‘No… not yet. I’m just getting used to the idea myself. But, I mean, I’m not worried.’ I go to cross my legs to show just how unworried I am, but manage to miss and end up stamping on the floor, making Dr Marcus and Peach Jumpsuit both flinch.
Dr Marcus fixes a smile and sits back down on the sofa in an equally effortless reverse lunge movement.
‘Indeed. Well, do take your time to explain it to them carefully when you reveal your new look. This is a revolutionary treatment, as I’m sure you’re aware, so we have no idea how it will be received, by the public, and of course the media.’
‘Okay. But I can tell them? I mean show them. As in, see them.’ I’m not being very coherent.
‘Of course, of course! I’m sure they’ll be thrilled for you. And these logistics will really take a back seat once you are enjoying the many other benefits.’ He waves a hand as if to indicate my impending transformed appearance.
‘So, if you’re ready Erica, Portia will take you through for your procedure.’
Peach Jumpsuit stands up, and I do the same, accompanied by a loud clicking noise from both my knees. There’s no way she didn’t hear it, but she doesn’t say anything and instead just directs me towards another door on the opposite side of the room.
‘I’m ready,’ I say.
I follow her into a changing room with dark wood lockers and piles of folded putty-coloured towels. It smells of mint and feels more ‘spa’ than ‘hospital’. Peach Jumpsuit gives me some paper pants and a putty-coloured towelling robe, and tells me to comethrough the door at the end of the changing room when I’m ready.
The paper pants are loose and feel like they don’t really cover my overgrown cellar in the slightest. Hands shaky and fumbling, I pull the robe tightly around me, put on the matching slippers (which I am not too nervous to hope I’ll get to keep afterwards) and open the door at the end of the changing room.
I emerge into a short corridor, with Peach Jumpsuit standing glistening at the end, looking like a mannequin in a shop window, her hands in a weird pose as if holding something (she is not). Has she been there all this time? Is she a hologram? An android? She springs to life and ushers me through yet another door into a room which, reassuringly, looks more medical, with several people milling about a central treatment table wearing masks. They all greet me with nods and waves. I smile weakly at them all.
‘We’re not going to use a general anaesthetic today, Erica,’ says one of the mask-wearers, who has a voice that could either be a high-pitched man or a low-pitched woman. ‘We’d like to keep a close eye on brain activity. It’s harder to do that when you’re anaesthetised, so we’re going to sedate you quite heavily instead. Don’t worry, you won’t need to get the train home, we have a driver arranged for you.’
I nod and say ‘Okay,’ and Peach Jumpsuit leads me behind a screen to put on a surgical gown. I wonder what the point of the robe has been, and also feel slightly curious about ‘heavy sedation’. If it’s anything like that time I took a Valium in Ibiza in 1997, then I’m going to be in for a treat. I get up on the table, and a cannula is suddenly in my hand. This is it. I’m actually here. It’s about to happen.
The masked woman doing it asks me to tell her about my journey into London, and while I am talking, I realise my speech is slowing right down… and down… and then I am thinkingrandom, happy thoughts. Millie Bobby Brown is smiling at me… Carol’s rabbit is running free across the fields… and I am filming an Instagram reel – with a jawline as tight as a gnat’s chuff, as Nandy would say.
