Last delivery of the day. Thank God.
I peer at the glass vessel on the seat beside me. The mask inside is all golden curls and thick eyelashes and full lips. Hardly remarkable. Barely even beautiful.
What’s the point? If I had the money, I’d transform into a superstar, not a housewife!
Rain splats against the windscreen. I enter the client’s name and address into the Sat-Nav – Kim Low, 445 Grooble Street – then press “Go”. The car lurches forward and weaves into the steady flow of traffic.
The rain drenched city goes by. Billboard after billboard. NuFace4U! Girls With Curls! Star Features! Beneath them, the jobless try to stay dry.
The further I go, the taller the buildings get, until the sky is just a slither above me. Then the car draws to a stop beside a cement tower block.
Kim Low must have saved up for years for this new face.
And it’s not even nice.
The car door pops open. I slide out, heave the heavy glass jar into my aching arms and struggle up the drive. By the time I reach the porch, I’m soaked.
Irritated, I slam my palm onto the intercom button.
There’s a pause, then a male voice cracks through. “Hello?”
“Package for Kim Low,” I say.
“Fancy Faces?” comes the wavering reply.
There’s a spluttering sound. Sobbing. Choking. And between the noise I can make out one word, whispered over and over.