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“Jealous ex-husband,” she said.
“Yeah, I got an ex like that.” He turned left on Seventy-ninth, then again on Fifth Avenue and started downtown, then he made the left on Seventy-sixth, crossed Madison, and stopped at the hotel’s side entrance.
“Here you go,” he said. “Would you like some company tonight?” He turned and looked at her.
He wasn’t bad, she thought: young, good haircut. “You ever been shot by an ex-husband?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
“Let’s not start tonight.” She handed him a ten, got out of the cab, and ran into the hotel, making for the elevator bank. She pressed the button and waited nervously for the car to arrive, forcing herself to look neither to the left nor to the right. Finally, it arrived, and she got in and pressed the button two floors above her room, then she got off and took the fire stairs down two floors and let herself in.
She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Two FBI agents in one evening was too much to take. She hoped to God neither of them had noticed her in the bar. Maybe the hair color would be enough to throw them off.
She undressed, then removed her makeup and checked out her face in the bathroom mirror. She had never liked her nose much; maybe this was the moment to do something about it.
She sat on the bed and picked up a copy of New York magazine, remembering an ad she had seen in the back pages. She found it and read it carefully, looking at the before-and-after photos of a woman who had had cosmetic surgery. There was an 800 number and a notation that it was manned at all hours.
“Doctor’s office,” an answering service operator said.
“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation,” Shelley said. “The sooner, the better.”
“I can give you ten tomorrow morning,” the woman said.
“Perfect.” She gave her traveling name and her cell number.
“Please, how did you hear about the doctor?”
“His ad in New York magazine.” She hung up and got ready for bed, calming herself the whole time.
Shelley presented herself on time at the doctor’s office, which was only a couple of blocks from the Carlyle. It was in a brownstone, and the reception room was nicely decorated. A nurse came and took her to the doctor’s office.
“Good morning,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dr. Charles.”
He looked awfully young, she thought.
“I’m thirty-four,” he said, laughing. “That’s always the first question. I’ve been in practice for six years, and I’m board-certified. How can I help you?”
“Well,” she said, tapping her nose with a finger, “I’ve finally decided to do something about this.”
He motioned for her to turn her head. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Let’s photograph you, and then I can give you a very good idea of what changes we might make.” He sat her in front of a camera and took shots of her from ahead and both sides, then he tapped a few computer keys, and her image, in right profile, appeared twice on the screen.
“Now,” he said, using a laser pointer, “my guess is you’d like this bump to go away.”
“Yes,” she said.
He tappe
d a few more keys, and the bump went away on the right-hand photo.
“Wonderful!” Shelley said. “I’d like my nose to be a bit shorter, too.” She watched as her nose changed. “That’s very good,” she said.
“Perhaps, since we’re shortening your nose, we should make your nostrils slightly smaller, in scale with the new length.” He tapped a few more keys.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
“One more suggestion,” the doctor said. “We can turn your nose up just a bit. That can be very attractive.” He made the change.
“I like it,” she said. The upturned nose made her look very different from her old self.
