The Truth About Beauty

Chapter Six

I’d managed to skip the evening drug section, my excuse of having jet-lag after travelling eight thousand miles just managing to pass muster. Heather still hadn’t looked impressed, however, her chocolate eyes narrowing throughout the entire conversation.

I awoke the next morning drunk from sleep, delirious in my rested body. Rubbing the grit out of my eyes, I pushed out of bed and jumped into the too-small shower, hitting my head several times on the shower head and nearly scalding my fake-tanned skin whilst trying to get to grips with the tap controls.

Muttering curses, I grabbed the shampoo I’d had the foresight to pack and rinsed it through my hair, mentally washing away yesterday’s sensitive Austin, preparing for the steel skin I would wear from now on.

It shouldn’t be too difficult. You’ve been doing it for the past six months, I’d thought, bathing in the musk-scented steam of my wash, but I knew that everything was harder in practice.

My first test occurred just as I was drying off my hair with a towel, clean clothes cladding my body and sticking to the still partially wet skin. There was a knock at the door.

Briefly considering the possibility that it was Victoria, I caught myself, chiding my stupidity. I had to push her out of my mind for the idea to work, and there was no question that it had to. The mask went up.

When I grasped the handle and opened the door, Peter’s face greeted me and I groaned. He better not still be watching over me. For his sake.

“Morning Austin, thought I’d bring you over some caffeine to wake you up,” he smiled, assessing my mood. In his hand was a cup of black coffee, the steam licking at the lidless container and smelling sweet.

It’s only a drink, I thought to myself, taking the cup and stepping outside of my room at the same time, the scent making me ravenous. It suddenly occurred to me that the only thing I’d eaten since California was a bag of crisps on the plane and the out of date chocolate bar I’d discovered at the bottom of my duffel bag.

“Where’d you get this from?” I asked between sips, the boiling liquid burning a trail of fire down my throat.

He started walking and I followed, hoping that he was taking me towards food. “The canteen. Breakfast is served at nine, so I thought I’d come and wake you up before you missed the food seeing as you didn’t have dinner yesterday.”

I raised an eyebrow, defensive. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “Victoria asked me to look out for you when we ate, but you never showed up.”

I relaxed at this, my body warming knowing that she’d been thinking about me, but I continued my stiff stride, not wanting Peter to suspect anything.

We continued to walk in silence, my companion finally taking me into a large hall that adjoined the Commune filled with cheap plastic tables and chairs reminiscent of the kind you’d find in a kid’s nursery, but I didn’t ponder it. I’d already begun to work out that this was a budget rehab, not the expensive, extravagant one I’d expected Barry to send me to. Maybe that’s what he meant by “different.” I should have foreseen such an eccentric move on his part.

The food tasted about as good as the canteen looked. The eggs were watery, rather than runny, and my bacon had a fat to meat ratio of 3:1, causing bile to rise in my throat. I swallowed away the distaste, trying to keep up the air of indifference.

“You’re quiet today,” Peter pointed out, tugging at some bread. I’d seen how he’d avoided all of the cooked food, no doubt already aware of what a disastrous move that would be.