Eve
“How old are you?” Plastic surgeon Dr. Edward James Rutherford fixed his gaze on Eve’s lovely face.
She blinked, smiled, and glanced away before meeting his eyes again. He’d seen women perform this exact dance in his office countless times. The moment he asked their age, they remembered he was a man—young, handsome. Eve was no exception.
“You tell me,” she replied playfully.
His expression remained stern.
“Twenty-nine,” she lied without flinching.
For some reason, the threshold of thirty always frightened women.
“Thirty-nine, to be precise,” Rutherford corrected tonelessly, though out of pity, he shaved two years off.
“You can’t be fooled, Doctor,” Eve said, appreciating his tact.
“Then why try? I’m a surgeon, not a suitor. Your age matters for entirely different reasons. If you were truly twenty-nine, you likely wouldn’t be here. You look remarkable for your age—better than most women half your age would envy.”
“You’re terrifying. You see right through us, like an X-ray.” Eve feigned coyness again.
“It’s my job—and experience.”
“Your wife is lucky. You understand women so well.”
Rutherford nearly said he wasn’t married but thought better of it.
“So why come to me? You don’t need surgery. Not yet, at least.”
Her eyes gleamed at the compliment.
“Wouldn’t you ask what it costs me to look like this? Yes, I have a wealthy husband. I can afford the finest creams, the most cutting-edge treatments—none of them cheap. But I’m tired. Hours at the gym, then more under a beautician’s hands, slathered in masks and serums. I’m not living; I’m clinging to youth. I’m exhausted,” she repeated.
“Then let time pass. Every age has its grace. You don’t need to seem younger than you are.” He offered her one of his dazzling smiles.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a man. You don’t wage war against wrinkles, count calories, or starve for the sake of a figure. And who pushes us to these lengths?”
“Who?” he indulged her.
He liked Eve. She was sincere, beautiful, alive. Effortless company.
“You do. Men. You need a young, pretty woman at your side to feel worthwhile. The older you get, the younger we must be.” A bitter twist curled her lips, sorrow shadowing her eyes—yet she remained radiant.
“I grew up in a nowhere town. Mum worked at a textile factory, same as Dad. When it shut down, she scrubbed hospital floors; he shovelled coal in a boiler room. Jobs were scarce—just the factory, gone. Dad drank, of course. I hated that life, that town. From childhood, I dreamed of London, of being an actress.” Her gaze clouded with memory.
Rutherford understood. He, too, had fled a provincial backwater.
“I didn’t get into drama school. But I found work—in a market stall.” The admission clearly pained her. “I won’t detail how I survived. Luck found me. A woman noticed—after I short-changed her, mind. She took me to a fashion house. Not the runway kind, though that happened too. You understand. There, I met my future husband. I was young. Desperate.” Her eyes misted again. Rutherford waited.
“He adored me. Proposed. I said yes. His age didn’t matter. I’d won the lottery—a husband, a London flat, a country house, connections, money. He gave me everything I’d ever dreamed.”
“He had a son from his first marriage—my age, lives abroad. My husband didn’t want more children. I accepted it. Restaurants, couture, travel—I loved that life. You’re right; women envied me. I escaped that nowhere town. I’ll never go back.” She exhaled, pausing.
“Three days ago, I visited his office. Unannounced. A whim—he loves doughnuts. Pink icing. I brought two and coffee.”
“His secretary wasn’t at her desk. Or rather, she was exactly where she shouldn’t have been—in his office. They hadn’t even locked the door. They never saw me. I left the treats on her desk and walked out. It was hideous.” She buried her face in her hands.
Rutherford waited. He’d heard such confessions in this room before. Women unburdened themselves here as if at confession.
Eve lowered her hands. Her eyes were dry. She’d allowed herself a moment’s vulnerability—rare for women like her, trained to wear masks.
“I wasn’t naïve. I knew he had others. But then I was afraid. Time moves, and I don’t get younger—while around him, there’s always some fresh-faced girl with long legs, eager to take my place.”
“Everyone wants money. They have what I’ve lost—youth. You’re right; I’m forty. I can’t compete. Men like my husband want pretty, young, and pliable. If he leaves me for one, there won’t be another lottery win. Comfort becomes necessity. I won’t return to the life I escaped. I’d rather die.”
Her raw despair struck him.
“Could you walk away? Leave London, the house, the car, the money? Become some rural GP?”
Rutherford said nothing. Eve didn’t expect an answer.
“Fine. Here’s what you’ll need—tests, specialists. Some can be done here. Then return.”
Her face lit up. She rose with youthful energy, graceful still.
“Think again. Surgery is risk, especially on the face. Does your husband know?”
“No. But I’ll think of something,” she said quickly.
“You won’t look your best afterward.”
“How long?” Fear flickered, then vanished.
“A month, perhaps more. Healing varies.”
“I’ll say I was attacked. Mugged.” But doubt tinged her voice.
“Suppose so. But the gym stays. Surgery won’t fix your body. Results fade—repeat procedures follow. Think of those starved, stretched celebrity faces. Like addiction. Every cut leaves a mark. Complications rise with each. Remember Michael Jackson?”
Another flash of fear, swiftly smothered.
“I know what you’re doing. Save your breath. It’s decided.” She waved a hand, then placed an envelope on the desk edge.
“Payment’s at reception,” Rutherford said stiffly.
He became her doctor again. She, his patient. He bent over paperwork, signaling the end.
Many women passed through here—pleasant, vain, desperate. He never saw them as anything else. But Eve intrigued him. Something in her mirrored his own climb from poverty, their shared hunger for more.
He didn’t want to change her face. He liked it—alive, lightly lined beneath clever makeup. He’d tried dissuading her. But she’d cling to her gilded life with both hands. He checked his Rolex. Twenty minutes until the next client—a fading actress craving youth.
Some came to keep husbands, others for lovers or roles. Men never needed such torture. Money alone made them attractive.
Days later, Eve returned with test results. As he read, her gaze weighed on him.
*Health perfect. Looks radiant. Eyes begging like a dog for scraps. Fine—minimal work. Preserve what nature gave.*
“Good,” he said aloud. “Here’s what to bring. No medicines without my approval. Allergies?”
“None.”
“Excellent. Complete these honestly. Sign the consent—read it first. You’re warned of risks.” He slid forms forward.
She scribbled without reading. *Rushing. Her choice.* He sighed.
“You’ve till morning to change your mind. Fast after midnight.”
He wanted to touch her hand—didn’t.
Prep concluded flawlessly. Meticulous as ever, Rutherford left nothing to chance. Reputation mattered. Still, fate could intervene anytime.
“Still certain?” he asked on the eve.
“Terrified. But yes.”
“You can still walk away.”
“No. I’m ready.” But doubt flickered.
Next day, he marked incision lines carefully—a sculptor chiseling marble.
“I look like a patchwork doll,” Eve murmured.
“Don’t speak. You’re perfect.”
She lay serene as Sleeping Beauty, makeup-free. Younger, yet lines showed clearer.
His scalpel hovered—
“Pressure’s crashing! Cardiac arrest! Clear!”
He stumbled back. *No—she was healthy!* Monitors wailed. The anaesthetist worked frantically.
“Time of death—”
*Impossible.* He’d refused, resisted. What had he missed? Allergy? Had she lied?
“Not your fault. Autopsy’ll confirm, but she hid an allergy. Paperwork’s clean—likely anaesthetic reaction,” the anaesthetist said, pouring brandy.
Rutherford drank mechanically. Investigations would follow. Suspension. Rumours. Worse—Eve was dead.
“She said she’d die before losing it all. Asked if I’d walk away to some village”And as the years passed in that quiet countryside, Rutherford often wondered if Eve had found the peace in death that had eluded her in life.”
