Face Value (33 page)

“Kate, love!” her mum shouted up the stairs in a loud whisper.

“Coming!” She patted her hand over her handbag, confirming her passport was in there. She’d made her bed, filed her mail. She dragged her bag down the stairs, the wheels leaving tracks in the carpet which her mum would no doubt gratefully vacuum away later in the day, glad to have the chance to be a mum again.

“You all set, darling?” said Darleen. She hugged her. “No more thoughts as to when you’ll be back?” She held her arms and looked hopefully into Kate’s eyes. She looked so happy, so fulfilled, even though Kate knew she was sad at her departure.

“No, Mum, can’t say yet. But I’ll let you know. Maybe you and Morris could . . . well, I’ll let you know.” She knew exactly when she’d be back, but it depended on a few important things falling into place.

Darleen picked up her mug of tea from the counter. KATE was emblazoned on it in bold red letters. It had been the mug she’d used at
Maidstone Bazaar
, a Christmas party gift from Brian, who’d had a fit of generosity after a circulation increase.

“Love, I don’t want you to think . . .” Darleen looked worried. “I mean, I know Morris is living here now, but your room is still your room. I’m—we’re expecting you back.”

“I know. Thanks, Mum.”

The doorbell rang. You never got to drink those last-minute cups of tea, she thought to herself. You knew you’d never get to drink them, but you still made them, still ceremoniously poured them: the good-bye mug.

twenty-nine

It was simple enough. She would look into the camera with the red bulb on the top, and keep her eyes fixed on that camera, until the light moved to another camera, when she would move her eyes to look in that one instead. The problem was that in practice, when Trisha was actually speaking to her, it felt rude and strange to be looking at a red bulb instead of at Trisha. She was aware her eyes were dancing nervously between Trisha and the camera, Wimbledon-spectator style. They’d stuck a wire with a mike up her front which clipped onto the lapel of her black silk shirt and caused the lapel to hang down loosely like some wilted flower with a too-big head. Her trousers, which had looked fine when she’d put them on before the mirror this morning, stretched uncomfortably tightly over her thighs now that she was seated upright and uptight on the sofa.

This was Trisha’s territory. She could see the woman positively dazzle now that she had the cameras, the lights, the makeup, the hair, the Chanel-style suit. She had bounced into the greenroom and pressed an envelope into her hand, bulging with what could only be cash.

“Kate, I’m so grateful. Honestly, it’s a big deal . . . you don’t know how much—”

"Thanks.” Kate smoothly put the money into the large leather handbag studded with hardware at her feet. It was spent already, in her head, down to the last penny. She waited until Trisha had left the room, then, when no one was looking, reached back into the bag, peeled off a grand in notes, and folded them neatly into her trouser pocket. She rummaged again in her bag and pulled out a small piece of paper, folded, and tucked that in her pocket, too.

Once on set, she felt hot and sweaty, her palms doing their own thing, cold and sweaty. Suddenly they were starting. Music, cheery, with a news-heavy bass adding a little drama to the daytime tones, piped them on board, then the numbers appeared on the monitor, counting them in . . . three . . . two . . . one—

TRISHA HILLMORY: Hello. Today I am thrilled to have with me in the studio the girl who’s been causing a sensation in the States with her new approach to beauty, and an old personal friend of mine, Kate Miller.

KATE MILLER: (
Oh, Trisha. You’ll never learn, will you?
) Hello.

TRISHA: So, Kate, would you like to tell us what’s been happening Stateside? A report on CNN last week—can we show that to the viewers?—revealed that you have in fact been inspiring plastic surgeons to completely change their outlook on aesthetic surgery today.

KATE: Trisha, that’s something of an exaggeration. One surgeon, John Kingsley the Third, said at a—

TRISHA: (
she held up a hand to silence Kate
) Great. (
she turned to the camera
) That’s great, we’re going now to the CNN report that first brought this to our attention. . . .

Kate used the video playback opportunity to slick back the flicky bit of hair that kept tickling her eyebrows, thanks to the hairdresser attacking her in the dressing room with a pair of overzealous straightening irons. A fluffy, tapping noise blared out loudly as her fingers grazed the mike, until the soundman came rushing over and crossly readjusted it. As the report ended, Trisha resumed.

TRISHA: Now, of course, Kate, you were, before you went to the States, something of a rookie reporter, weren’t you? Working on a local paper.

KATE: Yes, that’s right, Trish.
Maidstone Bazaar
. We have a circulation of—

TRISHA: And I gather it was thanks to an interview with me, during which you allowed me to painfully air the story of my breakup with media guru Donald Truckell, that you landed a prime job in New York, am I right?

KATE: No. It was more to do with the fact that the lazy PA to the editor over there didn’t check her facts.

TRISHA: (
laughter
) Oh! You’re just the funniest! But seriously, what was it like, moving first to New York, then going to Los Angeles and being thrown into this strange world where beauty really is paramount, and at any cost.

KATE: (
Is that the best you can do, Trisha?
) It was great. Really great. And that’s what I want to clear up, if I may, Trisha.

TRISHA: Clear up?

KATE: Yes, you see, I got it all wrong.

TRISHA: (
laughter, this time nervous
) Well, let’s see, you ended up on prime-time TV on the biggest national news channel in America. How could that be wrong?

KATE: No, not that bit. Well, actually that had nothing really to do with me, more to do with JK.

Trisha looked confused. For once she appeared to be actually listening. For a moment, Kate was aware that the eyes of the studio, the camera people, the sound guys, the hair and makeup people standing patiently in the wings . . . the same eyes that had been on her since she’d sat on the sofa were now on her in a different way, as if sensing one of those intense moments in television when something might be said that actually meant something. An air of expectation hung heavily around them.

TRISHA: Go on, Kate.

KATE: It’s not as simple as it seems.

TRISHA: What do you mean, Kate?

KATE: I arrived in L.A. determined to hate what I was going to find. That’s not easy for me to say, because as a journalist, I’m supposed to be objective.

TRISHA: Inexperienced journalist, perhaps?

KATE: (
Thanks, Trish.
) Possibly. Yes, definitely. But even setting that aside, as a human being, I came already prepared to hate, to dislike, to frown upon whatever it was I was going to find, before I found it.

TRISHA: Plastic surgery, you mean? But most of us would agree that plastic surgery is all right for celebrities, but for normal people, surely it’s wrong?

KATE: Look at it another way. I mean, you’ve had Botox—sorry, I know you won’t thank me for saying that, but it’s true. You dye your hair. . . .

Trisha looked around frantically as if trying to call Security. Kate, unphased, continued.

KATE: I don’t know, you probably go to a gym, do Pilates, who knows, who cares? The point is, we all do something to make ourselves look better. We all need to do that. It’s human nature. And now that science, medicine rather, can offer us real ways of looking good, who are we to judge those who want cosmetic surgery, or even those who operate on others?

TRISHA: I don’t understand, are you saying that you think surgery is a good thing?

KATE: I’m saying it’s not for me to judge. And that’s where I went wrong. I judged. I was ready to believe in the malicious machinations of a woman who was truly bonkers, who had plotted against the one surgeon who was genuinely extolling the virtues of a newer, natural approach to surgery. Why would I believe her over him? Because in my head already, I’d figured out that surgery was bad; she must therefore be good. Life’s not that simple.

TRISHA: You’re referring of course to the libellous claims of his ex-girlfriend, Patty Patrice.

KATE: Well, ironically, Patty Patrice was the one who changed the way I thought about surgery. Inadvertently.

TRISHA: So it’s thanks to Patty that you now think surgery is a good thing, basically?

KATE: It’s an “okay” thing. Don’t get me wrong—it can be awful. I’ve seen faces on women that are so far removed from natural that I wonder what they were thinking of, what their surgeons were thinking of. And of course, there comes a point where self-esteem is elevated to such a degree it becomes plain old vanity, and that’s not good for the soul. But I’ve also seen breasts on a model that defy anyone to identify them as fakes.

TRISHA: Are you thinking of any celebrities in particular who have done this?

KATE: I wouldn’t want to say. They’re happy with the way they look. But there are other uses for cosmetic surgery, which go beyond having a bumpy nose straightened out or a few wrinkles smoothed away. Breast reconstruction after a mastectomy, for example. Or cases where a person’s self-esteem has been so eroded over the years by a lack of confidence in the way they look, that it can really change their lives. What’s wrong with that?

TRISHA: And you feel that you got this surgeon . . . (
she looked down at her notes to check his name
) John Kingsley the Third—that you got him wrong.

KATE: Very wrong. He’s not judgmental. He takes everyone at face value. He spends a lot of his free time working in Brazil, looking after children who are born with deformed faces but whose families are so poor they can’t afford to fix them. It’s not something he ever publicizes—in fact, I know he only wanted to talk to me at all because the hospital was in need of more funds—but I think it’s important that people understand that some surgeons get a bad rap they don’t deserve. He was nothing but gracious to me, the whole time I was there. Sure, like all surgeons, he can be a bit, you know, ostentatious, rock-starry. But for me to arrive and judge him like that . . . I was prepared to write about him in a way that would have ruined his career, and all for my own hang-ups about the way I look, hang-ups about the way I think others should look. And that’s not right, Trisha.

Trisha looked blankly at Kate. She had no idea what to follow this confessional with. She had been expecting to talk in a loose, friendly way about what beauty meant to the beholder. She had a line earmarked to throw in at an appropriate opening, about beauty coming from within, which she was particularly proud of.

TRISHA: And presumably, what is right, Kate, is his claiming that you are a role model for today’s look?

KATE: Well, I think what JK means is that there is a culture among women to look overgroomed, overperfect, if there’s such a thing. You know, the perfect blow-dry, manicure, the wrinkle-free complexion, the straight nose . . . (
She realized as she was talking that this was in fact the very look Trisha was sporting
.) Even supremely beautiful women keep messing around with themselves, getting face-lifts, Botox, chemical peels, fillers, fixers, neck lifts, lipo, tummy tucks, things that we don’t need, in pursuit of an ideal that the more steps they take toward it, the further away they are from reaching it. But at some stage as an adult you have to face up to aging. And JK’s argument is that a little more of a natural approach is not only healthier, but it makes you look younger, more beautiful, too.

TRISHA: In other words: beauty comes from within. (
She smiled, triumphantly
.) Well, thanks very much, Kate, I think this chat has been very illuminating.

KATE: Thank you. Actually, if I could just say one more thing, quickly, Trisha, I want to say sorry, to JK. Sorry for being so quick to judge. Sorry for . . . everything. (
Trisha looked embarrassed. She laughed it off.
)

TRISHA: Of course! That’s just great! Well, thank you, Kate Miller. And now we’re going to the news desk for an update on all that’s happening in the world today.

The music started up again and the red light moved to a camera in another part of the studio, where a news presenter Kate vaguely recognized as being on the
News at Ten
until he’d been caught having an affair with a call girl, started talking about another bomb scare in Israel. Trisha turned to face Kate and looked at her, a worried expression filling her eyes.

“Well . . . that was interesting. I have something to ask you about all that. . . .”

“What? And by the way, thanks.” She stood up, ready to follow the assistant who was suddenly by her side to take her back to the greenroom.

Trisha tugged at Kate’s sleeve like a pet Chihuahua looking for its mistress. “Do you think—I mean, obviously with your new experience—do you think I am looking a bit, you know, too
perfect
?”

There was a neon-lit corridor linking the set with the greenroom, filled with framed pictures of Trisha Hillmory and the male newscaster she’d just seen. The assistant, in his late twenties, walked slightly ahead of her, turning every so often to make light conversation.

“I saw the show—it was good what you were saying. You came across very honestly, I suppose. We don’t get much of that.”

Kate didn’t need the small talk. She had a plane to catch, things on her mind. She reached into her pocket for the thousand pounds she’d stuffed there earlier, then stopped under a picture of Trisha with a former prime minister, now retired. She supposed in the old days, before the affair, it would have been a picture of Trisha with the current prime minister. She almost felt sorry for her.

The assistant walked on a couple more paces before realizing she had stopped.