by Tim Lott
Perhaps he was simply mistaken. And it’s part of their technique. To give details. Makes it seem much more plausible.
Perhaps. Probably. Yes.
You don’t sound convinced.
I’m trying to be.
Pember pauses.
But he was right about you having difficulties with your mother?
My mother has difficulties with Frankie. That’s for sure. She doesn’t think Frankie’s good enough for me. She never has. From the first time I met him. She’s always wanted me to marry a doctor or a lawyer. An estate agent is an embarrassment to her. She thinks they’re vulgar. In fact, I can’t think of another profession that would have irritated her more. Perhaps a bouncer.
Just sit with that thought for a moment.
Veronica looks puzzled and feels herself shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
What are you saying?
Is there any part of you that agrees with your mother?
Of course not!
Veronica is surprised at the anger in her voice. She breathes deeply to centre herself, as her mindfulness teacher has trained her to.
You once told me that you agreed to marry Frankie on what amounted to a whim.
That’s not true.
Isn’t it?
I did have some funny beliefs at the time, I suppose.
Unlike believing in clairvoyance.
Touché.
Tell the story again. Of the proposal. I can’t quite remember. It was at a restaurant?
Do I have to? It’s embarrassing. So stupid.
Humour me.
We were at this restaurant called Angel Eyes. We’d been seeing each other for six months or thereabouts. And quite out of the blue – I genuinely hadn’t expected it – Frankie asked him to marry him. And I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t sure. I really wasn’t.
Why weren’t you sure?
I . . . I don’t know. Something deep inside. Can’t say. There was a hesitation. Isn’t that how everybody feels? So then. Well, it sounds crazy. Looking back, it was crazy. I believed – see, I believed I had a guardian angel. Watching over me. I was very into all that new age stuff then. You grow out of it. At least I did. Anyway, when Frankie asked me I asked my guardian angel what to say, and it seemed like I was sent a sign.
Ah. Yes, now I remember. So you really had no choice, as it were. If your angel was telling you to do it.
I still had a choice.
But someone – something – was telling you to do it. And someone else was telling you not to do it.
My mother. Yes.
There is a long pause during which neither of them speaks.
Do you think your mother has your best interests at heart? Pember asks.
She has her best interests at heart.
Like your husband. Who has his own best interests at heart. Or so you believe. Who loves you because of how it will make him feel. Not for your sake. Who loves you but doesn’t behave as if he loves you. Again, like your mother.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. What are you driving at?
And you’ve got a child yourself now. What would you do for her?
Anything.
Another long pause.
Do you think that your mother felt differently?
Veronica struggles for an answer, but cannot dredge one from her depths.
Pember writes a short note, then looks up from her notebook as if it is a cue to change the subject.
How is your training coming along, do you think?
It’s a long haul. But I’m loving it, actually. Although it’s quite unsettling in some ways. Trying to go that deep.
Remind me. Why did you decide to embark on this course? You had a good career. Good salary and prospects.
I found the job was depressing.
Why did you go into clinical pathology in the first place?
To please my mother, of course. A sort of compromise, since I didn’t want to become a GP. Not that she was satisfied. Not in the least.
Perhaps she never will be satisfied.
That’s probably true.
So why do you keep trying to please her?
I don’t. I married Frankie, after all.
There is another long silence. Again Veronica wins the exchange and Pember speaks first.
Have you considered the possibility that it might have also have been a reaction against your mother?
In what way?
Some kind of rebellion? Or revenge?
Veronica ignores the question.
I don’t understand the way I am with him sometimes. With Frankie. He just makes me so angry.
How does that anger express itself?
The usual ways. Snapping. Nagging. Bitching.
Anything else?
Like what?
I don’t know.
Veronica stares out of the window.
I sort of did something I shouldn’t have done.
What?
I sort of threw an ashtray at him.
Sort of?
I did. I threw an ashtray at him. A heavy glass one. It could have done serious damage.
Anything else?
I slapped him once.
Pember says nothing. Veronica adjusts her legs but can’t find a comfortable position.
Another time, I kicked him. That’s not normal, is it?
They sit in silence.
You think I’m a terrible person, don’t you?
Why would you think I think that?
I hate it when I behave that way. I feel so ashamed of myself.
Do you apologize?
No.
What do you do, then?
When he doesn’t fight back, it makes me want to be even more horrible to him. That doesn’t make sense, does it?
What is it that makes you so angry with him?
He’s very frustrating.
He seems like he works hard. He’s a loving father. He loves you.
Veronica says nothing.
Do you love him?
I married him, didn’t I? I had a child with him.
Pember lets the question hang in the air. She looks up at the clock on the wall.
Stay with that thought. To be continued.
* * *
Afterwards, Veronica goes to visit Roxy. She always likes to see Roxy following a session with Elizabeth Pember. After all the soul-searching, she feels the urgent need for a dose of meaningless extroversion.
Roxy doesn’t disappoint. She bursts into the café where they are meeting in a flurry of shopping bags and exclamations. She immediately orders a slice of chocolate cake and sits down opposite Veronica.
I heard a new one today.
Please don’t.
A hot blonde walks into a bar and orders a double entendre. So the barman gave her one.
I’m looking old, says Veronica, examining herself in the mirrored wall behind Roxy.
How was therapy?
Disturbing, frankly.
All that thinking ages you, says Roxy. I’ve got the answer.
Bag over the head?
Therapy Roxanne Peacock style.
Not a foot massage and facial. Please.
Better. Botox and filler.
Veronica laughs despite herself and pours herself another cup of mint tea.
I’m not that desperate just yet.
I’m not joking.
That makes a change.
I’ve been invited to a Botox party next week. No, really. I was going to mention it to you. Why don’t you come with me?
Because I don’t want to end up with a face like a block of wood.
It’s not like that, Vronks. It’s got bad press. Look, why don’t you come along anyway? Then you can decide. No commitment. It’ll be a laugh.
Are you sure?
I’m certain. Two hundred per cent.
I don’t know.
Keep me company at least.
If nothing else, I suppose I might pick up some clients for my therapy practice.
Because anyone who does it must be a bit soft in the head.
Like me.
I didn’t mean . . .
Oh don’t worry. I’m as soft in the head as they come. Suits me down to the ground. If I was any smarter, I wouldn’t be able to live with Colin.
I don’t know why you always put on this dumb act. You’re one of the smartest women I know.
Makes life easy. I’m no threat to men and women like it even better. Keep your weapon in the sheath. That’s what my grandma always used to say to me. Just be ready to use it when you have to.
* * *
When Roxy and Veronica arrive at the nondescript terraced house, in South Acton, it is still light.
Roxy pushes the doorbell and a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, answers. She is wearing a white surgical coat – albeit tailored, nipped in at the waist, and very short on the leg – as well as blue surgical plastic gloves. She is made up thickly, like Roxy, pancaked, lipsticked and mascara-ed.
Hello! she trills, in a scented-candle bright voice. You here for the Botox party?
That’s right, says Roxy.
She is, says Veronica. Not me.
You’re both beautiful enough as it is.
I bet you say that to everyone who comes, says Roxy.
Course I do.
The woman’s laugh is like a small dog’s bark. She ushers them through the hallway into the house. Her voice drops an octave and takes on a note of serious purpose. She puts her hand above her heart.
My name’s Coral. I’m in charge of the team.
Are you a nurse? asks Veronica
I’m a facial aesthetics technician.
They enter the living room, which is furnished with faux-antiques and white leather. On the wall, there are three framed impressionist posters – Degas, Monet and Toulouse-Lautrec – and as many large framed mirrors. Half a dozen young and not so young women, all with painted faces, plucked eyebrows and contoured cheeks, are standing around talking excitedly. It is as if they are airbrushed or Photoshopped. Several of them have unnaturally large and cantilevered breasts and most have shiny lips and fake eyebrows.
There are cupcakes arranged on a table and dozens of bottles of wine, mainly white. There are plates full of peanuts and salty snacks arranged around the room, along with vegetable crudités and dips.
An older woman with short black bobbed hair, very white teeth, outsize dangly earrings and a cruel beauty, all angles and planes, accentuated by her make-up, greets Roxy.
Roxy! Hello, doll. You’re looking the business.
Roxy embraces her. They kiss the air, then part.
Who’s this, then?
Veronica. Vronky. My newest bestie. Vronky, this is Ferne. We go ways back. To school days. We hadn’t seen each for what? Fifteen years? Found each other on Friends Reunited. Went out for a drink last month and it was like nothing had changed. So here we are.
Friends – reunited! says Ferne
She throws her arms around Veronica and Veronica feels herself stiffening. This isn’t quite what she expected. She thought it would be quiet, clinical. This is more like a hen party with hypodermics. There are temporary posters erected on stands. One says, ‘Wrinkled Is Not One of the Things I Wanted to Be When I Grew Up’ and another, ‘Botox – Because There Is No Gym for Your Wrinkles’.
A woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt who is sitting on a chair is receiving an injection in the forehead. There is blood trickling down the side of her face.
It’s the alcohol, says Coral. Thins the blood. Nothing to worry about.
Next to the woman is a burly man, tanned, with black floppy hair, the only one in the room. He, too, has a needle hovering just between his eyebrows.
You get men here?
One or two. Haven’t you heard of Brotox? giggles Ferne. What you going to have done then?
I’m just here to watch, says Veronica, lifting a glass of wine from a tray and taking a deep draught.
We’ll see about that, says Roxy.
What about you? says Ferne.
You know me. I’ll try anything for a laugh.
It looks painful, says Veronica, finishing her wine and reaching for another one.
A second woman, very young, is, at that moment, having an injection in her forehead. In her hand she holds an icepack, ready to apply. Her eyes are open, she has not stopped talking, and seems entirely unintimidated by the needle piercing her skin. An older woman stands beside her holding her other hand.
Are you okay? says the older woman, puffing on a cigarette.
Yes, Mum. Stop fussing.
Veronica has always hated needles and the idea of one going into her face turns her stomach. Ferne notices her expression.
They put lidocaine on first, so it doesn’t really hurt at all, she says.
Things can go wrong, though, can’t they? says Veronica.
It’s completely safe, says Ferne. Completely. I’ve had it done loads of times. You can’t tell, can you?
Ferne offers up her face to be studied. Veronica seems to see a plasticky quality around the eyes, and there is something of the shiny effect of the back of a spoon to her face.
Not at all, says Veronica.
I’m going to get my lips done, says Roxy, so I’ve got real blow-job lips, hahaha.
Here, take a look at these, says Coral.
She reaches for a plastic file, and brings out a handful of eight-by-ten glossy photos of women before and after treatment. Veronica cannot deny that they look better but assumes they are Photoshopped. Covertly, she inspects herself in one of the large mirrors in the room. There are faint lines on her forehead, a tiny groove in between her eyes, emerging crow’s feet at the edges. Her mouth looks – to her – thin and ungenerous.
You got what they call ‘sad mouth’, says Coral, brightly, who has noticed her inspecting herself. It doesn’t mean you’re sad. It just means you’ve got a slight downturn at the corners. Easily fixed. It’s enhancing what you got, not changing what you got.
Best thing I ever did, says one woman, overweight in a vast pink floral dress, who is helping herself to the peanuts. Feel so much better about myself.
Veronica nods politely and turns away to scan the other women in the room. They are making a terrific noise – this and the empty glasses all over the room suggest that they have been drinking heavily. A large television, with the sound turned down, occupies one of the corners.
Are you sure you want to do this? she asks Roxy.
Why not? says Roxy. It’s like, you know, a new me.
Coral hands her some papers, a legal waiver to sign. Roxy scrawls her name across the bottom without reading it.
What’s wrong with the old you?
There’s always something wrong, isn’t there? And it isn’t going to get better as the years tick by. Do you see what I’m getting at? I’m going to have some dermal fillers as well.
Dermal fillers?
It’s like a gel. Same as you put in the lips. You inject it. I’m going to put some under my nose-to-mouth lines. That should do for them. Get the racehorse look. You know, big lips, big teeth.
Here’s to racehorses, says the woman in the loud floral dress, raising a fluted glass of Prosecco.
One of the women in plastic gloves beckons to Veronica.
Hello there. I’m Jade. Let me know what you want done.
She hands a paper menu to Veronica. Veronica glances at it. What are ‘bunny lines’?
Little wrinkles next to the nose, says Jade. Funnily enough, some people get them from having Botox. But you can get rid of them with another injection.
Veronica holds her hands up.
Sorry, Jade. I’m just here for the free peanuts.
Come on, Vronky, give it a go, says Roxy, laughing. Get your brows lifted a tiny, tiny bit. Make yourself look a bit more cheerful.
Not my cup of tea. Veronica picks up another glass of wine. Her head is beginning to swim nicely. Anyway, nothing wrong with my brows.
She looks
to one side where she can see a bedroom with a woman lying on a bed, being injected in the forehead by a white-coated nurse.
It’s no more extreme than shaving your legs or dyeing your hair if it’s done properly, says Jade.
Veronica hesitates, and pouts her lips in the mirror.
What about filler? How often would I have to have it done?
About four times a year. Expensive but worth it. Also, at your age, what are you, thirty . . . ?
Thirty-four!
Thirty-four then. It will have a preventative effect and stop wrinkles forming in the future.
Surely there are more important things to men than how good you look, says Veronica.
Ferne and Coral burst out laughing.
Yeh, right, says Ferne. They’re so deep!
Listen. You do it for yourself, not for men, says Jade.
Veronica takes another deep swig of warm Pinot Grigio. And smiles.
* * *
What the fuck have you done to your face? says Frankie.
It is the following morning. Veronica hears Frankie though the mists of shallow sleep. She opens her eyes and sees him, still in his boxers, leaning over her, mouth partly open.
Veronica turns her face away.
Went to a Botox and filler party. With Roxy.
You did what?
I know it doesn’t look great at the moment. I had a bit of an allergic reaction. It will settle down.
Plucking up courage, she turns again towards Frankie. Frankie stares at her lips, which are like distended inner tubes. The Botox injections for her crow’s feet have made her look violently startled.
What did you go and do that for?
China walks into the room. She looks at Veronica and immediately starts to cry.
You’re scaring her. In fact you’re scaring me.
Veronica traces the lines of her face with the tips of her fingers.
I don’t know why I did it. I had a few drinks. Roxy egged me on.
Frankie picks up China and tries to comfort her, but she just screams louder.
You’re always trying to make yourself . . . I don’t know. New.
I don’t know what you mean.
A new job. A new house. A new kitchen. Now a new face.
Please, Frankie. I feel bad enough as it is.
Same lie that I’m always selling my clients. That if they get this view, that maisonette, this loft conversion – everything will be new.
What’s wrong with that?
Now, by playing peek-a-boo with her, Frankie calms China down. She starts to giggle.
