He shifted slightly in his seat, the ache in his bad knee bothering him as usual. He looked down at the patient form on the desk, and moved straight to the last section. ‘Could I ask how you heard about the Beauty Centre? Were you recommended by word of mouth or did you see an advertisement?’
‘I saw your advertisement in the ‘Health and Beauty’ section of the local paper. When I realised you were near my office, I thought I’d pop in.’
O’Connor nodded.
‘So does this mean you’ll treat me?’ she said, as he began filling in the form.
‘Well, let’s start by assessing you. Which parts of your face are you unhappy with?’
She raised her chin and looked at him. ‘My eyes are sagging, especially the skin below them. And I’m developing these lines above my upper lip. My throat bothers me, too. The skin there needs tightening.’
O’Connor gazed at the face of a perfectly normal forty-fiveyear-old. Apart from the slight bagging off the skin below her eyes, which could be easily rectified with a blepharoplasty, she didn’t need any treatment. Apart from reasons of pure vanity, at least. ‘Well, I can certainly perform a couple of procedures to address those issues-’
‘And my skin in general,’ she interrupted, warming to her theme. ‘It just looks tired, no matter how much I exfoliate and moisturise. I noticed on the stairs that you offer those lasers. How do they work?’
Her bleating had started to aggravate him, and keeping the pleasant lilt in his voice was becoming more of an effort. ‘Just out of interest, how much do you spend on moisturisers?’
‘Well, I use a Clarins programme. Let’s say it’s not cheap.’
‘Anti-wrinkling properties in the treatments?’
‘Of course.’
He nodded. ‘I can save you that money. After all, why use anti-wrinkle treatments when you have no wrinkles to treat?’
She gasped. ‘I’d never thought of it like that!’
Smiling, O’Connor swivelled the lamp on his desk so it shone directly at her face. He scrutinised her for a few seconds then said, ‘Well, we offer Cool Touch laser. It works by stimulating cells to produce natural collagen, the supporting framework beneath your skin. That would take about twenty minutes. The pinkness fades very quickly and you could be back at your desk within an hour. You really haven’t mentioned your visit to any of your colleagues?’
Smiling, she shook her head. ‘I can’t wait to see them when
I walk back in.’
‘But in your case I think we should opt for what used to be crudely known as a skin-peel. It’s actually called laser skin resurfacing and I would admit you as a day case in order to perform it. Your skin will feel tender for about a week, but the results last much longer. You could forget about your monthly expenditure on Clarins — I’d prescribe you a moisturiser that’s far less expensive.’
‘That sounds better to me. And will it sort out these marks?’ She held a finger to her forehead.
He leaned forward. ‘Are they old acne scars?’
‘Yes. They’ve bugged me ever since I was a teenager.’ He sat back. ‘Everything would be removed.’
Eagerly, she probed her upper lip. ‘What about these awful grooves that are appearing?’
Would she ever shut up? ‘Well, we could eliminate those with filler. I favour Dermaleve. It involves a few injections, and the whole procedure would take half an hour. There’s really very little impact on your time. If you like, I’ll show you the treatment room. Then I can conduct a proper assessment prior to arranging a convenient date for your treatment.’
‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He got up, straightened his stiff knee and limped round the desk. ‘OK, this is where it all happens.’ He unlocked the door to the treatment room. On the far side was an adjustable bed, a large roll of blue paper mounted behind it. By its side was what appeared to be a small printer or photocopier. Grey plastic and a few buttons on the top. Cupboards lined two of the walls, and a small sink was in one corner. Next to that were several cupboards with all their doors closed. O’Connor hobbled across the shiny floor to the grey plastic machine. ‘Cool Touch laser.’
She had sidled across to a poster of a smiling woman with immaculate skin. ‘Doctor, you mentioned that you could do my upper lip in twenty minutes and I could go straight back to work.’
Nurse Palmer wasn’t due in until the next day. Their privacy was assured. No one knew she was here. O’Connor saw the opportunity presenting itself. ‘Yes. There would be a bit of pinkness and a slight numbness from the anaesthetic. I suppose if we perform the procedure now, we could fill out the rest of the form while your skin settles down.’
‘How much would it cost?’
He waved a hand. ‘Seventy-five pounds. But I’d only charge you once all your procedures had been successfully completed.’
‘Oh,’ she smiled. ‘In that case, could you do it for me now?’ God, will your incessant whining never stop? He imagined how her voice box would look when the skin covering it had been stripped away. He pulled the roll of blue paper until a length of it covered the treatment bed. ‘Hop up.’
She removed her coat, climbed up and sat back. ‘Will it hurt? Needles really bother me.’
O’Connor flicked on the examination light hanging down from the ceiling. Then he turned on a tape recorder. As the sound of soothing pan pipes filled the room, he unlocked a cupboard. It was filled with bottles and boxes. He took out a pre-prepared syringe, the needle only centimetres long. Inside was a clear, gel-like substance. ‘Here it is, five millilitres of Dermaleve. And no, you won’t feel a thing. I’ll apply some anaesthetic cream first.’
‘That’s a relief.’ She sat back.
He moved out of her line of vision then took an empty syringe from the cupboard. Next he removed a tiny vial of Propofol from the shelf, washed his hands in the sink and dried them. After smearing her upper lip with cream he said, ‘OK, I’ll get everything ready back here while that takes effect. You just relax.’
He pulled on a pair of size eight latex gloves, picked up the syringe and sucked the Propofol into it. He placed it in a stainless-steel kidney tray, put that on a small trolley and wheeled it over. Sitting down on a stool by the top of the treatment bed, he leaned forward. ‘How does that feel?’
‘I don’t think it’s. .’ she mumbled. ‘Oh, my mouth won’t work properly.’ She tried to smile, but her upper lip wouldn’t respond.
‘Perfect. Now close your eyes and lift your chin up slightly.’ Visualising what was beneath her skin, he traced the facial vein as it crossed the submandibular salivary gland and branched off beneath the skin of her upper lip. He slid the needle in and injected half the Propofol directly into it. He knew the anaesthetic would render his patient immobile in seconds.
Calmly, he returned the syringe to the tray and walked back over to the cupboards. ‘How does that feel?’
She didn’t reply. He returned to the treatment table and looked at her. Her eyes were fixed open and he lifted a hand to shield them from the harsh light above. Gradually her pupils widened a fraction. ‘Good, you can hear me but you can’t move.’ He sat back on the stool and, keeping the soothing, doctorly, tone in his voice, took her hand. ‘I want you to know that I despise you.’
Flecks of panic flew from her irises, though her breathing stayed steady and slow.
Needing time to quell the bile in his throat, he listened to the music for a few seconds. ‘Don’t worry, my skills are far superior to injecting bloody filler.’ Angrily, he looked around the treatment room, then began breathing deeply. When he spoke again, his voice had a melancholy note. ‘Not here. We’re going to a place where I won’t have to hurry. Mine is a delicate art, one that we don’t want to rush.’
He lifted the half-full syringe, turned her head slightly to the side and injected the remaining Propofol directly into her external jugular vein. Her eyelids slowly lowered and she slipped from consciousness.