Find myself in the cosmetics department of Harvey Nichols for the first time in almost a decade, on the lookout for late sales bargains. As I idly circle the REN counter, I notice a woman in full chador behaving very suspiciously beside me. She fiddles incessantly with her veil. At one point she bends down and starts to pull off one of her brand new Ugg boots while looking straight in front of her, not moving her head.
Visions of shoe bombers, underpants bombers and push-up bra bombers flash through my mind as it occurs to me that, of course, Harvey Nichols would be an ideal venue for a terrorist attack – the destruction of Crème de la Mer stock alone would cause thousands of pounds’ worth of damage.
I ponder the fact that when people read about my death they will assume I was just another lady who lunches, when in fact
I was in the throes of preventing an attack by al-Qaeda. I am about to speak to the security guard when I realise that I recognise this woman. I tap her on the shoulder.
“Do I know you?” I demand bravely. She shrinks back and pulls a scarf around her face.
Advertisement
“No you don’t,” she says in a strange but familiar voice.
“I do know you,” I persist.
“Maybe in a previous existence in the Yemen,” she says mysteriously.
“Do the words Sexy Domesticated Dad mean anything to you?” I ask. The scarf falls from her face to reveal Yummy Mummy No 1, her face swollen and covered in bruises. She appears unable to smile.
“Don’t make me laugh, Lucy, it’s too painful,” she pleads through gritted teeth.
Advertisement
“I thought you’d gone abroad,” I say, trying not to betray my shock. “To the Maldives.
And what’s happened to your face?”
“Christmas present from my husband,” she says. I advise her to report him to the police immediately and to seek a good divorce lawyer.
“Don’t be silly, Lucy,” she says. “I’ve wanted this done for ages.” I press her for more details.
“I’ve had a soft facelift,” she finally confesses. “I’m staying in Knightsbridge until the metal clips are taken out and the bruising has disappeared, so that no one will be any the wiser.”
Advertisement
“But why are you wearing a veil?” I ask.
“It’s the best post-operative disguise on the market,” she says impatiently. “Everyone’s doing it.” She waves at a similarly disguised friend by the Crème de la Mer counter and tells me that she’ll be back on the school run in less than a week, looking the same age as Smouldering Teacher.