Stuck on Me (11 page)

Vix and Rosie sit down on either side of me. ‘You promise you won’t say a word when I see the doctor?’ I say. ‘Swear? You’ll just sit there with me. Otherwise
I’ll go in on my own.’

Vix looks at Rosie. ‘OK,’ she agrees. Rosie nods.

There’s nobody else in the waiting area, and so it isn’t long before I’m ushered through to a consultation room. The doctor is sitting behind a large desk.

‘Hello, I’m Dr Sierra,’ he says, getting up to greet me. He’s rather fat for a doctor and he hasn’t shaved, but he looks jolly. He shakes my hand, a little too
firmly. ‘So what can I do for you, Miss Smith?’

‘I’d like a rhinoplasty, please,’ I say, brightly. It comes out a little too much like I’m ordering a burger at McDonald’s.

‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He glances down at the questionnaire I’ve filled in, then nods and peers at my nose. I flinch. He takes my face in his hands and gently moves it from left
to right. I watch his eyes dart around as he studies my profile, then his brow furrows. I’m waiting for him to say, ‘You don’t need a nose job, your nose is perfectly OK,’
like everybody else has, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, ‘Yes, yes, I can see why you’re concerned about the bend here, and the length. But don’t worry. We can give you
the perfect little nose.’

‘Really? Seriously?’

‘Oh yes, of course. I correct deformities like yours all the time. Take a seat, ladies, please. Half the celebrities you see on TV and in movies had a nose just like yours when they
started out. You don’t know it because they’ve had a subtle rhinoplasty.’

‘Wow. I didn’t realise.’ I rack my brains, thinking of all the celebrities I know, wondering which of them was born with a nose like mine.

‘So what were you thinking of? A Nicole Kidman, perhaps? That’s very popular. Or a Kate Winslet? An Angelina, if you prefer?’ He takes a folder out of his desk drawer and flips
it open. Inside are pages and pages of pictures of beautiful women. He shows me a few, flicking through them so fast that I don’t have time to see any of them properly. I didn’t know I
could pick my nose from a catalogue. To be honest, until this moment, I haven’t even thought about what sort of nose I want, and certainly not whose. I’ve only been focusing on getting
rid of mine. ‘Yes, they all look great. What do you recommend?’

‘Well, we could give you something a little like this.’ He picks up a pad from his desk and scribbles something on it. It’s a crude drawing of my face in profile. ‘Now,
if we shave off a little here to iron out the bump and reduce the tip slightly here, like so, we should end up with something like this.’ He shows me the pad again. This time he’s drawn
an outline of my face with a smaller, straighter nose.

Rosie whispers something to Vix and giggles. I slap her leg.

Dr Sierra continues. ‘The procedure will cost four thousand pounds. You’ll have it at our affiliated private hospital in Highgate. Either I or one of my colleagues will perform it .
. .’

He says something else, about black eyes and dressings and aftercare, but I can’t take it in. All I can hear is a small voice in my head repeating ‘Four thousand pounds. Four
thousand pounds.’ Where on earth am I going to find that kind of money? Have I got any rich relatives I don’t know about? Is it possible that Mum once accidentally buried a stash under
the floorboards and forgot about it? Maybe, if I ask for the next three years’ allowance in advance and do lots of odd jobs for people, I might be able to manage it.

He’s staring at me, hopefully. ‘So we can arrange it all very quickly.’

‘Uh, yes, I definitely want to go ahead. It’s just, er, the money. I don’t have it all right now.’

He smiles. ‘That’s not a problem. Sheila at the front desk can give you some information about loans for plastic surgery. There are some very good rates around at the moment and we
have excellent relationships with several finance companies.’

‘Right . . .’ I nod. I think he can’t have read the form properly. It says I’m only sixteen; how the hell will I get a loan? Especially as I’m really only
fourteen.

‘So, if you want to sort out the finance side and then make another appointment, we can arrange a more in-depth consultation.’ He glances at his watch. My time must be up. ‘We
look forward to hearing from you soon, Miss Smith,’ he says, getting up from his chair and escorting me to the door. He holds out his hand again. ‘Goodbye, my dear.’

Back outside, I can barely stand still with excitement. ‘Wow! That was the most expensive twenty minutes of my life. Still, if I can somehow find the money, he’ll do the op. He
agrees I need it. That’s cool, isn’t it!’

Vix shakes her head. ‘I still don’t think you need it, hon.’

‘He’s a plastic surgeon and he knows about these things. If he thinks I do, then I do. He said I had a
deformity.’

‘Yeah, for four grand,’ says Rosie. ‘He’d probably have said your lips had a deformity and done them too, if you’d asked. I don’t feel good about him. Are you
sure he isn’t dodgy? Maybe you should check him out on the internet.’ God, she’s sounding more and more like Vix every second. ‘Don’t you think he was a bit vague
about everything except the money?’

‘So? He has to earn a living. Your mum gets paid, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t diagnose people with illnesses they don’t have just so she can get some cash. Did you see that drawing he did? It was like
something my little brother Charlie would draw. And he’s seven.’

‘It was only a sketch. Just to give me an idea.’

‘Hmm,’ says Rosie. ‘Anyway, we can talk about this more later. Have you seen the time? It’s almost five-thirty. We’d better motor or our parents will start
wondering where we are.’

The 27 bus comes quickly and, within ten minutes, we’re back in Camden. We say our goodbyes at the front door of my block of flats. ‘It was nice of you both to come,’ I tell
them, as we hug. I try to sound genuinely grateful. ‘Thanks.’ Then I watch them walk up the street towards their houses. They walk very close together, apparently deep in conversation,
and I’m sure they’re conspiring about me again.

I loiter on the doorstep for a moment, not wanting to go inside. Maybe I should ring someone, I think. I dig my phone out from the bottom of my bag and remember that it’s still switched
off. While it comes back to life, I consider calling Rich to tell him that I’ve found a doctor to fix my nose, but change my mind almost straight away. He probably won’t be sympathetic.
He might not even pick up. Things have been worse than ever since our anniversary dinner. I can’t think how to make them better.

Beep!
There’s a message on my voicemail, from a number I don’t recognise. I’m half expecting it to be someone from school, telling me off for missing netball. I press
play.

‘Hello, Sky, it’s Dot here. I thought you’d like to know that someone came in today and said they think they remember your dad. Please give me a call back.’

don’t go inside my flat, after all. I turn around, walk back up my street and rush straight round to
Dot’s instead. She’s shutting up the shop when I arrive, but she lets me in.

‘Hello, Sky. You got my message then?’

‘Yes, just now. Thanks so much for calling. Is this a bad time? I’m sorry, should I have phoned first?’

‘It’s not a problem. All right. A man came in earlier. He was walking past the window and saw the poster. He claims he knows your dad and said he’d be happy to meet you to tell
you more.’

‘That’s amazing! I didn’t expect anyone to get in touch so fast. What did he say?’

‘His name is Reg. He lives in Arlington House, the homeless hostel on Arlington Road. He says he used to be a musician too, before he started drinking too much and taking drugs.’

‘And he knows my dad? How?’

‘He thinks he does.’ She pauses, as if she isn’t sure whether or not to tell me something. ‘He says he knew him a few years ago.’

‘Cool! When can I meet him?’

Dot smiles. ‘Now, he seems nice and I’m sure he’s perfectly trustworthy but we can’t be certain he’s genuine, and not just after a reward, or something. So I
don’t want you meeting him alone, especially if your mum doesn’t know about it. It’s definitely not a good idea for you to go to the hostel, either. I’m not sure how safe it
would be for a young girl. So I’m going to get him to come back to the shop. You can meet him here with me, OK?’

‘OK. Yes. Thank you. When?’

‘When do you want?’

‘How about right now?’

She laughs. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got plans now. I’ll give him a call if you like. How about after school tomorrow instead? If it’s convenient with him.’

‘OK, sure. Thank you again.’

I go to bed early but I don’t sleep much and, when I do finally drift off I have strange dreams. In one of them, Dad is at Dot’s music shop playing a guitar.
He’s dressed in a white doctor’s coat, wielding a scalpel. Rosie and Vix are there too, and they’re trying to stop him getting close to me. The morning can’t come soon
enough.

Just a day of school to get through and then maybe, maybe, maybe, I’ll be one step closer to finding Dad. I’ve decided not to tell anybody I’m going to Dot’s to meet Reg,
not even my best friends. I feel it’s something I have to do on my own this time, although I’m not sure why.

I arrive at Dot’s just after four. She’s busy in the shop, serving customers, so I loiter by the door, reading the leaflets in the display stand about all the music events in Camden.
Eventually, she comes over to say hello.

‘Reg said he’d be here at four-thirty. I tell you what: while we wait, you can help me sort out the sheet music, if you don’t mind. It’s all a bit of a mess.’

‘Course,’ I say, following her into the back office. It’s good to have something to occupy me. I feel jittery and anxious. Every time I hear the sound of the door opening, I
jump, wondering if it’s Reg. I have no idea what he’ll look like or what he’s going to tell me. I keep looking at my watch. He’s late. What if he doesn’t come? Will I
ever be able to find him?

‘Don’t worry,’ says Dot. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

At four-forty, I hear the peal of the door again and Dot goes out to the front. She pops her head back into the office. ‘He’s here,’ she says, grinning. ‘Come on.’
Nervously, I follow her out. There’s a man leaning on the counter. Almost bald, but for a few wisps of grey hair scraped across his forehead, he’s wearing old jeans and a grubby jumper
and carrying a beaten-up rucksack. I walk over to him, my pulse pounding. Dot hovers by the office door, and I’m not sure if she’s out of earshot.

‘Hello, my love,’ he says, in an accent I can’t place. Somewhere up north, a long time ago? How did he end up in Camden? He holds out his hand and I shake it, even though his
fingernails are filthy. ‘I’m Reg. You must be Sky, Connor’s girl.’

Nobody’s ever called me that before.
Connor’s girl
. Hearing it feels strange. I nod. ‘I’m trying to find him. To get to know him again. Dot says you might remember
him.’

Reg peers at me closely and I try not to recoil. I can smell a faint, stale sweetness on his breath. He looks ancient, although he tells me he’s only fifty-three. His face is craggy and
lined and his sunken cheeks seem to drag down his eyes. I wonder what he used to look like, when he was young. He might have been handsome; it’s hard to tell now.

‘Yes, you’re definitely Connor’s daughter. Connor Carter. He was a good ’un. I believe our paths crossed about two or three years ago, when we were both in Arlington
House.’

‘My dad was homeless? That’s awful!’ I check myself. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. There’s nothing wrong with it, I just mean . . . It
was a shock . . .’

‘Nobody ever wants to end up homeless,’ he says, kindly. ‘I used to have a wife and a family myself. Your dad was only there for a short while. I believe he got himself back on
his feet again. Met a woman.’ He winks at me. ‘He was a bit of a charmer with the ladies, if I recall.’

‘Oh.’ I’m not sure what to say. I realise that, to my surprise, I feel angry. Far worse than knowing Dad was homeless and living in a hostel is knowing that he was living
– literally – up the road and never contacted me. I might even have passed him on the street, queued up behind him in Sainsbury’s, boarded the same bus.