Face Value (11 page)

The tape whirred approvingly.

“Of course, some women prefer more rounded, fleshy cheeks. It is these women for whom the expression ‘the cheek of it’ was invented, because, Kate, they are fun-loving . . . sexy women.”

When he said the word “sexy” she felt her cheeks redden. He looked directly into her eyes again, daring her to look back. She looked away quickly.

“And it is no coincidence that if the cheekbones are the very soul of a woman, Kate, the cheeks of the bottom are the root to her fecundity, her baseness, her . . . animalistic instincts.”

He was quite good-looking actually.

“I am loved in this city because I can improve the parts others dare not touch, I can enhance them, the facial cheeks and the buttock cheeks”—he moved both hands in conjoining semicircles as if outlining a bottom—“and make a woman feel . . .” He paused again. “Whole.”

Arse
. . .
whole
. . . she wrote in her notebook.

“It embarrasses you that I talk about cheeks like this, Kate?”

“No . . . no.”

“You see, you have . . .” He reached across the desk and touched her face, closing his eyes to feel his way over it, tracing her cheekbones, like a blind man. His fingers were gentle, warm-tipped. She giggled, closing her eyes, too, enjoying the feeling of not knowing where on her face his fingers would touch next. He sighed, as if enraptured by what he found. Her lips parted, closed again, as she tried to envisage her face the way his fingers were now seeing it. She knew she had a flat face, undistinguished by those rounds of passion, sexiness, and the little bits of chicken that made a woman beautiful rather than pretty. But for a brief second, she wondered what it must be like to be the kind of woman who had men enraptured by her cheekbones. Perhaps this surgeon, master of faces, slimmer of celebs, could see things with his fingers that had so far eluded her friends and family. To be one of the beautiful people, even for this moment, would be some kind of revelation. It surprised her how much she wanted to join them, if only for an instant.

As if about to welcome her to this brave, new world, JK3 took his fingers away. She opened her eyes, blinking in the brightness, as he put the palms of his hands back together. He sighed.

“Fascinating. But flat.
Very
flat.” He smiled, pleased with his diagnosis. “Interesting to one such as myself. I would give you cheek implants, surgically, working from the inside of the face. Or use some Juvéderm, an injectable hyaluronic acid. Both are simple procedures, but what a difference they would make to your face!”

She was flat-cheeked.

"That won’t be necessary,” said Kate, uptightly. She changed the subject to mask her disappointment. “And if you don’t mind, I wondered if we could talk a bit about the history of plastic surgery in L.A.?”

“History?” He looked perplexed. “Oh, sure, history.” He looked around his desk for something to play with. “Well, my family moved here during the war—they were of Russian-Jewish origin. My grandparents were married here.” He picked up a glass paperweight with an off-white camellia flower in it, and opened and closed his hands around it, repeatedly. "The most perfect camellia I ever picked, preserved forever. If only I could do that with my work!”

He continued, “Of course, I always wanted to be a surgeon, was attracted to this amazing concept of enhancing people’s faces and therefore their lives, so it came as a surprise to me that, believe it or not, my great-grandfather, who I never knew because he was killed in a prison camp in the war, had been a distinguished Russian surgeon—”

“Actually, I meant the history of surgery in L.A., as opposed to your personal history.”

“Oh, you don’t want to talk about me?” He looked a little disappointed. “Or
Radical Redux
? Everyone wants to talk about that. Did Aurelie not show you the DVD? I’m not sure when it’s coming to England, but I know for a fact that
Darling
magazine was desperate to do a feature on me at the time. . . .” He put the paperweight down, pulled his feet off his desk, and moved his fingers nonchalantly to his platinum cuff links. "They were kinda bummed because I gave the story to
Vogue
— well,
Vogue
offered me a cover surrounded by the celebs I slimmed, so I could hardly turn it down, but hey, we can make amends, I can give you something extra-exclusive. Yeah, sure, Aurelie, what can I do for you?”

Aurelie was standing in the doorway. Kate had hardly noticed her before, she’d been so caught up with nosing about JK3’s office, and then the phone call to Lise, but now that she came to think of it, Aurelie was something of an anomaly. For a start she was unfeasibly large for a town of predominantly size-zero proportions, with creamy, buttery skin that looked as if it had never been near the sun, and fleshy, plump limbs that by rights should be shooting golden arrows into the hearts of strapping young men. Her eyes were not warm, sexy, and flashing like JK3’s, even though Kate hated herself for seeing him like that, but they were reserved, nervous, a little distant, as if she was weighing Kate up all the time.

“Your patient is here, JK. Would you like me to ask her if Kate can sit in? Purely on an anonymous basis, naturally.”

“Sure thing, honey, you go ahead. Then show her in.” He was the magician; she the magician’s assistant.

She left the office. JK3 leaned across the desk conspiratorily and grabbed Kate’s hands, reining her in, the desk jutting into her stomach uncomfortably.

“I’m having a party tonight. Wanna come?”

“Er . . . sure?” For the purposes of the story, purely. “Why not? What time is it?”

“I’ll send a car for you. Nine o’clock. Aurelie will make the arrangements.”

He let go of her hands, sending her reeling backward like a stretched-out sheet relinquished in a tug-of-war.

“Kate, you’ll love this patient. Actress. Gorgeous girl . . . Do me a favor, don’t say you’re from
Darling
magazine, and keep her name a secret, okay?”

And then he did something else she really wasn’t expecting. He pulled down the Michelangelo book from the top shelf, opened it up, and lifted out a miniature bottle of champagne with two glasses.

“Something to get us into the party mood, huh?”

nine

Leaving Beverly Hills for JK’s home in Bel-Air, the road climbed farther and farther into green hills. The city spilled out mile after mile, its white lights flickering on and into the distance, the true stars of the town. The houses got bigger the farther they climbed, interspersed with smaller cottages, rose-entwined, as in the dimming light, Kate imagined young starlets entertaining movie moguls in the ’50s; Raymond Chandler heroines receiving Philip Marlowe types.

"The price of property here is rising faster than you can say ‘beach house in Malibu’!” said the driver, as if reading Kate’s mind.

He was not your average chauffeur, being around Kate’s age, with square-jawed superhero good looks and wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a man on a horse waving a stick in the air. The car was not your average limo either—JK3 had sent his Mercedes Sport, “the silver one,” because his other cars were out picking up couples. He hoped she wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, I’m so sorry . . . I forgot,” said the driver, who had introduced himself as Chuck. He reached across her over to the dashboard and pulled out a clear plastic bag with a camellia flower inside, its short stem wrapped in white paper. “Aurelie wanted me to give you this. JK3 likes his guests to wear one of these, either in their hair or on their lapel. It’s one of those funny touches he has, he’s so original like that.”

"Thank you,” said Kate, not sure what to do with it, her hair having been blow-dried by Stevie at the Rodeo Hair-Shack with two hours of precision movements worthy of the final desired result: a bed-head mess Kate Moss would have been proud of.

“Aurelie usually writes some tips . . . you know, some of the ladies don’t know what to do with it. Look at the paper,” said Chuck, helpfully.

Ladies. Who said “ladies” anymore?

“Have you been JK’s driver for long?” Kate asked politely.

"Oh, I only do this for big occasions like tonight. The rest of the time I’m an—”

“Actor.” Kate finished the sentence for him. “Don’t tell me.

You had a really great audition the other day, and your uncle’s friends with Steven Spielberg’s car washer or something—”

“Well, I am in theater, but . . .”

“Really?” Kate was embarrassed. He hadn’t been so awful to her, this Chuck guy. Why had she done that to him?

“What play are you in? You must think I’m such an idiot, I’m so sorry to have assumed . . . it’s just that . . .”

"I know. It’s a big L.A. cliché. The model/actor/whatever thing.” Chuck swerved to avoid a palm branch that had fallen in the road. The camellia tumbled to Kate’s feet. She picked it up.

Chuck continued, “But there’s no play. Well, not really. It’s not that kind of theater. I’m JK’s theater assistant. You know, ‘Pass the scalpel,’ that kinda thing.”

Kate laughed. “I’m sure it’s more important than that. You make it sound like you’re an extra on
ER
.”

Chuck took his eyes off the road and looked back at her, “Let’s face it, everyone here is someone they’re not.”

Everyone here is someone they’re not.
Did that even make sense? Maybe the sun was getting to her. She’d spent an hour earlier that evening strolling on the beach in Santa Monica, having discovered Disneyland was way down the road toward Mexico and she didn’t have enough time to go there. It was the biggest beach she’d ever seen, with white sands that went on forever, incredible considering it was in the middle of a city. It had track marks where beach cleaners had trawled the sands to keep them spotless. She had kicked off her Jimmy Choo thongs, splashed her feet in the cool, lapping waters at the edge, and picked up a caramel Frappuccino Lite at Starbucks before heading back to the hotel.

The actress had stayed for an hour’s consultation with JK, and hadn’t minded at all that Kate sat in, so long as she only made notes and didn’t use the tape. Perhaps she was a voice-over artist, thought Kate, although if she was, what was the point in getting the nose job she was considering? She couldn’t tell whether her getup was some kind of classic disguise mode—a head scarf, big shades, a floor-length skirt, and long-sleeved blouse—or just sun avoidance. She was about thirty years old and complained that her nose tilted up nicely—she liked that bit—but why did it have to curve over to one side? It affected her work, and seeing her nose photographed over the last ten years or so had been annoying.

Her voice whined and squeaked. “But you know, in spite of all this, I’ve lived with
me
for a long time, and I don’t want to look like someone else.”

Except you do, thought Kate, silently scribbling down the responses she wished the actress was making as opposed to the ones she really was. You do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and you certainly wouldn’t be asking your next question:

“By the way, JK, who did Michelle Pfeiffer?”

JK3 had at this point reached across the table, grabbed the actress’s hands, and reeled her in. Clearly he had some kind of technique going here.

“Honey, it doesn’t matter. Because you are you, and no one is like you. You know I can’t reveal the names of my celebrity clients, but you also know I won’t treat them differently from you in terms of my” (he paused to make sure Kate had time to copy his words down in her notebook) “
art form
. Sure, I’ll visit the big names at home, but they still have to come here for the surgery, the injectibles.”

The actress looked as if she wasn’t buying it. JK3 moved in for the kill.

“I’ll treat you like the biggest. Celebrity. I’ve. Ever. Had,” he said, pausing between each word as if it somehow imparted sincerity. “And what’s more, I’ll give you the look of celebrity.”

Kate wondered if he had any celebrity clients at all. Or if Michelle Pfeiffer had ever had surgery. This confidentiality thing was all very well, and yes, she knew every surgeon signed a code of ethics that prevented them from revealing anyone’s personal details, but it meant that every surgeon could whisper rumors about famous people’s faces, and no one would know any better.

“Of course, there are those clients of mine who are willing to talk about my art form, and that’s another thing,” he said, pulling out his glossy, laminated
Vogue
cover, the one with all the famous skinny people he’d worked on.

The actress’s eyes lit up. “August is a good time,” she said. “I’m not busy then.”

Aurelie appeared as if from nowhere with JK’s diary.

The actress pulled her agenda out from her handbag. “And Venus is in retrograde.”

After the actress had left, complete with a date, the promise she could change her mind anytime she wanted to, and an invitation to the party, Kate had tried to pester JK again about history, but he didn’t seem to understand what she was after.

“You know who she is, I suppose?” he said.

“To be honest, JK, it’s not really what my story is about. Today’s celebrities. I’m looking more for those early pioneers in the film industry, the agents and film studio managers who doctored the faces of starlets to turn them into stars.”

“And you don’t want to hear about my Russian grandfather? ”

“Um . . . not really, I mean I do, it’s very interesting, but I need—”

They were interrupted by Aurelie, who warned them that a “big” studio executive was waiting in the next room for his Botox injections. She didn’t mean “fat.”

“You do men, too?”

“Gorgeous, simple English girl,” said JK, enjoying seeing Kate blush again. "The miracle of youth is desired by men as well as women. Sometimes men chase it, sometimes they are born with it—”

“And sometimes they have it thrust upon them, squirted via a needle and a little drug called Botox. Yup. I get you.”