“Well, I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Santorini.” He leaned against the wall, taking a well-practiced chummy yet professional stance.

“You can call me Clarice.”

“Okay, Clarice. I am not a plastic surgeon. Of course, if you like, I can recommend some people whom I trust. But I can tell you that we can certainly try something a little more natural than either surgery or Botox. I like to plump up the skin with your own fat cells. We remove it from places where you won’t miss it and store it here in our refrigerator for whenever you need a touch-up.”

“You really think I can get away with just that?” Clarice had no desire to turn herself into a plastic-surgery junkie like that famous East Side woman who had so many catlike lifts she was nicknamed the Lion Queen. But she wanted to keep Barry and her kids happy. And in order to do that, Clarice believed she had to keep up with the refreshed appearance of all the other East Side mothers.

“Hey, I think you look great. Here’s all I would propose we do.” Charlie took out a red Magic Marker and began drawing on an outline of a female face as if it were from a children’s coloring book.

“I would like to start with a face peel to take the gray hues from here, here, and here.” Charlie drew arrows under her eyes, around the lips. “The peel will make you look like a corned beef for five days, but after that your age spots, freckles, and any dark material will disappear. And then we can discuss some maintenance options.”

“When do I need to do this? My calendar is very full right now. My daughter Brooke is taking Suzuki violin.” All the serenity of the waiting room had passed from Clarice’s psyche.

“As I said before, honestly Clarice, you don’t need to do anything. I’m just presenting you with some healthy options. Perhaps you want to talk this over with your husband.”

“Oh no, my husband’s very busy. I can’t bother him with this. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course. I admire your husband’s films. Thank heavens for him or there really would just be junk out there.” Charlie repeated what he had frequently read.

“He doesn’t even know I’m here,” Clarice confided. “He thinks all my friends spend too much time on their appearance, but he really notices when anyone lets themselves go. He’d absolutely kill me if I looked like a corned beef for five days.”

“What about a pastrami?” Charlie quipped. It was a quip he had mastered on at least a hundred patients. Personally, he didn’t find it very funny, but it seemed to cut through the tension. “Tell you what. Why don’t I call in my nurse and she can take your history and we can go from there. This way at least you can make a more responsible decision.”

“I know this is silly.” Clarice was embarrassed by the question that popped into her head but she had to ask it. “I recognized some people in your waiting room. Will they see my fat in your refrigerator? I know my husband wouldn’t appreciate that.”