Fiona Gibson - Take Mum Out

‘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 This might be entertaining, I decide, curiosity having superseded my initial nervousness.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 probably be looking at around four thousand pounds.’

‘Four grand,’ I exclaim, a little too loudly, ‘for a new face?’

‘Not new,’ he declares. ‘We never say new. We say you’ll still be you – but better .’

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge a seaweedy strand that’s lodged itself in my throat. To my horror, I am starting to feel rather wobbly and emotional. It hasn’t helped that the waiter has been diving over to refill my glass every time I’ve taken a sip. It’s not just the booze, though. It’s the realisation that I clearly have the face of a withered crone who needs extensive reconstructive work. Why has no one told me this before?

‘You might also benefit from microdermabrasion,’ Anthony adds, flicking a crumb from his pale-blue striped shirt.

I blink at him. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s when we use a little spiky roller to stimulate your skin, accelerating the replenishment of collagen deep within the dermal layers.’

Jesus Christ. ‘Excuse me, Anthony,’ I say, getting up, ‘I just need to nip to the loo.’ I march to the Ladies, conscious of my dress clinging to my hips in unflattering folds.

In the swankiest facilities known to womankind, with Jo Malone hand creams lined up on a glass shelf, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. God, that slimy man. Obviously, he doesn’t want to get to know me at all. He just wants to give me a good going-over with his spiky roller. Still fixed on my reflection, I widen my eyes to try to stretch out the crow’s feet, and open my mouth as far as it’ll go, like one of those scary bottom-feeding fish, in an attempt to iron out those damn marionette lines. Then, placing a flattened hand on each of my cheeks, I push back my entire face – the free facelift effect – which does improve things somewhat, even if I look a little like a rabbit in a sidecar …

‘Oh!’ A smart, reedy woman in clicky heels has trotted into the loos.

‘Ha,’ I guffaw, whipping my hands away and rubbing ineffectually at my cheeks in the hope that she’ll think I’m applying moisturiser. She purses her lips at me before disappearing into a cubicle.

Grow up , I tell my reflection silently. Just be nice and polite and get through this without getting too pissed and making a complete twit of yourself. Surely there can only be another couple more courses to go.

I rejoin my date at our table. Anthony beams at me, and I’m transfixed by his dazzling dental work and unmoving forehead as he says, ‘I’d imagine it’s tough as a single mum, Alice. But for you, covering all the treatments we talked about tonight, I’d be happy to draw up a special payment plan.’

On the damp pavement outside the restaurant, Anthony is looking decidedly crestfallen.

‘But it’s only just gone ten,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t imagine you’d have to rush off so soon. Thought we might pop back to mine for a nightcap …’

‘I don’t like leaving my boys too late,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d really better get back.’ It’s a cool, drizzly Edinburgh night, and the fishiness of the amuse-bouche has somehow clung to the inside of my mouth, having obliterated all the other taste sensations. I have also, for the first time tonight, happened to notice Anthony’s curious footwear. I’m not one of those women who’s obsessed with checking out men’s shoes because, they are, after all, only water-resistant coverings for feet. For instance, before she married Sean, Ingrid only ever dated men who favoured black or dark-brown brogues, which seemed crazily picky to me. ‘If you look down and see grey slip-ons,’ she once advised, ‘start running very fast.’

And on this damp pavement I have glimpsed not just any old slip-ons, but basket-weave ones, in tan or possibly mustard, with a little strap across the front and a flash of gold buckle. I have nothing against basket weave – for baskets . But for shoes? And he had the nerve to criticise my choice of attire?

‘Don’t you have a babysitter?’ Anthony wants to know.

Oh God. Having insisted on paying the bill, he’d clearly anticipated that there would at least be a snog in return. Or perhaps he expected that, having been treated to the tasting menu, I’d feel obliged to hot-foot it to his boudoir to remove my ‘cheap bit of cloth’.