Never Mind The Botox: Rachel Read Free Page A

going to be a long trip.
    On the train, Rachel got herself a large gin and tonic from the buffet car and settled down to read a stack of trashy magazines she’d bought at the station newsagent. As she read, she was struck by the number of articles about cosmetic surgery. Stories about actresses having liposuction were clearly big news. Intrigued, she got out her phone and opened the email from Carl Stephens setting out what work they needed to do on the Beau Street Group.
    She started reading the list:
    Full details of sales split by procedure.
    Price lists by procedure.
    A list of key clients.
    Oh good, she would have to get details of every type of operation they did and how much each cost. Also, she would have the perfect reason for having a good nose through the client names to see whether she could spot anyone famous. She was really looking forward to this job.
    Rowan met her at Bath station.
    ‘Hey, sis’, how are you?’ Her brother gave her a big hug.
    ‘Great form, thanks,’ said Rachel. ‘Actually, I’m hungover and knackered, but other than that great.’
    ‘Well, I’m totally knackered, but sadly not hungover,’ said Rowan. ‘I tell you, this baby thing is hard work. There should be a warning on the side of the box saying “Caution: This product could seriously damage your health”.’
    Rachel laughed. ‘You don’t mean that. Naomi is so cute. How old is she now?’
    ‘Nearly seven months − can you believe it?’ said Rowan.
    They got into Rowan’s car and headed out of the station. Rachel’s parents’ house was a rambling farmhouse in a small village twenty minutes outside of Bath. They’d lived there all Rachel’s life and although they’d often talked of buying somewhere smaller, Rachel couldn’t imagine them moving.
    As usual, Rachel’s mum greeted her at the front door like she’d just been released from a ten-year prison sentence − hugging her until she couldn’t breathe and then ushering her into the sitting room for a dry sherry.
    ‘Do you have any gin?’ Rachel asked.
    ‘Bit early for gin, don’t you think?’ Rachel’s dad replied, despite the fact that it was gone seven p.m.
    Rachel’s dad was a retired engineer and a pretty straight-laced character who hadn’t met Rachel’s mum until they were both well into their thirties. Her childhood had been full of ordinary holidays and getting your homework done on time. He also liked the sound of his own voice and regularly told the same very dull stories over and over again. Her mum would try to say, ‘I think they’ve heard this one, dear,’ but he would plough on regardless, often snorting with laughter over Fred’s golfing disaster or some chaotic Rotary Club meeting. It wouldn’t even occur to him that the others listening hadn’t found the story funny the first time they’d heard it, let alone the third, fourth or fifth time. He was also obsessed with journeys.
    ‘Was your train on time?’ he asked as he poured Rachel a sherry.
    ‘Yes, it was actually. I was quite surprised,’ said Rachel.
    ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘That line is very hit-and-miss. I went up to London last week and it was twelve minutes late getting in and nine minutes late getting back. No explanation, nothing. Don’t know why they bother with timetables. Those buffet cars are expensive as well. It was a good thing your mother had packed me a couple of sandwiches. I only had to buy a cup of tea and that was bad enough. Daylight robbery, I say.’
    Rachel and Rowan caught each other’s eye and tried not to laugh.
    ‘Did you write to The Times about it?’ Rachel forced a straight face as she spoke.
    ‘No, I didn’t. Not really one for The Times . Think I might write to the train company, though. Mind you, you’ll probably find you can only telephone some dreadful call centre, and then they’ll charge you a fortune for a phone call that they take ten minutes to answer.’
    Rachel decided to change the subject. ‘How has your