages of pictures of beautiful women. He shows me a few, flicking through them so fast that I don’t have time to see any of them properly. I didn’t know I could pick my nose from a catalogue. To be honest, until this moment, I haven’t even thought about what sort of nose I want, and certainly not whose. I’ve only been focusing on getting rid of mine. ‘Yes, they all look great. What do you recommend?’
‘Well, we could give you something a little like this.’ He picks up a pad from his desk and scribbles something on it. It’s a crude drawing of my face in profile. ‘Now, if we shave off a little here to iron out the bump and reduce the tip slightly here, like so, we should end up with something like this.’ He shows me the pad again. This time he’s drawn an outline of my face with a smaller, straighter nose.
Rosie whispers something to Vix and giggles. I slap her leg.
Dr Sierra continues. ‘The procedure will cost four thousand pounds. You’ll have it at our affiliated private hospital in Highgate. Either I or one of my colleagues will perform it . . .’
He says something else, about black eyes and dressings and aftercare, but I can’t take it in. All I can hear is a small voice in my head repeating ‘Four thousand pounds. Four thousand pounds.’ Where on earth am I going to find that kind of money? Have I got any rich relatives I don’t know about? Is it possible that Mum once accidentally buried a stash under the floorboards and forgot about it? Maybe, if I ask for the next three years’ allowance in advance and do lots of odd jobs for people, I might be able to manage it.
He’s staring at me, hopefully. ‘So we can arrange it all very quickly.’
‘Uh, yes, I definitely want to go ahead. It’s just, er, the money. I don’t have it all right now.’
He smiles. ‘That’s not a problem. Sheila at the front desk can give you some information about loans for plastic surgery. There are some very good rates around at the moment and we have excellent relationships with several finance companies.’
‘Right . . .’ I nod. I think he can’t have read the form properly. It says I’m only sixteen; how the hell will I get a loan? Especially as I’m really only fourteen.
‘So, if you want to sort out the finance side and then make another appointment, we can arrange a more in-depth consultation.’ He glances at his watch. My time must be up. ‘We look forward to hearing from you soon, Miss Smith,’ he says, getting up from his chair and escorting me to the door. He holds out his hand again. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’
Back outside, I can barely stand still with excitement. ‘Wow! That was the most expensive twenty minutes of my life. Still, if I can somehow find the money, he’ll do the op. He agrees I need it. That’s cool, isn’t it!’
Vix shakes her head. ‘I still don’t think you need it, hon.’
‘He’s a plastic surgeon and he knows about these things. If he thinks I do, then I do. He said I had a deformity.’
‘Yeah, for four grand,’ says Rosie. ‘He’d probably have said your lips had a deformity and done them too, if you’d asked. I don’t feel good about him. Are you sure he isn’t dodgy? Maybe you should check him out on the internet.’ God, she’s sounding more and more like Vix every second. ‘Don’t you think he was a bit vague about everything except the money?’
‘So? He has to earn a living. Your mum gets paid, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t diagnose people with illnesses they don’t have just so she can get some cash. Did you see that drawing he did? It was like something my little brother Charlie would draw. And he’s seven.’
‘It was only a sketch. Just to give me an idea.’
‘Hmm,’ says Rosie. ‘Anyway, we can talk about this more later. Have you seen the time? It’s almost five-thirty. We’d better motor or our parents will start wondering where we are.’
The 27 bus comes quickly and, within ten minutes, we’re back in Camden. We say our goodbyes at the front door of my block of flats. ‘It was nice of you both to come,’ I tell them, as we hug. I try to sound genuinely grateful. ‘Thanks.’ Then I watch them walk up the street towards their houses. They walk very close together, apparently deep in conversation, and I’m sure they’re conspiring about me again.
I loiter on the doorstep for a moment, not wanting to go inside. Maybe I should ring someone, I think. I dig my phone out from the bottom of my bag and remember that it’s still switched off. While it comes back to life, I consider calling Rich to tell him that I’ve found a doctor to fix my nose, but change my mind almost straight away. He probably won’t be sympathetic. He might not even pick up. Things have been worse than ever since our anniversary dinner. I can’t think how to make them better.
Beep! There’s a message on my voicemail, from a number I don’t recognise. I’m half expecting it to be someone from school, telling me off for missing netball. I press play.
‘Hello, Sky, it’s Dot here. I thought you’d like to know that someone came in today and said they think they remember your dad. Please give me a call back.’
don’t go inside my flat, after all. I turn around, walk back up my street and rush straight round to Dot’s instead. She’s shutting up the shop when I arrive, but she lets me in.
‘Hello, Sky. You got my message then?’
‘Yes, just now. Thanks so much for calling. Is this a bad time? I’m sorry, should I have phoned first?’
‘It’s not a problem. All right. A man came in earlier. He was walking past the window and saw the poster. He claims he knows your dad and said he’d be happy to meet you to tell you more.’
‘That’s amazing! I didn’t expect anyone to get in touch so fast. What did he say?’
‘His name is Reg. He lives in Arlington House, the homeless hostel on Arlington Road. He says he used to be a musician too, before he started drinking too much and taking drugs.’
‘And he knows my dad? How?’
‘He thinks he does.’ She p
auses, as if she isn’t sure whether or not to tell me something. ‘He says he knew him a few years ago.’
‘Cool! When can I meet him?’
Dot smiles. ‘Now, he seems nice and I’m sure he’s perfectly trustworthy but we can’t be certain he’s genuine, and not just after a reward, or something. So I don’t want you meeting him alone, especially if your mum doesn’t know about it. It’s definitely not a good idea for you to go to the hostel, either. I’m not sure how safe it would be for a young girl. So I’m going to get him to come back to the shop. You can meet him here with me, OK?’
‘OK. Yes. Thank you. When?’
‘When do you want?’
‘How about right now?’
She laughs. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got plans now. I’ll give him a call if you like. How about after school tomorrow instead? If it’s convenient with him.’
‘OK, sure. Thank you again.’
I go to bed early but I don’t sleep much and, when I do finally drift off I have strange dreams. In one of them, Dad is at Dot’s music shop playing a guitar. He’s dressed in a white doctor’s coat, wielding a scalpel. Rosie and Vix are there too, and they’re trying to stop him getting close to me. The morning can’t come soon enough.
Just a day of school to get through and then maybe, maybe, maybe, I’ll be one step closer to finding Dad. I’ve decided not to tell anybody I’m going to Dot’s to meet Reg, not even my best friends. I feel it’s something I have to do on my own this time, although I’m not sure why.
I arrive at Dot’s just after four. She’s busy in the shop, serving customers, so I loiter by the door, reading the leaflets in the display stand about all the music events in Camden. Eventually, she comes over to say hello.
‘Reg said he’d be here at four-thirty. I tell you what: while we wait, you can help me sort out the sheet music, if you don’t mind. It’s all a bit of a mess.’
‘Course,’ I say, following her into the back office. It’s good to have something to occupy me. I feel jittery and anxious. Every time I hear the sound of the door opening, I jump, wondering if it’s Reg. I have no idea what he’ll look like or what he’s going to tell me. I keep looking at my watch. He’s late. What if he doesn’t come? Will I ever be able to find him?
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