Build a Man (15 page)

“What do you
mean?” I ask slowly.

Kirsty lets out
a sigh. “Look, if I really wanted to get married and have a baby
right now, wouldn’t I be happy? Sure, it’s what I planned for the
future – far in the future. But I can’t get my head around the fact
that it’s happening now. I just feel . . . trapped.”

I stare, unsure
what to say. “Does Tim have any idea how you feel?”

Kirsty shakes
her head, hair flying out like a halo. “No. He’s walking around
like I’ve handed him the winning lottery ticket. I don’t even know
how to start that conversation.” She takes a deep breath. “The
thing is, I still love him. That hasn’t changed. But none of this
is like I imagined. For God's sake, when Tim proposed, I was
holding a mug full of pee!”

“Can I help
you, ladies?” A bored-looking salesgirl saunters over to us.

“Damn,” I say
under my breath, as Kirsty flashes a bright smile at the woman.

“Actually, yes.
Ser?” She turns away and busies herself with another rack of
dresses, and I make a mental note to pick up our conversation where
we’ve left off.

“I need a dress
for a launch party,” I say to the salesgirl, hoping she’ll have
more of a clue what that means wardrobe-wise than I do.

“What kind of
launch party?” The salesgirl snaps her chewing gum, then examines
her glossy, green-painted nails. Yikes. Do I really want to take
fashion advice from a girl with green nails?

“For
The
Daily Planet’s
new health and beauty website,” I respond
proudly.

Her head jerks
up. “
Beauty Bits
?”

“Yes. You know
it?” My heart thumps as I await her response. This could be a real,
live reader right in front of me!

“It’s the one
with that
Build a Man
thingy, innit?” The salesgirl arches
an eyebrow and gives me a once-over, likely wondering how someone
wearing viscose could be invited to such a trendy party. But for
once, I don’t care. I’m way too excited I’ve spotted a reader in
the wild.

I nod, grinning
like a fool. I’m just about to tell her
Build a Man
is my
column before remembering my undercover status. Damn. Oh well, I’ll
get my recognition once I’m a full-fledged tabloid reporter, I’m
sure.

“So you need a
dress, huh? Let’s get you kitted out.”

I nod with
excitement and let the salesgirl pile my arms high with garment
after garment. But as I shimmy into one after another, none feels
right. They’re all nice, but I want to be noticed; to hit the
tabloid world with a bang. Then, just as the store is about to
close, I pull a soft chiffon dress by All Saints over my head. It
falls to mid-thigh, the Grecian draping creating curves where none
exist
and
making my legs look longer – although the
skyscraper sandals definitely help. Small sequins sewn along the
artfully distressed hems sparkle as I pivot under the lights, and
the grey brings out my eyes. I actually look like I belong in
London now; to the funky-media-type crowd who attend launch
parties; to the tabloid reporter club.

“And?” Kirsty
yells from the waiting area down the corridor.

I push aside
the fitting-room curtain and step out. “I think we’ve found
it.”

Her lips curve
in a grin. “What do you mean,
you think
? This is it! It’s
perfect. And once you have your hair done, a bit of make-up . . .
you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

I scoot back
into the fitting room and carefully disrobe, then saunter over to
the salesgirl at the counter, handing her the sandals and dress. I
dig in my bag for my credit card as she totals the sale.

“Three hundred
and ten pounds, please,” she says.

My mouth drops
open. Three hundred and ten pounds? I’d been so caught up in the
excitement of trying on dresses that I hadn’t even looked at the
price. That’s almost five hundred dollars! But I need to spend this
money – it’s an investment in my future. After all, this launch
party is my introduction to the media world. And appearance
is
important: I want people to treat me seriously, not like
some redneck ‘from America’, as they say over here. If ever there
was anything worthy of debt, then this is it.

I hand her the
card. “Here. God, I hope this pays off,” I say, turning to
Kirsty.

“It will, don’t
worry.” She glances at her watch. “Oh shit, I have to run. I’ve got
a conference call with some clients in San Fran and I want to be on
a landline to do it.”

I shake my
head, marvelling at her non-stop working ability. “Okay. I’ll see
you later, then.”

“Don’t forget
to make that hair appointment,” Kirsty calls over her shoulder as
she weaves between the racks of clothes. “Split ends are, like, so
last year.”

The next
morning, I fidget (as much as one can fidget on a small circular
stool one’s butt keeps sliding off), awaiting Jeremy’s arrival for
his Botox appointment at ten. My questions – in the guise of a
‘pre-surgical therapy session’ – are all ready, and I’m feeling
almost as nervous as if
I
was the one getting Botox (heaven
forbid). It would have been much safer to conduct this interview
away from Peter and the clinic, but my desperation for a dress last
night and the lack of time to get my article to Leza mean it’s now
or never.

To distract
myself, I run through my preparations for the launch party
tomorrow. Tonight I’ve got a hair appointment at Aveda. Then
tomorrow, I’m heading to Kirsty’s so she can do my make-up and give
me the party-ready seal of approval. I wonder if any celebs will be
at this do? Or paparazzi?

I shiver with
nerves and anticipation, picturing me,
The Daily Planet’s
hottest new columnist, sauntering down a red carpet as all the paps
snap my photo . . .

“Hello. Sorry,
I’m a bit early.”

My head jerks
up and I see Jeremy standing in front of me, wearing his usual
black T-shirt and – thankfully – a pair of un-skinny jeans. Is it
just me, or has he lost a bit of weight?

“Hi!” I smile,
thinking it’s good to see him.

“Hi, yourself.”
He tries to mock my accent but it comes out sounding more
Australian than American, and we laugh together. “So today’s the
day. Botox.” He props himself up against the desk, his face pinched
and pale.

“It’s normal to
be nervous,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone. God, if he’s
this jittery now, what will he be like when he’s about to have his
face ripped apart in a hospital? I glance around to make sure
Peter’s tucked away somewhere, then lean forward. “Typically, I
conduct a pre-treatment session to calm nerves and put you in the
ideal psychological state. Sound good?”

“Sure.” Jeremy
fixes his brilliant green eyes on me. “Fire away.”

I grab my
notebook then scoot around the desk, motioning him to sit on a
leather chair. Plopping into the one beside him, I flip to my list
of questions. “Okay. First of all, let’s go through the areas
you’re having done today. To have you focus on the specifics
instead of the fear.” Gosh, that sounds good, doesn’t it? Sometimes
I can’t believe the stuff I come out with.

Jeremy points
to the cute crinkly lines by the sides of his eyes. “Right here,
and these wrinkles on my forehead are going today, too.”

I bite my lip
to stop a sigh of dismay from escaping. I love the way his face
moves with almost every emotion. If he gets Botox, that’ll be wiped
clean.

“Anything
else?” I ask.

“Dr Lycett did
mention an acid . . . something to give my face more definition. I
might go for that, as well.” Jeremy looks almost giddy now.

“Hyaluronic
acid,” I say. “It’s a filler; really popular to plump up cheekbones
and lips. But if you’re getting more work done on your face, you’re
probably better off waiting. Peter will explain it all, I’m sure.”
Yeah, right, I add in my head. Peter’s a great salesman and a good
doctor, but explaining things to patients isn’t exactly his strong
suit. I’ve had women present their bill to me without any clue what
they’ve been injected with. And the sad thing is, they don’t really
care, as long as they appear younger.

“Oh. Okay,
then,” Jeremy responds, looking deflated.

“What are you
hoping to achieve with Botox?” I ask, trying to get all the basic
stuff out of the way before I can probe deeper.

“Nothing too
dramatic. I just want to be ‘fresher’.”

I barely
refrain from rolling my eyes. The number of times I’ve heard people
say they want to look ‘fresher’, as if they were a rotting
vegetable.

“How do you
feel, getting a treatment that’s generally used by women, not
men?”

Jeremy smiles.
“I don’t care if it’s used more by llamas, as long as it helps me
look my best.”

“Llamas?” I
can’t help snickering at that one and Jeremy joins in, our laughter
echoing around the empty waiting area.

“Thank you,
Serenity.” Jeremy’s face is serious again. “I was really nervous,
but you’ve helped me relax.”

“That’s my
job.” My tummy turns over as my eyes meet his. “How about we try
another relaxation technique,” I say, to break the moment. “Just
close your eyes and count slowly to ten. Now breathe in . . .” I
watch as his broad chest expands, wondering where the hell I’m
going with this. At least he’s not staring at me any more. “Now out
. . .” His dark lashes quiver against his cheeks and I wonder what
he’s thinking.

“Serenity?”
Peter pokes his head into the reception area. “Oh, hello, Jeremy.”
Jeremy’s eyes fly open and Peter shoots me a funny look. “What on
earth are you two doing?”

Shit
. My
heart starts beating double-time. “Just helping Jeremy relax,” I
warble, before Jeremy has a chance to respond. Please God may he
not say anything!

“Sure, sure,
fine,” Peter mutters, barely even registering I’ve spoken. He gives
Jeremy his trust-me-I’m-a-doctor smile. “Ready to go?”

Jeremy nods,
then turns toward me. “Wish me luck. And thanks for the pre-session
therapy.”

“Good luck,” I
croak, collapsing back against the chair. Thank goodness Peter’s
already halfway down the corridor.

As I settle
onto my stool, it hits me that Jeremy and I are both starting on
our journeys – except all his changes are on the outside, while
most of mine are taking place internally. Already I feel more
successful; more confident about staking my claim in the realm of
tabloid journalism.

Just like
Jeremy, by the end of this
Build a Man
thing, I’m sure I’ll
be the person I’ve always wanted to be, with the life I’ve always
dreamed of. Serenity v2: the newer, upgraded version.

I daydream my
way through the mind-numbing task of filling in new patient forms
on the computer, my head snapping up when I hear Peter’s voice.
Yup, ten minutes, I think as I glance at the clock. That’s Jeremy’s
Botox done, then.

“Serenity, can
you get some ice, please.” Peter gently manoeuvres Jeremy into a
chair. “Now, Jeremy, you’ll be fine. Bruising is a normal part of
the procedure, along with extra redness, too. Just have a seat here
with some ice for ten minutes.”

I rush to the
freezer in the supply room, grab an ice pack we keep on hand for
moments like this, then head back to the reception area.

“Here you go.”
I hand the ice to Jeremy, trying not to recoil as I take in the
angry red bruises ringing the injection sites on his forehead and
beside his eyes.

“Thanks.”
Jeremy tries to smile, flinching in pain.

“So I’ll leave
you in Serenity’s capable hands,” Peter says. “Any problems, please
don’t hesitate to give me a ring. In the meantime, we’ll schedule
in your blepharoplasty, rhinoplasty, and chin liposuction –
probably for a few weeks from now, depending on availability. And
I’ll see you next week for the laser-skin resurfacing.”

God, if Jeremy
looks like this now, I can only imagine the state of him once the
top layer of his skin has been singed away.

“Thank you,
Doctor,” Jeremy responds weakly, pressing the ice pack against his
forehead. He glances up at me with an embarrassed expression. “I
know, I’m a wuss. I’m sure women just take it in their stride.”

I sink down
beside him. “Looks like you’ve had a particularly strong reaction.
It does vary, from person to person.” I touch his arm as he
grimaces again. “So . . . are you sure you want to go through with
the rest?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
The last thing I want is to give him any doubts, but he just looks
so uncomfortable.

Jeremy nods and
a whoosh of relief – mixed with something else – goes through me.
“I’m sure. This probably looks worse than it is, and, well, I’m
tired of being a loser women only want for money. I’ve got to go
through with it.” He turns to face me and I feel a jolt as his
green eyes connect with mine. “This is it, Serenity. I’m not going
to back down now.”

I hold his
gaze. “I understand.” God, do I ever.

Ten minutes
later, the swelling on Jeremy’s face has reduced and the redness
has faded slightly. He pushes out the clinic door, looking relieved
to escape. The day drags on and finally, it’s time for me to head
to the Aveda on Marylebone High Street. As I sit in the stylist’s
chair listening to the same wailing whale CD we have back at the
clinic, I await my own transformation. Sure, it’s minor compared to
what Jeremy has planned, but it’s symbolic of much bigger changes
inside. New look, new life! I almost snort as my patter from
Jeremy’s wardrobe session floats into my head.

“So what are we
doing today?” Zach, the stylist, eyes my limp sandy hair with
distaste.

“I don’t know .
. .” My voice trails off. “I’m thinking blonder?”

“Too right. I’m
thinking a lot blonder.” He squints in the mirror at my reflection.
“And one of those asymmetrical cuts. You know, like Ciara Mattos.
They’re really in right now.”