I woke up in a bright room with a clean smell. ‘Be My Baby’, sung by the Ronettes, was playing in the background. A woman bent over me and asked if I was alright. She passed me a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits which were sweet but not like Scottish shortbread as the woman had initially professed. The sugar began to draw me from my groggy state but only slightly. The girl next to me looked exhausted in her reclining chair. We were all sat in a row like you would see in a nail salon or an old- fashioned photo of women sunning themselves by a pool: like ladies of luxury. I recognised her as the one who had been laughing with her friend in the candy pink waiting room.  Even the flowers were pink, standing tall in chintzy crystal vases.  

          I couldn’t feel my engagement ring and I panicked, scanning the room like a drunk sloth. It had fallen on the floor beside me. It still glinted as it had when it first passed over my finger a couple of months earlier. My fiancé, Andrew had polished it for me that morning so that it would look perfect. The girl from the waiting room complimented me on it and we both held up our hands, comparing our respective rings, our arms swaying slightly as if we’d had a few cocktails. She’d just had the Deluxe Treatment and was really starting to feel the effects. Her skin looked laminated, stretched over her skeleton like a condom over a Meccano set. Surprisingly, I was honest about which procedure I’d had done and about how expensive it was. There was not an ounce of judgement in her face. Andrew, I told her, had treated me- it was a pre-wedding gift. She smiled- or tried to- a bit slap happy.  We both agreed: it was worth the money.

         More women came into the room like they were on a conveyer belt, having just been created. I watched as a dark-haired woman maybe in her forties, stumbled to a seat, held up by the stern Eastern European nurse. That, I thought, must have been how I had arrived too. The nurse looked at us all with a scornful expression but perhaps that was just the way her face fell as she was considerate of the women’s bodies, helping them into their chairs for recuperation.

        ‘Does it hurt?’ The nurse with the biscuits asked as she levered me up into standing position. She was the nice one.  I couldn’t feel any pain but my legs were not my own anymore and would not go faster as commanded. It was like relearning how to walk as my limbs stiffened and the balls of my feet slid along the smooth, linoleum floor and into another room.

        I heard a child cooing at her doll, ‘Just a few minutes more, Mummy,’ she pleaded.

        The nice nurse came into the changing area which was just a space behind a silk, pink curtain. There was a big window in there, which made me feel self-conscious. I saw a giant eye with long lashes peering in as the nurse dressed me in a flowing, floral garment. She brushed my hair and even put on my shoes as I just stood there. My bag was applied to my shoulder and sunglasses were placed on my face before I was positioned on a beautiful chaise-longue. The fabric was exquisite: crushed velvet in a berry colour. The wallpaper in the room was ornate and reminded me of Royal Doulton. The nurse gave me another coat of lipstick as by then, I was rigid, completely unable to move. My skin felt so tight and smooth you could crack an egg on it. She pulled back the curtain and left. I was alone. My heart pounded with nervous excitement.  

            The wallpaper changed, presenting an image of a little girl in her room. The child’s face filled the entire screen as she peered in at me.

            ‘What a pretty one you are!’ she said. ‘You’re my new favourite.’  

            I’ve never felt so beautiful.