nice, and devastated that she couldn’t get me an appointment any earlier than the seventeenth of next month, only he was so frightfully busy and away at conferences in Amsterdam and Chicago from Wednesday. But when I mentioned that Castle Dean had referred me, hey presto, she managed to find me a last-minute cancellation for tomorrow afternoon during his Embankment Hospital clinic. She gave me the address. “Looking forward to seeing you, Miss Landsdowne.”
My body, but somebody else’s name. Well, it wouldn’t do to have my own coming up on the computer screen when Olivia Marchant looked for more Castle Dean to Harley Street. I had thought my way around my table at the lettuce banquet a few nights before and alighted on the television producer. She was younger and cuter than me, but she had left the same day and her bill (which I had caught sight of in the register) betrayed a fairly intense relationship with the beauty salon. Who knows what sweet words of poison Julie had poured into her ears?
There was still no sign of Olivia’s fax, so I used the time to check out a few names on my list. Since I was into media territory I decided to stay there, using the old journalist’s approach: I was doing a story on problems with the cosmeticsurgery industry and I had heard from a friend of a friend that they might like to contribute.
The model with the faulty nose job, otherwise known as Natalie West, was no longer at the same address—her old flatmate told me that she now lived in Bermuda with a record producer. I pretended to be a friend who’d been away and she happily filled me in on the bits of her life that I’d missed. Natalie, it turned out, had given up modeling just under a year ago, and was now helping to run a recording studio with some guy she had met on a shoot there. When I asked her how about the trouble with the cosmetic surgery she was surprised I knew about it, but told me Natalie had had another operation done with someone else that hadn’t been that much better. On the other hand, you know Natalie. Most girls who looked like her would have been thanking the gods for their looks rather than trying to stretch the envelope of perfection. I agreed and took down a Bermuda address, anyway, like a good pal should.
Then came Elvis’thighs. His answering machine referred me to a manager. When I spoke to him, I pretended to be a music journalist and put in a request for an interview. He said he’d let me know.
So to the breasts. The woman with the implant problem had emigrated to Australia with a new husband who presumably had no trouble with the size of her tits. The lady with the dissatisfied boyfriend was happy to talk, but no longer complaining. She’d kept the breasts but dumped the man, which I suppose under the circumstances qualified as a small triumph for feminism. She certainly seemed content with the arrangement.
The last and most dissatisfied breast customer, one Belinda Balliol, turned out to be a message on an answering machine. Still, she had a nice voice—young and energetic, as if life was holding on the other line and she had to getback to it quickly. If I wanted to join in, I could leave my name and number after the beep. I did so. Then, just in case, I went back to her notes. There was a second number jotted down in brackets with a little
w
by the side. It turned out to be a recorded message for the Majestic Casino near the Strand. Opening hours 2:00 P.M. to 4:00 A.M. Exciting. This was going to be a job with some nightlife at least.
Egged on by images of glamor, I called Milan only to get another answering machine, this time in glorious, speedy Italian. I left a message in dull, slow English. Let’s just hope she’d remembered to tell her husband about the facelift.
I was about to try Mrs. Muriel Rankin, the walking case of scar tissue with serious liposuction trouble, when the fax activated. Hold the front page. And the next call. When I’m rich and successful, I’m going
My body, but somebody else’s name. Well, it wouldn’t do to have my own coming up on the computer screen when Olivia Marchant looked for more Castle Dean to Harley Street. I had thought my way around my table at the lettuce banquet a few nights before and alighted on the television producer. She was younger and cuter than me, but she had left the same day and her bill (which I had caught sight of in the register) betrayed a fairly intense relationship with the beauty salon. Who knows what sweet words of poison Julie had poured into her ears?
There was still no sign of Olivia’s fax, so I used the time to check out a few names on my list. Since I was into media territory I decided to stay there, using the old journalist’s approach: I was doing a story on problems with the cosmeticsurgery industry and I had heard from a friend of a friend that they might like to contribute.
The model with the faulty nose job, otherwise known as Natalie West, was no longer at the same address—her old flatmate told me that she now lived in Bermuda with a record producer. I pretended to be a friend who’d been away and she happily filled me in on the bits of her life that I’d missed. Natalie, it turned out, had given up modeling just under a year ago, and was now helping to run a recording studio with some guy she had met on a shoot there. When I asked her how about the trouble with the cosmetic surgery she was surprised I knew about it, but told me Natalie had had another operation done with someone else that hadn’t been that much better. On the other hand, you know Natalie. Most girls who looked like her would have been thanking the gods for their looks rather than trying to stretch the envelope of perfection. I agreed and took down a Bermuda address, anyway, like a good pal should.
Then came Elvis’thighs. His answering machine referred me to a manager. When I spoke to him, I pretended to be a music journalist and put in a request for an interview. He said he’d let me know.
So to the breasts. The woman with the implant problem had emigrated to Australia with a new husband who presumably had no trouble with the size of her tits. The lady with the dissatisfied boyfriend was happy to talk, but no longer complaining. She’d kept the breasts but dumped the man, which I suppose under the circumstances qualified as a small triumph for feminism. She certainly seemed content with the arrangement.
The last and most dissatisfied breast customer, one Belinda Balliol, turned out to be a message on an answering machine. Still, she had a nice voice—young and energetic, as if life was holding on the other line and she had to getback to it quickly. If I wanted to join in, I could leave my name and number after the beep. I did so. Then, just in case, I went back to her notes. There was a second number jotted down in brackets with a little
w
by the side. It turned out to be a recorded message for the Majestic Casino near the Strand. Opening hours 2:00 P.M. to 4:00 A.M. Exciting. This was going to be a job with some nightlife at least.
Egged on by images of glamor, I called Milan only to get another answering machine, this time in glorious, speedy Italian. I left a message in dull, slow English. Let’s just hope she’d remembered to tell her husband about the facelift.
I was about to try Mrs. Muriel Rankin, the walking case of scar tissue with serious liposuction trouble, when the fax activated. Hold the front page. And the next call. When I’m rich and successful, I’m going
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