Famous (23 page)

‘You told him what?’ screeched Mands that evening.

‘That they’re going down the loo.’

‘You’re not really going to flush them, are you?’ asked Lizzie, disbelief pooling in her eyes.

‘Tell me you haven’t already?’ demanded Mands, jumping up and gripping me violently by the shoulders.

‘Course I haven’t,’ I replied. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to.’

‘Oh, thank God for that!’ she sighed, sitting back down.

‘What are you going to do with them then?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Keep them in a drawer for twenty years or so, until I’ve forgotten he ever existed. And then start wearing them, I guess.’

‘Instead of putting them in a drawer…why don’t you let us look after them for you?’ proposed Mands.

‘We’d be like a safety-deposit box,’ added Lizzie. ‘Any time you wanted to make a withdrawal, you could just come and get them back.’

‘Okay,’ I sighed. Obviously neither of them was going to shut up until I let them wear the earrings.

‘Yippee!’ they cheered, slapping their hands together in childlike glee.

‘Me first,’ said Mands.

‘Toss you for it,’ replied Lizzie.

‘You’re on.’

After the best of three tosses, Lizzie won the first month with the earrings. Mands was inconsolable.

‘That bloody coin’s rigged!’ she cried.

‘Is not!’ replied Lizzie.

‘Is too! Toss it again.’

‘No chance.’

This went on for half an hour or so, but Lizzie kept firm hold of the earrings. Eventually Mands forgot about them and the conversation returned to more pressing topics, such as the fact that Sven, the Swedish toe sucker, was still trying to convince Mands and her feet to fly to Sweden for a holiday. It was nice to be talking about something normal. Something other than newspapers, or paparazzi, or Alistair. Or me.

For the next week I worked from home, staying holed up inside my apartment, waiting and hoping for the daily harassment to stop. But it didn’t. It had now been exactly six weeks since I had slept with Alistair and my life had officially hit rock bottom. Not a day went by where my photo wasn’t plastered across the papers, or the television screen. I had become a household name, although not for something desirable. I was the household Other Woman. The Marriage Wrecker. The Floozy.

If only they knew, I thought to myself. He was the first decent shag I’d had in three years.

As a result of my television interview on
One Nation
and telling my side of the story, some of the magazine hate mail had thankfully transformed into letters of support for me, which was of some relief, though the hate letters still held the firm majority. It was plainly obvious there was no end in sight to this madness. The media would always find a reason to hound me, always find a reason to regurgitate that one fateful night, and always find a reason to print my picture in the paper, long after the furor had settled down. I had seen it done to too many people, too many times before. There were some stories the media would just never let die. It seemed to me I had no other option, no other choice. I was going to have to go Under The Knife. Going to have to undergo some identity-altering plastic surgery and swap my marriage-wrecking face for a new one.

Instead of working, I sat at the dining table and searched the web for plastic-surgery inspiration. Unfortunately, when one does a search on ‘plastic surgery’ you have to take the good with the bad. The results were not exactly reassuring.
When Bad Boob Jobs Happen to Cute Girls
,
Plastic Surger
y
Hell, Chipmunk Cheeks, Courtney Fishlips Cobain, Why I Look Permanently Surprised.

Perhaps the web wasn’t the most logical starting point, I decided.

Instead I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and scrutinised my face. If I had to have plastic surgery then I at least wanted to make some major improvements. My nose would be the logical starting point. There was nothing cute and button-like about it at all. It was an aquiline nose; strong, straight and long. There was no doubting Nicole Kidman’s nose would suit me better. And the way my ears stuck out just slightly had always bugged me. Surely I could have these nipped to the side of my head? My lips were a little on the thin side too, nothing a bit of collagen wouldn’t fix. Perhaps Kylie’s lips would look good? And recently I’d noticed a few fine lines appearing at the corners of my eyes. Perhaps a little eye lift too?

I rang Mands and Lizzie to break the news.

‘You’re going to what?’ they both cried.

I was surprised by their response. We’d always talked about how we’d have no qualms hopping under the knife when the time arose. But I guess talking about it and actually doing it are two different things. Plus, whenever we’d talked about it, it was assumed age and wrinkles would have something to do with it.

‘I have to,’ I replied. ‘The vultures won’t leave me alone.’

‘Why don’t you just move out of the city for a while?’ they suggested. ‘Until it all blows over?’

‘Because I don’t think it is ever going to blow over,’ I replied.

‘There are paparazzi outside my house every morning. Every day. And every night. I can’t go
anywhere
. I can’t even go to work. I am a prisoner in my own bloody home. All I want is for them to just go away and leave me alone!’

‘Okay,’ they soothed, sensing my distress. ‘But at least let us come over and talk about it before you make any rash decisions.’

‘Feel free,’ I replied. ‘But my mind is made up.’

That evening they arrived on my doorstep, bottles of wine in hand. Surprisingly they hadn’t had to run past hordes of photographers to get to it, for once. The paparazzi appeared to have cottoned on to the fact that, because of them, I no longer went anywhere at night. The chances of a pic were slim to none, and they were far better off meeting their friends at the pub for a drink. Something I used to be able to do, once upon a time.

Mands and Lizzie tactfully attempted to change my mind. Mands kept referring to the blotched facial peel she’d had last year, which was still firmly etched in her memory. Unfortunately for Mands it all went a bit pear-shaped. The supposed five days of peeling turned out to be three weeks and she subsequently turned into a walking scab. After taking the requisite five days off work, she’d then had to organize the Devonport Wine and Food Festival looking like she’d been dipped in napalm.

‘You know this means you’re going to have to move house too?’ said Mands.

‘I know,’ I replied, looking forlornly around my living room. ‘I know.’

Lizzie desperately tried to recount every plastic-surgery horror story she had ever heard of. Even her story about the woman who went in for a boob job and came out with three nipples wasn’t enough to sway me. I was resolute. After two hours of concerned pestering they finally gave in and we changed the subject. Mands even agreed to give me the name of the surgeon her old boss had used. The woman who never looked a day over forty, no matter how many years went by. Apparently he was very well respected in the realms of Plastic Land.

Three days later, I found myself sitting in the reception area of Dr Richard Hall’s surgery ready for my initial consultation. I nervously flicked through the brochure sitting on the coffee table in front of me. There were pictures of perfect noses, extremely high cheekbones, perky eyes and full bee-stung lips. It appeared there was some sort of mix-and-match system available. A little like paint by numbers, or Mr Potato Head. I sincerely hoped I wasn’t going to end up looking like Mr Potato Head, bits falling off everywhere and getting vacuumed up by my father, never to be seen again.

I flicked to the back of the brochure. ‘Have you always felt as though you’re in the wrong body?’ read the heading. ‘Well, you’re not alone.’

Oh Lord, I thought to myself, perhaps I would be requiring a sex change to make myself unrecognisable? Perhaps I was going to have to become a bloke? God forbid! I’d have to start watching sport and drinking beer. Maybe I’d even start dating Jasmine again? And there’d be no shopping for gorgeous frocks or Prada stilettos. It’d be hell. The thought very nearly made me cry.

At that moment Dr Hall came out into the waiting room to greet me. I frantically closed the brochure and threw it back onto the table. There were some things even a doctor shouldn’t be privy to.

‘Samantha, lovely to meet you,’ he said shaking my hand.

‘Please come through to my office.’

He was a tall man, with an imposing presence. Tanned and well groomed and looking remarkably good for someone who must be in their mid fifties. He immediately made me feel at ease, which was nice, because sitting down to discuss major life-changing plastic surgery was not something I naturally felt relaxed about.

‘Why do you want to have surgery, Samantha?’ he asked, looking me in the eyes.

I’d had a feeling he was going to ask me this. I could have lied and said I was an actress who needed to look a certain way to get roles. I could have said I was doing it as a birthday present for my husband. I could have said it was because I really hated the way I looked. But there was something frighteningly sincere about this man, and I just couldn’t lie. Plus, it would be perfectly obvious to him, unless he had been living in a cardboard box somewhere for the past six weeks, why I needed to change my appearance.

‘Because the media won’t leave me alone,’ I replied. ‘And because I want my old life back.’

‘And you think surgery will succeed in giving you your old life back?’ he asked.

‘Combined with a new house, a new job, and a new name. Yes.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s either this or volunteering for the Witness Protection Programme,’ I explained. ‘And unless you’ve actually witnessed a murder or know a murderer they’re not all that interested. I’ve already phoned them.’

‘So, surgery is a last resort for you then?’ he asked.

‘Correct,’ I replied.

‘I must say, Samantha, that professionally I don’t think your situation warrants such a course of action. You are a very attractive young lady. But ultimately I am the doctor and the choice is, of course, yours.’

‘The choice is made,’ I replied, although my voice wavered as I spoke.

‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Just how different do you want to look?’

‘I want to be able to walk down the street without being recognised. But I don’t want to scare myself when I look in the mirror.’

‘I see. Well…’ he said, gently taking my face in his hands. ‘I really think only subtle changes will be required. Probably just a nose reconstruction, combined with a lift around the eye area, and some subtle cheek implants. Of course, you will also need a change of hairstyle and colour. And blue or brown contact lenses.’

This was good news on the nose and eyelift front, but bad news about the contact lenses. I liked my green eyes.

‘Could I have Nicole Kidman’s nose?’ I asked.

‘I don’t see why not. It’s a popular choice.’

He made it sound as though I’d just ordered a chicken deluxe burger, and not a new nose.

‘How soon can you operate?’ I asked.

‘Well, there’s usually a waiting list of at least two months for this type of operation, but I realise there is a sense of urgency in your case. So, I am willing to do this on a weekend. How does next Saturday sound?’

That was just over a week away.

‘Good,’ I replied. I was confident I could hold out for that long.

I decided not to tell my parents about my surgery plans. There was no denying the fact that my mother would be down here handcuffing herself to his scalpel before you could say ‘Let go of the scalpel Elizabeth.’ There was no way in hell my father would understand my decision either. He was still coming to terms with the fact Love the Earth biodegradable dishwashing liquid had changed its packaging (he had very nearly had kittens after being unable to locate it in the usual aisle). Plus,
plastic
and
surgery
were not two words he was prone to utter in the same sentence. The only people I told were Mands and Lizzie. I was simply just going to have it done and then show my parents, when there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.