Read The Book of You: A Novel for Free Online Page B

honest with me, I said.
    You have nothing in common, he said.
    I blink hard several times, as if this will clear my vision so that the Rowena I thought I knew will come back to me. This version of her would probably advise Henry to get a hair transplant. I can picture his response if she dared: the scornful, incredulous eyebrow he’d raise, wordlessly. I think Henry is beautiful as he is, even if he’s no longer mine to think this about.
    “I’ll give it some thought. Are you well, though? Recovered from the operations?”
    “The only downside is that I can’t feel my nipples anymore.” Rowena says this mockingly, like a dieter who has given up chocolate but never liked it much anyway. I work hard to disguise my sadness for her, and my horror that she has mutilated herself and her own pleasure in this way. “The scarring’s rather shocking. But the surgeon’s hopeful it will improve.”
    Is this the Rowena who used to float in the sea with her eyes closed, humming to herself and pretending to be a mermaid as she let the currents rock her?
    I picture Rowena’s areolas sewn on like buttons, a dark ring circling each one. For a few seconds my own nipples seem to burn and tingle. “I’m sure it will. I’d imagine it just takes time.”
    She studies my face. “You’ve got circles under your eyes. You should cover them up. You should consider an eyelid lift. It’s very rejuvenating. You’d feel so much better about yourself. If the people you work with see you looking tired, they’ll believe you are tired. They’ll believe you’re not effective at your job, that you’re unprofessional.”
    Many women are disinclined to tell others about what is happening to them.
    I bite my lip. “I’m not sleeping very well lately, Rowena. It’s this man.”
    She misunderstands. “I want to hear all about him. But can it wait?”
    Is this the Rowena who rushed from Edinburgh to London so I could sob in her arms when my boyfriend broke up with me in my second year at university?
    “Of course,” I say.
    She only ever talks about herself. She’s not interested in you, Henry said.
    But I’ve withheld the most important things, I said, to try to hold on to her. How can she be interested in me when I’ve kept the essential parts of my life hidden?
    Both of Rowena’s husbands said they didn’t want children, then left her to have them with other women. She’d never have forgiven my taking Henry from his wife. Sometimes I even wondered if it was my guilt about what I’d done that somehow stopped me from getting pregnant. The attempted baby-making would certainly have infuriated Rowena further. Henry knew this and helped me with the cover-up, though he mumbled about how one-sided a friendship it was.
    She checks herself severely in the compact mirror again, and I realize that her failed marriages are probably what made her so susceptible to this cult of plastic. “Did I do the right thing with my face?” She brushes powder above her eyebrows, which seem higher than I remember.
    “You did absolutely the right thing. You look like an American soap opera star.” This brings a near smile to her lips, which I have just noticed are plumper. “If it makes you happy, more confident, then that’s what matters. That’s what shows.”
    She nods in enthusiastic agreement. “It’s a firmer, more youthful and sculpted look.” Henry would pull a face at this, but I do not.
    The waiter leads us to a table in the corner. Hanging on the restaurant’s walls are pseudo Art Deco paintings of nude women, easily overlooked in the dimly lit room. I get sidetracked by one of them, of a dancer. It makes me think again of the men in the dock and how they forced Miss Lockyer to strip and perform for them. “What made you choose this place?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Then who did?”
    She ignores my question. “Do you think it looks natural?” There’s a tremor in her voice that makes my heart hurt for her.
    The flickering candlelight