Stiletto heels made a very satisfying clicking sound on the gleaming floors of one of Auckland’s most prestigious private hospitals. Along with the sleek, fitted skirt and matching jacket and the equally sleek hairstyle Olivia Donaldson had perfected long ago, she knew she looked the part of an up-and-coming plastic surgeon who was well on the way to being exactly where she wanted to be—at the top of the field in reconstructive microsurgery.

      She’d had doubts about the value of providing cosmetic surgery to people who were wealthy enough to chase the illusion of perfection but she’d decided to view purely aesthetic surgery a stepping stone when she’d decided to apply for this job. Elective procedures like a facelift needed the same skills as reconstructive microsurgery and the hours and pay of this new job gave Olivia the freedom to do any further postgraduate study she would need.

      Auckland’s Plastic Surgery Institute had its own ward in this private hospital and Olivia’s patients had had their surgery this morning. She had been pushed to get through all her cases today and they had all been breasts. A breast lift and augmentation for a mother of three in her forties, a breast lift and reduction for a woman in her fifties, and an implant removal for someone the same age as Olivia, who’d experienced hardened scar tissue from silicone material leaking from her implants. The lift and augmentation had been her first case this morning and Olivia could see no reason for her not to go home now.

      ‘Sleep as upright as possible for the next forty-eight hours,’ she advised. ‘Prop yourself up on lots of pillows, or use a recliner chair if you’ve got one.’

      ‘It hurts more than I expected.’

      ‘We’ll give you something for that but you can expect your breasts to be swollen and sore for the next few days, I’m afraid.’

      ‘This instruction sheet says I have to avoid any strenuous activity for two to three weeks. That’s not going to be easy when I’ve got three small children, is it?’

      Olivia made an effort to keep her smile sympathetic. ‘I’m sure it won’t be, but it is very important. Especially not to lift them. You’ll risk tearing stitches and other problems if you do.’

      At least her breast reduction patient was more thrilled with the new shape of her body beneath the support bandaging and surgical bra.

      ‘I can’t think why I didn’t do this years ago. I just wish I’d got you to do a tummy tuck at the same time, Dr Donaldson.’

      ‘We can talk about that another time. It wasn’t a minor procedure that you had today, you know. How’s the pain level now?’

      ‘I’ve been too excited to notice it much. How soon can I go back to work and show it all off?’

      ‘Once you no longer need your prescription pain medication. In a week or so, I expect, but we can let you know when you come for your first outpatient appointment at the Institute in a few days.’

      ‘Will I be seeing you then?’

      ‘Of course.’ Olivia’s smile felt slightly forced. A lot of her time these days was spent in the luxurious consultation rooms of the Plastic Surgery Institute. Initial consultations to discuss desired procedures. Assessment and detailed planning in conjunction with the patients and then the follow-up appointments to track recovery and deal with any complications. And, even during the six months that Olivia had become immersed in the world of private cosmetic surgery, she was already seeing patients returning for their next procedure. It was flattering that they demanded to see her but it was a little disturbing, as well.

      People getting addicted to cosmetic surgery in the hope of making their lives perfect was no myth and body dysmorphic disorder—where people became obsessed with a slight or even imagined defect in their appearance—was something Olivia intended to research more thoroughly in the near future.

      The mental state of the last patient she checked on before discharging from the initial post-operative care was also a bit of a worry.

      ‘I’m confident we managed to get all the scar tissue out,’ Olivia assured her. ‘You should find a dramatic improvement in any discomfort you were having after you recover from the surgery.’

      Her patient was in tears. ‘I can’t look. I’m going to look worse than I did before I had the implants, aren’t I? Nobody’s going to want to even look at me. I’ll be flat-chested again and now I’ll have all these scars, as well. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to do something like this in my twenties. Why does anybody do it?’

      ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Janie.’ Olivia took extra time to try and reassure this patient and let her know that there were counselling services available through the Institute that she might find helpful. She was running a little late for her six o’clock appointment by the time she left.

      ‘You’re so lucky, you know,’ Janie said by way of farewell. ‘You’re never going to need to even think of having any plastic surgery.’

      It was walking distance from the hospital to the Plastic Surgery Institute, which was one of many buildings devoted to private health care in this prestigious suburb of Auckland, some of which were converted mansions on either side of the tree-lined streets. Normally Olivia would have enjoyed the swirl of autumn leaves drifting down around her but she was trying to pinpoint why her day was feeling as if it had been somewhat unsatisfactory. The surgeries had all gone smoothly and theatre staff had been