Take Mum Out Read Online Free

elegant air, teetering heels have the effect of making me feel like a big, hairy trucker with a secret penchant for cramming his vast size tens into his girlfriend’s stilettos. It’s all wrong – my outfit, the restaurant, the man (who has started on about ‘boosting a woman’s confidence’ again as if, without his poky needles, any female should be terrified of leaving the house).
    ‘The thing is,’ I cut in, ‘you said it’s all about working with natural contours …’
    ‘Mmm-hmm.’ More food has arrived. As Anthony nibbles the end of an asparagus stalk, I picture Logan and Fergus chomping happily on a side order of garlic bread.
    ‘I mean,’ I continue, ‘I don’t have a problem with that, if that’s how people want to spend their money. But it’s not
completely
natural, is it? Natural is leaving everything as it is. Natural is bunging on a bit of mascara and lip gloss and hoping for the best.’
    ‘Yes, well … that’s an option I suppose,’ he says scathingly, as if I’d confided that I’m partial to smearing my face with lard.
    ‘So,’ I continue, ‘what would you recommend I should have done to
my
face?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t want to get into that, Alice …’
    I force a smile as plates are whisked away and replaced with others. Every course is tiny; I feel as if I have stumbled into the dining room of a doll’s house.
    ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’m just interested to know what could be done. I’d like your …
expert appraisal
.’ This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness. Actually, there is no reason to feel anxious sitting here. It’s a one-off, an ‘experience’, certainly, and at least I can report back to Ingrid that I didn’t chicken out.
    ‘Okaaaay,’ Anthony says plummily, ‘you really want me to tell you?’
    ‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
    ‘Hmm. Well, I’d say around here’ – his fingers dart close to my eyes – ‘we’re talking a little Botox to soften the crow’s feet, plus dermal fillers here’ – I flinch as his spongy fingertips prod my cheeks – ‘and more fillers here, here and here, to plump up those marionette lines.’
    ‘What are marionette lines?’ I frown, wishing I hadn’t started this.
    ‘These crevices,’ he says, sweeping a thumb and middle finger from my nose to mouth corners. ‘In fact, the whole jawline,’ Anthony continues while I take another fortifying swig of wine, ‘can be lifted with the careful use of fillers, creating a youthful springiness. We call it the non-surgical facelift.’ Now the twerp has reached across the table and cupped my chin in his clammy hand, as if trying to guess the weight of my head. ‘And those forehead lines could be lightly Botoxed for a smoother appearance with no loss of movement.’
    ‘That’s not true,’ I retort, leaning back to maximise the distance between my clearly ravaged visage and his gropey hands. ‘You
can’t
say that. We’ve all seen celebs with their weird, frozen foreheads, unable to form normal expressions.’
    He shakes his head. ‘That never happens when it’s expertly done.’
    ‘But it
does
,’ I argue. ‘We’re talking Hollywood A-list – the wealthiest, most photographed women in the world. Surely they go to the best people. I mean, they’re hardly resorting to some shoddy little clinic with a seventy per cent off Groupon deal.’
    Anthony makes a little snorting noise. ‘If it’s properly done, it’s merely enhancing. It’s the way forward, trust me.’
    ‘Okay,’ I laugh involuntarily, ‘so how much would all of this cost, just out of interest? All the procedures you’ve mentioned, I mean?’
    ‘Well, we look upon it as an investment …’ I know what this means:
a fuck of a lot of money.
Anthony pops a raw-looking pink thing, tied up with what looks like green raffia, into his mouth.
    ‘I’m sure you do,’ I say, ‘but how much are we talking exactly?’
    ‘Ahh … at our top-tier service, we’d