The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes Read Free Book Online Page B

Stella McCartney, a largewhite YSL Muse, a straw-and-leather Michael Kors, a pebbled orange Prada, and twin quilted Chanels in cream and black. There was an Alexander Wang tote, a sparkling Anya Hindmarch clutch, a caramel Céline shopper, a boxy Botkier, and a spiked Valentino. It was the Twelve Wonders of the purse world.
    I started to put them all back when a large orange box stowed away in a corner caught my eye. I pulled it down, put it on the marble counter, and opened the lid. Inside, underneath silky monogrammed tissue, was the mother of all designer purses, the it bag of it bags, one that outshone all the others like a movie star in a room of civilians.
    A bright red Hermès Kelly bag. The leather was dulled with age (read vintage), but in exquisite condition, its handles still stiff and upright, its lock and key shiny and unscratched. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.
    Inside was some tissue paper and a card that read “Happy 30th Birthday.” I quickly rewrapped it and put it back on the shelf, wondering what kind of person gets a Kelly bag for her birthday and then never uses it.
    Standing before the wide mirror in the van Holt bathroom, I began to peel off my clothes. I slipped off my boots and then my jeans and was surprised to find a perfect pedicure. And my soles—usually so cracked and dry—were as smooth and unbroken as the marble they stood on.
    Quickly, I pulled off the thick cream sweater I had thrown on during my hasty hospital exit and stood up straight, taking it all in. With a look of disbelief on my face, the same look I imagined one might have when looking at a new Lexus in their driveway on Christmas morning, I saw my body in the mirror. My stomach was flat and smooth, with no droopy skin or love handles, just taut,firm skin as if pulled across a drum. My legs were free from stretch marks and broken capillaries; instead they were long and lean, and still tan, as if I were just back from the islands.
    And my breasts. There was something definitely different about my breasts.
    I looked down at them sticking out of my chest, then again in the mirror. I tentatively touched one with the tip of my finger, the way you touch a cake to see if it’s done. I cupped each in a hand, feeling their soft weight. Gorgeous, full, awesome…
    And fake.
    As boob jobs went, this was peerless work. These were the Cadillacs of implants: pliant, under the muscle, any incision scars artfully concealed.
    I stood slack-jawed, wondering what had made Abbey van Holt decide to go under the plastic surgeon’s knife. Especially since I had always claimed I never would. And secretly looked down on women, like my mother, who did. (Breast cancer survivors excepted.)
    But, then again, maybe I was against plastic surgery because our financial situation meant I never really had the option. I stepped closer to examine my face and hair and see what other improvements, surgical or otherwise, might have been made.
    Where were the two deep grooves in my forehead and the little lines around my eyes? The skin was smooth and poreless, as if someone had blurred it in Photoshop. My hair was shorter and blonder, with a razor-sharp edge that just barely grazed my shoulders. I smiled to reveal straight, alabaster teeth.
    “Holy shit,” I mouthed to myself in the mirror.
    I was still naked and admiring myself when Alex walked in. I reached down for my towel and covered myself as best I could as he walked to the double sinks and dropped his heavy silver watch on a crystal tray.
    “So, I guess we should figure out tonight,” he said, removing his sports coat and unbuttoning his shirt.
    “Okay?”
    “I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you are feeling up to it, it might be good for you to come. It’ll stop all the rumors, the media barrage.”
    “Sure,” I said, stealing glances at him in the mirror.
    “But are you feeling well enough?”
    “Surprisingly, yes. I feel fine. And you heard the doctors; they said I can go back