Build a Man (10 page)

“For God’s
sake, I’m only twenty-three. I don’t want a baby now.” A hollow
laugh escapes from her. “This was
not
how it was supposed to
happen.”

I stare,
dismayed to see my strong friend in such a state. “It’s not the end
of the world. Sure, it might have happened a few years off
schedule, but you and Tim are getting married and everything will
go as planned, just a few years sooner. Right?”

Thankfully,
Kirsty nods and pushes herself away from the counter. “Right. I
just need time for it all to sink in.” Wiping the streaks of tears
from her cheeks, she grins bravely. “Let’s go celebrate.” I examine
her closely to see if she really means it, but she turns away from
me and heads to the lounge.

“Everything
okay, ladies?” Tim asks when we join him.

“Fine, just
fine,” Kirsty says, although the smile nailed to her face looks as
fake as Mrs Lipenstein’s new boobs. It will be genuine soon, I’m
sure: Kirsty can deal with anything. She sloshes some champagne in
our glasses, and we raise them in the air.

“Here’s to
Kirsty and Tim.” My eyes well up as the enormity of their news hits
me. “Cheers.”

“Cheers!” they
chorus, clinking their glasses with mine.

Tim leans
forward to take Kirsty in his arms again, and a tiny pang of envy
mingles with my happiness. It might be a slight deviation from
plan, but they’re still getting everything they ever wanted –
sooner, rather than later.

As the
champagne bubbles hit the back of my throat, I cross my fingers
that I should be so lucky.

I jerk awake
the next morning. My head is heavy from a night of tossing and
turning, tormented by dreams featuring screaming babies, a crazed
Leza Larke demanding I dye my hair platinum like hers, and, of all
things, Jeremy’s wide green eyes.

Easing myself
upright, my heart starts beating crazily. This is it – finally. The
day my first
Build a Man
column comes out; the day I’m a
real tabloid journalist. With all the excitement last night (and
champagne), I
almost
forgot for a second there.

The
Rocky
theme tune starts playing in my head and even though a
glance at the clock shows me it’s only five, I carefully crawl out
of bed, trying not to disturb Peter who’s still snoring softly
beside me. Smitty grunts in protest as the bed shakes, shooting me
his best ‘stupid human’ glare.

I jog into the
living room, humming
Rocky
out loud now, then grab Peter’s
laptop and boot it up. It’s only seconds but it seems like years
before the computer springs into action. I cock my ears in the
direction of the bedroom, ready to detect any noise, but all I can
hear is Peter’s distant rumbling. Fingers shaking, I type the URL
into the browser –
www.beautybits.co.uk
–
and finally the site fills the screen.

I scroll down,
my heart in my throat. There it is. Cool!
Build a Man
is
written inside one of those triangular construction signs you see
on the highways over here, except instead of a person shovelling,
there’s a man’s body with needles and scalpels shot through it.

BUILD A
MAN

Ever wanted
to transform a dud into the dude of your dreams? Now you can! When
hideous horror James* declared his need for everything from a new
nose to navel,
The Daily Planet
jumped at
the chance to get involved. Follow James in his quest to become
Britain’s new heartthrob, and vote in our reader polls to help the
nation construct its perfect man.

(* Name changed
to protect identity.)

Hmm. I never
said Jeremy was a ‘hideous horror’; that must be Leza’s addition.
But it doesn’t matter – it’s not like he’ll ever see this. Somehow,
I doubt Jeremy is
Beauty Bits’
target audience.

To the right of
the text is the outline of a blank cut-out paper doll shaded in
baby blue, just awaiting readers’ input. I stare at its blobby
shape, an odd feeling sliding over me as I picture that form in the
future, with defined features and a brand new wardrobe. Will it
even look like Jeremy? Or will it be some kind of Frankenman,
cobbled together from thousands of women’s desires?

NEW DICK FOR
THE RIGHT CHICK

How far would
you go to meet the woman of your dreams? For James, the further he
gets from his tired old self, the better. From his head to his toes
– and all the bits in between – there isn’t anything James wouldn’t
do to meet a lady for life.

God, I just
love that title. Isn’t it clever? I know James – Jeremy – doesn’t
want his dick done, but I couldn’t resist the rhyme with ‘chick’.
And he might decide to do it, after all.

You Nose
Best
, the poll header off to the side says, and asks people to
help choose Jeremy’s new nose from three photo options: Sean Penn,
Owen Wilson or Mike Tyson. I stare at the selection. Mike Tyson?
Really? What if people actually vote for that? I click on Sean
Penn’s nose, by far the best, blinking with surprise when the poll
tells me there’s already been six hundred votes. What? It’s only
five in the morning!

Wow. Six
hundred people have read my article – at least. For a second, it
almost feels unreal. I knew my column would be out there for public
consumption, but it hadn’t hit me people would
read
it until
now. Grinning like an idiot, I sit back and throw a few Rocky-style
punches in the air.

There’s a noise
behind me and I turn to see Peter coming from the bedroom.
Flushing, I drop my fists into my lap and snap the laptop
closed.

“What on earth
are you doing?” he asks, squinting at me.

“Oh, um, I
couldn’t sleep.” I fake a yawn to cover my excitement. I’ve never
felt more alive in my life.

“Are you using
my laptop?” Peter leans toward it, his eagle eyes no doubt catching
sight of the flashing lights indicating I haven’t shut it down
properly. Damn thing. “Serenity, how many times . . .” He reaches
out to flip open the lid.

“It’s okay,” I
say shrilly, clutching it onto my lap. “I’ll make sure to turn it
off right this time. If I don’t do it myself, I’ll never learn.” I
parrot his favourite line to me whenever I mess up, desperately
hoping he doesn’t get his mitts on the computer.

Thankfully
Peter just raises an eyebrow and holds up his hands. “Fine. Can we
go back to bed now? Still an hour or so before we need to get
up.”

“You go.” I
wave him off. “I’m going to stay here.” And keep reading my lovely
article, relishing my moment of glory – alone. Peter disappears
into the bedroom, shutting the door with a thud.

It doesn’t
matter that I can’t share my moment of celebration. What’s
important is that I’m in, baby! I get to my feet, throwing a final
Rocky victory punch in the air.

Unfortunately,
the Botox Bitches don’t seem to have got the message that I’m a
rising tabloid star.

It’s a
typically crazy Friday afternoon in the clinic, with women near and
far coming for their Botox top-ups before heading out to their
country chateaux or dinners with Saudi sheikh. I barely have a
second to breathe between clients dumping their offspring in my
arms as they get pricked, and a ratty Baroness demanding I call her
chauffeur to bring forth a special teabag. Whenever I get a chance,
though, I keep refreshing the
Beauty Bits
website to see how
many people have voted. At last count, there were two thousand
votes! People have started commenting, too, and a minor debate has
broken out over the best penile implant.

I’ve just
settled on my stool after heating up Mrs Smythe-Johnson's milk
(cold milk gives her colic, she says) when my mobile rings.

I scrabble in
my purse to find it. “Hello?”

“Serenity?”

“Hi, Leza,” I
squeak, recognising the familiar abrupt tone. Beads of sweat
immediately gather on my upper lip. I look around quickly to make
sure Peter’s still locked away with the Page Three girl who,
according to her consultation form, wants ‘Inglens gr8est
nipples’.

“Just calling
to say your column has been doing quite well, as you’re probably
aware.” Her voice is wry and I blush, praying she can’t see the
hundreds of times I’ve refreshed the page. “We need you to post
again on Monday; keep the momentum going. Until the bloke actually
has something physical done, focus on wardrobe. Get him to try on
different looks for the man he wants to be, or some shit like that,
and we’ll have our readers choose his new image. We’ve got to get
clothes on our cut-out. Right now, it’s more turn-off than
turn-on.”

“Um, okay.”
Jeremy was keen to upgrade his wardrobe, anyway, and this will fill
the gap between now and his Botox next Tuesday. “But wouldn’t it be
better to wait until after he has the liposuction?” It seems a bit
of a waste to dress the old Jeremy, not the person he’ll
become.

Leza huffs
impatiently. “In an ideal world, yes. But we need to up our site
stats, and our most popular columns in the paper have always been
women playing dress-up with blokes. Given the response to your
first post, our readers are already on-board with this man. Until
he starts making physical changes, we need them to get more
emotionally involved in his progression.”

“Sure. Not a
problem,” I say, injecting confidence into my voice. This life
advisory idea was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. It
will make almost any intrusion into Jeremy’s private life
believable.

“Go through his
wardrobe Geek Wan style. You know, throw around his rubbish
clothes. Bring in a few sample outfits – grab them from the high
street; you can return them later. Trendy, sloppy, you get the
picture. Do at least three different ensembles, and take some
photos from the neck down. I’ll have our graphics guy knock up
to-scale models of how the outfits look. We’ll change a few
clothing details so the bloke won’t be able to identify
himself.”

“Okay,” I say
quickly, wondering who Geek Wan is. Gok Wan’s unfashionable twin?
“I’m on it.”

“Get some more
background dirt, too,” Leza says. “You know, ex-girlfriend shit.
Remember, I don’t want any airy-fairy ‘we weren’t right for each
other’ rubbish.”

“Fine.” If it
bleeds, it leads, I repeat in my mind.

“Get it to me
on Sunday,” Leza says, and there’s a click in my ear as the line
goes dead.

I nod even
though she can’t see me. Then I hang up and call Jeremy.

“Hi, there,” I
say when he answers. “It’s Serenity, calling from the Transforma
Life Advisory Service.”

“I know who you
are, Serenity,” Jeremy laughs. “How are you?”

“I’m very well,
thank you,” I respond perkily, trying to stay true to my
professional role. “Just calling to book our next session. I
thought we could do a wardrobe analysis and test drive a few new
looks for your future.”

“Well sure,
that sounds brilliant. I told you before, I could definitely use
some help in that department.”

“Great! Are you
free tomorrow morning?” I hold my breath he is – Leza needs the
column by Sunday, so that doesn’t leave much time.

“Sorry, I’m
away all weekend,” Jeremy says. “If you need to meet up, it’ll have
to be tonight. Half past six okay? I want to be on the road by
eight. No wine therapy this time, I’m afraid.” I can hear the smile
in his voice.

“Er, that’s
fine, I don’t like to mix therapeutic techniques,” I stammer. “And
sure, six-thirty works for me.” Sort of. I won’t get out of here
until six. How on earth am I going to gather outfits for him in
half an hour? I’ll do it. Somehow. Thank God I noted down his
measurements.

Jeremy gives me
his address and we hang up. I start scribbling down a few random
questions.

What does your
current wardrobe say about you? Has your wardrobe ever contributed
to a relationship breakdown? How many relationships have you
had?

Tapping my pen
against the desk, I can’t help smiling and shaking my head. Who
would have thought I’d be conducting a wardrobe analysis as an
undercover reporter disguised as a life coach – for
The Daily
Planet,
no less?

Not in a
zillion years would I have imagined I’d be in such a cool
position.

At five past
six, I leave Peter to deal with another surprise visit from Mrs
Lipenstein – whose other nipple has started itching – and rush home
to grab my voice recorder. After dashing into the bedroom to slip
off my high heels and pull on my trainers, I glance into the
wardrobe. Would Peter have anything I could snag for an hour or so,
to save me the trouble of hitting the shops? Reaching in, I select
a dark suit, not unlike the one Peter’s wearing today – or every
day, for that matter.

Assessing the
folded trousers, I shake my head. Without even looking at the
measurements, I know they won’t fit. Peter and Jeremy are two
completely different shapes. Peter’s long and lean, whereas Jeremy
is slightly stocky and just . . .
solid.
Sure, he’s got a
bit of extra weight on him, but I bet underneath that, he’s one of
those men that when you hug them, you feel like they’re completely
surrounding you; taking you in. Sometimes when I hug Peter, I can
feel his ribs.

I push away the
thought of my preferred hugging experience and jam the suit back in
the wardrobe, trying to arrange it neatly. Then I grab Jeremy’s
measurements from my clipboard, scribble down a note that I’m
headed to Kirsty’s for a few hours, and rush over to Marylebone
High Street to do the fastest shop of my life.

Twenty-five
minutes later, I’ve managed to cobble together one trendy outfit
(if you call a salmon shirt ‘trendy’) and unearth a slightly crusty
but fully functional tuxedo, complete with cummerbund and bowtie,
from the Cancer Research charity shop. The third outfit will be
Jeremy’s own clothes, his usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans. I’ve
just turned onto his street when my phone rings.