Before Gabriel could say another word, she’d hung up.
Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard gazed admiringly at the young woman sitting opposite him. She was American, rich (at least if the diamonds sparkling on her fingers and ears were anything to go by) and far too beautiful to be in need of his services. With her pretty, elfin features and slim athletic body, her skin still bearing the smooth tautness of youth, she was an ‘after’ picture, not a ‘before’. But Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard hadn’t got to where he was today by looking gift horses in the mouth, however attractive or delusional they may be.
‘What is it I can help you with, Miss Yorke?’ He leaned forward, flashing his most avuncular smile.
‘Oh, I don’t know. A few things, I guess,’ Ella sighed. ‘This.’ She tapped the bridge of her nose. ‘And these.’ She ran a long finger down from the side of her nose to the outer edges of her lips, feigning displeasure with the faint line that ran between the two. ‘And, you know. My breasts could be bigger.’
Looking round the room, she scanned everything she could visually, while simultaneously trying to tune in to the phone and email data whirling around her, both from Dr Hansen-Gerard’s personal devices, and from his PA’s workstation on the other side of the door. Holding a conversation with the surgeon at the same time wasn’t easy, but Samantha Yorke was the ditzy, easily distracted type. Ella imagined Dr Hansen-Gerard must be used to those.
‘Well, breast size is of course a very personal matter,’ he was saying suavely, while Ella mentally searched for his schedule for the next two weeks online. Helpfully, his efficient PA sent him nightly reminders of the following day’s work, but so far the magical word Hambrecht had not come up. ‘If you do opt for an augmentation, there are a number of factors to consider. Did you know if you wanted a silicone or a saline implant, for example? And had you thought about shape? Round or teardrop? Textured or smooth? Nowadays a number of my patients opt for what we call “gummy bear” augmentations …’
Hambrecht! Mrs A. There it was! She was scheduled for preliminary blood work next Monday and surgery the following Tuesday, the eighteenth. Dr Mungo Hansen-Gerard had the entire day’s surgery reserved for her that day – nine hours in theater.
‘I guess I maybe haven’t done enough research,’ Ella said, getting up and reaching for her purse, eager to go now she had the information she needed. ‘I’m wasting your time, doctor.’
‘Not at all, Miss Yorke, not at all! And please, call me Mungo.’ Sensing he was in danger of losing her, he was at his most ingratiating. ‘Most of my patients are uncertain on their first visit. Part of my job is to guide you through the various options. I’ve done the research so you don’t have to.’ He gestured for Ella to sit. ‘You mentioned you were also considering rhinoplasty?’
‘Mmm hmm,’ said Ella, sitting back down reluctantly. At this point, it didn’t make sense to draw attention to herself by bolting out of there, much as she wanted to race into the street and call Gabriel. She’d come here as a prospective patient, and she must behave like one. Besides which, it wouldn’t hurt to see more of the facility, become familiar with Athena’s likely movements on the day. ‘If I went ahead with that, would the actual surgery be done here? And could you do it on the same day?’
‘Yes. And yes, it could, although I probably wouldn’t advise that,’ Dr Hansen-Gerard replied, delighted to have brought his prospective patient back into the fold. ‘I advise most patients to wait at least a week between procedures.’
Not Athena Petridis, though, thought Ella. She’s in a rush for a whole new look.
After fifteen more minutes talking about the various noses, lips and injectable fillers available to today’s affluent, insecure narcissist, ‘Mungo’ offered Ella a brief tour of the clinic. Set behind a classical Georgian façade on Wimpole Street, just a stone’s throw from the more famous Harley Street, the London Aesthetic Clinic was in fact three former townhouses knocked together and extended backwards into what had once been gardens and then a mews to create two separate surgical suites, a recovery and a pre-operative room, six private patient bedrooms, a nurses’ station, and a large ‘consultation wing’, consisting of Mungo’s private office and those of his junior partner, a front office for the PAs and a light and airy waiting room, hidden from the prying eyes of the street by antique Belgian lace curtains.
Mungo talked ‘Samantha’ through the protocols for each operation and explained exactly what happened to each patient from their arrival for a procedure until their ultimate discharge. By the time they were done, Ella had a clear idea of exactly where Athena ought to be and when on the eighteenth. Armed with this information, she hoped that she and Gabriel together would be able to come up with a detailed plan.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Yorke.’ The surgeon shook his prospective patient’s hand at the door to his consulting room, ushering her back towards the front office. ‘Make a follow-up appointment with the girls and in the meantime I’ll send you links to some of the options we discussed.’
Itching to escape, Ella nonetheless did as she was asked and headed to the office. While she was standing at the desk, filling out the PA’s follow-up form, she saw a man in dark green overalls tinkering with what looked like a fuse box at the back of the room. She couldn’t put her finger on it exactly, but something about him seemed familiar. He had his back to her, so that ‘something’ must have been connected to his movements, his body language … Ella couldn’t place it, yet she felt herself shudder as if a spider had just scuttled up her arm.
‘Are you all right, Miss Yorke?’ the receptionist asked. She must have sensed something too.
‘Fine,’ said Ella, signing her name quickly at the bottom of the paper and, in the same instant, instinctively pulling up the silk Hermès scarf she wore around her neck, covering the entire lower part of her face.
When she spoke, the overalled man spun around, as suddenly as a snake pouncing on its prey.
He couldn’t see my face, Ella reassured herself as she bolted out of the building and straight into one of a string of black cabs streaming down Wimpole Street. He didn’t know it was me.
Even so, she heard herself telling the driver to drop her at Oxford Circus, which was nowhere near her guesthouse, because she suddenly felt the need to lose herself in a crowd.
She could only pray that the overalled electrician hadn’t recognized her. But Ella had certainly recognize
d him, with his pale, see-through skin, like a maggot’s, his wispy red hair, and his ice-blue, watery, emotionless eyes.
She waited until she was deep in a throng of noisily giggling Japanese tourists before she dared to pull out her phone.
This time, when Gabriel heard Ella’s voice, he knew that the undertone wasn’t excitement.
It was fear.
‘She’s going in on the eighteenth,’ she panted. ‘Mrs Hambrecht. I got a tour … I think I know where we can … how we can …’
‘Ella.’ His voice was low and calm, like a father’s hand on a hysterical daughter’s shoulder. ‘What’s the matter? What happened in there?’
Reaching out, Ella steadied herself against a wooden bench. She felt dizzy all of a sudden.
‘I saw …’ She inhaled deeply, almost gasping for breath. ‘I saw …’