Build a Man (13 page)

DON’T FEEL
PATHETIC: GO COSMETIC

What do you do
when you catch your girlfriend cheating with your best friend? For
our Build a Man James, the answer’s easy: redesign yourself
completely with cosmetic surgery.

Jeremy – or
James – comes out looking a bit like an abandoned puppy, but when
people read this column, they’ll want to tear Julia and David limb
from limb for what they’ve done. I know I do. It’s such a shame I
can’t actually reveal who they are.

Hopefully Leza
will like it. I emailed it to her late last night, along with the
photos for the wardrobe poll so the graphics man could work his
magic.

“Oh, good,
you’re awake.” Peter strides into the bedroom. Yanking open the
wardrobe, he selects one of the neatly hanging blazers and shrugs
it on. “I’m at the hospital until six. Can you take Smitty to his
grooming appointment at four?”

I struggle into
a sitting position and let out a giant yawn, quickly covering my
mouth when I notice Peter staring.

“Sure, no
problem.” I have no plans of my own, anyway, apart from a visit to
check on Kirsty this morning. I swear, that cat has a more
action-packed social schedule than I do. Not that it would take
much.

“Goodbye, then.
I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” I
echo, rubbing my eyes.

Peter leans
down and pecks me on the cheek – he refuses to kiss on the mouth
until both of us have brushed our teeth – then I hear him grab his
work bag. The front door creaks open.

“Oh, and
Serenity?” he calls. “Please don’t forget to ask the stylist to
clip Smitty's nails this time. They’re much longer than
appropriate.” I roll my eyes at the thought of an appropriate
length for cat claws.

The flat door
thuds closed, and silence descends. Sighing, I stare up at the
ceiling, my eyes tracing the elaborate plaster decoration in the
centre where a light used to hang, back in Victorian times. Another
weekend. And while I’m happy the Botox Bitches aren’t part of it, I
have to admit that sometimes, I feel a little lonely. Peter often
has surgeries booked at the boutique hospital up the street,
Kirsty’s usually busy with work, and that just leaves Smitty and
me. And quite honestly, a cat isn’t exactly the best company,
especially one as snooty as Smitty. The damn thing will barely
deign to look in my direction.

If I had a
normal job – in an office or something – I’d have tons of friends
by now. We’d go out after work for a pint, like all those suited
workers I see standing on the street, laughing and drinking every
Friday afternoon.

Soon, I tell
myself, turning my head to stare out the window at the heavy grey
sky. Soon I’ll have a whole new crowd of tabloid pals. They’ll show
me the city, maybe take me to some of those cool East London bars
they’re always raving about in
Metro
. . .

At least this
morning, I’m going to see Kirsty. I slide off the giant pedestal
bed, perking up a bit as I imagine us poring over all those
wonderful bridal and baby magazines I’m sure she’s collected by now
– or, at the very least, the brochure from the registrar’s office.
I turn on the ancient handheld shower and climb into the steam,
trying to picture Kirsty cradling an infant. It takes a few
attempts, but I can’t help smiling as an image of her and Tim,
beaming beatifically at their shiny newborn, comes to mind.

Wow, I think as
I furiously rub my body with my favourite apricot scrub (thank God
The Body Shop has it over here). Kirsty’s going to be a wife. A
mother
. A strange feeling comes over me, like she’s all
grown up now and moving on to a new phase . . . without me. I stick
my head under the hot stream of water to wash away the unease.

Standing in
front of my jumbled closet, I choose a pair of jeans, my favourite
black turtleneck, and a thick checked blazer. Back home, this is
the kind of day where I’d snuggle into the fleecy warmth of a
tracksuit. But no one wears tracksuits here – unless it’s a
thousand-pound designer suit and you’re a fake-tanned footballer’s
wife.

Embarrassment
rises inside as I remember the time I pulled on my comfy sweats,
when Peter and I were about to hit Pain Quotidien for a rare
Saturday morning breakfast in the outside world. He took one look
at me, asked why I was still in my pyjamas, and told me to hurry
up. I know he wasn’t trying to be mean – he genuinely thought they
were nightwear – but I’ve never been able to wear that tracksuit
again. Dress how you want to be perceived and all that. It’s hard
to muster up the energy to care on the weekends, but even
I
don’t want people to think I’m cruising down the street in my
PJs.

Too bad Peter
can’t take me to grooming sessions like Smitty, I think, twisting
my damp hair into a bun. Sighing, I put on a bit of mascara –
narrowly avoiding losing an eyeball – jam on my favourite Zara
boots, and I’m out the door.

A few minutes
later, after popping into a busy patisserie on Baker Street to grab
some steaming chocolate croissants, I’m banging on Kirsty’s
door.

Tim answers.
“Hi, Ser. She’s upstairs.”

I say hello and
trot inside. “Kirst!” I yell as I race up the steps. “I’ve got
breakfast.”

“In here.” Her
voice floats from their bedroom.

“Hey,” I say in
surprise as I round the corner. She’s still in bed, reading an old
book on – I squint at the spine – military manoeuvres from the
Second World War? Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her
face is scrubbed clean. I can’t remember the last time I saw Kirsty
without make-up. I always tease that she should have worked for
MAC, not a bank.

“Hey, yourself.
Come sit down.” She waves me over.

I hand her a
pastry and squeeze in beside her on the bed. “So! Ready to start
planning?”

I wait for her
usual assured voice to launch into next steps and outlines for
moving forward. Instead, an awkward silence descends, a kind I’ve
never felt between us. Then she shrugs and starts devouring the
pain au chocolat
. Little flaky bits drift onto the pillow
like snowflakes, and I resist the urge to sweep them away. Maybe
some of Peter’s principles are finally rubbing off on me.

“Sure,” Kirsty
says finally, sounding anything but. Her usually expressive face
looks like it’s been Botoxed into an unreadable mask.

God, I was
certain she’d be raring to go with this whole thing. I stare at my
friend for a second, unsure what to do.

“Let’s go for a
walk.” Grabbing her arm, I haul her off the bed. Some fresh air
will set her straight and help put things in perspective. She’s had
a shock, of course. Maybe I was expecting too much of her, too
soon. After all, trying to absorb becoming a wife and mother is a
lot, even for my efficient friend.

“Aw, come on,
Ser,” Kirsty whines in a voice I’ve never heard from her before.
“I’m tired.”

“Get dressed.”
I throw a pair of jeans at her, and a few minutes later we’re
strolling through the Rose Garden at Regent’s Park under a grey
sky. There’s something about the grey in London that’s so
oppressive, like it’s compressing the atmosphere and pushing in on
you.

“Talk to me,” I
say as we jostle past a group of noisy Italian tourists. “What are
you thinking?” Strange, I’ve never had to ask her that before.

Kirsty sinks
onto a nearby bench and I plop beside her. “I don’t know. Have you
ever thought you wanted something, but when you actually got it,
you realised . . . you’re not sure it’s what you wanted in the
first place?”

I think back to
the events of the past week. “Um, no.” I can’t even begin to
imagine not being happy with my tabloid assignment after craving it
for so long. I swivel toward her, unable to believe she means what
she’s saying. “I’m sure how you’re feeling now has nothing to do
with not wanting – er, well, what’s just happened,” I say,
tiptoeing around the recent issues. “You just need time.”

“Yeah, time.”
Kirsty stares straight ahead for a minute, then shrugs. “I’ll
figure it out. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Well . . .” I
pause, wondering if now’s the right moment to share my news.
“The Daily Planet
asked me to write a column for their new
health and beauty website!” The words burst out of me.

Kirsty raises
her eyebrows. “Really? Wow. That’s awesome!” She squeezes my arm.
“When did this happen?”

“A few days
ago,” I answer, my heart doing a happy dance that I can finally
talk to someone about it.

“Is it the one
about the guy who’s redesigning himself?” Kirsty stands, pulling me
up from the bench.

“That’s the
one. His name is Jeremy, and he’s really nice.” A memory of our
eyes meeting as I fixed his bow-tie flashes through my mind, and my
tummy does a wonky flip.

“So Peter’s
agreed to all this?” Kirsty asks as we crunch along the gravel
path.

“Um, well,
that’s the thing.” I stop to finger a withered blossom. “He doesn’t
exactly know I’m writing the column. I’m working undercover.” It
feels funny saying that out loud, like I’m some kind of modern-day
spy. I guess I am, in a way.

Kirsty stops
and turns toward me with an incredulous expression. “Undercover?
For real?”

I nod. “Yup,
for real.”

She stares for
a minute, then shakes her head. “How the hell are you managing
that?”

“Jeremy thinks
I’m a life advisor, working for the clinic. He’s signed up for my
services. And Peter, well, he has no idea. But there’s no reason
why either of them needs to know,” I add quickly, before Kirsty can
say a word. “All the names are changed in the column, so there’s no
way anyone can find out who – or where – I’m writing about.”

“You’d better
hope not,” Kirsty says as we start walking again. “It’s kind of
risky, isn’t it? What if someone
does
connect your column
with the clinic or Jeremy? Peter’s going to be furious – not to
mention Jeremy.”

I huff
impatiently. “They
won’t
, Kirsty. The chances of anyone
reading my column, thinking it might be Jeremy, then being able to
find him and tell him are, like, one in a zillion.”

“Okay. Just be
careful.” She gives me a quick hug. “I know how much you wanted
this. I hope it turns out to be everything you’d hoped.”

Normally I’d
dismiss her words as the kind of pleasantries friends automatically
exchange, but in light of recent events, they feel more
weighted.

“It will, I’m
sure.” As we tramp down the path, excitement grows inside. I’m more
than sure this is everything I want, actually. I’m . . . two
hundred and ten percent sure, like they say on
The
Apprentice
.

I meet Kirsty’s
eyes, happy to see some life in them again, and give her a grin so
big even Botox couldn’t keep it down.

I wake up
Monday morning practically vibrating with anticipation. My column
on Jeremy and Julia – or rather, James and
Jemima
(ha! Isn’t
that a horrible name?) – comes out today, and since the only thing
I heard back from Leza was a quick ‘thanks’, I must have got this
one spot on.

Lifting my
head, I see it’s only six, but there’s no way I can lie here a
second longer. Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe from the room and over
to Peter’s laptop, humming the
Rocky
tune again. I peck in
the
Beauty Bits
address, then hold my breath as the page
loads.

ONCE SAD AND
PATHETIC, NOW GOING COSMETIC!

Yikes. I didn’t
write that Jeremy was sad and pathetic – Leza obviously changed it.
Thank goodness for hidden identities; I’d hate to see Jeremy’s face
if he ever read that. What else has Leza fiddled with? I scan the
rest of the article, relaxing only when I get to the end and see
that everything is just as I’d written.

To the right of
the column, the blank cut-out paper doll now sports a
Sean-Penn-like nose – obviously the winner of the last poll –
floating oddly in the otherwise featureless face. Today’s poll on
wardrobe is positioned underneath the cut-out, along with three
Jeremy-shaped mannequins, each sporting the outfits I’d brought him
but in slightly different shades.

I shake my head
as I read the captions:
Messy Mister
, under Jeremy’s own
T-shirt and jeans;
Suits You, Sir
, under the tuxedo
snapshot; or
Fashion Passion
, under the terrible skinny
trousers and the salmon shirt that’s now violently pink. I cast a
vote for
Messy Mister
, eager to see how many people have
participated this time. 1,557!

I blink, barely
able to believe the number. One thousand, five hundred and
fifty-seven people have not only read my column, but have voted,
too – albeit, many for
Fashion Passion
(how anyone can find
a man attractive in skinny trousers is beyond me – they make
everyone look like they’re wearing a nappy).

Whooping as
quietly as possible, I throw a few punches in the air. Seeing my
column onscreen is like that buzzing feeling after one glass of
wine – no, better: each of my words gives me a rush unlike anything
I’ve ever known. I can’t wait to get started on my next article
now, to experience the same thrill again. And if it’s this good
online, imagine the feeling when my words are in print. I leap up,
excitement filling every cell of my body. If I can make every
column stronger and secure even more readers, that job will be
mine.

To celebrate my
future success, I decide to buck routine and make a big breakfast.
Peter prefers eating his organic yoghurt only once he’s safely
installed in the clinic, but he does enjoy a cheeky crumpet now and
again. After padding into the kitchen, I click on the kettle to
make Peter’s tea, and carefully place two crumpets in the toaster.
He likes them perfectly golden brown, and if I stand sentinel, I
might get it just right. As I wait, I can’t help reaching up into
the cupboard and grabbing a handful of Jaffas. Chocolate has
caffeine, and who doesn’t like a little pick-me-up in the
morning?