Kathryn Lilley: Makeovers Can Be Murder

″If you′re really worried, just go see Dr. Medina, ″ Evelyn said. ″He′s one of the primo guys in the entire Southeast. Seriously-he did an awesome job on my breasts.″

″You mean lipo? Plastic surgery?″ A little quacking noise escaped from my throat. ″Yikes. That′s way too drastic.″

″But this isn′t surgery. Dr. Medina has a new thermo-laser thingee that melts away the fat. It tightens your skin, too. And it takes only an hour-you can do it over lunch.″

″I don′t know, it sounds-″

Before I could say that Dr. Medina′s ″thermo laser thingee″ sounded like one of the fat-loss scams I was supposed to be reporting about, Evelyn steamrollered ahead. ″Kate, this is actually a golden opportunity,″ she said. ″You know how I′ve been pestering you to come to my body-image group?″

″Uh, body-image group?″ I said, as if she hadn′t mentioned the subject a thousand times before. ″What′s it called again? The Nudiebods?″

″The Newbodies. All the women there are raving about Dr. Medina′s lunchtime lifts. Come with me to our meeting tomorrow night.″

When I hesitated, she added in a firm tone, ″No thinking! Anyone who has to wear a bikini on camera needs all the support she can get.″

I couldn′t argue her point. And besides, what did I have to lose by going to the support meeting? At the very least I might be able to develop some leads about fat scams for my series.

″Support group″ didn′t come close to describing the Tuesday night meeting of the Newbodies; the weekly get-together was more like a tribal gathering, a ritual that involved much venting around the fire pit and the imbibing of copious amounts of spirit juice. It was fabulous.

″All of the women here are going through one of the four cycles of love,″ Evelyn whispered in my ear. ″Breaking up, losing weight, having plastic surgery, or starting a new relationship.″

At least I didn′t have to worry about the breakup part of the love cycle. I had an adorable boyfriend, Jonathan Reed, who was a homicide detective on the Durham PD. Okay, maybe he was missing in action at the moment, but that was only because he was in the UK visiting his sick mother. He′d be back in a couple of days.

Evelyn adjusted the sparkly center jewel on her plunging Sky top. The four of us-Evelyn and I, and Evelyn′s new boobs-were perched on a settee in Trish Putnam′s living room. The women of the Newbodies were arranged in a semicircle at our feet, sprawled on scattered stacks of fringed floor pillows. Trish-a high-voltage blonde whose expression seemed permanently shocked into wide-eyed surprise-claimed that pillows were more emo than chairs. But they looked uncomfortable to me, so I was grateful that Evelyn had staked out the settee.

″Kate, I′m so glad you came tonight,″ Trish said to me. ″Evelyn told me you′re having a body-image crisis.″

Thrusting a platter of brownish blobs under my nose, she added, ″Don′t worry about these oat drops-they have negative points on Weight Watchers. The more you eat, the more you lose.″

″Thanks. Good to know.″ I bit into an oat drop, which tasted like it had dropped from the end of a horse.

We went around the room to introduce ourselves and describe our body challenges. When it was my turn, I said, ″Well, I have to wear a swimsuit for a news story. A bikini, actually. The entire Triangle viewing area is about to get a close-up view of my ab flab on the six o′clock news.″

My announcement caused everyone to shift back on their pasha pillows in horrified silence.

Trish recovered first. ″Things could be worse!″ she exclaimed. ″If you were on the network news, you might wind up on the front page of the National Enquirer . Did you see what they did to Kirstie Alley?″

This set off a round of nods, which quickly volleyed into spirited endorsements of Dr. Medina′s cellulite remedies, including his lunchtime laser lifts.

″Dr. Medina′s a miracle worker,″ Evelyn proclaimed. ″If you don′t believe me, just get a gander at these!″

With a dramatic flourish, she ripped off her Sky top, something she′d obviously been itching to do ever since we′d arrived. There was no bra underneath.

Freed of their netting, her breasts buoyed upward, revealing a pair of perfectly dimpled areo las and nipples the size and color of toasted minimarshmallows. Evelyn′s chest was living proof that the laws of gravity had been defeated by the Age of Plastic.

Evelyn′s Big Reveal was met by squeals and a round of applause. When Trish jumped to her feet and joined her in a bump and grind, the room exploded with a cacophony of jungle calls and pant-hooting. Trish must have been right about the pillows turning the emo on. We were chimp-chicks gone wild.

My nose caught a faint whiff of something sweet and thick smelling, like burned sage. It was marijuana smoke.

I turned my head. A shaggy twentysomething guy in a rumpled flannel shirt had appeared quietly behind me near the perimeter of the room. Looking a bit like a giant sheepdog, he was watching Evelyn′s floor show with intense concentration. His pupils were dilated-from smoking weed, no doubt-and his hands were clutching a handheld gaming device. Perhaps in his altered state he thought Evelyn was a 3-D projection of a groovy chick from his video game.

″ Chaz!″

Trish made a swooping dive at the kid. ″Get back to your room right now, Chaz Putnam!″

As the hapless Chaz retreated down a hallway, Trish scolded, ″I told you before-the entire front of this house is reserved for women only tonight. Don′t you dare come back out here until after ten o′clock. At least.″

″Bye, Chaz.″ Using both her hands, Evelyn blew him a Betty Boop-style kiss. She didn′t seem the least bit embarrassed that he′d seen her topless.

″Don′t encourage him, Evelyn,″ Trish said with a roll of her eyes. ″Ever since he dropped out of grad school, Chaz has been creeping around the house like some kind of depressed rodent. All he does is play on those computers, day and night. I don′t know how many he has up there in his room right now. Our power bills have been unbelievable since he got home. I′d make him move out except he pays all his bills, and then some.″

I would have added stoner to Trish′s collection of loser nouns for her son.

I felt a light slap on my shoulder.

″Hey,″ a voice said. ″Where′ve you been, stranger?″

Jana Miller had commandeered Evelyn′s spot next to me on the settee. She must have snuck in during the Chaz rousting.

I gave Jana a huge hug. ″ You′re the one who abandoned ship, you rat!″ I said, raising my voice to be heard over the commotion.

I hadn′t seen Jana in almost two years. In her mid-forties, Jana was a fellow veteran of the Fruit Diet clinic, where she′d shed an incredible amount of weight-more than a hundred pounds. The instant she reached her goal, she′d gotten a quickie divorce and an even quickier remarriage. Then she and her new husband had moved to Florida.

Jana radiated with a Miami glow from her strappy metallic sandals and purse to her page-cut hair, which was shot through with streaks of tricolor gold.

″I′m only in town for a couple of days for a consultation with Dr. Medina,″ she said. ″He took off some excess skin back when I lost my weight on the Fruit Diet. But now I think I need a torsoplasty.″

When I looked puzzled, she added, ″A tummy tuck. Time for another tune-up. God. I must′ve spent fifty thousand dollars in the past couple of years on surgeries, easy pie.″

″Oh,″ I said. ″Well, you certainly look ten years younger. Do we credit Dr. Medina for that, or is it married love?″