Makeover Madness
Fleur has always resented Candida. Since they were kids, she always had the better toys, chicer clothes, hotter boyfriends and cuter nose.
Still, Candida’s a great friend. When Fleur announced that she needed a facelift, she booked an empathy lift so she wouldn’t feel so bad and checked them into London’s most exclusive spa for a weekend of champagne, shopping and cosmetic surgery.
Not that you really needed another facelift, Fleur scolds silently. You’re blatantly only here to flaunt your perfect schnozzle and flash your husband’s cash on Louboutins that only fit onto your tiny size 4 feet. And why did you have to bring Kristie? she frowns, eyeing the bandaged blockhead in the corner. She’s clearly sleeping with your husband. I mean, I’m sleeping with your husband, but at least I’m not as mind-numbingly stupid as Kristie.
Kristie is up to her eyeballs on Tramadol and has been staring at the same shoe for the last half hour. Candida is on her usual cocktail of Xanax, Diazepam and Prozac, supplemented by the crushed-up HRT pills that Fleur furtively sprinkled into her sandwiches earlier.
“Try these!” gushes Candida, cheerfully thrusting a block-heeled court into Fleur’s hand. Fleur meets her sweet, spaced-out smile with an icy glare. “They won’t fit me,” she snarls through Hollywood gnashers and a collagen pout. “You know they won’t fit me.”
Candida’s eyes roll beneath freshly stitched lids. She knows why her husband gives her unlimited access to his credit card, and it isn’t his overwhelming humanity. It hasn’t escaped her notice that Fleur is wearing the same tiger-print coat he brought home for her last week, or that Kristie is sporting a similar albeit sluttier version of her pussybow-and-check ensemble.
Oh well, she thinks, admiring the ocean of shoes lapping at her perfectly pedicured toes. Let him feel guilty. It’s not like he knows I’m screwing Dr. Cairn in return for his botching their facelifts.
Frockd 