for a similar level of investment,’ he goes on, ‘instead of buying a cheap piece of cloth’ – his gaze drops briefly to my blue shift – ‘a woman can regain her youthful bloom, which has a far greater impact on her confidence.’
I swallow down the bile sauce from my spoon. I know. I could go to the loo, climb out of the window and run all the way home. Rude, yes, but then so is mocking my fashion choice … although, I have to admit, I wish I was wearing something else. The dress is a little tight around the hips when I’m sitting down, and keeps riding up, and my shoes are pinching like hell. I overdid it, I realise now. I’d forgotten that, rather than lending me an elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).
‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.
‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not completely natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’
‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.
‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to my face?’
‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’
I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your … expert appraisal.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.
‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’
‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.
‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’
‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You can’t say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’
He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly done.’
‘But it does,’ I argue. ‘We’re talking Hollywood A-list – the wealthiest, most photographed women in the world. Surely they go to the best people. I mean, they’re hardly resorting to some shoddy little clinic with a seventy per cent off Groupon deal.’
Anthony makes a little snorting noise. ‘If it’s properly done, it’s merely enhancing. It’s the way forward, trust me.’
‘Okay,’ I laugh involuntarily, ‘so how much would all of this cost, just out of interest? All the procedures you’ve mentioned, I mean?’
‘Well, we look upon it as an investment …’ I know what this means: a fuck of a lot of money. Anthony pops a raw-looking pink thing, tied up with what looks like green raffia, into his mouth.
‘I’m sure you do,’ I say, ‘but how much are we talking exactly?’
‘Ahh … at our top-tier service, we’d probably be looking at around four thousand pounds.’
‘Four grand,’ I exclaim, a little too loudly, ‘for a new face?’
‘Not new,’ he declares. ‘We never say new. We say you’ll still be you – but better.’
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge a seaweedy strand that’s lodged itself in my throat. To my horror, I am starting to feel rather wobbly and emotional. It hasn’t helped that the waiter has been diving over to refill my glass every time I’ve taken a sip. It’s not just the booze, though. It’s the realisation that I clearly have the face of a withered crone who needs extensive reconstructive work. Why has no one told me this before?
‘You might also benefit from microdermabrasion,’ Anthony adds, flicking a crumb from his pale-blue striped shirt.
I blink at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s when we use a little spiky roller to stimulate your skin, accelerating the replenishment of collagen deep within the dermal layers.’
Jesus Christ. ‘Excuse me, Anthony,’ I say, getting up, ‘I just need to nip to the loo.’ I march to the Ladies, conscious of my dress clinging to my hips in unflattering folds.
In the swankiest facilities known to womankind, with Jo Malone hand creams lined up on a glass shelf, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. God, that slimy man. Obviously, he doesn’t want to get to know me at all. He just wants to give me a good going-over with his spiky roller. Still fixed on my reflection, I widen my eyes to try to stretch out the crow’s feet, and open my mouth as far as it’ll go, like one of those scary bottom-feeding fish, in an attempt to iron out those damn marionette lines. Then, placing a flattened hand on each of my cheeks, I push back my entire face – the free facelift effect – which does improve things somewhat, even if I look a little like a rabbit in a sidecar …
‘Oh!’ A smart, reedy woman in clicky heels has trotted into the loos.
‘Ha,’ I guffaw, whipping my hands away and rubbing ineffectually at my cheeks in the hope that she’ll think I’m applying moisturiser. She purses her lips at me before disappearing into a cubicle.
Grow up, I tell my reflection silently. Just be nice and polite and get through this without getting too pissed and making a complete twit of yourself. Surely there can only be another couple more courses to go.
I rejoin my date at our table. Anthony beams at me, and I’m transfixed by his dazzling dental work and
