Perfect Skin (11 page)

Okay. Here's the thing with Tickle-Me-Elmo. You've got two extremes, right? Fathers' Day is, like, offensively stable. Power tools, angle grinders, year after year.

The last bastion of fifties stereotypes. Big chunky submarine-under-the-ice novels, a boxed set of Rocky videos. I know what you're saying.

But I don't tell her I'm so out of the Fathers' Day league that I thought it was ankle grinders for years (the ads always shout in that bloke-frequency voice, which I can't hear clearly). Not that I'm any more certain now about what angle grinders are for. Which angles they grind, for instance. I've got plenty of angles around the house, but I haven't seen one that could be improved by grinding.

Exactly,
she's saying.
As opposed to all the crap Mothers' Day stuff. A different set of stuff but also stable. But Christmas is constructed in a different way. Partly, obviously, because everyone's supposed to score a present, but it's also less stable than it used to be when it comes to present choices. Monopoly, for example, was the archetypal Christmas gift for a couple of generations. You probably got given it yourself.

Well, yeah, but don't make me feel historic about it.

What we see now is the fad Christmas. You get one shot at it if you're a manufacturer. You pitch your brilliant, new idea into the pre-Christmas market. Hype it as hard as you can. You've got a couple of weeks to create anticipation, then another couple of weeks to start shifting it. One technique is to under-supply. Empty shelves make news. And the smart thing to do is target the under-sixes. They're much better networked than they used to be, and no-one likes to disappoint them. They get really excited about Christmas, and they're not good at putting disappointment into perspective. So, in 1997, they all wanted Tickle-Me-Elmo,
she says, and I love the intensity of it, the way it's coming out like a
pitch. The way she's completely over the fact that saying Tickle-Me-Elmo with even half this earnestness should be very funny.
It cost sixty bucks then, but the black-market price hit several hundred. In 1998, they were twenty-nine ninety-five. Their time had passed.

So what you're saying is, if Lily was a few years older, and I'd bought her one in 1997 I'd be a present-buying god, but if I bought her one in 1998 I'd only be showing her how past it I was.

That's it exactly. Might as well get her Monopoly. Don't tell me you didn't think all this through before you became a parent?

Look, I might still buy her Monopoly. In a few years, admittedly, but it could still happen. Is that a problem?

Well, we'll see. That Christmas is probably many fads away, and classic might be in that year.

This isn't sounding easy.

Surely you weren't expecting it to be easy.
She takes a mouthful of coffee.
But enough about me and Elmo. What do you do? Other than the bits I got from the card, the laser company name and the medical degree.

Laser surgery. Skin laser surgery. And, by the way, I'm not sure we've had anything like enough about you and Elmo. I think you were just warming up.

Maybe. But maybe I stopped just in time. So, what's the company you work for?

It's a group practice, a group medical practice. Dermatologists – or, at the moment, one dermatologist – and GPs with special training in laser surgery. It's mainly medical stuff that we do, though – treating disease, skin lesions – not generally all the cosmetic things you see advertised.

Our lunch comes, and I tell her more. How we thought we'd do more cosmetic work until the patients started coming in, and so many of the people interested in it wanted the impossible, or just wanted an expert opinion that would help them sue their last doctor.

It works for fine wrinkles, I tell her, thinking all the time that Tickle-Me-Elmo had far less capacity to bore than this. But it's not so good for expression lines. Like here, between your nose and mouth. But they're normal. You'd look weird without them. If they get pronounced some people want to do something about them. Some people want to do something about them anyway. But we mainly end up treating skin cancers and sun damage and acne scarring. And then we've got another laser that does blood vessel lesions, spidery veins, things like that.

What about tattoos?

Not as easy as they should be. It's a strange thing, really. Tattoos were designed to be permanent, and now that people are getting kind of excited about lasers there's this idea that they aren't any more. As though you just get them wiped off, or something. And it's not that straightforward.

Do you want another coffee?
she says, picking up her cup to drink and seeing that it's empty.
I thought I might have another.

I'm being boring, aren't I?

No. No, if you were being boring I'd just sit here and suffer. I thought I might have another coffee. And then I expect you to tell me why tattoos aren't that straightforward.

I am boring you. It's fine. You won't hear another word about tattoos. So how about that one-day cricket?

She shakes her head.
Tattoos. Lack of straightforwardness. I expect to hear more. In the meantime, and for the third and final time, do you want another long black?

Thanks.

She walks off to the counter. What am I doing? It's been years since I cared if I was boring someone. I assume I bore people regularly, but I'm not used to minding. Most people bore me, so it's only fair. Ash, I realise, doesn't bore me. She could go on at length about Tickle-Me-Elmo and keep me interested.

I hadn't expected I'd like her. I thought she was too good a runner to have much of a personality. But I do rather compartmentalise the world, don't I, and that's a pretty ridiculous view to have about runners. And maybe it's just all the talking with George lately, but this is operating more the way a date would than I'd expected it to. And I also think the idea of runners not having much of a personality is a George opinion, some big-guy defence for that sedentary life of his. I wonder what he thinks about swimmers. I wonder if he went yesterday.

I'd braced myself for something brief today, awkward silences, little common ground. I was going to try not to rant about my mother, or fireplaces – whatever Ash did to the paper – but I wasn't prepared for the Tickle-Me-Elmo side of her world. This was just a chance for her to get out of the house, not to get semi-dressed-up, play with my baby, be interesting.

Tattoos,
she says, when she comes back over.
You were starting to tell me about tattoos.

Okay. Here's the strange thing. You'd think tattoos'd be the easiest part of the job, but they aren't. They can
need quite a few treatments, and there aren't any lasers that cover all the colours effectively. So you can need several different machines to treat the one tattoo. And you can really only justify having multiple machines if you're doing an awful lot of business. You also don't know for sure how many different components modern tattoo inks are made of. Some of them are pure, some of them are a mixture. So very occasionally you'll see a bizarre response, where the laser changes the tattoo ink to another colour instead of making it go away. Another issue, at least in this part of the world, is that almost nobody has white skin. As in, actually close to white. And the laser you use for blue or black ink also picks out pigment cells. It depigments the area so – if you imagine it treating your reasonably tanned skin – you could end up with a white tattoo ghost if you had one removed. Whereas, with a lot of diseases, you're much more likely to get a good result. Those farmers who are sixty and look ninety because of all the sun damage to their faces.

Like my father.

That kind of thing can come up really well. It looks like they've had their wrinkles done, even though you're actually doing it to treat premalignant skin change.

It's strange that something like a cancer can be easy to get rid of and a tattoo's harder.

It's all to do with how the skin works. And the laser, too, I guess. People think skin is easy. They think it's a really simple organ. Probably just because it's on the outside and they can see it. It's much more subtle than they realise. There's a lot to it, and most of it's not on show. It's got quite a few layers, and different components to it,
and different cell types. Laser's good because it takes that into account. You can shave off layers microns thick, or you can target particular things.

Our second coffees arrive, and I know we need a change of subject. I'm right on the brink of doing what I used to watch old housemates do when they brought women home, told them all about work and made sure we'd never see them again. And they never actually say,
Yes, you're being boring,
do they?

Lily's awake and talking again, wanting to be part of things. I pick her up and let her bounce around on my thigh. Ash smooths out a mint wrapper and turns it into a goblet.

Is that all right, or is it too small for her?
she says as she holds it up and Lily reaches for it.

I think we'll notice if she does anything risky with it. It's a neat goblet. You look like you've done that before.

Hey, I've drunk wine from them before.

You know what fun is, don't you?

Well, there goes your chance of getting a set of six for your birthday.

Sorry. It was just envy. The dexterity of it all . . .

My mobile rings. It's somewhere down in the baby bag, so it takes me a while to recognise it and then to find it. It's a medical receptionist and she's saying,
It's Doctor Mendoza's rooms calling for Doctor Brand.

Calling for Melissa.

Calling now as I'm sitting here, having my attention caught by a student and her neat, mint-wrapper goblet, halfway through a long discussion about all kinds of things. Complacent, and I told myself I wouldn't be complacent.

The receptionist hasn't heard. It's not her fault that she hasn't heard.

It's been weeks since we last had one of these calls. Weeks and weeks.

I was sure they were over.

Doctor Mendoza's rooms calling for Doctor Brand.

I'm sorry, I tell her. She died a few months ago, actually.

There's no fancy way to say it, no point in trying. I've worked that out. Better to say it clearly, and as though it's just the way things are. But it sounds horribly strange, still, every time. The receptionist apologises – hurries into some kind of apology – and then she's gone.

Tough business you're in,
Ash says.
I hope you don't get too many calls like that.

Sorry? What do you mean?

Calls about patients who have died. I wouldn't have thought that happened often with laser surgery.

No, no. It doesn't. That was something else.

I'm giving Lily her bath later when the
who does she take after
remark comes back into my mind. She's splashing, sinking ships, grabbing my face with her wet hands and laughing at the expressions she thinks she's moulding into it.

She's her own person, even when she's this young. I think sometimes we give too much credit to our simplistic assessments of where people and their parts come from, playing Mister Potato Head with them, as if all their features can be drawn from the small set their parents can give. People have their own noses, their own chins. Sometimes there might be similarities to someone
else, but that doesn't mean the part came as a gift, or slipped in as the work of one gene.

In fact, that's one of the best bits of the process. Here's a new person. No-one chose the parts to make her with. She's already complex, and thoughtful, and surprising.

We watch the water gurgle down the plug hole, and Lily says something that sounds like
Yeah,
and claps her hands. I flip a towel over her head and we play the hiding game we've made of hair drying. She probably has no idea this is all about getting clean.

In the car we get most of the way through the Lemonheads' ‘Big Gay Heart' on the short drive to my parents' place.

And I'm singing, maybe louder than usual, and wishing that call hadn't come through today. I thought everyone knew now, everyone who might possibly have a need to know. I thought Wendy and Sylvia had a system for letting everyone know, and that they were handling it. I don't even know why a GP would be trying to call on a Saturday. Who could need a dermatologist on a Saturday? I suppose there are some reasons you might. Maybe I should have put them on to George. Not that I really got the chance. The receptionist got off the line pretty quickly.

I lift the Bean out of the baby capsule, and she's warm and clean and a bundle of kicking and noise.

Oh, yeah, we're at the oldies', aren't we? I say to her. Let the fun begin.

My mother takes her at the door, and slips into babble mode right away. Walks down the corridor copying the Bean's every noise and naming furniture and fittings.

And here's Grandpa,
she says, drawing out the ‘here's' as long as possible and swinging into the kind of build-up that might have worked for the host of a TV variety show, but that doesn't make my father entirely comfortable.

He stands there like a man who was about to do a well-rehearsed piece of stage magic, only to discover he's lost his rabbit at the last moment.

Hello, love,
he says, sounding altogether too low-key. And then he suddenly becomes animated and says,
Hey, I've got some new screen savers. I think she might like them.

And we always did want another computer geek in the family, I tell him. You're just starting work on her early, aren't you?

No. I think she might like them. There's the dancing baby from that American television program, and one with pieces of pasta. They're dancing as well. Lots of movement. I think she'll like it.