Build a Man (11 page)

“Hey, Ser,”
Kirsty says when I answer. I drop my shopping bags to the pavement
to take a breather, wondering why she’s calling. On Friday nights
she’s usually out entertaining corporate clients with the bank’s
limitless resources.

“Hey, engaged
mother to be,” I joke, thinking how strange that all sounds. If I
know my friend, though, she’s probably got the whole wedding
planned and the nursery set up. I wait for Kirsty to join in with
my laughter, but instead there’s an odd silence.

“Are you busy
tonight? Do you think you can come over? I need to talk.” Her voice
is tight and I swallow, hoping she’s okay. In all the years I’ve
known her, she’s never needed to just chat. Usually, it’s the other
way around. Maybe she wants to sort out bridesmaid stuff? God knows
she takes details very seriously.

“Sure, no
problem.” I do a quick calculation in my head: Jeremy needs to be
on the road by eight; I can be at Kirsty’s a few minutes later.
“Give me a couple hours and I’ll see you just after eight.”

I hang up and
glance at the house numbers. Number nineteen, Jeremy’s, has a white
stucco facade and lovely columns. Even though I’m running late, I
can’t help staring for a second at the brickwork covering the upper
floors and the bright red geraniums peeping out from the
wrought-iron balcony above me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe
people actually
live
in houses like this; that it’s not a
film-set recreation. Hands full of shopping bags, I shove my elbow
against the buzzer, and footsteps thump toward me.

“Sorry I’m
late,” I huff as Jeremy opens the door.

He waves me
inside. “That’s quite the load you’ve got there,” he says,
relieving me of some bags. “Come on in.”

Wow, I mouth,
walking into the lounge. It’s bright and airy, with large sash
windows in the front and plenty of skylights. I can see straight
through the homey kitchen and out to the back, where lots and lots
of greenery gives the impression of being in a forest, not smack in
the centre of London. It’s cosy and inviting, reminding me of
Kirsty and Tim’s. Dropping the remainder of my packages with a
thud, I sink onto a leather sofa and sigh with pleasure. It feels
so good to sit.

“Nice place,” I
say, trying to sound like I encounter such luxurious abodes on a
regular basis.

“Thanks.”
Jeremy’s eyes light up. “It was in a state when I bought it.
Rotting walls, no floor . . . rats had chewed through pretty much
everything. Took me almost a year to do it up properly.”

“You did all
this?” I glance around, trying to picture Jeremy pounding nails and
sawing boards. Actually, it’s not that difficult. He’s got those
strong, solid hands.

He shrugs.
“Yeah. I really enjoy renovating, making something new out of the
old. Kind of like me.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “How about a
bite first, and then we can get started?”

“I thought you
had to be on the road by eight?” I sneak a peek at my watch. Not
that I want to cut our session short, but something in Kirsty’s
tone was unsettling and I need to be sure she’s okay. “Maybe we
should get started now.”

Jeremy’s face
drops. “But I made us some bruschetta and tomato soup. I thought
you might be hungry after work.”

How sweet! He
builds, he bakes – why on earth can’t he find someone? My tummy
moans loudly at the thought of food, and Jeremy laughs.

“You might not
want to eat, but your stomach does. Come on.” He pads into the
kitchen. Telling myself it’ll be a good chance to get more
background info, I follow him and take a seat at an old wooden
table. It’s large, clunky and scarred, contrasting with the modern
surroundings.

“Interesting
table,” I say to fill the silence that’s descended as Jeremy gets
the food ready.

“Yeah, it was
my grandmother’s. She had a proper big kitchen, and it looked just
right there. Whenever I visited, I used to climb onto it and watch
her cook. She actually taught me how to bake. When she died, I
moved the table down here. Every time I sit there, it reminds me of
her.”

My heart melts
and I run my hand along the grooved wood, imagining Jeremy with his
gran in an old country kitchen up in . . . where?

“So where did
your grandmother live? Are you from London?” I really need to get
more detail on him.

“Gran lived in
Wales all her life,” Jeremy says, placing a tray of bruschetta on
the table, then ladling thick tomato soup into a bowl in front of
me. God, it smells divine. Mom used to make it all the time, and
there’s something about the scent that reminds me of feeling all
warm and snug on a cold winter’s day.

“So what do you
do?” I ask, before biting into the bruschetta. It’s blunt, I know,
but there aren’t many ways to frame that question. And I’m super
curious now. This house must have cost at least two million, if not
more. How does someone as young – and nice and
normal
– as
Jeremy come into that kind of money? Maybe he’s one of those exiled
princes from . . . Wales. Do the Welsh have royalty? Diana was
Princess of Wales, right? Prince Jeremy. Has a nice ring to it.

Jeremy smiles.
“To be honest, I’m not doing much at the moment. Just puttering
around, working on a few property redevelopments, you know.”

I nod like I
do
know, but he still hasn’t answered my question. Now’s not
the time to dig, though; I’ll get to that later once I’ve got my
hands on his wardrobe. We finish our soup and bread, Jeremy
chatting all the while about the house and how he saved it from
demolition. When the dishes are cleared, I get out my notepad and
pencil, along with the recorder.

“So,” I say in
a business-like tone, signalling it’s time to get started. I look
at my watch. God, it’s already seven-fifteen and we haven’t even
begun. I fire off another quick text to Kirsty:
On my way! Be
there in 45
.
If I go fast, it’s possible. Maybe.

“Ready to begin
wardrobe therapy?” I paste an I-know-what-I’m-doing look on my
face, even though quite honestly, Jeremy would be better off taking
fashion advice from Marilyn Manson. At least he has a definite
look.

“Let’s get this
show on the road.” Jeremy wipes his hands on a tea towel. “I’m
ready for a whole new me.”

“Great. To
start, I’ll need to assess your current wardrobe.” I stand and face
him, noticing how he’s the perfect height for me to stare into
those big green eyes without needing a neck brace afterwards.

“Okay. We’ll
have to go upstairs, to the bedroom.” A hint of red tinges his
cheeks and I can feel mine colouring up, too.

“Perfect. I
can’t wait to see it. Your wardrobe, I mean, not your bedroom. Not
that I don’t want to see your bedroom. I mean, as a life advisor,
it offers many key signals to your aspirations.” Oh, Jesus. What
the
hell
am I saying? My cheeks are flaming now and I duck
into the lounge to grab the shopping bags, praying my face returns
to normal.

When I no
longer resemble an overripe strawberry, I head back to the kitchen.
“Lead the way.”

I follow Jeremy
up a narrow staircase – trying not to focus on the nicely shaped
bottom in front of me – and into a spacious room. A puffy,
comfy-looking duvet covers a massive bed. The cream walls are bare,
and even though the room feels lived in and warm, there’s nothing
to give any hint about Jeremy’s personal life. Guess he really does
want to start over fresh.

Settling onto
the soft bed (there’s nowhere else to sit!), I hit the record
button and position my notepad on my lap.

“Session two,
wardrobe therapy,” I say gravely into the recorder, like I’ve seen
all good TV therapists do. “Okay, well, the first thing we’ll do is
examine your wardrobe in its present condition.”

“Sure.” Jeremy
squeezes past me to a small wardrobe in the corner, then slides
open its door. “There’s not really that much to see, though.” He
indicates the rows of T-shirts and jeans, which I’m pleased to note
are every bit as jumbled as my own back at Peter’s.

I glance down
at my pad, thankful I’d written a few questions. For some reason,
my head feels a bit fuzzy. “And what do you think your clothing
says about you, Jeremy?”

He thumbs
through a few T-shirts and shrugs. “Um . . . I like to be
comfortable?”

Nothing wrong
with that, I almost respond before remembering I’m supposed to be
making him over. What is it that Peter always says?

“You need to
dress how you want others to perceive you,” I state
authoritatively, echoes of Peter’s voice when he coerced me into
wearing high heels at the clinic ringing through my head. I’m not
quite sure what impact wearing high heels has on people’s
perception of me, but at least they can see me over the desk
now.

Jeremy raises
his eyebrows, shooting my grubby trainers a look. “Okay. So what do
those shoes say about you, then?”

I’ve got
bunions from wearing stupid high heels? I respond inside my
head.

“We’re not here
to discuss me,” I say primly, tucking my feet under the bed. I
glance down at my notepad again. “Has your wardrobe ever
contributed to a relationship breakdown?” Trying not to appear too
eager for dirt, I stroke my chin to channel my inner Dr Phil.

Jeremy
grimaces. “Well, I can’t say Julia was too keen on my
T-shirts.”

“Julia?” I
motion for him to keep talking.

“Yeah. I was
with her for almost two years. We met at the property development
company I was working in at the time. Straight away, I fell for
her.” A distant look comes into his eyes. “I know that sounds
wanky, but it’s true. She was gorgeous – tall and blonde, the kind
of woman other men stare at on the street. I was so proud to be
with her.”

Bitch, I think
automatically. Tall blonde women just bring out that response.

“She was smart,
too. Just . . . together.”

Now I really
hate her. Smart
and
beautiful. “So what happened?” I
ask.

Jeremy shuts
the wardrobe door with force. “About six months ago, we decided it
wasn’t working any longer. She’d moved on to other interests.” His
face twists.

There’s
definitely something he isn’t telling me. “Other interests?”

“She wanted to
go into a new side of property development. We drifted apart. You
know how it is.” His face is shuttered and closed now.

I don’t know
how it is, actually. I’ve never had a relationship longer than six
months (Peter) and you can’t really drift apart in six months, can
you?

“And has there
been anyone since Julia?” Hideous name. Jeremy and Julia – the
cutesiness of it makes me want to spew my soup.

“A few here and
there.” He waves a hand dismissively. “They stay around for a month
or so, see that I’m not the type to go out partying or dine in posh
restaurants, get bored of me, and go off again.”

Hmm. “And you
think redesigning yourself will help?”

“Well, yeah. I
need to attract the right women. Right now, I only get those who
are interested in this.” Jeremy gestures around at the house. “If I
look good, too, I’ll get women who are interested in
me
.” He
thumps his chest. “Then I’ll have the complete package.”

“But Jeremy,
you got Julia without cosmetic surgery.” I want to hit myself when
the words slip out. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be planting doubts
in his mind.

Jeremy shakes
his head. “I didn’t look like I do now, Serenity. I was in great
shape from all the work I was doing.”

“Right, right.
I see what you mean.” I nod, and a silence falls between us. I
don’t know what more to ask, and I feel kind of weird probing him
about Julia, even if I do have therapeutic license to be nosy. I’ll
leave it for now and circle back later.

“Well!” I stand
and grab a shopping bag. “New look, new life. Let’s see how you can
shape your future with clothes. Even if you haven’t begun your
physical transformation yet, there’s nothing stopping you from
dressing for the man you want to be.” I almost roll my eyes at
myself, but Jeremy’s just nodding along as if I’m making sense.
God, I must be better at this therapy thing than I thought.

I pull out the
hideous salmon dress shirt, along with a pair of skinny-fit navy
trousers. “Here, try these.”

Jeremy looks at
me as if I’ve lost my mind. “That top is
pink
. And you do
realise skinny fit is for skinny people, right?”

“No, this style
can be worn by anyone, anywhere. All you need is the confidence to
pull it off. And salmon is bang on trend right now,” I add,
throwing in Gok Wan’s favourite catchphrase.

Jeremy still
looks dubious.

“An important
part of wardrobe therapy is being open to trying new things,” I
say. Plus, I really need a picture for Leza. This outfit will be
the Trendy Man look.

“Okay, okay, if
you say so.” Jeremy starts sliding off his T-shirt, and I catch a
glimpse of smooth skin – not nearly as flabby as I’d thought –
before he remembers I’m here and lets the shirt drop again.

I lower my eyes
and turn toward the door. “I’ll wait out there,” I mumble,
conscious of the heat in my cheeks.

A few minutes
later, Jeremy calls me back in.

“I look bloody
ridiculous.” He grins, pivoting in the trousers and shirt.

Biting my lip
to keep from smiling, I take in the tight trousers (which, in a
word, are just
wrong
) and the salmon – okay, pink – shirt
that makes his olive complexion appear downright sickly.

“How do you
feel?” I ask, struggling to maintain my impartial advisory
role.

“I feel
ridiculous, too. Honestly, this is not how I want to be perceived.”
He starts to unbutton the shirt.

“Wait! I need
to get a photo. To . . . you know, to help you remember this
moment, this
feeling
, for future reference.” I grab my
mobile, make sure his head is out of the frame, then snap a
shot.