The Varnished Untruth (2 page)

The one thing I know about myself for sure is that I am ridiculous. My husband and children know it, and you will, too. I think I am also passionate and brave (judge for yourself), although apparent fearlessness usually hides deep-seated, abject terror. I’m also a compulsive caretaker, and I’m not proud of that because it’s unhealthy (I’ve been working on it for twenty years but it’s still well entrenched). I am hopelessly optimistic, yet, paradoxically, way too serious about certain things, and I have a very low threshold of boredom. So adrenaline is my drug of choice – which leads me to seek adventure wherever I can find it, whether that’s diving with tiger sharks, sailing round the world, or hanging out with people who dance with crocodiles (yes, really). No, I’m not your usual bearer of a bus pass – you may even think I’ve lost a few marbles here and there. If so, I thank you for the compliment. I’ve been flirting with crazy my whole life; one day I might just achieve it.

Chapter One

V
ICODIN
, V
ALIUM AND
V
EUVE
C
LICQUOT

Just before last Christmas, I broke a tit. It’s not the same as breaking a fingernail (if only it were that simple). Far from a quick trip to the manicurist, reparation involves surgery, cash and some hard-core narcotics. The tragedy occurred in a jive club near Madison Square Garden in New York. I love swing – one of my favourite dance styles (I’ve continued to enjoy social dancing since doing
Strictly Come Dancing
). Anyway, my wonderfully optimistic partner led me into a crazy lift – the ‘Death Drop’. This involved me being swung in between his legs, suddenly plummeting towards the floor face down with my arms crossed, then being revolved 180 degrees to face upwards, before leaping back on to my feet. I slightly miscalculated the first part of the action (my fault entirely) and my right breast hit the deck at speed. I felt no pain and was unaware of the deflation until the next morning when I looked in the mirror and realized I had one melon and one fried egg.

Terrible timing, really, because if you’re going to turn up at holiday parties wearing low-cut dresses, a minimum of two proud mounds is required. I love showing off my breasts (oh, shut up! They are mine – I bought them!). Could I make it through the holiday season in such a state? Probably not. Now, mine had been waterfilled so, thankfully, I didn’t have to worry about silicone leakage but, even so, this was an aesthetic emergency. Since this is a memoir, i.e. about memories, and getting a flat tyre is currently one of my most striking, recent memories, I’ll tell you what I did about it.

See, this chapter is really still part of my introduction. I’m being deliberately provocative as a distraction – for myself, as well as for you – because I’m really nervous about telling you certain more serious things about me. There are things in my past that still produce strong feelings in the wee small hours, and I’ll get to them soon but, for now, I’m just going to be a bit of a loose cannon and talk about my breasts. Believe me, body modification is the easy stuff. You’ll find out some seriously dodgy things about me but I do think you ought to know right away that one of the ugliest things about me is my refusal to age gracefully. I’m as vain as vain can be and would totally sell my soul to the devil to be a babe forever. Thank God for Botox, lipo and the surgeon’s knife. However, I must point out that this is not just all about pleasing myself or getting wolf whistles. Since I inflict my image on others via TV and other media, I’m actually being thoughtful. Be grateful, people; I tweak myself cosmetically as a public service.

So now I’ve opened my big mouth about having had surgery (as if you hadn’t already noticed!), I might as well tell you about the latest: I needed re-inflation, but finding the right nip’n’tuck merchant wasn’t easy. The surgeon who worked on me in the past has now retired, so Dr Bev Hills was my knight in shining armour – and also my harshest critic. ‘Well, I can perk up that right puppy but, in any case, you’re about due for a bit more tweaking, aren’t you? And you lost weight too quickly on that dance programme – your skin’s sagging. Shall we take care of everything at once?’ Now, to put this in perspective, I was fairly fresh from the
Strictly
tour, during which I was expected to share a dressing room with the unbelievably gorgeous pro dancers. Ola Jordan, for example, the adorable siren married to my temporary dance paramour, James. And Kristina, the Russian diva, and that lanky Aussie bombshell whose name I’ve forgotten . . . oh, that’s right, Natalie. Sensational! Of course, they’re all half my age, but in my mind that doesn’t count. Why can’t I just give myself a free pass to accept that a teensy bit of gravity-induced sagging is hardly a crime? Anyway, those goddesses thrust their perfect, naked bodies into my line of vision for hours on end, and it was excruciatingly humiliating to have to sneak into a corner to try to change without displaying my own fleshly inferiority. Thankfully, salvation was at hand in the form of Dr Bev. He would give me back my bodily pride, my pertness, my youth. To hell with the risks. ‘Do you take American Express?’ I panted.

Please try not to judge me – although, at some level I do judge myself for such madness. And I certainly admire and envy the many self-confident women who’ve never bothered with any anti-ageing procedure beyond elegantly draping their bingo wings. Fortunately, in my younger days I avoided saying, ‘I’ll never resort to plastic surgery.’ Youthful women sometimes make that mistake and, when those first saggy bits appear, they panic and have to backtrack. But, in my view, if a person really wants to stop the clock, she should give it her best shot. Mother Nature is a two-faced bitch, isn’t she? So provided people fully understand why they’re doing it – and what the risks are – I think they should redesign themselves in whatever way makes them happy. Well, unless that involves altering their bodies to resemble any kind of domestic pet.

Oh, I know I’m extremely lucky to have the means even to contemplate a major make over. And, if you catch yourself being a bit harsh about all this, please bear in mind that it’s all very well to criticize a person for attempting to improve on nature, but taking radical steps in the beauty department is not without risks, pain and frustration.

On my first visit to Dr Bev’s rooms I was granted only limited access. ‘I had rather hoped I’d meet Dr Bev in person,’ I complained to his office manager. Hayley pouted snootily at me from behind her cluttered desk, but I stood my ground. ‘I mean, it would be normal to have a face-to-face discussion . . .’ She cut me off. ‘Dr Bev is very, very busy,’ she said, ‘and I’m not sure we could schedule you at all. But what are you interested in having done?’ ‘Generally improved gorgeousness,’ I replied. I was promptly marched to a photography room where I suffered the humiliation of standing naked against a white glaring background while some nurses took pictures of every tiny ‘imperfection’ on my body and face. OK, I know, like beauty, ‘imperfection’ lies purely in the eyes of the beholder, but unfortunately my eyes can’t stand some of the saggy, flabby aspects of ageing. ‘Look,’ I rationalized to myself, ‘right now I’m really healthy and fit and, thanks to
Strictly
, my weight is low – good time to undergo a surgical procedure. Am I goting to wait another ten years? What’s the point of looking good when you’re drooling and incoherent?’ ‘But your husband, and anyone else close to your age, has become short-sighted anyway,’ argued my Voice of Reason, ‘so, surely, they’ll overlook your wrinkles?’ ‘It’s not them I’m worried about,’ I replied. ‘Have you SEEN yourself on HD? Mamma mia! And you regularly dance tango, lambada and salsa in close embrace with twenty-year-olds – those boys have twenty/twenty vision. They can spot a chin hair at twenty paces!’ ‘OK,’ my Voice of Reason conceded. ‘You win.’

When I finally met with Dr Bev – after a whole month of attempted scheduling – I was rather underwhelmed. ‘Oh, no!’ I said to myself. ‘Is that a toupee?’ Then I had to chastise myself for being judgmental about his attempts at self-beautification considering I was planning a far more permanent and comprehensive make over myself. He was very direct. ‘When I look at you, what I notice most is your jowls and saggy neck. What I’d rather be drawn to is your eyes.’ Excellent selling point. I showed him my tummy. ‘Three large babies and rapid weight loss – wouldn’t mind being able to dance in one of those dresses with the midriff missing, like Flavia Cacace . . .’

Dr Bev had clearly never heard of the tango goddess. ‘OK,’ he said curtly, ‘but a tummy tuck is not an easy procedure. Look, sit down.’ His large, hairy hands grabbed a couple of handfuls of saggy tummy skin and hung on firmly. ‘Now try and stand up!’ he ordered. I felt the searing pain as my skin was stretched like hide across a native drum. ‘What you’d have to do for a good result with minimal scarring,’ he explained, ‘is stay hunched over for a full ten days after the operation. No standing upright or lying flat – you’ll have to use a walker.’ ‘That’s OK,’ I nodded, thinking that at least I could sit and work on my computer – probably get a lot of writing done. Of course, I hadn’t factored in the fact that I’d be shit-faced on Vicodin and nothing I’d write would make any sense, or that since I opted to have my double chin and under-eye bags removed at the same time, I’d also have to keep my head up towards the ceiling while seated. Kind of a racing driver position, which meant I could do nothing post-operatively but crouch beneath a wall-mounted TV, watching
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
. After that fortnight I was brain-dead. I was calling friends saying, ‘I’m really worried about how Kourtney’s treating Rob . . . doesn’t she understand the fragility of the male ego?’

Dr Bev was definitely of a similar ilk to other top-notch surgeons I’d met – strong, opinionated and obsessive – exactly what you need in a plastic surgeon, and I’m not kidding. His narcissism wouldn’t allow him to risk ruining his reputation with any mistakes, and his obsessive nature means he pays great attention to detail, but a bedside manner is something he entirely lacks. In fact, I suppose that’s something that drew me to him – after all, wouldn’t you rather place your trust in someone who doesn’t feel the need to butter you up? With the queues of women and men at his door trying to get him to shape-shift them, I can assure you he doesn’t need my business. And it’s his scheduler Hayley’s job to filter those he should accommodate and those he should avoid. ‘He’s truly the most wonderful doctor,’ she gushed, with tears forming in her large cow eyes. ‘He’s doing my own face next month . . .’ The second time I saw the elusive Dr Bev was on the morning of my surgery. Starving and dehydrated from my mandated colon cleansing the day before, I signed all the forms that relinquished him, the clinic, the President, God, and anyone connected with them, from any responsibility for screwing up. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s better not to read such documents – ‘Could lead to severe complications including death’ is not my preferred thought as I’m about to go under the knife. I was stripped of clothing, jewellery, dignity and dressed in paper booties, shower cap and an open-backed hospital gown with my arse peeking out. Nice look. And why, exactly? Was Dr Bev going to throw in a surprise butt lift? One could only hope.

A middle-aged nurse came into my waiting room to check my vitals and make sure I hadn’t forgotten my name. ‘Yeah, I’d love to have a tummy tuck myself,’ she said, ‘but I’m way too scared.’ Now, if my best friend Sharon hadn’t been with me I might have bolted after that, but luckily we caught each other’s eye and had a good chuckle.

But when Dr Bev arrived, Sharon, who is normally warm and delightful, allowed her concern for my safety to turn her into a harridan. ‘Do you know who she is? You better not make any mistakes . . .’ Dr Bev was rightly incensed. ‘I treat all my patients with exactly the same care,’ he replied, getting very shirty with her. I sat there watching in horror as their dislike of each other escalated. ‘OMG,’ I said to her after he flounced out. ‘That man is just about to mess around with my innards and you’ve thoroughly pissed him off! In a couple of hours I’ll look like Rumpelstiltskin!’

A ridiculously fresh-faced anaesthetist arrived. ‘What, did you graduate when you were twelve?’ I inquired. Then I realized – of course! With this being a plastic surgery facility, I was surrounded by Dorian Grays. ‘Got any particular concerns?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to avoid puking if possible,’ I pleaded. ‘Usually seems to happen to me post-operatively . . .’ ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied. ‘You allergic to anything?’ he inquired. ‘People who say you should dress your age,’ I replied, ‘but if you guys work your magic, I should graduate as lamb dressed as lamb. Oh, and try to keep cats out of the surgery room.’ I noticed I was picking at my skin, something I do when I become very anxious (yes, if the truth be told, I was extremely frightened. Didn’t that woman . . . the mother of that guy who played Rocky . . . Damn! I’ve met him but I can’t remember his name – didn’t she nearly die of complications after a tummy tuck?). ‘And, er, it’s 8am and so far no Valium in sight . . .’ I said pointedly. ‘Coming right up,’ he replied, sticking me in the arm with something tingly, warm and woozy-making. ‘Can you give her a truth drug?’ asked Sharon. ‘I’d love to know if she really did sleep with Kevin Costner . . .’

Well, maybe I did. I have definitely put it about a bit. When it comes to boyfriends, I barely remember the difference between fact and fiction. But the one-night stand was never my thing. In fact, ‘going all the way’ for me tended to be synonymous with ‘moving in for a few years’. When I first met my husband Billy Connolly we shared our sexual histories and he found mine very funny. ‘What, did you turn up for every first date with a van containing your furniture?’ he asked unkindly. Billy wasn’t too happy about the surgery. He thought it was unnecessary and, except for the boob renovation, he’s right. But Billy has a different view of ageing from me. He embraces it in a very healthy way. He just loves his bushy eyebrows, his long white hair and being a grandpa. He’s still sexy, but when I met him he was a dark-haired crazy man with an unintelligible Glaswegian accent. I remember him in skinny jeans over strong, muscular legs and buttocks (he still has those), and a satin bomber jacket (well, it was the eighties). I was in leggings and an over-sized man’s jacket from a charity shop, and I’d never heard of Scottish comedian Billy Connolly.