Stuck on Me (8 page)

‘Rich . . .’ I begin, cautiously. He’s already told me he’s fed up with me going on about my nose and I’ve managed to avoid the subject all night, so far. But now I
can’t help myself. ‘Is my nose as big as hers?’ I nod towards the woman, as subtly as I can.

‘Sorry? What?’

I lower my voice, to make sure she can’t hear me. ‘I asked you if my nose is as big as that woman’s. Her, over there, with the blond hair.’

‘Eh?’ He sighs. ‘I was talking about the match. I knew you weren’t listening.’

‘I was listening, honestly. I just got distracted, sorry. So is it?’

‘What?’

‘As big? Or bigger even? Just tell me quickly.’

He sighs again and, a bit too obviously, cranes his neck so he can see the woman. Then he tuts. ‘Don’t be stupid, Sky. Your nose is nothing like hers. No way. Don’t start on
about your nose again.’

‘Really? Did you look properly? Are you saying mine isn’t that big?’

‘Course not.’

I feel reassured for a second, but then I start to doubt him. ‘Hmm. I bet people tell her that too, all the time.’

He shrugs. ‘Yeah, well she looks like she isn’t bothered about her nose. So nor should you be. Anyway, as I was saying, if I play down the left I reckon I should be a dead cert to
score next week . . .’

Maybe she’s not bothered about her nose because she’s clocked me and she knows that hers isn’t as big as mine. Do people stare at my profile in restaurants and pity me too? Oh
my God, is that what she’s talking with her friend about? Is that why she’s smiling and laughing? Is she wondering how Rich could possibly fancy me? I scan the room for noses.
It’s amazing how many shapes and sizes they come in, from wide, squishy ones, to long ones with square nostrils, to baby ones that are so cute and perfectly defined that they look like
they’ve been stolen from dolls’ heads. Is mine the biggest in the whole room? In the whole of Camden? In the whole of Britain?

‘What about hers?’ I gesture towards another woman, who has a slightly beaky nose.

Rich barely glances at her. ‘Jeez, Sky, this is really boring now. No, your nose isn’t like hers. You’ve got a different shaped face.’

‘Different . . . God, that’s just a diplomatic way of saying my nose is as big as hers, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s just completely different.’

‘Different in a . . . bigger way?’

He looks really annoyed now. To tell the truth, I’m starting to annoy myself. ‘I can’t win, can I?’ he says. ‘If I tell you your nose isn’t as big, you think
that I’m lying. But if I say it’s the same size or bigger, you’ll hate me and get even more paranoid and fixated. Please stop asking me.’

We sit in silence for a minute, staring sulkily at each other over the candle. At least I know the answer now: my nose is just as big as the other woman’s. And I can’t trust Rich to
give me a straight answer.

‘Last question, I promise,’ I say, hesitantly. I really can’t stop until I know the answer. ‘Then I’ll shut up about it . . .’ I take a deep breath.
‘Would you fancy me more if I had a smaller nose?’

Rich rolls his eyes. ‘Sky, I never even noticed your nose until you started going on and on about it when you got home from Goa. I’ve always thought you were really pretty. But
talking about your nose all the time, acting paranoid and insecure like you are, is a total turn-off. I’ve had enough now. It’s dead boring. It’s making you dead boring. So, if
you really hate your nose that much, then why don’t you stop moaning about it and do something – like get it fixed – instead?’

It couldn’t hurt more if he’d punched me right on the nose. ‘Fine!’ I spit, no longer caring if anyone can hear me. I feel upset and angry but, most of all, I feel
vindicated. Rich wouldn’t have told me to do something about my nose if he didn’t think I needed to, would he? As soon as I get home I’m going to start looking into plastic
surgery. ‘Do you know what?’ I say. I make it sound like a threat. ‘Maybe I will.’

set my alarm early on Saturday morning, even though I’ve barely slept. Today is an important day and my
usual weekend lie-in can wait until tomorrow. Later, I’m meeting Rosie and Vix to go to Dot’s Music Shop. But first, I have something else to do, something that can’t wait.

My doctor’s surgery is in a swanky, modern health centre just off Kentish Town Road, about ten minutes’ walk from my flat. I’ve never been here alone before, and I feel nervous
as I walk through the sliding doors. I don’t like doctors’ surgeries; they’re full of sick people. Not that I’ve been here more than a handful of times. Mum prefers to take
us to the homeopathic doctor, or the Chinese medicine place on Camden High Street. She says modern drugs are full of toxins and make you sicker than you were to start with.

I march up to the reception desk, trying to look both confident and wan at the same time. Which isn’t easy, especially with the amount of bronzer I’ve applied to my nose to shade it.
The receptionist is staring at a computer screen and barely glances at me. ‘Can I see a doctor please? Now?’ I ask.

‘Do you have an appointment? Saturday mornings are by appointment only.’

‘No. Erm... The thing is, I couldn’t call from home and I don’t have any credit on my phone.’

‘What’s the problem? Is it an emergency?’

‘I’d rather not say. Yes, it’s sort of an emergency.’ After I came home from the restaurant last night, I did lots of reading on the internet and, while I know they
probably can’t give me a nose job here and now, in my local GP’s surgery, I also know that the sooner I get this started, the better.

‘Name?’ she barks. ‘Address? Date of birth?’

‘Er . . .’ I’m flustered. ‘Sky Smith. Er, 2B Verlaine Court, Paradise Avenue. Fourteenth of January. Er, I’m fourteen. Nearly fifteen.’

‘Right. I’ve found your notes. OK. You can see Dr Buttery. There’s a couple of people ahead of you.’

‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed. I really don’t want to see Rosie’s mum. ‘Can’t I see someone else?’

‘Nah, sorry. She’s the only doctor on duty today. Like I said, it’s appointment only. I can make you an appointment with your own GP for another day – say, next
Wednesday?’

‘No . . . I’ve got school . . . I can’t wait till then.’

‘Then I’m afraid it’s Dr Buttery, or nothing.’

I nod. ‘OK, I guess.’ Maybe I should just go home and come back another time. Then again, doctors aren’t allowed to judge you, or tell your mum stuff, are they? I don’t
want to take the risk, but I can’t face delaying this either. ‘OK, I’ll see her.’

‘Take a seat in the waiting area. We’ll call you when she’s ready.’

I walk to the bench furthest from the other patients, and sit on the edge. There’s a bunch of really old magazines on the table, and I leaf through them, checking out last year’s
fashions. Of course, all the models have beautiful, straight noses, just like they do every season. Big, ugly noses are never en vogue (or in
Vogue
). And it’s not down to airbrushing,
whatever Mum says. At the back of one magazine is a directory jam-packed with adverts for plastic surgery clinics. I had no idea there were so many. When I’m sure nobody’s looking, I
tear the pages out of the magazine and stuff them into my pocket. Waiting is making me feel agitated. I want to get this over with.

‘Sky Smith . . . Sky Smith . . .’ There’s my name over the tannoy. I feel a pang of nerves and stand up. ‘Please go to room 3B.’

I walk through the waiting area, aware that everyone is watching me, wondering what I’m here for. Some of them must be seeing me in profile. I cringe, and bend my head forward. I’m
starting to regret chopping my long hair off now. Having a fringe is the worst thing you can do when you’ve got a big nose. Why didn’t the hairdresser warn me?

1B . . . 2B . . . 3B . . . I take a deep breath and rap on the door. A few seconds pass and then I hear Dr Buttery say, ‘Come in,’ in exactly the same tone she uses when I go round
to her house to see Rosie. I peer my head around, then walk in slowly.

She seems surprised to see me. ‘Ah, Sky. I didn’t know you were coming. So what can I do for you?’

I would have thought that was obvious; can’t she tell just by looking at me? Can’t
everyone
tell?

‘Um, you know, it’s kind of embarrassing. I need . . . I’m not sure where to start. I need help with something. I’ve got to do something about it now . . . I can’t
wait any longer.’

She beckons me to sit down and take off my jacket. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, Sky, I’m a doctor. Anything you say in here won’t go any further.’

‘I know . . . it’s just . . . you’re Rosie’s mum.’

‘Not at work, I’m not. Here, I’m just Dr Buttery. Right. Good. Well, first of all, Sky, you are under sixteen. I
am
allowed to see you alone, but I’d rather your
mother were here.’

‘Oh no, she wouldn’t come. She doesn’t approve.’

‘Have you spoken to her about this?’

‘Yes, and she told me not to be so stupid and to forget about it. She said I’m way too young and that if I still want to do it when I’m older, then I can think about it
then.’

Dr Buttery frowns. My mum and Rosie’s mum aren’t exactly friends. They’re total opposites. Rosie’s mum is the most sensible woman on the planet and she doesn’t have
any time for my mum’s chanting and alternative medicine and herbal remedies. They had an argument once, when Mum said she didn’t want me to get a vaccine at school because she was
worried about the side effects. Rosie’s mum said she was being irresponsible. I have a suspicion that Rosie’s mum thinks my mum isn’t a very good mother.

‘That attitude won’t help anyone,’ she says, ‘because you’ll just go ahead and do it anyway, won’t you?’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘I knew a doctor would understand.’

‘OK, well, I’m happy to discuss it with you, as you’re being so sensible. But you are only fourteen. Too young, really.’

‘I know, but it’s been bothering me for ages. I
have
to do something about it. Promise you won’t tell her?’

‘No, legally I don’t have to. But I’d rather
you
did.’

‘OK, I promise,’ I say, crossing my fingers to guard against the nose-expanding effects of my lie.

‘Right, so let’s discuss your options. I’d hate for you to get into trouble. I know you have a serious, long-term boyfriend.’

What’s Rich got to do with this? ‘Yes, I do . . . But we’re sort of on the rocks . . . We’ve been arguing a lot. I think it’s partly because of my, er,
problem.’

‘Sky, you should never, ever do anything just to keep a boy. It has to be your decision.’

‘Oh, it is. It’s totally my choice.’

‘It’s your body. You decide what to do with it and when.’

‘Yes, absolutely. But I don’t think he likes it. He wants me to get rid of it.’

She raises her eyebrows, as if she disapproves, and sighs. ‘All right, then. I’ll help you because that’s the responsible thing to do. But remember, it’s still important
to be safe, to use some sort of protection. I’ll give you a leaflet before you leave. There are all kinds of diseases out there, you know.’

‘Oh, you mean like a face mask? To stop germs getting in?’

She peers at me, quizzically. ‘Yes, a bit like that. I’m surprised and rather concerned that they haven’t taught you about this at your school. The leaflet will tell you all
you need to know.’

‘Thanks.’

‘OK, so there are several different options. Have you had any thoughts about what you want? What would suit you best? Injection, implant, pill . . . ?’

‘Eh, sorry, but what did you say?’ I stare at her open-mouthed. An injection? A pill? What is she on about? I know science has progressed lately, but even I know that, sadly, they
haven’t yet developed a pill to make your nose shrink, Alice in Wonderland style.

‘I was just explaining your options,’ she says. ‘The pill doesn’t suit everyone.’

Oh my God!
I cringe so hard I’m surprised she can’t see it. Now I understand – and I really wish I didn’t. She’s talking about
the
pill. She thinks I
want to go on the pill. I can feel my face flushing. ‘No, sure, but . . .’ I begin, unsure how to carry on. This is
so
embarrassing. I didn’t think it was possible to be
more embarrassed about anything than I am about my nose. I guess I was wrong. ‘I . . . I . . .’