Never Mind The Botox: Rachel

by Penny Avis

  ‘Lucky you, Rach,’ said Shali, catching her breath. ‘What a great job to be working on. I’m so jealous. You’ll have to report back regularly, you know, give us the whole scoop.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I can − you know, business ethics, need-to-know basis and all that. After all, I am the ultimate professional.’ Rachel flicked her hair as she spoke.

  ‘Since when? And besides, we definitely need to know,’ said Shali.

  ‘Look seriously, though, it’s highly confidential that the business might even be up for sale, so you guys mustn’t talk to anyone else about it, okay? But if I see any celebrities, you’ll be the first to know,’ said Rachel, tapping her nose.

  ‘No accepting any inappropriate gifts while you’re on this job either,’ said Shali, laughing. ‘We’ll have to report you if you start turning up with a smooth forehead.’

  By now it was nearly half past three and Rachel hadn’t done a stroke of work all day.

  ‘Better get back,’ she said. She picked up her gym bag. Natalie and Shali stared at it. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said. ‘It’s actually got my weekend stuff in. I’m off home after work as my brother’s back.’

  ‘How is your handsome brother these days?’ said Shali. ‘I definitely fancy him.’

  Rachel’s brother Rowan was a couple of years older than her and he’d always been popular with her friends. He’d be thirty this year.

  ‘Married with a baby. God, do you have an off switch?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Not so I’ve noticed. Anyway, let’s go,’ said Shali. ‘You’ve got an important project to plan for.’

  Yes, thought Rachel, and I need to make it count.

  Chapter 2

  Having briefed her team for Monday and sent a few carefully placed emails, Rachel sneaked out of the office. She was paranoid that she would bump into Pauline any minute and be forced to pretend she was off to the gym. Fortunately she didn’t and she was soon getting out of a cab at the station.

  ‘Return to Bath, please.’

  The ticket man didn’t even look up. ‘What day ya coming back?’ he said.

  ‘Sunday, early evening.’

  ‘Makes no odds to me what time you travel on a Sunday,’ the ticket man said, seemingly annoyed that Rachel had bothered him with such irrelevant information.

  Rachel glared at him but he didn’t notice. He printed her tickets and passed them under the window.

  ‘Which platform for Bath?’ Rachel asked in her politest voice.

  ‘’S’on the board,’ said the ticket man, nodding his head towards the large screen in the middle of the station.

  ‘Gosh, thanks for your help,’ said Rachel. ‘No problem,’ said the ticket man, oblivious to her sarcasm.

  It was going to be a long trip.

  On the train, Rachel got herself a large gin and tonic from the buffet car and settled down to read a stack of trashy magazines she’d bought at the station newsagent. As she read, she was struck by the number of articles about cosmetic surgery. Stories about actresses having liposuction were clearly big news. Intrigued, she got out her phone and opened the email from Carl Stephens setting out what work they needed to do on the Beau Street Group.

  She started reading the list:

  Full details of sales split by procedure.

  Price lists by procedure.

  A list of key clients.

  Oh good, she would have to get details of every type of operation they did and how much each cost. Also, she would have the perfect reason for having a good nose through the client names to see whether she could spot anyone famous. She was really looking forward to this job.

  Rowan met her at Bath station.

  ‘Hey, sis’, how are you?’ Her brother gave her a big hug.

  ‘Great form, thanks,’ said Rachel. ‘Actually, I’m hungover and knackered, but other than that great.’

  ‘Well, I’m totally knackered, but sadly not hungover,’ said Rowan. ‘I tell you, this baby thing is hard work. There should be a warning on the side of the box saying “Caution: This product could seriously damage your health”.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘You don’t mean that. Naomi is so cute. How old is she now?’

  ‘Nearly seven months − can you believe it?’ said Rowan.

  They got into Rowan’s car and headed out of the station. Rachel’s parents’ house was a rambling farmhouse in a small village twenty minutes outside of Bath. They’d lived there all Rachel’s life and although they’d often talked of buying somewhere smaller, Rachel couldn’t imagine them moving.

  As usual, Rachel’s mum greeted her at the front door like she’d just been released from a ten-year prison sentence − hugging her until she couldn’t breathe and then ushering her into the sitting room for a dry sherry.

  ‘Do you have any gin?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Bit early for gin, don’t you think?’ Rachel’s dad replied, despite the fact that it was gone seven p.m.

  Rachel’s dad was a retired engineer and a pretty straight-laced character who hadn’t met Rachel’s mum until they were both well into their thirties. Her childhood had been full of ordinary holidays and getting your homework done on time. He also liked the sound of his own voice and regularly told the same very dull stories over and over again. Her mum would try to say, ‘I think they’ve heard this one, dear,’ but he would plough on regardless, often snorting with laughter over Fred’s golfing disaster or some chaotic Rotary Club meeting. It wouldn’t even occur to him that the others listening hadn’t found the story funny the first time they’d heard it, let alone the third, fourth or fifth time. He was also obsessed with journeys.

  ‘Was your train on time?’ he asked as he poured Rachel a sherry.

  ‘Yes, it was actually. I was quite surprised,’ said Rachel.

  ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘That line is very hit-and-miss. I went up to London last week and it was twelve minutes late getting in and nine minutes late getting back. No explanation, nothing. Don’t know why they bother with timetables. Those buffet cars are expensive as well. It was a good thing your mother had packed me a couple of sandwiches. I only had to buy a cup of tea and that was bad enough. Daylight robbery, I say.’

  Rachel and Rowan caught each other’s eye and tried not to laugh.

  ‘Did you write to The Times about it?’ Rachel forced a straight face as she spoke.

  ‘No, I didn’t. Not really one for The Times. Think I might write to the train company, though. Mind you, you’ll probably find you can only telephone some dreadful call centre, and then they’ll charge you a fortune for a phone call that they take ten minutes to answer.’

  Rachel decided to change the subject. ‘How has your week been, Mum? Any gossip from the shop?’

  The local charity shop was her mum’s lifeline. She had stayed at home the whole time Rachel and Rowan had been children, dedicating herself to looking after the family. She was naturally a shy person and working mornings in the shop was the one thing that managed to bring her out of herself.

  ‘Well, we’ve had such a busy week,’ Rachel’s mum said. ‘We were given several large bags of clothes last weekend, really good quality things. We think someone must have died − sad really. Anyway, it took us ages to sort and price them. Then on Wednesday this young girl came in looking for things for a seventies fancy dress party and she was raving about the new clothes. She phoned some of her friends who were going to the same party and before we knew it the shop was packed. We sold more clothes that afternoon than we’d normally sell in two weeks! Plus we got a donation of plants left over from the local school fête and they did really well too. Grace and I were rushed off our feet. Still, all in a good cause.’

  Rachel found it hard to believe that her mum knew what being rushed off your feet meant and began to wonder why she’d come home. Why was it that the thought of being home was always much nicer than the reality? It had been the same pattern since university days. She put up with truckloads
of banal conversation in return for getting her washing done and a Sunday roast.

  Rachel looked around. ‘What time are Laura and Naomi arriving?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not coming,’ said Rowan. ‘Naomi is waking up a bit early at the moment, which Laura is trying desperately to sort out. She thought moving her about might set her back a bit. They’ll come next time.’

  Rachel knew how disappointed her mum would have been when she found out.

  Rowan seemed to read her mind. ‘It’s no reflection on you, Mum, honestly,’ said Rowan. ‘It’s just the way the timings worked out. Laura normally would have loved to come.’

  Rachel’s eyes gleamed. Her brother on his own for the weekend. It had been ages!

  ‘Shall we pop to the pub after supper?’ Rachel suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Rowan, trying to hide the relief in his voice.

  After they’d eaten, Rachel and Rowan headed off to the local pub.

  ‘God, what are they like!’ said Rachel.

  ‘They mean well,’ said Rowan. ‘We’ll probably be just like them one day.’

  ‘What an awful thought! Do you think we’ll see anyone from school at the pub?’ Rachel asked, keen to get away from the idea of turning into her mother.

  ‘Probably,’ said Rowan. ‘Loads of them still live and work round here.’

  The local was a traditional style pub with low-beamed ceilings that worked hard to make itself look more olde worlde than it really was − brass plates by the fire, the odd scythe stuck on the wall and a series of big fireplaces. Rachel bought them a bottle of wine and brought it over to the quiet corner of the pub that Rowan had chosen.

  ‘Not the greatest but at least it’s cold,’ said Rachel. She poured them both a large glass. ‘Cheers. How is Laura? Shame she’s not here.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Rowan, but Rachel could tell from his voice that she wasn’t. ‘Actually, we’re having a bit of a tough time. The last few months since Naomi was born have been pretty stressful − not like I’d imagined it at all. Laura’s been so uptight and I can’t seem to get anything right. If Naomi is crying, anything I suggest is bound to be wrong. I know Laura’s tired but she won’t let me give her a break. She’s convinced herself that she’s the only one who can look after Naomi properly. This whole waking up early thing is just another example; she’s completely neurotic about it.’

  ‘You’re a great dad and I’m sure it will blow over,’ said Rachel, aware that her ability to give advice in this area was not the best.

  Rowan didn’t seem to hear her and carried on. ‘The other morning, I had to get an early flight to Stockholm and I got up at five a.m. to have a shower. The noise woke Naomi up and Laura went mad, shouting about how selfish I was and that now she would have the whole day with a grumpy baby whose routine was all mixed up. I pointed out to her that the toughest thing she had to do all day was have coffee in Starbucks with all the other mums, whereas I had six hours of meetings with three hours of travelling either side.’

  ‘Helpful,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Yeah, not really,’ said Rowan. ‘It just cost me a large bottle of perfume and two nights in the spare room.’

  ‘Have another glass of wine,’ said Rachel, lost for anything else more useful to say.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Then across the bar Rachel spotted someone familiar.

  ‘God, Rowan, look − it’s Dawn Hunt. I haven’t seen her for ages. Let’s go and say hello.’

  Dawn and Rachel had been in the same class at school. Before Rowan could answer, Rachel was up and heading across the pub. Dawn was with a group of friends, most of whom Rachel either knew or vaguely recognised.

  ‘Hey, stranger, long time no see! You look well,’ said Dawn, getting up and hugging Rachel. She saw Rowan hovering behind. ‘And your lovely brother too. We’re lucky! Come on, sit down.’

  They both sat down and Rowan was quickly engrossed in watching the football on the TV with a couple of the other guys at the table.

  ‘So, how are you, city person? Still loving the big job?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Yes I am, really enjoying it actually, and very busy at the moment, so that keeps me out of trouble. Plus I get to meet lots of interesting people, so I can’t complain,’ said Rachel.

  ‘I’ve never really understood what you do,’ said Dawn.

  ‘It’s not that tricky really,’ said Rachel. ‘You know when you buy a house and you get a survey done? Well, we do the same thing, just for people buying and selling businesses.’

  ‘How many businesses do you see that need new windows and a damp-proof course?’ Dawn was laughing.

  ‘More than you might imagine,’ said Rachel. ‘Mostly, though, they just need some decent management. Anyway, talking of management, how is the salon doing?’

  Dawn had left school to train as a beautician. Once she’d qualified she got a job working at the local beauty salon and had steadily progressed to become the salon manager. She was likable, streetwise and understood what it took to run a small business.

  ‘God, really well actually. You’d be amazed what people will pay for a scrub down with some warm mud. We’ve also just started this new cleavage facial that I read about it in a Swedish beauty magazine. We give the old pair a bit of a birthday at the same time as a standard facial and then finish off with firming cream and a light coating of fake tan all over. It’s so popular that we’ve had to take on an extra girl on Saturdays.’

  Rachel was slowly realising that there was a whole world of beauty treatments and cosmetic surgery that she knew nothing about.

  ‘What’s the most unusual thing you do?’ Rachel asked, feeling slightly like someone from one of those car crash TV shows that Natalie had talked about. All in the interests of research, she thought weakly.

  ‘It’s got to be Hollywood waxing,’ said Dawn, ‘which actually isn’t that unusual any more but it is a bit of a weird concept. All that talc and getting on all fours, just to get rid of every hair God gave you. I really don’t get it, but it brings in plenty of regulars, so who cares? If that’s what they want, that’s what we do.’

  ‘Do you find many of your customers have also had some work done − you know, the odd lift or tuck here and there?’

  ‘Quite a few actually. Loads have had Botox or fillers, even though they’re dead expensive. No idea where people get the money to keep doing them every few months. You can always spot those with boob jobs too, especially when you’re doing massages.’

  Dawn and Rachel sat chatting until the wine and the football were finished.

  ‘We’re off to Club Tropicana after closing time,’ said Dawn. ‘Fancy joining us?’

  Club Tropicana was a nearby nightclub so stuck in the eighties even the building had shoulder pads. The seats were arranged around circular tables under plastic palm trees, connected by a series of intertwining bridges leading to a black and white mirrored dance floor. They served two-for-one cocktails, made with watered-down spirits and adorned with huge umbrellas. It had been the scene of so many nights out for Rachel over the years − nights either spent in dark corners, or in tears, or in the ladies’ throwing up.

  It had been ages since she’d last been dancing − well, apart from last night, but that didn’t really count. That had just been a pub band, not a proper nightclub. Rachel had a busy few weeks coming up and she deserved a good night out. She knew that baby-free Rowan would be up for it too.

  ‘Yes, why not,’ said Rachel. ‘Let’s go.’

  The next morning Rachel woke up when her mum knocked on her door.

  ‘Tea, darling,’ her mum said as she entered the room.

  Rachel groaned and rolled away from the light that came streaming in the gap in the open door.

  ‘Gosh, you were late back,’ her mum said. ‘I’m sure I heard you around three a.m.’

  ‘Not really sure. Thanks for the tea,’ said Rachel, praying her mother would then leave.


  Instead, she sat on the side of her bed. ‘It’s so lovely to have you here, darling. I do miss you,’ her mum said, stroking her head. She clearly wanted to chat.

  With great effort Rachel sat up and picked up her tea. Waves of nausea swept over her.

  ‘It’s lovely to be home too, Mum. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after eight. I know how early you normally start at that job of yours, so thought you’d appreciate the lie in.’

  You have no idea, thought Rachel, recalling her two o’clock start the previous day.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you have a good night?’

  Rachel thought for a moment. She could vaguely remember some very dodgy dancing and persuading some lanky builder that she had a boyfriend, but mostly she remembered laughing − Rachel had no idea what about, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  ‘Yes, it was a real laugh, thanks. We ended up at Club Tropicana.’

  ‘Oh not that awful place,’ said her mum. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t closed down by now. Anyway, your father and I thought that we could all have a trip to Hayfield House today. Have a wander round, maybe get a pot of tea and a scone. Then we could pop into the garden centre on the way back. I need to get a few new bedding plants. What do you think?’

  Rachel thought that she would rather stick knitting needles in both eyes.

  ‘Er, sounds great. Maybe I could have another hour first? Get my energy up.’

  ‘Yes, of course, dear. I’ll wake you again in an hour or so. And don’t forget to drink your tea. I’m sure it will make you feel better.’

  And with that, she shut the door.

  Two hours later Rachel and Rowan were in the back of their parents’ car heading for Hayfield House. As they were getting ready, her dad had packed two litres of water and an emergency pork pie ‘just in case’, even though it was a sunny day and the journey would last no more than half an hour. Rachel had no idea what type of disaster could befall them in which they were likely to be saved by a pork pie, but she knew there was no point asking.

  ‘What did we do in life to deserve this?’ Rowan whispered as the car wound its way slowly through country lanes.