Always the Last to Know(59)

The door opened. “Hello! I’m Dr. Brian. How are you? Juliet . . . Smith! What a pretty name.”

He was about sixty and wore a white doctor’s coat over jeans and a button-down shirt. And he was no supermodel himself. Should she trust a plastic surgeon with a nose that size? Why hadn’t he gotten anything tweaked? Look at those wrinkles! And he was balding. “Hi,” she said.

“What are you thinking of today, Juliet?”

Juliet took a deep breath, noticing that her hands were shaking. “I’d like to look . . . a little younger. Not different, just . . . rejuvenated.” She closed her eyes at the overused word.

“Face? Body? Labia and vagina?”

“Jesus, no.” She paused. “What’s that? The vagina thing?”

He smiled pleasantly. “We can plump up your labia, maybe trim them, since they can get stretched out—”

Her knees locked together. “Trim my labia? Are you kidding?”

“No, not at all. We can get a very nice effect. We can also tighten your vagina. It says on your form you’ve had two children?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Which can stretch you out, obviously. A few well-placed stitches, and—”

“Okay, no. I’m not comfortable talking about this.” Did men do this? Was there any male at DJK who was being told his sac should be a little tighter and higher?

“I just want something quick and easy and very subtle,” Juliet said. “I don’t want to look frozen. I don’t want to look weird or different or carved up . . . I just want to look like me, five or ten years ago. No scalpels.” Her hands were tingling. A panic attack was lurking.

“Got it. Let’s have a look.” Another pleasant smile. “Listen, Juliet, it’s normal to be nervous. I promise not to slice and dice when you’re not looking.” He laughed, and she felt a little better. He tilted her head, pushed her hair back, lifted her eyebrow, tapped on the underside of her chin. “What brings you in at this point in your life? Big birthday coming up, or anything like that?”

What the hell. “There’s a woman at work who’s younger than I am by about ten years. She’s getting a lot of plum assignments and kind of leaping up the food chain, and I can’t help but think it’s because she’s so attractive. At least in part. The new kid on the block, you know?”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m an . . . uh . . . uh, a magazine writer?” I’m a world-class architect. You’ve probably seen my work. You may have been in one of my buildings.

“Neat! What magazine?”

“It’s . . . an online thing.”

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I’d recommend. You’re already a beautiful woman, and we can make you even more beautiful. You have some puffiness above your eyelids, which is very normal for a woman your age, and your jawline is starting to soften, which gives the appearance of jowls and definitely makes you look older. We’d cut some tiny holes, insert a laser—”

“A laser?”

“That’s right! The heat will cause contracting and stimulate collagen growth. Or, for something more dramatic, a neck lift would give you great results, along with a lower face lift.”

“No. No cutting.”

“Fine, fine. You could go for an eye lift, since your lids are looking a tiny bit heavy, but you said something quick. Some lip plumping would definitely add to a more youthful appearance. Subtle. You, but five years ago.” He smiled, trying to reassure her, which was nice of him, since she felt like puking on his shoes. “We can do some Botox injections to lift the brow. Some filler between your eyes to get rid of that.” He touched between her eyebrows where, yes, she did have a crease. “There are also some more superficial things I’d recommend. Lash extensions, teeth whitening. A sassy haircut, even. You know we have an aesthetician wing here.”

Juliet touched her hair. It was all one length, cut (rather well, she thought) straight across with a razor every two months or so. Not one bit of body to it, so it was reliably straight day in and day out. She could wear it in a ponytail or a bun, or just down, which was what she did most days.

Oliver loved her hair. Plus, Arwen had a sassy haircut, and Kathy had just gotten one as well, and Juliet didn’t want to look like a follower.

“Um . . . okay, but not a haircut.”

“Trust me?”

“I just met you.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m a board-certified plastic surgeon. Dartmouth, Johns Hopkins, NYU residency. I’ve been practicing for twenty-two years.”

Just not on yourself, apparently. She clenched her fists. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’ll be able to go home looking normal, right?”

“Of course.”

“Not a lot of Botox. I don’t want to look like those freaky Real Housewives.”

“Two of them are my patients,” he said. “But I hear you. Just a sprinkling. You’ll look like you came back from a wonderfully restful vacation.”



* * *



— —

A wonderfully restful vacation where she fell asleep in the sun for eight hours, apparently.

“Am I bweeding?” she said, looking closer.

Her lips were swollen, which would subside, Dr. Brian said. He’d better not be lying. And for God’s sake, she could hardly see through the forest on her upper lids.