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.
“Yup.”
There’s a spluttering sound. Sobbing.
Choking. And between the noise I can make out one word, whispered
over and over.
“Thank you…”
