by Cate Woods
‘Mum, you really didn’t need to . . .’
‘Well, how else you gonna eat?’ She very deliberately catches my eye. ‘And it’s all your favourites: parmigiana, lasagne, polpette, braciole . . .’
Luke kisses her. ‘Thank you, you’re an angel.’
‘Oh shh now, it’s nothing,’ says Lucia, puffing up with pleasure like a roosting pigeon. ‘Now, why don’t you take Dottie to get some gelato so I can have a little chat with Annie?’
‘I think she’s a bit young for ice cream, Mum.’ Luke laughs, but he’s already taking Dot from my arms. I’m beginning to realise that this is a carefully planned ambush. Traitor, I think bitterly as I watch him head off across the playground. Yet before I have a chance to plan my escape, Lucia laces her arm firmly through mine and marches us in the direction of a nearby bench.
‘Let’s sit down, Annie,’ she says cosily, as if we’re the best of friends. ‘We have lots to catch up on, si?’
When I first started going out with Luke, I got quite upset about the fact that Lucia clearly didn’t think I was good enough for her son. She was always polite and welcoming enough, but there’d be subtle digs about my clothes or hairstyle, and she’d keep up a running commentary on how I should be looking after her son, pointing out where I was falling short (most frequently in the fields of cooking and housework). When I finally got up the courage to speak to Luke about it, he flatly denied that there was any sort of problem and insisted his mum adored me. At first I assumed he was lying to spare my feelings, but by the time we’d celebrated our first anniversary, I’d come to the conclusion that Luke genuinely didn’t realise there was anything unusual in the way his mother worshipped him. I made peace with the fact that Lucia wouldn’t be happy with whoever Luke was going out with, because nobody would ever be good enough for her darling boy. (Apart from maybe Kate Middleton; Lucia thinks she’s the epitome of femininity and wifely good practice.) When I got pregnant, Lucia’s delight at the prospect of her first grandchild was tempered by her strong disapproval that we weren’t yet married, a situation that I, of course, got the blame for as well.
‘I really don’t understand you girls these days, not wanting to settle down,’ she would say with a tinkling little laugh, and I would grit my teeth and laugh along with her, too polite to tell her that the only reason we weren’t tying the knot was because her son didn’t want to. Luke and I had talked about it, sure, and although he insisted that he wanted to marry me in the long term, he felt it would be ‘unromantic’ to propose just because I was pregnant; he would far rather wait until I’d had the baby, so we could make the wedding ‘just about us’. And look how well that plan turned out.
We’ve now reached the bench and Lucia lowers down onto the seat with a little ‘oof’ noise that I’ve also caught myself doing lately. Oh, hey there, middle age!
‘So, Luca tells me you have a job.’
‘Yes, I’m working for an estate agent taking their marketing photos. It’s just part-time for now.’
‘You’re enjoying it?’
‘I am. I don’t know if you remember, but I used to work in photography before I met Luke, and it’s really nice to be taking pictures again.’
Lucia’s lips tighten in disapproval. ‘And you think it is worth it?’
‘Worth it in what way?’
‘Well, leaving Dot with a stranger so you can just’ – she flutters her hands dismissively – ‘take pictures.’
Anger surges up inside me, but I know from experience that it’s pointless trying to argue with her, so instead I say, mildly: ‘I am getting paid, you know, Lucia.’
‘Well, if it’s a question of money, then I’m sure Luca would happily give you the money that he’s having to pay this childminder person.’
Damn Luke, why does he have to tell his mother everything?
‘Annie, you know I love you like a daughter.’ This is so blatantly untrue I very nearly laugh. Lucia adores her four daughters only marginally less than Luke; I probably rate somewhere below her chiropodist. ‘But this current situation is not good for anyone. Not good at all. A child needs both parents. You have to move back home so Dot can be with her father. As for this job – why can’t you wait until Dot is bigger? I don’t know, you girls these days, so fixated on your career . . .’
I’m this close to jumping up and storming off, but I take a deep breath, determined to stay calm. ‘Lucia, you do know what happened between Luke and this other woman, don’t you? He cheated on me weeks after I’d given birth.’
Lucia bristles at my tone. ‘Yes, Luca told me all about it, and it is unfortunate, but you have to remember that when a woman has a baby it is a very tricky time for the father. I should know, I had four by the time I was your age! A man can easily feel neglected and then . . .’ She gives a shrug, which I assume translates as: ‘and then may be compelled to put his penis into another woman’.
‘Lucia, are you suggesting that Luke cheating on me is my own fault?’
‘No!’ She gasps, her hand flying to her chest, indignant that I’d even suggest such a thing. ‘No, no, no!’ she adds, for emphasis. There’s a slight pause. ‘But . . . maybe a little, yes.’
I close my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired.
‘Annie, there is an old Calabrian saying – it’s hard to translate – but it goes something like: “the role of a good wife is to feed her husband’s mouth, his heart and his loins”.’ She leans closer and lowers her voice. ‘And I would say the first and the last of those are the most important.’
Right, so as far as Lucia is concerned, I’m a terrible cook and must be equally useless in bed. That can obviously be the only reason Luke strayed.
‘Did Luke ask you to speak with me?’ Out of the corner of my eye, I notice he’s now heading back across the playground towards us; Lucia obviously clocks this too.
‘And what if he did?’ She suddenly throws up her hands theatrically. ‘Annie, he is desperate to be a family again! I just wanted to do what I could to help, as any loving mother would for her son.’ She reaches inside her black patent handbag, an exact replica of the Queen’s, pulls out a lacy hanky and dabs showily at her eyes. ‘You see,’ she mutters sadly, ‘this is what happens when you have a baby before getting married . . .’
Seeing his mother’s distress, Luke rushes the last few steps towards us and drops to his knees in front of her. ‘Mum, is everything okay?’ he asks, his face a picture of concern. And then he turns to me with a look verging on accusatory – ‘Annie? What’s happened?’ – and I have to dig my fingernails into my hand to stop myself exploding, because I know from experience that criticising his mama will only end in tears (mine).
‘Shh, it’s fine,’ coos Lucia, patting her son’s hand. ‘Annie and I were having a lovely chat and I got a little emotional, that’s all. I’m just so worried about the two of you . . .’
Luke gives her a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, we’ll sort it out.’ He glances over at me. ‘Won’t we, Annie . . . ?’
I set my face in a smile. ‘Well, I’m afraid I have to get going, I don’t want to be late for my appointment. I’ll be round to collect Dottie mid-afternoon, okay?’ I give my daughter a kiss, then bend to peck Lucia’s powdery cheek. ‘Goodbye, Lucia. See you soon.’
‘Goodbye, carissima,’ she says, as if our excruciatingly awkward conversation hasn’t happened. ‘You think about what I said now, yes . . . ?’
Luke is beaming at the pair of us; he clearly thinks his devious little plan has worked. I, however, am fuming. I’ll have a think about how to handle Luke later, but at least this has helped me come to a decision about whether I should meet Sam for lunch. Even before I’ve left the playground, I’ve got out my phone and replied:
Thanks, Sam, sounds great and I can do this Wednesday. Looking forward to it. Annie.
28
The offices of Mr Rajat Jindal MB, FRCS are situated on Harley Street, the central London mecca for those wanting to get nipped, tucked, lifted or sucked.
As I press the buzzer next to the discreet brass plate engraved with his name, the door opens and a woman comes out wearing dark glasses and bandages over her nose, neither of which fully cover the bruises. I get an unsettling flutter of nerves; I know what Delphine said about surgery not being a big deal, but this woman looks like she’s had a fist fight, not a facial.
I’m directed to the waiting room by a receptionist who resembles one of those ‘best celebrity facial features’ photofits you see in gossip mags. Her face is so freakishly perfect that this must surely be Mr Jindal’s handiwork – after all, what better way to showcase your skills? – and after the shock of seeing his earlier victim, it gives me a much-needed boost of confidence, although I feel more self-conscious than ever about my own ungainly features.
After filling out reams of forms and having photos of my face taken from all angles, a nurse appears (again, with flawless facial symmetry) and ushers me in to Mr Jindal’s office. Judging by her tones of hushed reverence, you’d think I was about to have an audience with the Pope.
‘Annie!’ Mr Jindal stands up behind his enormous desk as I enter, his arms spread wide in welcome. ‘It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.’ (Which is charming but a little over the top, given I’ve only had one very brief phone call with his office.) ‘Please, take a seat,’ he goes on, with a blindingly white smile.
Mr Jindal is small and has the look of a man who’s been drinking his own Kool-Aid, so to speak. His features are curiously feminine, and I fleetingly wonder if he actually operates on himself before realising how stupid that is.
‘Have you been offered a drink?’ he enquires. His voice is as neat and precise as his facial hair, which looks like it’s been trimmed with the aid of a protractor and set square. ‘We have the most wonderful silver-tip tea from Fujian province – would you like to try a cup? No? Well, do let me know if you change your mind . . .’ He beams at me again, his hands folded neatly on his desk. ‘So, you’re here to talk about your nose, correct?’
‘Yes. It’s, well, it’s been bothering me for years, really.’
He nods, staring intently at my face. ‘Right, so what I’d like to do first is to find out exactly what you like and dislike about your nose.’ He gets up, walks around the desk and hands me a mirror. ‘Could you please take a look and point to what’s bothering you the most?’
I hold up the mirror in front of me; my nose glares furiously back. ‘Well, basically, it’s too big.’
‘So, the size is an issue, okay. Anything else? Could you be a little more specific?’
I turn my head from side to side. ‘Um, well, there’s a bit of a bump, here. And the tip is a bit . . . er . . .’
‘Bulbous?’
‘Oh. Right, yes. Bulbous.’ It’s not exactly the word I’d have used, but then I suppose it’s Mr Jindal’s job to call a spade a spade.
‘Could you smile now, please.’ I do as he asks. ‘Ah yes, do you see how the tip of your nose plunges when you smile and covers the upper lip?’
I hadn’t noticed that before, but he’s absolutely right. Blimey. This is worse than I thought.
‘Now tell me, Annie, what do you like about your nose?’
I exhale slowly. Right now, I’m struggling to come up with any positives.
‘I suppose I used to like the fact that it looks a bit like Barbra Streisand’s.’
Mr Jindal puts his head to one side and narrows his eyes. ‘Yes, I do see some resemblance, but her nose is rather more symmetrical than yours.’
Well, that’s told me. My final illusion, brutally shattered.
‘So, you’re quite correct, Annie, there is a bump here.’ Mr Jindal has now got out what looks like a pair of oversized cotton buds and he deftly moves them around my nose as he speaks. ‘The bump is half bone, which is attached to your skull, and half cartilage at the lower point. The delineation of the bony bump and cartilaginous bump goes right through the centre – here. Then, as we move down your nose, you can see that it’s veering off towards the left, and as we’ve already discussed, the tip is rather bulbous. Could you tip your head back a little, please?’ He bends down to look up my nose. ‘Hmmm, yes, as I thought. You have a deviated septum. Do you have any breathing issues?’
I shake my head.
‘Really?’ He looks puzzled. ‘Well, it may not be an issue now, but even a mild deviation can become a problem in the future.’
Wow. My nose really is a disaster area. I’d always thought it was just a little on the large side, but it turns out that it’s the nasal equivalent of global warming.
Mr Jindal sits back on the edge of his desk. ‘So, bearing in mind all these issues, my first job would be to file the bony bump away from the inside of the nostrils and then straighten the cartilage in line with the bump, so there’s a neat, straight line between the root of the nose and the tip of the nose. My next job would be centralising the nose because, as we have noted, it’s crooked. The third job would be refining the bulbousness of the tip and finally preventing the nose from drooping on smiling.’
‘That sounds like an awful lot of jobs.’
Mr Jindal laughs politely. ‘The rhinoplasty would probably take me about two hours. I’m a meticulous surgeon and pay very precise attention to detail.’
‘And afterwards? How quickly would I be back to normal?’
‘A heat-sensitive plastic splint would be attached to your nose to aid recovery. In five to six days that would come off, and within a week you’ll be back out with a beautiful new nose.’
‘Really, that quickly?’ The image of sunglasses woman flashes into my mind. ‘Won’t I look a bit . . . battered?’
‘There’ll be some light bruising, but not much.’ Mr Jindal stands and gestures towards a computer at the side of the room. ‘Let’s give you an idea of what I think is achievable with the surgery.’
We sit down side by side in front of the computer, where one of my photos from earlier is already displayed in merciless close-up on screen. I’m not used to seeing my ‘resting’ face; I had no idea quite how haggard and dour I look.
‘That’s not my best side,’ I wince.
Mr Jindal laughs politely. ‘Well, it’s my job to make sure that every side is your best side. You deserve a nose that reflects your natural beauty.’
He starts manipulating the image on screen and I watch, transfixed, as he makes tiny, subtle adjustments to gradually create my new nose. After a few minutes, he finally seems happy and turns to me with an expectant smile.
‘So what do you think?’
What I think, Mr Jindal, is that I am never going to be happy when I look in the mirror again. Now that I’ve seen what I have the potential to look like, the flaws on my actual face have been magnified to hideous proportions. I stare at the miraculous stranger on the screen: she’s still haggard and dour, but, bloody hell, her nose is perfect. Mr Jindal is now rattling on about payment plans and whatever, but I’m not really listening because all my attention is focused on the image in front of me and one single, seductive thought: Where do I sign?
29
My lunch date with Sam has not got off to a good start. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s actually going to start at all.
I was already flustered when I got to the restaurant, as I was running ten minutes late thanks to delays on the Central line, but when I finally arrived, Sam wasn’t here either. And now it’s another ten minutes later, I’ve still not heard from him and I’m sitting in the middle of a virtually empty, extremely swanky restaurant – the sort of place where if you leave your seat for even a split second, they’ll have refolded your napkin – and I feel like the staff are all wondering whether I’ve been stood up.
I wouldn’t blame them if they were, because that’s exactly what I’m thinking too.
I check my phone for the umpteenth time. There’s been a flurry of activity in my WhatsApp group with the girls – mostly Jess being obscene, but also a sweet message from Claris: Just relax and enjoy yourself and try not
to worry about the bigger picture right now. I reply with kisses and almost instantly there’s a message from Fi: Is he there yet?? And then another from Jess: Hope you’ve got condoms!
‘Would you care to see the wine list?’
I look up to see the waitress, who has already brought me a bottle of water and the food menu, holding out a leather-bound folder with a ravishing smile. And that’s another thing: there must be a dozen waiting staff in here, but I’ve got stuck with the one who looks like an actress who’s only here to research playing the role of a waitress in a Hollywood movie. Pretty would be okay, beautiful I could just about cope with, devastatingly stunning is another matter entirely. I thought I was looking quite good this morning – I blow-dried my hair and I’ve borrowed a silky blouse from Jess – but you really don’t want that sort of competition on a first date. Which brings me to yet another area of concern, namely: is this actually a date at all? It’s been so long since Sam and I last saw each other (nearly three weeks, in fact) that doubts and worries have gradually been crowding in and are now taking the edge off the knicker-pinging sense of excitement I’d usually be feeling before a first date with a guy I really like. Worries such as: did Sam and I really have fantastic chemistry or did I just imagine it? Is this a sex thing, a friend thing or just a lunch thing? What – if anything – should I tell him about Dot? And is that a piece of leftover breakfast granola I can feel between my teeth?
I get out my phone, flip the camera to selfie mode and am subtly checking out my reflection – baring my teeth at the screen like an angry, FaceTiming dog – and, of course, this is the exact moment that Sam chooses to arrive at the table.
‘Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late, I got held up at work.’ He bends down to kiss me on the cheek, but I’m in such a fluster at being caught grimacing into my phone that I stand up, leading to a clumsy clash of heads. Sam sits down, but immediately stands up again because I’m still on my feet. It’s so ridiculously awkward that we both start to laugh.