He laughed. ‘Oh, you will be. You will be.’

Paco liked to dig at me about what I was afraid of, all the time. Tenoch treated me like an equal; someone who moved in underworld circles like they did, but Paco couldn’t see it. To him I was a little girl – a chica, or worse still, niñita. When we stopped for gas on the way to the clinic, he even bought me a lollipop.

‘Thought you’d like something to suck on our journey, niñita.’ And he said it with a wink. A Fuck Wink? Or a Don’t Fuck With Me Wink?

Was he goading me? I thought. It seemed like it. Tenoch never did that – if anything, he always tried to calm me down, but I guess Paco was one of those men who liked women, especially ‘little girls’ to be scared of them. I’ve never understood why, but they do. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, even as a little girl, it’s that you must never show someone like that your fear. Cos the fucker will always use it to take you down.

The clinic itself was spotlessly clean, accented by azure glass partitions, pan-piped Coldplay and over-friendly staff who all looked like they’d gone through the laminator themselves and offered me cactus water every fifteen seconds.

The surgeon – a Mexican Clooney lookalike called Dr Aquiles Gonzales – came recommended by Tenoch, Trust Pilot and the many framed certificates dotted about his office. He was certified by the Mexican Board of Plastic, Aesthetic and Reconstructive Surgery and his demeanour was cheery and welcoming but ruthlessly blunt. This immediately put me at ease.

Until he started talking about cutting my face open, that is.

‘So you say you want an image overhaul, a little freshening up, yes?’

‘Yes, that would be good.’

A 3D image of a woman’s body filled the screen – my body, the results of being measured and scanned.

‘So take a look at this,’ he said, adjusting the screen. ‘Here is you. What we have here are your current dimensions, OK? Face shape, jawline, ears, nose, mouth. Down to the shoulders, the breasts, arms, hands, abdomen, genital area, thighs, shins and feet. So you are overweight.’

Any remaining shred of self-esteem flew out the window. ‘Yes, that is a scientifically accurate observation, I guess.’

‘For your purposes, I would recommend liposuction to these areas here (thighs), brachioplasty here (tops of arms) and abdominoplasty (tummy tuck).’ He jiggled my saggy pooch without warning. ‘You were pregnant, yes?’

The dark clouds descended. ‘Yeah.’

‘We can get that pregnancy belly gone for you.’

The clouds parted. ‘Seriously?’

‘No problem at all.’ He typed something in again, probably adding a few more noughts to the overall total. ‘Now if we look at your face shape imperfections, I would suggest some otoplasty – we would pin back your ears slightly, because they do stick out.’