She turned, scrutinised her profile. Dressed head-to-toe in designer couture, she was a vision of smooth accentuated curves with long, slender legs and breasts a supermodel would be proud to thrust on the catwalk. Stroking her contours, her smile widened. She felt youthful, alive. Her flawless skin was firm, muscles taut. Recently-coiffured hair cascaded down her back in show-stopping raven waves.
‘Not bad,’ she thought, shaking back her glossy mane. ‘Not bad at all.’
Leaning closer, she examined her face. After the procedure, she’d looked rather sallow, her cheeks hollow. Not so now. Two weeks of good food and relaxation had restored her colour and perfectly filled out her face. The dark rings beneath her eyes had faded and when she smiled – no creases.
“Ha, wonderful!” she said aloud, clapping her hands.
Rolling up her sleeves, she searched both forearms for the marks that had irked her so. All gone. The ugly rose tattoo on the back of her hand was gone too. Erased skilfully. No scarring at all.
‘They’ve done a good job,’ she thought, nodding.
Just as well. The transformation hadn’t been cheap.
Casting around, she eyed the matching suitcases stacked by the door. Her travel documents were laid out neatly on the glass coffee table. Everything was in order. Everything was prepared. Her new PA had come highly recommended and her performance so far had been exemplary.
Shaking out her hands, she drew a breath. All set. It was time to embark on a new life: new ID, new bank accounts, a whole new wardrobe, and no plans beyond a month-long holiday in the Caribbean. Time to start over. She could go wherever she fancied and be whoever she pleased. Hands clasped, she muttered thanks.
She was fortunate and knew it. Full body transplants were experimental, highly illegal, and only a handful had been carried out. But she’d argued her case. She’d won. What better candidate than an ageing spinster with terminal cancer and a vast fortune? And there was enough money left over to guarantee a comfortable second life and, perhaps, one day, another procedure.
Her gaze returned to the mirror. Oh yes, the girl’s body was lovely and she felt no guilt. She’d done society a favour removing that girl; no-one would miss a drug-addicted thief. Silly creature would have ended up dead of an overdose or killed on the streets – and wouldn’t that have been a waste? She shook out her hair, pouted lipstick-slathered lips. Yes, a huge waste.
Staring at her reflection, she practised her smile, tightening her cheeks until both sides were even. There. She was ready. Young, rich and beautiful, the world was her oyster. Again.
