13 Wednesday 26 July
An adventure. I’ve hired a car for the day, and fuck knows it was expensive. A Ferrari. I drive it like I’m driving on eggshells. A111, M25, A41 towards Aylesbury. Tarmac gray even in summer sun, concrete flyovers, the only blobs of colour are the endless streams of cars. I have to be careful with my foot: press a fraction too much on this accelerator and I’ll bang the bum of the car in front. Turn off at a junction onto minor roads. Despite the hire price this silly thing doesn’t have a satnav, so I keep stopping to check the map on my phone. Suddenly I’m in picture-postcard England, a village green surrounded by cottages. There’s even a duckpond and a rusty old water pump. And real ducks! Is that why they say “Aylesbury Duck” I wonder – or am I being a bit daft? Well, Holly girl, I need to think like a dimbo today. Keep those daft thoughts coming.
I screwed every penny of the cash I was owed out of Ruby. Together with my other earnings, that gives me enough to pay Krasniqi and enough to live on, plus a couple of thousand to spend on today’s jaunt. And what with the car hire place, and the shopping, and the haircut, yesterday was full-on, preparing for this. Most of my mates love shopping, but I find it tiring, I um and aah over every item, can never make my mind up. I’m wearing a simple, light summer dress, bought specially – for a premium price, in a boutique. It’s even more top-drawer than the one I wore for meeting Jack Downes. As usual these hot days, I couldn’t be arsed with a bra, but I’m equipped for what may happen with some super-expensive silk pants. Posh new shoes, too, and I’m well pleased with them. Make-up took me ages, I’ve never sat so long in front of a mirror in my life. I glance at myself in the rear-view mirror. Looking like this, dressed like this and sitting behind the wheel, in this chocolate-box setting, I feel like some kind of romantic-novel heroine. I check the map again and take a single-track road between two thatched cottages. It looks like a driveway, but it goes on, away from the houses, and then burrows up among trees, thick, deep woodland, sloping steeply upwards. Can this really be the way? The road surface is uneven: this hire car has bugger all ground clearance, and if I grind the underside on this lumpy surface... or if I scratch the hubcaps... concentrate, girl. There’s a fork off to the left, which stays level along the side of the slope, but it has grass growing all down the middle of it, it delves even deeper into the trees, that can’t be the way. I wouldn’t dare try it in this car anyway. I keep right, put it into second gear as the road climbs even steeper, then flattens out. Suddenly the trees come to an end, and there’s fancy iron gates across the road. And then I see an intercom next to the gates. So I speak into it. One minute later I’m parking outside the sort of place you usually only see in a lifestyle magazine at the dentist’s.
I kill the engine, but I don’t get out: I sit for a moment behind the wheel, and think of how I bluffed my way this far. Dialling the number for the Home Croft clinic that I spotted on the Soames database, speaking, pretending.
“Hiya, it’s Devine here. Devine Cattrell. Josh Borrowdale, he gave me your number.”
“You’ve come through to the number for Mr Franklin’s secretary. Sorry, you are? ...”
“Like I say, Devine Cattrell. Married to Tony Cattrell? You know who I am?”
“Yes – well, I’ve heard your name in the news. But I’m not aware of you as a patient of ours?...”
“I’m not – not yet. I was wondering, can I come round? I might want some cosmetic work done. Discreetly, know what I mean?”
“Of course. Everything we do is totally confidential. But we will need to check…”
“Of course, no problem. Ask at the Soames Hotel, you see a few of their members, don’t you? Tony’s been there a lot, so have I. You’ve got this number that I’m calling from – check it with the Soames, if you’ve any doubts that I’m genuinely Devine Cattrell.”
Five minutes later, they phoned me back: they’d checked with the Soames, who had verified Devine’s mobile number that I’d altered on their database so as to make it the same as my own. And then, Home Croft texted me a link to a map showing me how to find their place. So my mad idea worked… but now I have to do some real acting. Here goes.
I cross the threshold, and for a moment I’m startled, there’s a guy like Rainbow, standing with his back to me at a water-dispenser machine. Grey suit, tall, thin. Then he turns his face slowly to look at me. Dark hair like a cloud over his forehead; rich, deep eyes hold my gaze. High cheekbones, strong nose. Like a sculpture. Unlike Rainbow, his suit’s fashionable and well made, and he wears it like a model – not like a plain-clothes detective. Early twenties, but confident, assured. I’m not one to gush over good-looking guys, I prefer a man who can hold a conversation – but I can see that most women would put this guy in the top 1% when it comes to looks. What on earth is he doing here? Too young, surely, to be a surgeon. Patient? Perhaps he’s a demo model. “Cosmetic Surgery: This is how you could look” flashes madly through my mind as that perfect face breaks into a smile. He walks over to a desk, sits down, invites me to come over. The sign on his desk says “James Goldbeck.”
“Hiya, I’m Devine Cattrell. I called, I’ve got an appointment.” I am so, so glad that James Goldbeck looks like he’s never heard of Hot magazine in his life.
“Mrs Cattrell. Good to see you. A pleasant journey?”
Act, pretend, fake it. “I had the Ferrari. Gorgeous countryside, must be great for you out here. Get out of the Smoke, eh?”
“Can I get you tea, coffee, juice?” I’m thinking: he’s not like Rainbow, not in any way, but something about him reminds me of someone I know. Who?
“An orange juice, please.” As he brings it over for me, I make an effort to think, talk like Devine. “Thank you. What do you do here, then? Are you a doctor? Do you enjoy working here?”
“I’m not anything medical, at all. I’m the receptionist. And to answer your question about my work: I love it. Meeting different people; we get a great variety.”
“How do you remember them all?”
“Just a knack.” I can see that he’s used to humouring idiots. He hands me the glass, smiles. “Thank you for coming all this way to see us.” As if it’s a social call. “Mr Franklin will be five minutes or so.” He glances at the screen of his computer.
“Mr Franklin? I thought I was seeing the consultation nurse?”
“In some cases, the nurse sees people first. But in this case...”
Money, money. I’m a big fish, and they want to land me. They’re fielding their best striker, I say to myself, trying to think like my fantasy-football husband.
“Thank you. Mr Franklin, a proper surgeon, it will be good to meet him. Nice to speak to the one who might be using the knife on me, eh?” Shouldn’t have said that word. Flashback: Room 412. I see red, but I hear James’s voice saying “In fact, Mrs Cattrell, I’ve got a message right now from Mr Franklin: you can go straight through, now. It’s down there, fourth door on the left.”
I thank him, put down the glass of juice, and walk down a long, cool corridor lined with paintings, to a door that says ‘Mr Franklin Senior Surgeon’. It’s ajar; I can hear a voice speaking inside.
“Get out now.”
A nurse comes out of the door holding a sheaf of papers. A striking beauty, piercing blue eyes. Wow, she’s nearly as good-looking as James Goldbeck. Do you have to be a model to work here? But I also see: there’s a tear in her eye. And I know what caused it: those three words, spoken as if to a slave.
But as I push the door open, I’m greeted by a broad smile, and deep, dark eyes in a strong, intelligent face. He’s exactly my height: aged fifty, maybe. Pinstripe, like he’s a lawyer not a doctor. Gray hair, but not receded. A sharp-pointed jaw. The smile is full of teeth. A wolf.
“Mrs Cattrell. Delighted to meet you.”
He’s taking my hand, and looking into my eyes, for just a second too long. He’s perfectly at ease looking straight into me, as if into my soul. Even though I’m a stranger, and he thinks I’m one of the s
uper-rich, he could have held that stare for as long as he wanted to. And I feel a strange sense, like a gentle breeze over my entire skin. Goose-bumps. Like you suddenly realise you’ve left the window open, and pull your gown closer round yourself. Not a sexual feeling at all: just a purely physical shiver.
But if his next words had been “Bend down and suck my cock” I’d have done it.
Well, not really – but I’d have had to resist the urge to obey. It’s like being back at school in the headmaster’s office, but here, the sense of his power, his command, is nothing to do with his pinstripe suit, his office, this place, his status. It just radiates straight from him. Never met anyone like him: never want to, ever again.
He sits at his desk, and picks up a pen and notepad. “Sit down, Mrs Cattrell. So – what can we do for you? What treatment are you interested in?”
Oh bloody hell, what am I like? Never thought of this bit. I’ve been so busy trying to be a WAG in my head, I’ve fucking forgotten to dream up some reason why I’m supposed to be here. I look wildly round the room.
I shout something out. “Tits.”
He pauses, like I’ve got Turrett’s and he’s politely ignoring it.
“My boobs. They’re too...” I glance down at myself, and they stand out, proud and bra-less, as if to remind me “We’re perfect.” And yes – no-one’s body is perfect maybe, but I have always been pleased with my firm, pert breasts.
Doctor Franklin is in his best rich-patient-bedside-manner, but I can tell that he’s a man of zero patience. He’s trying to hold back a sharpness in his voice as he spells it out, speaking almost word-by-word, so the idiot can understand. “Do you feel that your breasts are too big? Or, too small?”
“I’d like really hard firm ones. Like in the movies.” And I can tell he’s thinking “You’ve already got Hollywood boobs. If you want those enhanced, you must be wanting to make porn films.”
He’s silent, and I speak to fill the gap.
“So what could you do? To make them bigger and firmer?”
“Most clinics offer a range of off-the-shelf implants. But we have them custom-made.”
“Ooh, really?”
“We would do a scan of your entire torso. We’ll then create an avatar of you – a virtual you – and produce a movie for you, of exactly how you’ll look with, say, three options of different implants. You’ll be able to watch yourself, as you will look, nude, in swimwear, and in evening dress, placed in near-real life situations. You’ll see, for example, exactly how you might look on a sunny day at the beach in a bikini. We can use your own clothes for the movie if you wish.”
“I’d like that. I’ve actually got some of my own-name brand outfits that would look great in that movie. What happens then?”
“You watch the movie and simply choose your favourite implant option.”
“I’m looking forward to watching it. And then I come back to you, I guess. When would you do the operation?”
“Whenever you want. Except, you need to take a few days to think it through, to be sure of your decision. We can make the avatar movie next week, then I’d advise you to take two or three days, watching it and making up your mind. Then we can have the implants made, and then the operation.”
“How long does it take to recover? Like, will there be scars and stuff?”
“We will make sure that there will be no visible permanent scars.”
“But, would I be fully recovered for the start of the Premier League season? For photos and that?”
“If we operate within a few days, then – for most purposes, yes, you would be recovered.”
“I’m free to make the movie next Monday.”
He scribbles something on his notepad, picks up the surprisingly old-fashioned phone on his desk, makes a call, putting wheels in motion. When he puts the phone down I ask him.
“But what actually happens? In the operation?”
“Take your clothes off and I’ll show you.”
It doesn’t even seem to cross his mind that I might be offended by his lack of ceremony. I strip to my posh new pants and stand in front of him. He doesn’t bother to look up at first; still writing his notes. Then he glances up, and goes back to writing his notes. As he writes, he speaks.
“An areolar incision is not a good option for you.”
“Sorry?”
“Your areoles. The coloured skin around your nipples. Some women’s areoles have a definite line where they join onto the normal breast skin. In those cases, it can be a good option to insert the implant through an incision along that line. The scar is then invisible. But your areoles are very pale pink, and they blend into the rest of your breast skin. So although it’s tiny, a scar might show.”
“Oh.”
He stands, takes one step over to me. Unlike a doctor in a hospital, he doesn’t bother with rubber gloves. Without asking, he puts his hand under my left boob and lifts it to look at the crease below my breast. I expected ice-cold hands. But in fact they’re warm, almost a caress.
“Lift your arms.”
I obey. How many of the rich and famous have stood here, with this guy feeling their breasts?
“I recommend an armpit incision. Unless you prefer under the breast.”
“I really haven’t a clue. Whatever you say, Doctor.”
“Strictly speaking, my title is Mister.” He continues to touch and feel my armpits and around my boobs, never touching my nipples but all the same, if this was a normal guy, this would feel like some serious fondling. As it is, I can almost see the clockwork whirring in his mind. Very clever clockwork, like Cheriton’s Reverso. Two things are going on inside that powerful brain. He’s getting a feel for what he’s going to be working with, like I guess a sculptor knows the stone he’s working with, knows it so well that when he starts using the chisel it feels totally natural. And the second thing is: enjoyment, like a gourmet relishing this moment. He’s not turned on – I glance at his crotch and there’s not even the hint of a stiffy. No. It’s power. He’s loving the fact that he’s feeling – inspecting – one of the rich and famous, and that I’m entirely under his command. He knows that he’s the one who does this, who has the right to finger the skins of some of the world’s most glamorous women, and that they’re grateful to him for doing it, grateful for the changes he make to their bodies.
Well, he’s sussing out my body, all right. So I may as well play my bimbo bit and suss out his mind at the same time. Pretending to be thick gives you a kind of freedom. You can say stuff and people just put it down to your stupidity. If you say something and it comes out wrong, you just say something equally ridiculous but different, and they think you’re randomly saying what comes into your empty head. So I can get away with it when I say
“You’ve got a lovely touch. Lovely hands, nicer than my husband.”
Most men would be totally thrown by my remark; he barely pauses his fingering. Bulletproof self-assurance.
“Just doing what needs to be done. It seems like the surgery is going to be fairly straightforward in your case.”
“Wow, how can you tell, just from a quick feel?”
“Expertise, that’s all.”
“So, do you enjoy your work?”
“I enjoy the challenge, and the responsibility.”
“What you do, it’s so important. And then, you’re dealing with important people. Like Josh Borrowdale, I know he’s been here.”
“Every patient is important to me.”
“You must get some complicated cases.”
“Yes. Which we don’t talk about, of course, due to patient confidentiality.”
“Oooh no, I’m not after gossip. I’m just thinking, I wish I had a job like you. Like you say, a challenge, all that surgery and cutting people up and changing how they look. Do you never get stressed? Like, if you get it wrong, someone might die. How do you cope with the pressure?”
“Every surgeon needs to know their own limits. Some surgeons are limited by fear. Fear of
taking risks, fear of criticism by other, less-informed opinions, fear of their own lack of skill. Fear sets you boundaries. But a boundary is also a challenge. Medical advances necessarily involve risk and pushing back the boundaries. A groundbreaking surgeon sees risk as a challenge, to be mastered and managed, not as something that controls him and holds him back. Surgeons need to be confident, they need to confront and overcome their fears.”
If he thought about me, he’d realise that Devine Cattrell is probably not the person to understand all that. But I guess it doesn’t occur to him to consider what Devine might or might not understand. She’s just another famous person standing in front of him with her boobs out. He’s speaking for his own benefit. So I ask him.
“What are you afraid of, then?”
He smiles that wolfy smile again. “Nothing.” His teeth gleam. “Absolutely nothing.”
I pretend to look impressed, smile goofily at him, invite him to go on.
“Being true to yourself as a surgeon is all about going beyond the boundaries that hold others back, Mrs Cattrell. There, put your clothes back on.”
“Do you ever treat people who are, like, injured? Near death, saving lives and all that? That must be a real big challenge, if you do that.”
“No. All the clinic’s patients are by appointment, and cosmetic.”
But for a moment, unlike before, all his teeth don’t show when he smiles. And I know: liar, liar, Mister Doctor Franklin.
It’s an hour later. I’m walking out of the doors into the dazzle of sunshine when I hear a call from the foyer behind me. “Mrs Cattrell! I think you forgot something.”
I turn round, and it’s James Goldbeck.
He walks over and stands close to me, a step closer to me than people would normally stand. He speaks: an undertone.
“You look nothing like your photos in Hot. I’d never have recognised you, you know.”
I’m still trying to act. “Do I look worse? Or better?”
“Oh, better, much better. Totally different, in fact. Because you’re not Devine Cattrell, are you?”
He takes my hand, and I get a little surprise: I feel the nib of a pen on the back of my hand. He’s writing a number. As he does it, like adjusting the volume control, his voice gets louder, back to normal. “Thank so much for your visit. We hope you’ll consider what we can offer. It really is the best, you know.”
And I walk out. The drive back is uneventful: no need for the satnav, I’ve got the route in my head now. Drop off the Ferrari at the hire place in Southgate, then take the tube for one stop to Arnos Grove for an early evening booking. It’s a regular who usually incalls me, but he’s getting married soon and his girlfriend is away on her hen night in Dublin so he’s got the flat to himself. He proudly shows me round the flat, all the bits of DIY he’s done. But he doesn’t notice that I’m better dressed than usual. Then I’m hungry, I grab a bite to eat at a café, and it’s gone nine by the time I get back to the flat. I’m tired as I walk up the stairs, get my key out.
My front door won’t open.
There’s something heavy piled up behind the door. I push harder, and it moves an inch. I look through the crack: what can I see? There’s things scattered on the floor. I’m not very tidy in the flat, although Jazz is: I drop things, she picks them up. But this looks like papers, magazines, all over the carpet. I give the door another shove with my shoulder. Suddenly it’s as if something breaks, something gives: the door heaves open, several inches wide, I can squeeze in, boobs grazing the doorframe. Fucking hell, what a mess! The shelves that we have in the hallway have been pulled over, they’d fallen against to door, that’s why it was blocked. The DVDs and papers that were on those shelves are all over the carpet. I’m feeling confused, and the beginnings of anger. I pick my way through the chaos into our living room, it’s beyond belief, every drawer and cupboard emptied, contents flung across the floor. My bedroom is the same. Clothes, makeup, jewellery, all my personal stuff is chucked across the floor, my pictures are ripped down from the walls, the mattress of my bed has been heaved off and pushed half-way onto the floor, pillows are torn. Fuck, fuck, they’ve even ripped open my toy tiger, the stuffing is everywhere, fluff still floating peacefully in the air.
I can’t breathe: I have to get out of the flat. Squeeze back through the door, down the stairs, out onto the pavement: my hand goes to my iphone.
“Jazz? We’ve been burgled. The place is trashed, completely trashed.”
“What?”
“It’s horrible.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I click the phone off, stand on the pavement like I’m lost. I’ve got to go back into the flat. I need to sit, I need a cup of tea, and maybe they’ve not touched the kitchen. I go back in. How wrong could I be. The mess in here is possibly worse, every plate and cup lies smashed on the floor, food taken from all the cupboards and the fridge, even the cereal boxes are emptied on the floor: my feet crunch on Special K and corn flakes. The only things not opened are the tins of food. I check Jazz’s room. Her clothes – all of them designer stuff, so much classier than mine – are thrown about. All the rest of her things are strewn everywhere too, it looks mad, because the floor’s scattered with glossy pictures, unreal bright colours of blue sky, warm blue water, beaches, palm trees, holiday brochures I guess. Her dreams. One of them shows a white-walled mansion, overlooking the sea, its own swimming pool. As if the burglar has put it there deliberately to show me: Holly, your life is shit. I go back into the kitchen, hold onto the work surface, look out of the window: it’s getting dark, the end of another day. I imagine earlier today, some bastard wrecking our flat while everywhere around it was calm, people pottering in their gardens, Barbara Boobs having yet another day relaxing in the sun, as happy as if she owned a mansion in the Bahamas. Everyone else lives in a different world from me. A world where people can be happy.
Half an hour later. A taxi stops outside: Jazz appears. In the twilight her face is a pale mask. We go upstairs and she pushes against the door. “Jazz, you have to shimmy through. Sorry, I could have moved the shelves when I was the other side, but I’ve done nothing. Touched nothing.”
She squeezes in, and gazes around our lounge.
“Where’s our ipads?”
“I didn’t see either of them.”
Suddenly something clicks in me. I re-hear the words I spoke to Jazz: we’ve been burgled. I was so upset by the mess: God, why didn’t I think of what they might have taken? I go into my bedroom, lie on the floor, reach under the bed frame, fingers feeling for the envelope that I’d sellotaped to the wooden slats on the underside of the bed. And it’s what I knew I would feel: nothing. My £5000 for Krasniqi has gone.
“They’ve stolen all my money, Jazz.”
There’s no reply. I guess she’s gone into her bedroom and is surveying the wreckage. I go back into the lounge and wait. I stare blankly at the walls. Even our photo prints have been taken out of their frames: pictures are strewn in a chaos of broken glass.
Fifteen minutes go by. I get up. Jazz is standing in the middle of her room, looking blankly at her mobile. As I look at her, she closes her eyes, puts her hands up to her head.
I speak. “Jazz, I’ll call the police.”
No reply again. I go into her room, put my arm around her. She’s frozen like a statue. I’ve never seen her like this: Jazz is the strong one, the one who keeps her cool, her focus, when there’s a problem. But she’s completely stunned. Her voice comes slowly, with effort.
“Holly – you must know – or guess – who did this.”
“Well...” I must admit, I’m stumped. For a minute, two minutes, nothing comes into my mind, or out of my mouth. Then I say “Krasniqi was after money. I’d got the cash together, I was due to pay him, but... and he knows where we live, now. I think that sod Rainbow told him our address.”
“That must be fucking illegal. Why would the police tell him that?”
“I don’t know. I do
n’t understand anything anymore. Especially, I don’t understand the way the police are behaving. But I’m wondering if – Krasniqi, maybe he got greedy. Or he was being leaned on, needed the money urgently. He knows that I would be gathering the cash here.”
“You think he did this?”
“I’ve got literally no idea who did it. Or why.”
She speaks again, more composed now.
“Krasniqi’s place is burned down. Now this.”
“Maybe they were looking for something?”
“Look at how they operate. We don’t know why they torched his place: we do know that they did it when he was out of the house. Same here.”
“So? ... if you’re going to burgle someone’s house, you would do it when you know they’re out. Which they did. And they’ve taken my money, and the ipads.”
“They may have taken some things. But the aim of this – I don’t believe it’s a simple burglary.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s a warning.”
Jazz is right, I think, as I look around her room. A burglary would be bad, but this is worse: more scary. If an intruder was only searching for money, he’d maybe look thoroughly – but this is vicious. Pillows are ripped open, Jazz’s tallboy is tipped over, every piece of furniture is up-ended. The photos of her Mum and Dad have been taken out of their frames and chucked on the floor. I go into the kitchen, and I’m still taking it in, how everything is a total shambles: every tin and packet is out of the floor, plates and cups shovelled out of the cupboards, thrown on the floor, smashed. I hadn’t noticed before that my favourite mug lies in pieces on the floor, and somehow, it’s seeing that one detail that finally starts off the tears.
We’re both in shock: time drifts. It’s nearly midnight. We’ve put the living room sofa back upright and we’re sitting on it, drinking tea from two of the three unbroken mugs. I can hardly look around me.
“So you think this level of damage...”
“Is a threat. Yes, Hol. They burned Krasniqi’s place. They’ve done this to us.”
“But if it’s a threat, what do they want us to do? I was going to pay him the £5k. I was thinking that with me working at the Soames, I could maybe meet his demands. I could earn enough to bribe him now, and for as long as is needed. But the Soames has sacked me now.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.”
Jazz is turning things over in her mind. But sadly, not getting anywhere. Ten more minutes pass silently, and she can’t think of what to say, of anything that would take us forward from here.
“Shall I call the police, Jazz?”
“I’ll call them. You look – awful.”
“It’s silly things, like my mug and Tiger. And, your books that you love, they’re all trodden on and crumpled. Why did they have to? ...”
“It’s to scare you, I’m sure. I’ll make the call.”