Short Story: A Plastic Surgeon, A Diner and A Star

With unfocused eyes, Franklin stared down at the puce-coloured envelope on the Formica table. Behind him the neon sign of The Greasy Spoon intermittently buzzed to life, reflecting on the chrome napkin-holder to his left. He had his back to the room -- fewer people with whom to make eye-contact -- but took note of the noises that illustrated the other diners to him. He hoped the slurper behind him, who he supposed was a rotund truck driver, complete with a sweaty check shirt, stained jeans, branded baseball cap and toothpick, would leave soon. So far, it seemed, neither the slurper nor the envelope was going anywhere.


"Care for a refill, sugar?" A lithe young waitress appeared at his elbow, brandishing a coffee pot. Her badge announced that her name was Annette, and her polyester uniform had been flecked with oil so many times that it may as well have been a hillbilly houndstooth pattern. Franklin shook his head.
Annette snapped her chewing gum between her teeth and walked in the direction of the slurper. 

"Care for a refill, sugar?"

He drummed his fingers on the envelope again and braced himself for what he would find inside. When Dennis has called, he'd told Franklin that this was a grisly case and that he was to prepare himself and preferably not eat anything before opening. He tore at the seal and fingered the contents before an almighty yank dumped the pack of photographs on the table in front of him.

Oh god.

Dennis hadn't been lying. Franklin found himself slack-jawed at the sight of Mirabella Levine. And it wasn't because GQ had convinced her to pose in her birthday suit on a chaise longue. He reached for his coffee cup and slugged the dregs. It clattered back onto the saucer; he was shaking. This woman, the owner of the face that had inspired a thousand wet dreams, looked as though she had been French-kissing a shark.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Dennis.

ARE YOU IN?

Franklin hesitated. He recognised a cross-road when he saw one and his options were pretty clear. Either he could reply "No" to Dennis, go back to his office in L.A. and keep augmenting the body parts of porn stars and desperate housewives, or -- and it was a big 'or' -- he could say "Yes". He looked at Mirabella again. Saying "yes" to her would mean saying yes to the client that could make or break his career as a surgeon. The slurper and Annette were guffawing behind him, and the flickering neon lights taunted him in red, yellow and blue.

He swiped the screen of his phone to unlock it. He typed and waited. It buzzed again: Dennis.

GREAT!!!! SEE YOU MONDAY @ MY OFFICE.