‘I think they look better anyway. Man-made stuff usually does,’ he continued, ‘after all, us humans moved from living in natural caves to houses made by bricks and mortar that kept us both dry and looked good, plus they demonstrate how far man has come by the size of our house and so distinguish us from our caveman ancestors and other animals. You understand, Olivia? It’s progress; another example: we have electric lights which is better than natural light – would you want to live without light in your home? No, I thought not. Another example: we have progressed from walking on two feet to trains, aeroplanes and cars. Now, isn’t life better with the Porsche in the garage or would you prefer to return to walking everywhere?’
He looked at me and squeezed his forehead so that his eyes squinted at me; this was his cue for me to answer him.
‘Oh your car is better than walking of course,’ I dutifully replied.
‘Well then, if we can live in a man-made world, which is fake and artificial, as you say, which in fact, improves our lives immeasurably in comparison to when we lived with nothing in the desert and had to fight for survival, then what is wrong with improving the way you look courtesy of the skill of a surgeon who, incidentally, is far more knowledgeable about this matter than you, Olivia, could ever hope to be?’
His black eyes squinted at me again.
‘I suppose nothing is wrong.’
‘I’m right, yes?’ he locked my eyes to his. ‘Well, I’m right aren’t I? You need surgery then have surgery – look at me, Olive, not your skirt – I’m right aren’t I? Come on my lady, I just need you to be happy and for you to feel your best. If it means surgery then so be it. I can afford it and it’ll be money well spent.’
I nodded my reply,
‘So look into it and I’ll pay. In fact, Gary at work, his wife has had them done recently so I’ll ask him where she went.’
Five days later Mark came home with a scribbled piece of paper with the name and number of Mr Bancroft, a Harley street surgeon and ‘He’s very good, Mary. x’ beneath his name. I assumed Mary was the name of Gary’s wife and I concluded that if she thinks he’s good, plus he works in Harley Street, then I didn’t need to look any further or do any research on who would slice open my chest and squeeze silicon into the opening – he would do.
I managed to get an appointment for the following Friday which gave me a week to ponder over whether I really wanted to undergo major surgery on a healthy body. Part of my logic screamed that it would hurt and I’d be under a general anaesthetic with all the problems associated with it, plus there are horror stories of these procedures going wrong and my bust could look worse than before. Wherever I searched I found many emotional testimonies displaying disastrous surgery across the £1 magazines, alongside ‘How to Lose Weight in Just 4 Weeks’ and stories of: ‘My Husband is Cheating on Me with My Mother’. However, the other half of my logic calmly played its trump card that Mark thought I needed it and he has gone to all this trouble to find me a surgeon, plus he is paying for it. That logic won and by the time the appointment came my nerves had changed to excited anticipation.
Mr Bancroft’s office was at the end of Harley Street, close to a garden square where I sat for forty-five minutes prior to my appointment. I was early and I thought how pleasant it is to sit on a bench overlooking a small box maze. I smiled as the beauty of mother-nature was displayed around me. The tiny hedge leaves were vibrant green and spider webs adorned them, glistening in the sunshine that had emerged after the morning rain. Squirrels scampered around hunting for nuts and small colourful winter flowers proudly huddled together in friendship groups. In contrast, the garden was guarded by tall trees that had shed their leaves and appeared skeletal with long claw fingers sprouting from a thick grey trunk. I mused they were merely sleeping and all they needed were some fairy lights hung from their branches until the trees’ own beauty blossomed to life in the next season.
Eventually I walked up the five steps to the shining black imposing door of the clinic. The receptionist buzzed me in and I entered a modern whitewashed waiting room. I was given various forms to fill in whilst I waited on a firm white leather chair. I was called in for my initial meeting which, according to my pamphlet, was a counselling session and to discuss the operation. I saw the nurse who informed me that she was also there to check my medical history and to discuss my treatment. She was wearing a nursing uniform fashioned from the NHS hospital of the 1940s with a blue matron cardigan. On her chest was a nurse’s fob watch and her blonde hair was tied neatly in a low bun. Just by the look of this lady I felt reassured that this must be a highly trained nurse who cared for my well-being and who was deeply concerned for the success and safety of the operation.
She began by going through the ‘peripherals’, as she put it, then briefly discussed the breast augmentation. The remaining twenty minutes of my thirty-minute appointment was discussing the packages they offer. She explained that as I was going in for one operation that it would be less stress on my body if I combined other treatments such as, some ladies have a tummy tuck or liposuction. I explained I was a size six and I did not think I needed a reduction in fat, to which she gave a condescending grin.
‘No dear, these were examples. It is merely to highlight that were you to consider further treatments then it would be beneficial to you both physically and financially to combine treatments together.’
She recognised my confusion and launched into where I could benefit from the surgeon’s knife: I hadn’t realised that my bottom sagged or that my eyelids drooped or that my stomach was not taut or that my knees were not symmetrical and my cheekbones were not clearly defined. All these imperfections could be corrected on my twenty-eight year old body by the skill and expertise of Mr Bancroft.
She finished by saying ‘Whatever you decide upon we can arrange a financial packet to suit you’, but she kindly went on to say, ‘My dear, don’t decide now, we will book you in at your convenience.’
She softly lifted my hand into hers and finally she smiled.
‘Your surgeon, Mr Bancroft is waiting for you upstairs in room three. I will inform him that I consider you fit and well and therefore a suitable candidate for a breast augmentation. Well done, Olivia.’
I entered Mr Bancroft’s office. The décor was public school headmaster’s office with a huge Edwardian writing desk covered in important-looking papers, a computer and a green banker’s lamp.
Mr Bancroft was a short, middle-aged man in a full tweed suit; his waist jacket also housed a fob watch and in his left jacket pocket were half-moon steel glasses. He stood to greet me and I detected a faint smile underneath a full beard and moustache.
The meeting was clinical: I showed him my breasts, he drew all over them, squeezed them, then drew some more. I thought how ludicrous that in any other environment this could be mistaken for an awkward, embarrassing foreplay but here it was a formal preparation performed on the awkward and embarrassed client. It was done in silence other than mumblings from Mr Bancroft. I felt obliged to offer some form of conversation;
‘Your nurse mentioned I needed a knee lift, I didn’t even know it existed! – I’m new to all this, so not sure about it all.’
‘Mmmm, do discuss any concerns with your nurse, turn to the side please. Thank you. Do up your blouse, we are finished.’ He promptly turned away from me whilst I scrabbled around for my bra and shirt buttons.
He sat behind the desk and scribbled on my forms. He then gestured to the size and shape of implant that would be suitable for me. I blindly agreed with everything he suggested and he continued to write. He then told me about the process and I nodded in the hope he would stop and leave me in ignorance. He did stop and scribbled on my form some more. He then told me that it would be performed a week Wednesday at their Farnborough clinic. Did I have someone to drop me off and pick me up? Again I nodded and again he scribbled on my form. He then looked up and offered his hand to shak
e with a thank you and good-bye.
And that was that – I was booked into getting a new torso in less than a fortnight. In those twelve days, I packed my hospital bag on day one. On day two, I received a call from the clinic asking if I wanted to discuss any other procedure. I saw Tatiana on day three who was visibly envious but outwardly supportive and reassuring that I was doing a necessary operation to enhance my life by enhancing who I was. She then went onto explain that she was practicing meditation and seeing the world in a calmer-coloured spectrum. On day four I saw Carolanne and we laughed at Tatiana’s attempt to calm her life down but the amount of coke she snorted robbed any calming benefit. Carolanne hugged me and told me I was as ridiculous as Tatiana’s new diet of mung beans and cabbage – I did not need new breasts but she supported me anyway. On day six I told everyone at work that I was going away for three weeks for a boob job. Their response was a polite, ‘Oohh, good for you.’ On day seven I told Janet who declared down the phone, ‘You’re mad but what a surprise! In fact little sis, what I am surprised at is how long it has taken you to get one. I wonder how long it will be before you get more work done? Nice job if you can get it. Don’t mind me, I’m just off to work then home for more studying whilst looking after a little boy.’
On day nine, I told James. We met on Sunday at our pub and after telling him he responded by smacking his head into his hands.
‘Ah, you’re kiddin’ us, you’re mad Ol! Why for the love of God are you doing this? There isn’t one thing you should change about yourself, nothing.’
‘As Tatiana says, it will enhance my life by enhancing who I am…’
‘Of course she would say that. She’s as fake and as insincere as that statement. How much is this costing anyway?’
‘£3000 plus VAT.’ My defence was weakening further and crudely I tried to bolster it by saying, ‘But Mark is paying so it’s okay.’
‘Mark, Mark, Mark! Why did I think anything else. It’s like taking a chisel to Venus and adding Playdoh to her chest. There’s nothing you should change about yourself, NOTHING.’
I grabbed his strong hands and looked into his green eyes.
‘You’re a sentimental carpenter but I love you for it.’
‘I wish you did, then you’d stay as you.’
On day ten I received a final call from the clinic confirming the details of my operation and also to confirm that I was not interested in any other operation alongside my breast augmentation. I thanked them and said I wasn’t but that I would see them tomorrow for my procedure the following day.
Mark dropped me off and said he couldn’t stay as he had to get back to prepare for a major presentation on Thursday but that he would be there to pick me up the following Monday.
The hospital fashioned itself as a spa hotel, with a fountain in the reception area. It was difficult to relax as I was to face surgery the next day and I knew I was giving my only body to a relative stranger to do as he pleased.
In the morning the anaesthetist visited me, followed by Mr Bancroft. They both spoke in a soft soothing tone to reassure me that everything was scheduled for 10am and when I woke up I would have the breasts I had always dreamt of. But no amount of reassuring smiles could calm me; from the hospital wardens who loaded me on to the wheeled theatre bed or the nurse who held my hand as I was wheeled down a brightly lit lime green corridor into a waiting room. The anaesthetist introduced himself again then stuck a needle into my hand and asked me to count down from ten. My heart beat rapidly as I began my counting and I tried to scream that I no longer wanted to change two cup sizes; it was not worth the odds stacked against me, which threatened anything from deformed breasts to death. By number six my brain was slipping down a black hole and the small waiting room I had been lying in disappeared above me. I had been caught by the cosmetic fishing hook and I was to be dragged down the stream I had been paddling in and had no control where it was to take me. All I had was hope; hope that the spot I would be left at would be a serene lily pad and not a fishmonger’s wooden slab.
I woke in a recovery room to the chimes of chatting nurses, and shortly afterwards I was wheeled back down new, softly lit lemon corridors to my peach room. I was groggy but relieved that it was over. I smiled to myself about my hypochondria as the nurses tucked me into my bed and gave me a few pills to swallow. Once they left, I sat in my bed and waited for a visitor, anyone to congratulate my return to the conscious world. No one came that day or the next day except for Mr Bancroft who checked my wounds and told me I would be able to see them before I left in two days. He allowed me to get out of bed and to wander around the hospital patient area; So, I shuffled down the corridor in my silk kimono and slippers, ignoring my tender torso.
In the café area I met two women who were bandaged across their face in exactly the same way. I couldn’t describe these women as the bandages covered their faces but one was blonde and the other a brunette. The brunette caught my eye and stopped her conversation with her friend.
‘We have both been in exactly the same car crash and had exactly the same wounds afflicted upon us or at least that is what we are telling everyone when we get home.’
I smiled and shook their hands, ‘Hi I’m Olive, I’ve just had breast augmentation.’
‘I’m May and this is Sally. Both face lifts and I can’t wait to peel off these bandages and see twenty-something me staring at forty-something me.’
‘Wow, exciting. I think I’m looking forward to seeing my boobs but I’m nervous, Mr Bancroft is showing me either Sunday or Monday.’
‘Don’t be, sweet pea; Mr Bancroft is a miracle worker.’
‘Miracle worker,’ echoed the blonde.
‘I will only use him from now on. I have used others but I think he’s the best; he’s done my boobs twice. He’s done a tummy tuck, eyelift and he’s just done our facelifts. I had a Mr Turner for my lipo and Sally, you’ve used Mr Turner for your eyelift and you had him for you boob job.’
‘Yes, I also recommend him but Mr Bancroft just has the edge I think. They are both on my Christmas card list but Mr Bancroft will be doing my arms – I’m going ahead with my arms in a few months.’ Sally lifted up her arms and squeezed the small amount of drooping fat.
‘I can’t live with that and I think it’s getting worse as I get older.’ She then turned to me.
‘Is this your first op, sweetness?’ Her voice was muffled by the white bandages that stroked the edges of her bruised lips.
‘It is, but probably my last. I was just small and wanted to be bigger and my boyfriend paid for it,’ I said.
‘Nice boyfriend! Keep hold of that one!’ Sally squealed.
‘Trust me sweet pea, as you get older this hospital will be your retreat, the receptionists will become your friends, the nurses will become your confidantes and your surgeon, your God; and the person taking you to the altar will be your boyfriend or your husband. If you want to keep a man then keep your looks and to keep your looks will be in the hands of your surgeon not God.’
‘And why not?’ interjected May. ‘Why should beauty be confined to just a few years in your life? And I mean a few. When we are teenagers we haven’t the confidence to display what we have nor do we have the money to afford the style to show off our young self, but by our mid-twenties we have matured into our beauty as Mother Nature designed, plus we have the confidence to display it in all its wealth and by our late twenties to early thirties, we’ve got our man then…’
‘Then it’s gone! Gone by thirty-five at the latest!’ continued Sally, ‘Women have probably shot out a couple of kids; they have saddle bags, baggy boobs and bags under their eyes. They don’t have time for the hairdresser and when they do they opt for a sensible cut to match their sensible shoes. Fine lines have spread across their face and their saggy stomach begs for stretch draw string trousers.
‘And do you think the husband sees his young bride as the idol he
caught all those years ago? No! Because he’s no longer looking as his eyes are directed right at his twenty-five year old secretary who doesn’t have a wrinkle on her smooth, tight, toned body.’ Sally was triumphant in her conclusion and banged the table for dramatic effect.
‘I’m twenty-eight but maybe in years to come I’ll reconsider,’ I said vacantly as there was little I could relate to in their berating of aging women.
‘You should, sweet pea, because the stigma of thirty-five is close by and your boyfriend’s secretary is coming up at the rear; she may only be at school at the moment but she’s coming and she’s coming for your man and she will be the one he suddenly spends all his money on.
‘Plus, why not enjoy beauty? Keep it going, why confine our looks to our young life? It’s what we’ve done. I know you can’t see May underneath this white hospital mask but trust me she’s stunning, as stunning as she was when I first met her back in the seventies,’ Sally banged the table again.
‘Ooh, thanks sweetie and you are as gorgeous as when I first met you and Jon is a lucky, lucky man to have you.’ May then turned to me. ‘You’ll be back,’ she said.
I smiled and made my excuses to go. I thought about their advice and wondered if that would be me in twenty years’ time, perhaps with Carolanne to remind me that I’m beautiful and that Mark is a lucky man to love me.
On the Monday Mr Bancroft returned with a nurse and unpeeled my bandages to reveal my pert solid round breasts. There was bruising and scaring just beneath the breast and a red scar line leading to my nipple but apart from this they were huge, far larger than I expected. Mr Bancroft reassured me this was merely the swelling and they would reduce in time.
Mark picked me up at 5pm and drove me home in his new racing green TVR. I sank down into the cream leather seats, the engine clicked on and rumbled, vibrating my seat, then we roared away. The powerful engine threw two people along the road at our top speed of 113 miles per hour. We raced over the tarmac, braked forcefully into bends and just skimmed around corners. As each traffic light threatened to turn red to spoil our speed, then the accelerator pedal was pounded harder and we brushed through amber lights just as they turned red. As cars approached ahead Mark eased to the other side of the road to check it was clear then he changed gear and we screamed past the blocking car then squeezed back onto our side of the road with only a Rizla paper gap to spare from the oncoming traffic. And all too soon we were home.
The Society Game Page 14