The Elizas: A Novel(49)

Desmond clucks his tongue.

“After a while, my mother canceled the lessons. I’m sure she was embarrassed.”

“You could take lessons now,” Desmond says. “Unless you still think all water leads to hell?”

“I don’t. But now, water has this . . . association. I jumped in it or ran into it or ducked under it hoping to die. It carries too much baggage. I’d rather just stay on dry land.”

“Gotcha.” Desmond taps his forehead. “Mental note: Do not take Eliza to any beach resorts anytime soon.” He holds up a pale arm. “Not that I’m partial to the beach myself.”

Leonidas’s father’s office is several blocks away. We park in the lot of the Whole Foods I’d pictured so easily—I used to stop here after school, sometimes, when my mother was finishing up work. I got a kick out of shoplifting fresh produce—plums, nectarines, single cherry tomatoes.

We walk along the street reading the building numbers. When we get to 1104, Desmond studies the sign for Dr. Lorre and scrunches up his face. “Your ex-lover is a plastic surgeon?”

“Uh . . .” I hate how I’m not sure. “His father is. Leonidas works in reception.”

“So what’s your plan of attack? You want access to his phone, right? See who he was talking to? Where he’s been?”

“Yeah.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But I’m hoping you’ll provide a subterfuge while I figure that out.”

Desmond removes his beret and runs his hand over his slick hair. “Give me my instructions,” he says gallantly.

“Say you’ve got an appointment. Get into the waiting room, then fake a leg injury in the hall. He’ll run to your rescue, and while he’s away from the desk, I’ll grab his phone and look through it. Take pictures if I have to.”

Desmond is blinking rapidly. “You want me to pretend I want plastic surgery?” He looks chagrined. “That’s pretty much against every principle I stand for.”

“It’s not like you’re going to actually get the surgery.”

“What if someone I know sees me?”

I snort. “You really think your gladiator cronies are going to be hanging out at a plastic surgery office? Get a grip. You’ll be fine. Go in there, and say you’re getting calf implants.”

He stares at a raised leg. “But my calves are fine! I’ve been told by quite a few ladies I have lovely calves, in fact.”

I shut my eyes. “You know what? It’s cool. We don’t have to do this. I don’t even know you. It was nice of you to drive me here.”

Desmond places his beret back on his head. “No, no. I’ll do it. I shall cast aside my preconceptions and do it for you.”

“Seriously, Desmond. It’s fine.”

“I want to do it. It’s my quest!”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I am beyond sure. But what if a man doesn’t have an appointment around now? He’ll know I’m up to something.”

“You’ll be faking that injury within a few seconds of getting in there, so you won’t need to explain much.”

The front door to the building is open, and I march through, holding the door for Desmond. My muscles seem to remember the way to the suite—perhaps I’ve been here before.

We stop at the glass-paneled door with Dr. Lorre’s name on it. I peek through and see Leonidas’s wobbly, freakishly tall shape at the front desk. He’s leaning over a cell phone, probably the very same phone I’m going to have to intercept. I feel a pinch at the sight of him, head bent down, earbuds in. I can just imagine what he’s listening to: My Chemical Romance. 311. Old, curmudgeonly country. I know this without knowing how I know it.

I glance at Desmond. “You still okay?” I ask. He gives a wobbly nod. “So just go in there, say you need to use the bathroom, and do the leg thing.”

“Which leg?”

I point to the right one, then change my mind and pick the left. Then I twist the doorknob for him and point into the waiting room, gesturing that he go inside.

A whoosh of cold air sweeps out as Desmond pushes the door open farther. The door swishes shut again, and I press my ear to the jamb, praying another customer doesn’t walk in the front door for an appointment and witness this. Then I peer through the window, my heart hammering fast. A mottled-glass version of Desmond strides to the desk, and a mottled-glass version of Leonidas says something. There are murmurs I can’t make out, and now Desmond is going toward the waiting room. In seconds, I hear a sharp, completely overdramatized shout from the hallway. Still, I want to kiss him for actually following through with it.

Leonidas practically vaults from the front desk at the sound of Desmond’s cry. He disappears from view. I count to five, then twist the handle to the door. Cool, lilac-scented air rushes in. I look to the right and left, but the waiting area is empty. Pictures of vapid-eyed women with flawless skin and enormous breasts stare at me from the walls, and across the room is a slightly pornographic shot of a woman’s thighs. A few silicone breast implant samples sit on the coffee table next to a vase full of flowers.

Desmond moans in the hallway. “Are you okay?” comes Leonidas’s voice.