Free Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts by Talli Roland Page B

until I found my feet in London and made it big as a reporter in the tabloid world with a job at, I don’t know, Metro or something. I want to see my byline on the thousands of discarded newspapers each day. I live for that moment.
    Doesn’t seem like much to aspire to, being face down on the floor of the Tube, right? But half a year, thousands of résumés, and several zillion article pitches later, and I’m still working at Transforma Harley Street Clinic, which isn’t even on the famous Harley Street, for God’s sake – it’s on a little mews just off it.
    “ Hello.” A loud knock at the bathroom door interrupts my thoughts. “Hello!”
    Rap, rap, rap.
    “ Hello! Girl!”
    Rap! Rap!
    It’s Lizard Lady; I can tell by her Russian accent. Peering in the mirror, I wipe away an errant trace of make-up underneath my lashes. In the dim light, my grey eyes are black and my round face looks like a luminous moon. Sighing, I slip on my high heels – Peter insists I dress up – then yank open the door.
    “ Yes?” Jesus, I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace around here.
    “ I need vat-er ,” Lizard Lady says, feigning a pathetic cough.
    “ Sorry?” I understand her perfectly but I want to make her suffer. Silly idiot, she actually passed the water cooler on her way to the bathroom.
    Lizard Lady puts a hand to her throat. “I need VA-TER!” she shouts, her hot lizardy breath hitting my face.
    Peter walks by with Mrs Lipenstein in tow. “I think Mrs Markova would like some water, Serenity.” He shoots me a look that says he’s less than impressed by my attitude. We’ve been having a lot of those ‘attitude’ talks lately at home.
    “ Oh, wa-der!” I say, jacking up my American accent a notch. Smiling sweetly, I trot to the cooler and pour some liquid in a plastic cup, dribbling a bit down the side so Lizard Lady will get her claws wet.
    “ Here you go.” I pass her the water, fascinated by the speckled, crinkly skin on her hands. Maybe she is moulting.
    Lizard Lady mutters something in Russian that sounds like a sneeze. I scurry behind the reception desk and climb up on the rickety stool. I’d love Peter to buy me a padded one, but I had to beg him just to let me sit down, so I don’t see that happening anytime soon. He has this nineteen-fifties notion that a receptionist should always be standing at the ready for an emergency, like administering a shot of Botox to a saggy eyelid or something.
    Mrs Lipenstein goes out, still buttoning up her shirt – I’m surprised she’s not going to flash her driver – and Peter ushers Lizard Lady into his room.
    Alone at last. I click onto my Word document and re-read my latest tabloid pitch.
     
    First there were pop-up shops. Then pop-up restaurants. Now, there’s pop-up Botox, the latest trend in cosmetic surgery. Forget running to the doctor’s office. Why not get topped up on the street corner?
 
    Pretty good, right? And true. On Portobello Road last Saturday, I saw a stall with two doctors injecting a line of women with Botox. Street-market surgery: a great story for a tabloid.
    “ All finished here.” Peter’s fake jovial-doctor voice drifts down the corridor, and I close the Word window. He’s a bit paranoid about me writing anything to do with cosmetic surgery. Apparently having a girlfriend who wants to be a tabloid journalist is bad enough (I keep telling him, though, Metro has standards). But when that wannabe journalist works at a clinic where confidentiality is uber-important, well . . . It’s ridiculous, I think. All the famous people go to the real Harley Street clinics. We just get the leftover Euro trash and D-list celebs only tabloid-junkies like me recognise.
    I glance at the bill Peter’s handed me, momentarily stunned by all the zeros. And when I think what that is in dollars!
    “ That will be two thousand pounds, please,” I say, scanning Lizard Lady’s face. That’s my new game: ‘Guess the Procedure’, because these