Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts (9 page)

Liz wiped her face
, shaking her head. ‘I can understand if you don’t want to see me again. Just please, give me the locket.’

M
y heart beat fast as I awaited Heath’s words. Would he tell her to go; refuse the request? Or . . .

I held my breath
as Heath stepped closer to his mother. Then, he lifted his arms and gingerly put them around her, as if he was afraid she’d disappear. Trembling, Liz clasped him tightly, stroking his hair like he was still a tiny child.

They stood like that, on the doorstep of the museum in the foggy London morning, as commuters rushed by and shopkeepers’ greetings rang out in the chilly air.

And finally, I understood that real life – with all its ups and downs, complications, broken hearts
, and triumphs – was a million times more satisfying than any fairy tale ever could be.

THE END

Author’s Note:
I’d like to thank the
Museum of Broken Relationships
and
Dennis Severs’ House
for providing the inspiration for the setting of this story.

CONTINUE READING FOR THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF
BUILD A MAN
, TALLI’S LATEST NOVEL.

Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011

E-edition published worldwide 2011

© Talli Roland

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work

has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.

All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND

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Watching Willow Watts

A Top 100 Amazon Customer Favourite for 2011

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COMING IN 2012

Construct A Couple

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BUILD A MAN

CHAPTER ONE

If I see another set of boobs, I’m going to lose it.

Wrinkled or saggy, those insanely pert fake ones, I don’t care – I’m sick of the sight of them. In my six months as receptionist here, I’ve seen more booty than Russell Brand . . . or maybe even that old Playboy man with the mansion. And that’s just in the waiting room! What
is
it about cosmetic surgery clinics that makes women think it’s okay to show off body parts normally buttoned under prim little cardigans or swathed in silk scarves?

Even as I think it, old Mrs Lipenstein is lifting her shirt and flashing another patient I call Lizard Lady (she looks like she’s moulting), who makes admiring noises then reaches out and–

Oh God. I grimace and glance away before contact is made. As posh as this seating area is – all leather chairs and low lighting designed to make even shrivelled Lizard Lady look youthful – it should come with an X-rating.

“
Mrs Lipenstein?” Peter strides into the room, and Mrs Lipenstein's face tries its best to smile. Which, in its current Botoxed state, means the corners lift a fraction of an inch.

“
What do you think, Doctor?” she asks as she swivels in his direction, practically knocking him off his feet with her chest. “They’ve come out nicely, haven’t they?”

Peter nods, his face carefully neutral. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it when he has women shoving their tits in his face day and night. And not just tits – he’s worked on butts and he’s even performed vaginoplasties, which are . . . well, you don’t really want to know, believe me. I’ve always wondered what doctors are thinking when they’re faced with people’s nether-regions. I know what I’d be thinking:
gross
.

It should bother me, having my boyfriend examine other women’s goods on a regular basis, right? But somehow, it doesn’t. Peter’s so respectable, so responsible. I can’t imagine him going behind my back with someone, let alone a patient.

Mrs Lipenstein trots down the hall behind Peter and the door to the consulting room closes. With Lizard Lady’s perfectly sculpted nose jammed in a magazine, I grab the opportunity to creep into the bathroom – loo, whatever. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I jab a limp strand of sandy hair back into my ponytail and slip off my high heels.

God, it’s tiring, this receptionist gig. It’s not the actual work so much, but having to be nice to snooty women who treat me like a piece of fat squished out of their thigh is beyond draining. The job was only supposed to be for a month or two, until I found my feet in London and made it big as a reporter in the tabloid world with a job at, I don’t know,
Metro
or something. I want to see my byline on the thousands of discarded newspapers each day. I
live
for that moment.

Doesn’t seem like much to aspire to, being face down on the floor of the Tube, right? But half a year, thousands of résumés, and several zillion article pitches later, and I’m still working at Transforma Harley Street Clinic, which isn’t even on the famous Harley Street, for God’s sake – it’s on a little mews just off it.

“
Hello.” A loud knock at the bathroom door interrupts my thoughts. “Hello!”

Rap, rap, rap.

“
Hello! Girl!”

Rap! Rap!

It’s Lizard Lady; I can tell by her Russian accent. Peering in the mirror, I wipe away an errant trace of make-up underneath my lashes. In the dim light, my grey eyes are black and my round face looks like a luminous moon. Sighing, I slip on my high heels – Peter insists I dress up – then yank open the door.

“
Yes?” Jesus, I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace around here.

“
I need
vat-er
,” Lizard Lady says, feigning a pathetic cough.

“
Sorry?” I understand her perfectly but I want to make her suffer. Silly idiot, she actually passed the water cooler on her way to the bathroom.

Lizard Lady puts a hand to her throat. “I need VA-TER!” she shouts, her hot lizardy breath hitting my face.

Peter walks by with Mrs Lipenstein in tow. “I think Mrs Markova would like some water, Serenity.” He shoots me a look that says he’s less than impressed by my attitude. We’ve been having a lot of those ‘attitude’ talks lately at home.

“
Oh, wa-der!” I say, jacking up my American accent a notch. Smiling sweetly, I trot to the cooler and pour some liquid in a plastic cup, dribbling a bit down the side so Lizard Lady will get her claws wet.

“
Here you go.” I pass her the water, fascinated by the speckled, crinkly skin on her hands. Maybe she
is
moulting.

Lizard Lady mutters something in Russian that sounds like a sneeze. I scurry behind the reception desk and climb up on the rickety stool. I’d love Peter to buy me a padded one, but I had to beg him just to let me sit down, so I don’t see that happening anytime soon. He has this nineteen-fifties notion that a receptionist should always be standing at the ready for an emergency, like administering a shot of Botox to a saggy eyelid or something.

Mrs Lipenstein goes out, still buttoning up her shirt – I’m surprised she’s not going to flash her driver – and Peter ushers Lizard Lady into his room.

Alone at last. I click onto my Word document and re-read my latest tabloid pitch.

Pretty good, right? And true. On Portobello Road last Saturday, I saw a stall with two doctors injecting a line of women with Botox. Street-market surgery: a great story for a tabloid.

“
All finished here.” Peter’s fake jovial-doctor voice drifts down the corridor, and I close the Word window. He’s a bit paranoid about me writing anything to do with cosmetic surgery. Apparently having a girlfriend who wants to be a tabloid journalist is bad enough (I keep telling him, though,
Metro
has standards). But when that wannabe journalist works at a clinic where confidentiality is uber-important, well . . . It’s ridiculous, I think. All the famous people go to the real Harley Street clinics. We just get the leftover Euro trash and D-list celebs only tabloid-junkies like me recognise.

I glance at the bill Peter’s handed me, momentarily stunned by all the zeros. And when I think what that is in dollars!

“
That will be two thousand pounds, please,” I say, scanning Lizard Lady’s face. That’s my new game: ‘Guess the Procedure’, because these women usually don’t look much different than when they first came in. Sometimes I wonder how Peter can–

“
Girl!” Lizard Lady shoves a fistful of bills at me.

“
Thank you,” I say calmly, reaching out my arm as far as it will go to grab the money from her hand, which she’s barely bothered to extend an inch. I’m tempted to knock her arm so the bills go flying and I’ll get to watch her scrabble around on the floor, but Peter’s right there so I manage to restrain myself. Barely.

We both watch Lizard Lady leave, then Peter hoists himself onto the reception desk. “Who’s next?”

I glance at the schedule, my eyebrows flying up when I see it’s a man. I can count on my fingers the number of times a man has walked through that door – so much for equal Botox opportunity.

“
A new patient. Jeremy Ritchie.”

“
Don’t forget to have him complete the consultation form,” Peter says, sliding off the desk. I bite back a reply that I
always
remember, even though technically, that’s not true. But honestly, after being knocked off my feet in the rush to see Mrs George’s new knee lift, it’s a wonder I even recalled my name that day, let alone silly paperwork.

I settle back onto my stool, just about to check out
Gawker
when the clinic door opens again.

“
Hello, welcome to Transforma Harley Street Clinic.” I try to ‘put a smile in my voice’ like Peter insists, but with my half-assed effort it sounds more like I need to burp.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice the burp in my voice. He lumbers into the clinic and bashes his leg on the door, nearly knocking over a phallic-looking bamboo shoot. His face sags, his eyes are red, and sadness hangs off him – along with about twenty extra pounds.

Immediately, I start playing ‘Guess the Procedure’. A little liposuction? A little – I lower my eyes to his crotch –
extra endowment
? Looks pretty sizeable already, but men never think they’re big enough, do they? And they say women have body issues.

“
Hello. I’m here for a consultation,” he mumbles.

“
For?” I’m not supposed to ask patients, but I’m super curious.

The man lifts his hands and looks at me. “I don’t know. For everything, I guess.”

“
Everything?” Without meaning to, my gaze drops to his crotch again.

His round face colours and he smiles. He isn’t bad-looking – late twenties, I’d say, with a decent crop of dark hair and bright green eyes against lovely tanned skin.