Mini Shopaholic

‘Botox?’ he says in disbelieving tones.

‘Yes,’ I say defiantly. ‘Botox. I wasn’t going to tell you. And that’s why I was acting weird.’

There. Perfect.

‘Botox,’ he says again. ‘You had Botox.’

‘Yes!’

I suddenly realize I’m speaking with too much animation. I try to make my face all rigid and stary, like middle-aged celebrities. But too late, Luke’s peering closely at my face.

‘Where did you have it?’

‘Er … here.’ I point gingerly to my temple. ‘And … there. And here.’

‘But …’ Luke looks puzzled. ‘Aren’t the lines supposed to disappear?’

What? He’s got a nerve. I don’t have any lines! Like maybe the teeniest odd little line, which you can hardly see.

‘It’s very subtle,’ I say pointedly. ‘It’s the new technique. Less is more.’

Luke sighs. ‘Becky, how much did you pay for this? Where did you have it done? Because there are girls at work who’ve had Botox, and I have to say—’

Oh God. I’d better get him off the subject of Botox quickly, or he’ll be saying, ‘Let’s go to the clinic right now and get our money back.’

‘I only had a tiny bit of Botox,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I was really there about … another procedure.’

‘Something else?’ Luke stares at me. ‘What, for God’s sake?’

My mind is utterly blank. Procedure. Procedure. What do people have done?

‘Boobs,’ I hear myself saying. ‘A boob job.’

From his aghast expression, that possibly wasn’t the right way to go.

‘A boob job?’ he manages at last. ‘You had a—’

‘No! I was just … thinking about having one.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Luke rubs his brow. ‘Becky, we need to talk about this. Let’s get off the street.’ He takes my arm and leads me towards a nearby bar. As soon as we’re inside the door he turns and takes me by the shoulders so hard, I gasp in surprise.

‘Becky, I love you. However you look. Whatever shape you are. And the thought that you felt you had to go off secretly … it kills me. Please, please, please, don’t ever do that again.’

I never expected him to react like that. In fact, he looks so upset, I feel suddenly terrible. Why did I have to make up something so stupid? Why couldn’t I have said I was meeting a client at her office? A million good excuses are coming to mind now, none of which involve clinics or boob jobs.

‘Luke, I’m sorry,’ I falter. ‘I should never have thought about it. I didn’t mean to worry you.’

‘You’re perfect,’ he says almost fiercely. ‘You don’t need to change one hair. One freckle. One little toe. And if it’s me that’s made you feel you should do this … then there’s something wrong with me.’

I think this is the most romantic thing Luke has ever said to me, ever. I can feel tears rising.

‘It was nothing to do with you,’ I gulp. ‘It was … you know. The pressures of society and everything.’

‘Do you even know this place is safe?’ He reaches for the bag. ‘Let me have a look. A lot of these so-called surgeons are irresponsible cowboys. I’m going to get on to our company doctor—’

‘No!’ I instinctively pull my bag close to my chest. ‘It’s OK, Luke. I know it’s safe.’

‘No, you don’t!’ he almost shouts in frustration. ‘It’s major fucking surgery, Becky! Do you realize that? And the idea that you would go off like this in secret, risking your life, without even thinking of me or Minnie—’

‘I wouldn’t risk my life!’ I say desperately. ‘I’d never have surgery without telling you! It’s one of those lunchtime keyhole ones, where they just give you an injection.’

‘You think that makes it OK?’ He doesn’t let up an iota. ‘That sounds even more dodgy to me. What exactly does it involve?’

I’m sure I’ve read something about lunchtime boob jobs in Marie Claire, only I can’t quite remember the details now.

‘It’s very minimal. Very safe.’ I rub my nose, playing for time. ‘They mark the area and inject a kind of special foam into the … um, capillaries. And it … er … expands.’

‘You mean … they inflate?’ He stares at me.

‘Kind of.’ I try to sound confident. ‘Just a bit. You know. A size or two.’ I make what I hope is a realistic gesture at my chest.