vehicle. It had taken all her courage to get into her car this morning and now that she was here she needed to find some more. Starting a new job and meeting new colleagues was going to test her limits. She was in the rebuilding phase, trying to cope with the stress of life, and anything unexpected could, and often still did, unsettle her. She needed to find the strength to get out of her car. She closed her eyes and rehearsed the process her psychologist had taught her. She imagined herself walking—no, not walking, striding—confidently into the building and introducing herself to her new colleagues. It would be fine. She could do this. This was a safe environment. She had a plan and she had to believe things would go accordingly.
She gathered her bag, took a deep breath and opened her door very carefully, mindful of the pristine paintwork of the car beside her. She’d made it this far this morning, she’d found the strength to negotiate the LA traffic and now she was here. She held a conversation with herself in her head as she stepped out into the morning sun and followed the sign to the clinic. A short path took her to the front of the building and as she rounded the corner the vista took her breath away.
The view was incredible. The crisp, blue February sky was clear of smog, just one of the bonuses of winter, and she could see over Los Angeles out to the coast where the Pacific Ocean shimmered in the morning sun. She turned her attention to the building itself. It was long and low, sleek and white. A massive wall of windows, shiny and gleaming, faced west, taking in the stunning view, and a semicircular driveway swept around in front of the glass separated from the building by a wide plaza bordered by sculpted, orderly, perfectly manicured gardens and hedges.
There was a low, unobtrusive sign of silver lettering on a white background that read ‘The Hollywood Hills Clinic’ in front of the building. Despite its name, the overall impression that she got was that she was about to step into a five-star resort, not a medical clinic. The sign didn’t need to be large. Everyone who arrived here knew exactly where they were. No one’s arrival at the clinic would be unplanned or unscheduled.
Her job interview had been conducted by phone and although she’d been on the internet and done her homework on the clinic and its management, nothing had prepared her for the reality. The first impression, from the exterior of the building alone, was definitely one of privilege, wealth and exclusivity.
Abi could see her reflection in the glass facade as she approached the front entrance and she self-consciously straightened her navy jacket and made sure her shirt was tucked into her pencil skirt. Her civilian clothes felt unfamiliar. The fabric was slippery and light compared to the thicker, more robust fabric of her army uniform and tended not to stay in place quite so firmly. Her low heels clicked on the pavers as she crossed the plaza area and she wondered if she was underdressed. If the luxury cars parked in the staff car park were any indication, she suspected her colleagues were going to be a hell of a lot more sophisticated than her. She suddenly felt like a country bumpkin on her first day in the big city.
You grew up in LA, she reminded herself. You can do this. You are an excellent doctor, you will be a valuable member of staff.
She didn’t have to fit in; she just had to do a good job. She needed a job, this job, as her money wasn’t going to last for ever and her psychologist had suggested, rather strongly, that it was time for her to start testing her reserves and her limits.
As the glass doors slid open Abi noticed a helicopter landing pad positioned at the far end of the building. It wasn’t on the roof, neither was it tucked away discreetly out of sight, but instead it sat out the front, making a bold declaration that this was a place for the privileged and wealthy. Were people planning on making a statement as they arrived? That wouldn’t surprise her given the sensational appearance of the clinic itself. The building alone certainly looked as though it was out to make a statement. Time would tell her what that statement was.
An expansive, modern foyer greeted her. A reception desk stood at one end in front of a wide window that looked out to the city below and on the opposite side of the foyer was a large courtyard with a central water feature and several oversized sculptures. More sculptures were displayed in the foyer itself and artworks hung from the walls. The look was reminiscent of a contemporary art gallery that had been merged with a very expensive and exclusive hotel. The artworks were beautifully lit and the foyer was sleek and modern.
She approached the reception desk, which was a long slab of marble. An enormous flower arrangement was positioned at one end and two chandeliers hung above it. The more Abi saw, the more the clinic looked like a five-star hotel—six-star, even, if there was such a thing. There wasn’t much to indicate it was a medical facility. Even the woman behind the desk looked as if she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair was styled in a neat bob and her make-up had been expertly applied, and Abi felt more and more like the country cousin who expected to be evicted for not being glamorous enough.
She tried to ignore her misgivings as she introduced herself to the receptionist and explained that Freya Rothsberg was expecting her. Abi knew the clinic was owned by Freya and her brother, James. James was a world-renowned reconstructive surgeon who specialised in cosmetic surgery, and, from what Abi had discerned, Freya was responsible for the PR side of things. Freya had interviewed Abi over the phone but they were yet to meet.
‘Welcome!’ a woman called out loudly from several feet away. This must be Freya. She was about Abi’s age, thirty or thereabouts, and of similar height, but that was about the extent of any resemblance. The closer Freya got the more the differences between them multiplied. Freya gave the immediate impression of someone who belonged here in the sun-kissed glamour of LA and the Hollywood Hills. She had a mane of dark hair that fell over her shoulders in natural surfer-chick waves. Her blue eyes were shining and her skin had a light tan, even at the end of winter. She had the typical LA cheerleader look—fit, trim and toned—and Abi doubted anything would have ever gone wrong in Freya Rothsberg’s life.
In contrast to Freya’s glowing Californian beauty Abi felt like a pale imitation of an LA woman, even though she had been born and bred here. Her dark brown hair with mahogany lights was cut just below her chin and had been softly feathered to frame her oval face. Her porcelain skin always looked like it had never seen the sun and Abi had never felt particularly pretty or noticeable. Her best, most striking feature were her eyes and she noted Freya’s double-take when their eyes met as they introduced themselves. Abi was used to that reaction from people. Her eyes were a deep, rich amber, much like the glass eyes often found on a child’s teddy bear. They were an unusual colour and she knew that was what people remembered about her.
‘Hello, I’m Freya Rothsberg,’ she said as she shook Abi’s hand firmly. ‘It’s so nice to meet you! I hope you’ll love it here at The Hills. Hold on one moment,’ she said, ‘there’s someone I want to introduce you to.’ A man entered the foyer and Freya called out to him. ‘Damien!’
The man started walking towards them and Abi’s first thought was that he was absolutely divine to look at. There was no other word to describe him. Was there no end to the beauty in this place?
He had designer stubble, brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, and a full head of black hair, short and spiky. He was tall, lean and looked like a model. His black suit might have been tailor-made for him rather than off the rack. No tie, open-collar shirt. Incredibly smooth, unlined skin.
‘Abi,’ Freya said as he reached them, ‘this is Damien Moore, chief of reconstructive surgery.’
Abi recognised his name. This gorgeous man was her new boss. She found herself looking for telltale signs of plastic surgery and hoping not to find any, hoping it was just good genes because, despite working in the industry, she didn’t find narcissistic men attractive. Not that she should care about what Damien Moore did with his body or his spare time.
‘Damien, this is Abi Thompson, the new
