Stitch-Up

by Sophie Hamilton

  “Luxe? That’s for handbags, shoes and that. Not faces.”

  “We’re a brand – not a family. Go figure…”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Try telling Dad that. The brand is his priority. He doesn’t love me because I’m his daughter. To him I’m a franchise girl. A brand baby. That’s why I’m important to him. He’s even trademarked my name.”

  His thick eyebrows furrowed into an arrow. “For real? Like the ultimate product?”

  “It’s the truth. What kind of dad would force his daughter to have surgery when he knows she doesn’t want it? That’s not love as I see it. I hate him.”

  “Why would he do that?” He shook his head.

  “Dad is always pushing frontiers. That’s what makes him tick. It’s an addiction. He wants to take TV to the limit, cosmetic surgery to the limit and image-making to the limit. The people he loves are there to help him get what he wants.” I frowned, trying to recall Dad’s creepy phrases. “I’m some kind of prototype. It’s complicated. You know he made all his money in cosmetic surgery, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. That’s how he financed his media empire.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, he’s been researching the concept of beauty for decades. Since way before I was born. He’s developed a formula for idealised beauty, and has drawn up some crazy blueprint. I don’t really know the details. It’s all very hush-hush. He’s been waiting for the technology to catch up. And now GoldRush has the know-how he was going to…” A chill rose up my back. My fingers were freezing, and touching them to my face, I made icy indentations in my cheeks. “Make my face fit the brand.” Another of Dad’s horrible expressions popped into my head. “He wanted to transform me into a living logo.”

  “But logos never change. They’re timeless.” Latif looked puzzled.

  “He’s found a way, or so he says.”

  Seeing his frown deepen, I added, “I don’t really understand everything completely. He was going to customise me, like some kind of avatar, which he could play in his global power games.”

  I saw the hardness in his eyes dissolve. “So that’s where you fit into his plans for world domination. The guy’s a psycho.”

  “What do you expect? He’s spent half his life stabbing knives into people.”

  He shook his head. “How the hell did a frickin’ face doctor get to be so powerful?”

  “It’s Dad’s crazy world. We just live in it.”

  “Basta!” He held up his hand. “Don’t depress me, Dash.”

  He looked so bleak, so unlike Latif, that I was overtaken by an urge to make him smile. If he was going to dump me, I needed to see that crooked smile one more time, because that was how I wanted to remember him. Not like this…

  “Want a sneak preview of my future?” I didn’t wait for his reply. “Dad was going to take fat from my bum and graft it onto my lips so they’d look plumper, more kissable.” I trout-pouted. “Which means I’d be talking out of my arse for real. For ever. Amen!”

  “Amen!” A slow smile spread across his face. “I guess that explains the crap celebrities spout.”

  My heart leapt. The smile was back.

  I pointed to my trainers. “He’s already botoxed my feet to stop them smelling. My armpits, too. And these little beauties…” I fluttered my eyelashes, “have been fertilised so they’ll grow real lush.”

  “My life, chica! You’re some kind of mutant.” He stepped away, as if I were contagious.

  I laughed.

  Behind him, Mum’s botoxed lips were goldfishing.

  “Mum can’t feel her lips when she kisses Dad. How sexy is that?”

  Latif tsked. “Women like your mum give me the spooks.”

  “And she can predict cold weather with her boobs. Her implants get sooo cold. She never gets it wrong. Now that’s a skill.”

  “Too much information.” He held up both hands this time.

  “My parents thought I was being a difficult teenager. That I’d grow out of it. But the more I thought about Dad’s crazy procedures, the angrier I became. I didn’t want my parents to decide how I should look. I didn’t want them to choose my clothes, and I really, really didn’t want Dad to remodel my face. I mean, Dad’s got terrible taste in everything. It’s insane.” I moved closer to the screens. “Imagine ending up looking like that. They’ve got made-for-media faces. Mum looks fab on TV, in photos, on film, but in real life she looks weird. Her features are way too big.” I turned to look at Latif. “You should see her after the ops. She’s bruised and battered. Broken almost, like she’s been beaten up by a gang.” I screwed up my face. “She looks like she’s crying blood. It’s so gross.” I let out a long, sad sigh. “Every girl at the Star Academy would eat their own head to swap places with me.” I shrugged. “But, you know what? I just want to make myself up as I go along.”

  “As it should be.” Latif tipped up the brim of his hat. “That’s what I do.”

  “Yeah. Right. On second thoughts. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.” I smiled, but I was serious again in an instant. “You’ve got to believe me. I don’t want this. Imagine waking up every morning and seeing a stranger looking out of the mirror, being shocked by your own reflection. How weird would that be? That’s why I’m running. I want out. My real mother offers me an escape from my parents’ psycho world. A different life. That’s why I want to track her down.” I took a deep breath. It was crunch time. “But I can’t do it by myself.” My words trembled on the air.

  I tapped the screen. Banks of news channels flicked back. They were all running my story.

  Fifteen pairs of parental eyes lasered me. “Anyway, whatever… I need to get out of here.” I pointed at the screens. “Things are getting a bit too Big Brother for my liking.”

  Latif didn’t make a move.

  “So what are you going to do?” I murmured.

  He was leaning against the lamppost, like a private eye in a film noir settling in for a stake-out. He took a long few minutes and then he asked, “Where to, Miss Gold? Your satnav awaits instructions!”

  “Really?” My heart was a roaring supersonic jet.

  “Really?” he imitated my silly little voice.

  “So you’ll help me find my real mother?”

  “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, bubblehead.”

  “No way!” I wanted to whirl and twirl, and shout for joy.

  “Believe it! You deserve better than those two psychos.”

  “But I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

  “Yeah, right! It’s a bit late for that. Have you got an address?”

  “Only for the adoption agency.” I smiled.

  I opened my locket and took out the tiny piece of paper. I handed it to him. The address was written in pixie-small, spidery writing.

  “FuturePerfect?” he raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, okay. I didn’t choose the name, but I’m pretty sure it’s the place.” Sensing he was about to ask more questions, I added quickly, “I don’t want to go into it right now.”

  “It’s in Buckinghamshire.” He handed back the address. “Looks like we’re going country. We’ll have to jump a train.” Clocking my face, he said, “What? No way. You’ve never been on a civilian train before. Seriously? Welcome to the real world, Dash!” He started walking towards Fat Joe’s cafe.

  “Is it safe?” I hung back.

  “Yeah. Joe’s sound. Does the best fry-up in London.” He waited for me to catch up, then, pulling down my hood so only the tip of my nose was showing, he said, “We’re going to get a couple of fried egg sarnies, and then, mystery girl, you’ve got more explaining to do.”

  Fat Joe’s was a huff of steam. Huddles of workers were tucking into full English breakfasts. Most were flicking through newspapers, laughing and chatting.

  “Are you insane, Latif? I can’t go in there.” I grabbed his arm as he went to open the door. “They’re all reading papers. My face will be on every front page. It’s suicide.”
/>   Cupping his hands, he squinted through the glass, and said, “Yeah, you’d better stay outside. I’ll get us a takeaway.”

  He was already inside before I had chance to protest. A wafting scent of bacon escaped as the door closed behind him. It smelled really good. My stomach grumbled. I moved closer to the window, my nose almost touching the glass. Fat Joe greeted Latif warmly, and from where I was standing, looking in, every gesture seemed conspiratorial – Fat Joe’s raised eyebrow; the way he wiped his hands down the front of his apron; the way he slowly took the pencil from behind his ear, wet it with the tip of his tongue before scribbling furiously in his order pad as Latif spoke; most suspiciously, the way they shook hands a few minutes later. I froze. Questions bubbled and squeaked: had they sealed some kind of deal, agreed to turn me in, to split the cash?

  ‘Fessing Up

  HALF an hour later, I was eating a fried egg sarnie with chips on a scrubby bit of land by a railway bridge that was scrawled with tags. The egg oozed fat as my teeth sank into the bread, just the way I liked it. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten carbs. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Winners don’t do carbs. That’s what Mum says, anyway.

  The chips tasted of my new life.

  Stretched out before me was a complicated cross section of railway tracks. I guessed they were part of Victoria Station. Directly ahead, Battersea Power Station’s four white chimneys stabbed the sky like a giant upturned table. So close again, although we’d been walking for hours. I frowned. London was playing tricks on me, throwing landmarks into the mix where they shouldn’t be.

  On a wall overlooking the tracks, a billboard advertising my parents’ prime-time show pictured them on a sofa, giving soft-focus smiles. I turned my back, but still I could feel their eyes burning holes between my shoulder blades. I rolled my shoulders, trying to shrug off their gaze. My parents were everywhere – staring down from billboards, ranting on the radio, glaring at me from TV screens. It was almost as if they were hiding behind every corner waiting to ambush me.

  A train slid south.

  A noise startled me. It was only Latif returning with newspapers. “You’re front-page news, Dash!” He handed me a copy of GoldRush Image News, my parents’ free newspaper. I took it and started flicking through, desperate to see how my story was shaping up.

  Big, bold, brassy headlines screamed:

  Kidnappers Go For Gold!

  Golden Girl Snatched!

  I rolled my eyes. “Original, huh?”

  Inside a scaremonger headline bellowed: Lock Up Your Daughters! A photo of yours truly peeped out from beneath; my radiant ten-year-old smile was guaranteed to melt hearts. Next to mine was an even prettier photo of Coco.

  I put my hand to my mouth. “They’ve taken Coco. For real.”

  Reading on, I discovered that the police had lost Coco’s kidnappers on the outskirts of Crunch Town. A shiver crept up my spine. I imagined masked men holding her captive in a squalid tower block in London’s scariest dead zone. I pictured her alone in a room with blacked-out windows, her peroxide hair shining in the dark, like a shimmery halo.

  “Poor Coco,” I said. “She’ll die of fright if she’s in Crunch Town.” My stomach clenched up when I said the name of the place. Photos from news stories flashed through my head. Crunch Town was hell on earth.

  “And you wouldn’t?” His eyebrow was at full tilt.

  “Very funny,” I said, scanning the report. “The kidnappers were really organised. They had a fleet of getaway motorbikes. The police followed dummy vehicles.”

  “These guys are professionals. They know what they’re doing. They’d probably been planning the raid ever since the Bullet Company started chartering trains to the super-rich. That stirs up envy big time. Believe it!”

  Latif started skimming through another copy. Every so often he’d read out embarrassing titbits, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Golden Girl Grabbed. For the Love of Gold Find Our Princess. As Good as Gold…”

  “Cut it out, Latif! It’s all gas. I’ve told you already, they don’t give a toss. I’m just a… what’s Dad’s gummy phrase?” I wrinkled my nose. “A brand-booster. Yeah. That’s it. He only cares about the brand, I promise. End of story.” I stabbed at a studio shot of my parents with a neon fingernail. “They probably see this as good publicity.”

  He grimaced. “Truth!”

  “Don’t laugh, I swear they’re only hunting me down because I’m the brand’s future.”

  “But what about your past?” His eyes travelled over a doublespread of photos showing my luxe life. My stomach knotted some more. I knew what was coming. “Did you love all this?” He waved his hand across the photos. “The yachts, the houses, the parties, being famous. Rah! It’s crazy.” He shook his head. “It’s unreal. ’Sakes, Dash, how many houses do you own? You live everywhere and nowhere all at once. You’re stateless.” He gave me one of his narrow-eyed looks, not one of my favourites. “So did you enjoy being a Gold? A global?”

  I averted my eyes.

  “The truth, Dash. No bullshit for once.”

  “Yeah. Sort of…” I mumbled.

  “Sort of?” His aqua eyes bored into me.

  “Okay. You’re going to hate me for this.” The confession caught in my throat. I took a deep breath. “Okay! Okay! I ’fess up.” My arm gestures were getting wild and nervous. “I loved the whole lifestyle. It was fun. I loved the clothes, the holidays, meeting stars, having stylists and an army of maids. I got caught up in the glittery whirlwind. I spangled-out… Who wouldn’t?”

  He shrugged.

  “’Sakes, Latif. The air must be really pure up there.” I folded my arms. “So, if my parents offered you an art show on GoldRush TV, you’d turn it down?”

  “Yeah! My art is authentic. TV would kill it. Make it mainstream.”

  “For real?”

  “For real. I hate sell-outs and fakes. I’m not interested in money and fame – it spoils the good stuff.”

  “Yeah. I know,” I whispered.

  “So you bought into all their rubbish? Even the surgery?”

  I flushed, furious that he’d asked me that question. I studied his face for a few seconds. I shrugged inwardly. He was always going to see me as a rich kid and a fake. Whatever. I felt too exhausted to lie. I took a deep breath and started.

  “Okay. You’re really going to hate me for this. Until recently I wanted to be the face of GoldRush. The truth is I couldn’t wait for my makeover. I wanted to be picture perfect.” I couldn’t meet his eye. “I was shallow. A total fake. Satisfied now?”

  A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

  “Then a few months back, I found out how rad the surgery was going to be. Until then my parents hadn’t been totally straight with me. I was like, ‘You’re not doing that to me, psychos! No way.’ But Dad said it was time to give back to the brand. He was like, ‘You’ve enjoyed the lifestyle. Now it’s payback time.’ That’s when I realised all this came at a price.” I waved my hand over the photos. “Nothing was for free. When I rebelled, Dad made it clear the brand came first.” I shook my head sadly.

  “Your dad’s real shady.” He sucked air through his teeth. “That’s rank.”

  “It was horrible. I felt so lonely. Unloved. And then my birth mother turned up that night like some kind of guardian angel. That’s when I started dreaming of escape.”

  “What happened that night?”

  This was the easy bit – I’d been dying to talk to someone about it. It had been a struggle keeping it secret for so long. I took my time, revelling in the details: the fight with my stylists, the hoaxed security alarm and the scene in the hallway. My voice wobbled with emotion as I described my shock at seeing this beautiful, mystery woman – my mother – in the hallway as my parents were having her thrown out of the building.

  “Did you confront the Golds?”

  “Are you mad?”

  “For real? So you’ve never spoken to them about her?”

&
nbsp; “No way. I didn’t want to put them on their guard. I was worried they’d up my security. I decided to play the long game.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I hit the Internet. Dad had mentioned the name of the agency, so I looked it up straight away. It was a strange site. Minimal. All it had was the name of the agency and the address. Nothing else. Apart from the slogan: ‘Ultimate Childcraft: Unlocking the Mystery of Your Child’s Potential.’ It was weird. Like a riddle or a clue. I haven’t got any proof, but I don’t think the circumstances surrounding my adoption are legit.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They paid to adopt me. Probably thousands. Anyway it was a commercial transaction. That’s not legal, is it?”

  “Thousands?” A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “That much? What did you do next?”

  “I started trawling adoption sites, forums and chatrooms. I sat at the computer for hours trying to figure things out. I went deeper and deeper until it felt like I’d searched the furthest corners of the net. For days, I didn’t find out anything relevant. Then one night I was messaging a girl called ‘Pawnqueen’ in a chatroom and she seemed to know all about FuturePerfect. We struck up a relationship. Pawnqueen is a global, too, and her story’s similar to mine. She put me in the picture. FuturePerfect arranges for super-rich couples to adopt the baby of their dreams. Couples choose their child based on its genetic profile. Wish-list babies.”

  “Yeah right, Dash. So you’ve got gold-plated genes. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  “No, hear me out. Pawnqueen says FuturePerfect sells babies with the genetic make-up to match the couple’s special requirements. So let’s say you want a tennis champion, a maths genius, a model or a total egghead – that’s what you get. Pawnqueen’s parents wanted a chess champion, and she is one. FuturePerfect offers babies with superior genes. They’ll only take babies on if they are genetically ‘advanced’.”

  “But Pawnqueen could be a nut. She could be making the whole thing up.”

  “I believe her. Her parents have told her all about her adoption. They were proud their ambitions for her had worked out, that she’d grown into the champion they had always wanted. I don’t really know how it works, but I think they profile and vet the birth parents. Then they map the babies’ DNA with a microchip. Get a full genetic profile and match it to prospective parents’ wish lists. That way the couples get the baby they want. No nasty surprises. The whole thing is pretty sci-fi.”