The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  “A pleasure,” the women said almost in unison, their eyes sweeping over Abigail as they not so subtly assessed her newly acquired satin gown with pearl-encrusted bodice and puffed sleeves. On Monday, she and Dr. Rome had spent several hours at Bergdorf Goodman; he’d paid extra for the dressmaker’s promise that this particular dress, one of several they’d ordered, would be ready for tonight. Her final primping, which included a salon-styled pompadour hairdo, had required all afternoon at the beauty parlor. Still, she could tell that the ladies before her now were wary. Might they be questioning the nature of her relationship with Dr. Rome?

  “And the two of you are here as guests of . . . ?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Chapman,” Dr. Rome replied, his eyes quickly scouring the room. “Yes, I think I see them right over there.” He nodded toward the farthest corner, mumbled a quick thank you, and before the two patronesses could inquire further, he gently took Abigail’s arm and propelled her onto the crowded floor.

  “Tell me about the Chapmans again?” She was nervous. Though Dr. Rome had been patient with her for the entire week, explaining in great detail about the office and exactly how he wanted things done, she feared he might expect too much of her tonight.

  “Roger Chapman is a big industrialist, mostly land and minerals. I’ve never met him, actually. But I have met his wife. They have a townhome only a few blocks from the office. I had the good fortune not too long ago to find and return her missing Pomeranian. Name is Buttons, I believe—the dog, that is. Mrs. Chapman was exceedingly grateful.” He straightened his bow tie and gave Abigail an encouraging pat on the arm. “Now, do as I’ve told you. Make her curious, dying to know everything. I’ll take it from there.”

  “But what if she doesn’t approve of beauty surgery?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Some will think it’s wonderful, others will be aghast. But in the end, they all want to hear about it in every fascinating detail. And if it’s presented to them properly, they will hardly be able to restrain themselves from making an appointment right on the spot.”

  They approached a couple, whom Abigail judged to be in their fifties, the man on the short side and portly, the woman tall and still beautiful but with the first telltale signs of advancing years—a slight slackness of the jawline, a deepness to the folds around her mouth. Dr. Rome had already begun teaching her how to assess a woman’s appearance and what might benefit from correction, though there had as yet been only a very superficial discussion of the means to effect such changes as might be required to restore the illusion of youth. It bothered her to think that, from now on, she must take a critical view of every woman she met, intent only on her physical flaws. Yet Dr. Rome appeared to sincerely believe that he offered a valuable service and one that many women wanted. In Abigail’s mind, both assertions had yet to be proved.

  “Mrs. Chapman!” Dr. Rome spoke her name as if she were a dear and long-lost friend. “How wonderful to see you!”

  “Oh yes, Dr. Rome. I’m so pleased you could make it.” Mrs. Chapman glanced at her husband, who was contemplating the selection of canapes on a silver tray held only inches from his nose by a white-coated butler. “Dear, this is Dr. Rome. I told you about him. The one who found our Buttons!”

  Mr. Chapman interrupted his deliberations long enough to glance at the new arrivals. “Good evening. Roger Chapman here.” He snatched a couple of appetizers from the tray before finally giving them his full attention. “Guess I owe you a big debt of gratitude, Doctor. If anything had happened to Buttons, I’m afraid my wife would never have recovered from it. She’s more attached to that dog than she is to me!”

  Dr. Rome laughed heartily, while Abigail offered an appropriately subdued smile.

  “But tell us, who is this lovely young lady?” Mr. Chapman said, eyeing her as he stuffed foie gras on a cracker into his mouth.

  “Please allow me to introduce Miss Abigail Platford, my—”

  “Dr. Rome’s assistant,” she interjected firmly, before some less distinguished title might be assigned.

  “Your assistant! What a responsible position for such a lovely young girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Chapman. Though her response was gracious, she seemed caught off guard; perhaps it was only that she was unaccustomed to socializing with working women.

  “Yes, Miss Platford is extraordinarily capable and well organized. Setting up a new practice is a complicated matter. Countless things to attend to, most of which I must confess I have little patience for. With her help this week, I’ve managed to settle into my new office very quickly, allowing me already to begin scheduling patients for transformative procedures.”

  “A good secretary is worth her weight in gold,” said Mr. Chapman distractedly, signaling the butler to return with the tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  “But, Dr. Rome, what was that you said? What kind of procedures?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

  Dr. Rome offered his most disarming smile. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten that the subject never came up when we met before. Understandably so, with our attention on that most charming dog of yours. A brilliant example of his breed!”

  “Why, thank you. But what did you say about—”

  “My field, Mrs. Chapman, is transformative surgery.”

  Abigail took her cue, just as they’d rehearsed. “Dr. Rome is too modest to boast of his reputation, but in addition to being fully trained as a general surgeon, he is among the world’s most acclaimed beauty doctors. He’s just returned from Europe, and the techniques he learned there are truly astonishing.” She turned to Mrs. Chapman with a coy smile. “Haven’t you ever wondered why European women always appear so chic, so ageless?”

  “Well, they do seem to have a certain something,” the woman replied, still looking befuddled.

  “Before I arrived in New York, just a few short weeks ago,” Dr. Rome interjected, “I was performing procedures alongside some of the leading beauty doctors in France. As in many matters of a scientific nature, Europe is far ahead of America.”

  “Well, if you ask me—” Though no one had inquired as to Mr. Chapman’s opinion, everyone paused with an air of deference to hear his pronouncement. “I find it ludicrous that any genuine doctor would spend his time and the efforts of his training on such frivolity when there are far more important issues to be addressed. What about tuberculosis, polio, influenza? And, certainly, no man in his right mind would ever allow his wife to indulge in that kind of tinkering with nature.” He tossed a meaningful glance at Mrs. Chapman. “That’s why they have rouge pots and curling tongs, isn’t it? I would think that’s quite enough.”

  “Of course, such interventions are not for everyone, Mr. Chapman,” Dr. Rome responded, his temper perfectly even, though Abigail noticed a slight rigidity to his jaw. “A woman such as Mrs. Chapman, for example, could hardly improve on what nature has already endowed. But there are others whose lives might be dramatically changed for the better if only they could look in the mirror without flinching. There is a wide range of conditions that can cause certain people to feel unsettled about their appearance. In fact, I’ve seen many instances in which such individuals withdraw completely from life, even shun those closest to them. Thank goodness that, in their desperation, they have somewhere to turn—to a doctor, a professional, who understands their pain and possesses the highly specialized surgical skill to alleviate it once and for all.”

  “Yes, thank goodness,” Abigail chimed in, unexpectedly moved by Dr. Rome’s seemingly heartfelt monologue. “Surely it’s not for us to judge others’ pain, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Chapman seemed to be waiting for her husband’s answer, as if she dare not offer her own opinion first. But, seeing that he was again distracted by the butler’s tray, she spoke up herself. “Putting all of that aside, what exactly are these techniques, Dr. Rome?”

  His face relaxed. It was not, after all, Mr. Chapman whom he needed to convince. “They’re quite varied, actually, depending on the problem to be addressed. But, to give you an example, f
acial wrinkles and folds often can be treated very effectively with a simple paraffin injection, nearly painless, and the results are nothing short of spectacular.”

  “Is that so,” Mrs. Chapman said, her expression thoughtful. But before she could formulate her next question, they were being summoned to supper. “My goodness, I’ve barely had time to work up an appetite.” She smiled at Abigail, examining her with a great deal more interest than before. “You must tell me the secret of such a lovely complexion. Or would that require giving away one of Dr. Rome’s proprietary formulas?”

  Abigail laughed lightly, glancing at Dr. Rome to see if he was about to answer. He offered her no such help. “I’d be happy to tell you anything you’d like to know, but I hope you will also share your beauty secrets with me.”

  Mrs. Chapman seemed surprised and pleased by her comment. Linking her arm through Abigail’s, she said in a cozy tone, “Come along, dear. Let’s get you and Dr. Rome settled at our table, and we can continue our discussion there.” Then, propelling Abigail a few feet away from Mr. Chapman, she leaned in to whisper, “I suddenly feel as if the world has passed me by, and there is so much I must learn.”

  She had no further opportunity to question Abigail. When they arrived at the banquet table, her husband promptly seated himself to Abigail’s left, with Dr. Rome occupying the chair on her right. But she apparently had taken a liking to Dr. Rome’s youthful assistant, and at the end of the night she invited her to tea on Monday afternoon with several other ladies whom, she said, might enjoy hearing about Dr. Rome’s work.

  Though Abigail readily accepted the invitation, she did so with some trepidation. She was relieved that her first performance as Dr. Rome’s foil had gone extraordinarily well.

  But on Monday, at Mrs. Chapman’s party, she would be on her own.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. Won’t you please come in?”

  The handsome young butler dipped his head in deference as Abigail crossed the threshold of the Chapmans’ elegantly appointed foyer.

  “Thank you. Am I the first to arrive?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. There are two others here already. Unless you’d like to visit the powder room, I can take you to them now.”

  “We can go directly.”

  “Of course, if you’ll follow me please.”

  As she passed by the gleaming rosewood console, she stopped to leave one of her new calling cards that read “Miss Abigail Platford, Assistant to Franklin Rome, MD, Transformative Surgery,” followed by the slogan “The Power of Beauty” and Dr. Rome’s office address and five-digit telephone number. Then she followed the butler down a wide hallway, past a light and spacious drawing room, a paneled library, and a dining room where several maids bustled about the banquet table laying out fine china and crystal and silver in preparation for the Chapmans’ next exclusive soiree. Passing through a back parlor decorated in a cheery color scheme of cornflower blue and white and smelling of fresh roses and cinnamon, they exited through French doors onto a tiny patch of lawn, where a number of wicker chairs and small tea tables had been set up in the shade of a willow oak. As Abigail approached the three ladies who stood chatting, Mrs. Chapman turned to greet her.

  “Miss Platford, how good of you to come.” Dismissing the butler, she took Abigail’s arm and gently oriented her toward the others. “If I may interrupt for just a moment, I’d like to introduce Miss Abigail Platford, the young lady I’ve been telling you about.”

  There was a momentary hush, as the two women surveyed Abigail’s appearance. She took comfort in the knowledge that her afternoon frock from Bergdorf Goodman—lavender-dotted batiste with Swiss needlework and trimmed in baby Irish lace, with a matching hat and parasol—could hold its own against any of the other ladies’ outfits.

  “Mrs. Edwards”—Mrs. Chapman gestured toward an extremely thin woman with a lined and hollowed-out face—“and Mrs. Monroe, both of them dear friends.”

  It was Mrs. Monroe, an attractive woman with graying hair and lively blue eyes, who smiled and tried to put Abigail at ease. “Loretta warned us that your youth and beauty would put the rest of us to shame, and I’m afraid she was correct.” She flashed a mock-serious frown at Mrs. Chapman and then started to laugh. “You see, Loretta can be blunt at times. She told us to pay close attention to what you have to say about Dr. Rome and his so-called transformative surgery. Sounds frightening to me! But the implication was that we’d be smart to avail ourselves of it, whatever it might be.”

  “I would never go so far as to make that kind of recommendation,” Mrs. Chapman protested. “But all of us being modern women, it seemed to me that we at least ought to know what’s available to us. As I said to Miss Platford the other night, the world has changed, and there is no good reason to remain ignorant of the possibilities.”

  At that moment, three more women appeared on the lawn. Two of them were of the same general age as Mrs. Chapman and her other friends, while the third Abigail judged to be no older than twenty.

  Mrs. Chapman greeted the new arrivals and introduced Abigail to them as well. Rather quickly, however, she returned to the subject of beauty surgery. “Miss Platford, you were very mysterious at the Cotillion of Eighty banquet about Dr. Rome and his work. Of course, we’ve all heard about beauty surgery, but I doubt any of us have taken it too seriously. Nor has anyone we know.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t hear about Geraldine Langhardt?” said one of the new arrivals. “Last year she went to some beauty doctor out of town and apparently had the full treatment. All along, of course, she insisted she was doing it for her husband. She wanted to tame his wandering eye, she said. But after it was all done and paid for, she divorced him. And the next thing we heard, she’d run off to Paris with some fellow fifteen years her junior!”

  There was a round of gasps and murmured exclamations.

  “Whatever happened to the notion that one should be accepting of what God has seen fit to give you in the way of looks?” said Mrs. Edwards. “It’s character that matters, is it not, ladies?”

  “Have you ever heard a man say such a thing? No, my dear, it’s what we women tell ourselves when we no longer can bear to look in the mirror!”

  “But these beauty doctors—forgive me, Miss Platford, but their reputations leave much to be desired.”

  “Oh, but Dr. Rome seems quite distinguished,” Mrs. Chapman said. “Not at all what one would imagine. He told me his degree is from Johns Hopkins!”

  “That is quite impressive,” Mrs. Monroe said. “Actually, I would find it fascinating to learn more about what he does.”

  There followed a general flutter of assent, which Abigail found more terrifying than gratifying, given that she had not expected to deliver a lecture but merely to drop a few hints in conversation. But it was obvious that these women, or at least some of them, were determined to wring every drop of information from her that they could—not understanding, of course, that her wellspring was extremely shallow.

  She was granted a few minutes’ reprieve by the appearance of two manservants bearing refreshments, but once the ladies had helped themselves to tea and blueberry scones, they seemed perfectly happy to settle back in their chairs. Pacified by the warmth of the late-afternoon sun and the sweet scent of winter honeysuckle, they turned their eyes toward her.

  “So tell us, Miss Platford, what exactly is this transformative surgery that Dr. Rome speaks about in such elusive terms?” Mrs. Chapman said.

  “Well . . .” Abigail could feel droplets of perspiration gathering above her lip. Quickly, she raised her napkin to brush them away. “Let me start by saying that Dr. Rome has the greatest respect for women and a most compassionate understanding of the difficulties we may sometimes face in achieving and maintaining our natural beauty. Because, as I’m sure everyone would agree, it is natural beauty for which we all strive. The means to that end, however, can be various.”

  “But what are the means?” prodded Mrs. Edwards. “What exactly does Dr. Rome do?”


  “Mrs. Edwards, there are as many approaches as there are individuals. Which is to say, Dr. Rome must first evaluate his patient and then design a treatment specifically for her.”

  “But give us an example,” chimed in one of the ladies who had arrived later. “What kind of treatments are they?”

  “Well, there are simple injections and there is actual surgery, mostly minor procedures—all of it totally pain free, I should emphasize, thanks to the wonderful anesthetics available today. And, I should add—as Mrs. Chapman mentioned—Dr. Rome is a graduate of Johns Hopkins and a fully trained surgeon, having studied both here in America and abroad.”

  “But please, can you explain how the procedures are performed?” This time it was the young woman. “The various featural surgeries . . .”

  “And what about scars?” asked Mrs. Monroe. “Surely, there must be some telltale trace, something that would give it away—I mean, one would want to keep such a thing private. Can you imagine if something like that were to get around?”

  “I can assure you that the goal of Dr. Rome’s techniques is to achieve results that appear totally natural,” Abigail said again, at this point feeling a bit like a trained parrot.

  “But you must be talking about cutting the skin, my dear. And a cut necessarily leaves some sign.”

  “That, Mrs. Monroe, is why the skill of the surgeon is paramount.”

  “You have, of course, seen Dr. Rome operate?” The manner in which Mrs. Edwards asked the question left no doubt as to the answer she expected. Abigail could have saved face by simply agreeing with her; yes, she’d seen Dr. Rome’s work, and it was extraordinary. But, having been careful up to now to speak only in vague generalities, she could not bring herself to tell an unambiguous lie.

  She was about to admit that she had only recently begun her employment with Dr. Rome and had yet to see him in action, so to speak, when Mrs. Chapman suddenly jumped from her chair, clapping her hands in delight as a new guest made her entrance into the garden. Abigail could not have been more grateful for the interruption—that is, until she turned to see the latecomer. For a moment, she was sure that she must be mistaken, that her memory of Mrs. Hennessy’s sour, pinched face already had been dulled to the point that she might easily confuse her with someone else. But no, the slope of the woman’s long nose, the vulture-like sharpness of her gaze, the ropey cords that stood out from her thin neck—there could be no doubt it was Arthur’s mother.