Build a Man (14 page)

“Serenity?” The
bedroom door creaks open, and my head snaps up from the toaster.
“Keep it down, please. It’s only six-fifteen.” Peter sniffs the
air. “What are you burning?”

Oh, the
crumpets! I jiggle the toaster handle frantically, but it’s too
late – the tips of the silly things are singed. “Sorry, I was
making us breakfast. I didn’t realise it was so early.” Whoops. In
all my excitement, I’d forgotten there were still forty-five
minutes to Peter’s daily rising time. But surely he can forgo a few
extra winks for a yummy breakfast. Well, breakfast.

Peter shakes
his head. “I’m not really hungry. I’m going back to bed.”

I sigh as he
closes the bedroom door, then chuck the crumpets into the bin. A
celebratory breakfast was nice in theory, but Peter isn’t exactly
one for spontaneous gestures – giving or receiving. Still, even my
disastrous crumpets and routine-loving boyfriend can’t bring me
down today.

My exhilaration
propels me all the way to the clinic, where it’s a quiet Monday
morning, as usual. Most women are lying low, detoxing (aka purging)
from their weekend binges. I click onto my column for the billionth
time – almost three thousand poll votes now! I’m just about to cast
another vote for
Messy Mister
when the phone rings.

“Transforma
Harley Street, how may I help?” I answer automatically.

There’s a
silence, then a woman sounding close to tears says: “It’s Sara
Collins. I’m at the hospital. My consultant says I need an urgent
mammogram. I’ll have to cancel my Botox appointment this
morning.”

“Absolutely. No
problem.” God, imagine having the presence of mind to cancel at
such a stressful time. She must be one of those rare nice patients
we’ve been known to have. I’m about to hang up when she stops
me.

“Wait! I’m
calling to reschedule, silly girl.” Mrs Collins’s voice is dripping
with disdain. “Is there anything available this afternoon? I can
pop in after my scan.”

I can barely
speak for a second, I’m so stunned. She’s about to be screened for
breast cancer and she’s worried about Botox? Really, I couldn’t
make this stuff up if I tried. I check the schedule, then slot in a
new appointment and hang up.

It shouldn’t
surprise me these people exist – I’ve been reading about them ever
since I came here. The woman with Britain’s largest breasts; the
one who had her appearance altered to match her toy poodle; the
lady who hated her ears so much, she had them removed. But now that
such crazies are in front of me, sometimes I can’t believe they’re
genuine. In a way, I guess Jeremy’s one of them. But there’s
something about him that makes him
real
, down to earth.

“Hello? Anybody
home?” I glance up to see a woman with skin so tanned it resembles
a rotten banana.

“Can I help
you?” I try not to let distaste show on my face.

“’Course you
can,” she twitters. “That’s why I’m here, innit?” She smoothes back
a lock of bleached hair so fried it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall out
of her head. “Call me when the doc’s ready, eh, hon?” Prancing over
to the leather chairs, she crosses her PVC-covered legs and grabs a
magazine, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum as she flips
through the pages.

“Do you think
you might be able to tell me your name?” I attempt to make my
request sound genuine, but instead it comes out a little sarcastic.
Thankfully, it goes straight over her (oddly large) head.

She chomps away
for a few seconds, then turns to look at me. “Aw, hon, you don’t
need to pretend. You know who I am.”

We lock eyes
for a second as she waits for me to recognise her, but sadly (well,
thankfully
, for me) I haven’t the slightest idea who she is.
As inconspicuously as possible, I glance over at the appointment
schedule on the screen.

“Princesz
Gayle?” I ask, crossing my fingers it’s her.

“Hellz, yeah!”
She raises her arms and legs in the air as if I’ve cured malaria
instead of identifying the first cast-off from
Big Brother
Season 1098 – or whatever she’s ‘famous’ for. “You know it.”

“Princesz?
Ready to look beautiful – er, even
more
beautiful?” Peter
appears in the reception area and bustles the masticating Princesz
into his consulting room. I shake my head as the room falls silent
again. This place is a loony bin today. I certainly don’t need to
worry about Jeremy’s sanity with patients like Princesz around.

My email pings
and I look at the screen to see Leza’s name. There’s no subject
line, so I quickly open the message.

Great response
to column. Need another for Wednesday. Deadline tomorrow by
five.

PS: You
coming to the
Beauty Bits
launch party
Wednesday night? Hospital Club, Covent Garden, 7 pm. Please RSVP to
invitation!

My mouth drops
open. Launch party? I never received any invitation! I quickly type
a response saying a column by Wednesday is no problem – Jeremy’s
coming in tomorrow for his first Botox injections and I can write
about that – and yes, I am
definitely
attending the party. I
hug myself, my heart fluttering with excitement. My first launch
party!

Keying
‘Hospital Club’ into Google, I stare at the screen as a brick
building comes up – apparently, it used to be an eighteenth-century
hospital. Only in London would that have morphed into a club. I
scroll down, catching my breath as modern rooms resembling an art
gallery flash on the monitor.

Gnawing my lip,
my brain flits through my wardrobe of black polyester trousers and
jeans. No way am I hitting this trendy venue looking like I’ve
rolled up from
Hicks R Us
. A trip to Oxford Street is most
definitely in order. Okay, I don’t have any money and I don’t get
paid for another two weeks. But that’s what credit is for, right?
After returning Jeremy’s clothes, my card should still have room.
And when I get this job at the paper, I’ll be able to pay it all
back, no problem.

Picking up the
phone, I punch in Kirsty’s mobile number.

“Hey, you. Up
for a trip to Selfridges after work today?” I ask when she answers.
“We can meet in the champagne bar, have a bit of bubbly . . .” My
voice trails off when I remember that she won’t be having a bit of
bubbly for quite some time. “Or a coffee,” I add hastily.

“Today’s not
great,” she responds, sounding distracted. “It’s insanely busy here
right now, and I have a client coming in this afternoon.”

I stare at the
receiver, wondering where my best friend has gone. Normally Kirsty
would risk life or limb to go shopping. Which she actually did
once, on a corporate trip to Moscow when she had to navigate
through a protest to get to a mall. That bump on the head was
totally worth the Prada discount she scored, or so she says.

I’m not letting
her off that easily. “Come on, I really need your help. I’m going
to a launch party for the
Beauty Bits
website and I have no
idea what to wear.” That should get her – she knows what a terrible
shopper I am under pressure. When I had to buy a graduation outfit
with just an hour until the ceremony, I ended up in Wal-Mart with a
belted jersey dress from the kids’ section.

Kirsty sighs.
“Okay. Meet me in the café on the fourth floor at six-thirty.”

I smile
victoriously. I knew she’d come around. “See you then.”

The rest of the
day passes in a ‘what the hell am I going to wear’ haze, and I
barely even register the appearance of the Botox ‘n’ Breast Cancer
patient. Finally, Peter comes into the reception area and I realise
I’ve barely seen him all day. No, scratch that, all weekend. He
came home exhausted both nights and, after our usual organic
chicken fillet and greens, fell asleep in front of the TV. It’s not
like we’ve ever had a particularly romantic relationship – more
like
Love Mediocrity
than
Love Actually
– but these
days, we seem more flatmates than boyfriend and girlfriend.
Middle-aged flatmates. My parents stay up later than he does.
Actually, he behaves more like a parent than they ever did.
Hmm.

Even now,
Peter’s yawning and his eyes droop at half-mast. “Ready to go?
After that weekend, I could really use an early night.”

I picture the
darkened, tomb-like flat, and a feeling of claustrophobia slides
over me. “Kirsty and I are going shopping. I’ll be back around
eight. I can bring us something for supper, if you want to wait.”
He won’t though, I know – he and Smitty always like to ‘ingest’ on
schedule.

“No, that’s
fine. I’ll grab something from the Organic Kitchen on the way home.
Say hi to Kirsty.”

My mouth drops
open – I’ve totally forgotten to fill him in on Kirsty and Tim’s
big news. But Peter’s already halfway out the door, and it’s not
something I can share in ten seconds or less.

“I’ll see you
back home,” I call after him. After locking up, I hurry through
Marylebone and across St Christopher’s Place toward Selfridges.
Pushing inside the department store, I breathe in the scent of a
thousand different perfumes, gleaming in jewel-like bottles behind
glass counters. A few minutes and several escalators later, I spot
Kirsty jammed in a corner of the busy fourth-floor café.

“Hey there!” I
say, swinging into a chair across from her. A bottle of sparkling
water rests on the crowded table top, and a half-eaten sandwich
balances on the edge of her plate.

Kirsty glances
up from a magazine. “Hey.”

I almost do a
double take as I examine her wan face and the bags beneath her
eyes. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to glow? Kirsty looks more
like a corpse than a mother-to-be. “You all right?”

“Jesus Christ,
I wish people would stop asking me that,” she snaps. “I’m
fine.”

I hold up my
hands. “Okay, okay! Relax.”

“I’m sorry,”
she sighs. “It’s just, between Tim and everyone at the office, I
must have answered that question a million times today. I know I
look like shit.”

“No, of course
not,” I say, though really, she does. “So have you told everyone at
work about the engagement?” If I was her, I’d be shouting it from
the rooftops.

“Not yet.”
Kirsty looks straight at me, and again I’m struck by how pale her
face is. “I’m worried they’ll think I won’t be focused on my job if
I’m planning a wedding. Wait until they hear about the baby.” Her
lips tighten.

“It’s not like
you’re doing anything wrong.” I touch my friend’s cold hand,
anxious to reassure her. “They have to give you time off,
right?”

“Of course.
Legally, they do. But that doesn’t stop them from making comments,
or taking away clients because they think you can’t deal with it.”
Kirsty opens her mouth like she’s going to say more, but then just
shrugs. “So, tell me about this party. And before you ask, I’m
sorry. I didn’t have a chance to check out your article yet. I will
when I get home, though.”

Normally I’d
let Kirsty have it for not taking the time to read my masterpiece,
but she looks like she’s about to fall over, so I decide to go easy
on her. “That’s all right.” I clear my throat, shifting in the
chair. “Any thoughts on what I should wear to the launch?”

Kirsty sips her
water. “You’re going to need a killer dress. One that will show
everyone you’re ready to take on the tabloid world, undercover or
not.”

My heart starts
beating fast. Kirsty’s right. In a way, this party is my debut. I
need to look and act the part.

“Have you
decided what you’re going to do with the rest of you?” She stares
pointedly at my ponytail, then lowers her gaze to include my ragged
fingernails.

“Er, no.” I tug
the elastic from my hair, letting my lank locks fall to my
shoulders. “What do you suggest?”

Kirsty tilts
her head. “Well, I’ve always thought you could get away with quite
a few blonde highlights, something to jazz it up a bit.” She leans
forward and lifts a clump of my hair. “And when was the last time
you had a trim?”

I grimace and
sit back, away from her clutches. Actually, I can’t remember the
last time I had a trim; it’s so damn expensive here in London, and
it’s easier to throw my hair back in a bun or a ponytail, anyway.
“Okay, okay, point made. I’ll book in for a haircut tomorrow.”

Kirsty gets to
her feet. “Ready to find the perfect party frock, then?”

I nod. “Let’s
go.”

We hop on the
escalators and head to the street fashion (i.e. affordable)
section. Scanning the forest of clothing rails, I thank my lucky
stars Kirsty’s here. There’s so much choice I don’t even know where
to begin – and I don’t recognise half the brands. It
almost
makes me long for Main Street in Harris, where I could just duck
into JCPenney and be done with it.

“What about
this one?” Kirsty holds out a sparkly red cocktail dress.

“I don’t know,”
I say, twisting my mouth to one side as I consider it. “A bit much,
don’t you think?”

Kirsty shrugs.
“I like it.” She presses the garment against her, the vibrant red
giving her cheeks colour. “This would be perfect for the office
Christmas party. I might give it a try . . .” She starts to drape
the dress over one arm then abruptly thrusts it back onto the
rail.

“What are you
doing?” I ask. “Thought you wanted to try it on.”

“Not much
point, is there?” She laughs hollowly. “By Christmas, I’ll probably
be wearing a shapeless sack and shopping in the maternity
section.”

I sneak a look
at her grim face. “Kirsty, you can talk to me about it, you
know.”

She gazes down
at the rack where the red dress is hanging in all its sequined
glory, then meets my eyes. “You know how you said I just need time?
That’s what I’ve been telling myself, too. But I’m not sure that’s
it.”