Build a Man (19 page)

“Sorry I didn’t
let you in on it.” He grins at me. “But you and Kirsty are so
close, and I know you guys tell each other everything. I couldn’t
take the chance.”

Before I can
respond, someone shouts “She’s coming!”, and the lounge plunges
into darkness. The music switches off, and the muffled whispers and
giggles of thirty people crouching on the floor float through the
room. Peter swears softly when I tramp on his polished leather
shoe, and I poke him in the side to be quiet.

A sliver of
light streams in as the front door opens, and the sound of
footsteps echoes in the hallway.

“Tim? Why is it
so dark?” Kirsty’s voice calls as she switches on the light.

“Surprise!” the
room erupts. Kirsty’s eyes widen and she takes a step back.

“Wow.” Her gaze
flickers around the room then over to Tim. “Just . . . wow.
Everyone’s here!”

Smiling
proudly, Tim pushes through the crowd toward her. “Yeah. You don’t
know what a feat that was, coordinating everyone’s schedule. But
now that we’re all here . . .” He fumbles in his pocket and draws
out a tiny box, then sinks down on one knee and takes Kirsty’s hand
in his. “I know you’ve already said yes. But I wanted to do this
properly, in front of our friends. So, Kirsty Grainger: will you
marry me?”

A deadly
silence falls over the room. Then Kirsty nods almost mechanically.
“Of course I will.” A high-pitched laugh escapes from her, one I’ve
never heard before. “Now come on, get up.”

Rising to his
feet with a smile so big even collagen couldn’t compete, Tim slides
a large, glistening diamond onto Kirsty’s finger with a flourish.
He slings an arm around her and pulls her up against him, turning
toward the smiling faces. “And we have another announcement to
make.”

Oh no. I
cringe, praying he’s not going to let the cat out of the bag about
Kirsty’s pregnancy. Judging by Kirsty’s expression, she’s hoping
the same thing.

“Kirsty and I
are having a baby!”

Shit.

The room erupts
into applause and cheers, but I can’t tear my gaze away from
Kirsty. A maniacal grin is nailed to her face, but her cheeks are
ashen and her eyes have a hunted look in them. Colleagues swarm
toward the happy couple, patting them on the back and offering up
congratulations. Although Tim radiates happiness, to my practiced
best-friend eye, I can tell Kirsty’s movements are forced.

Someone
switches on the music and
Baby Be Mine
blares through the
speakers. God, Tim’s even created a party soundtrack. I look around
for Peter so we can join the impromptu receiving line. Where on
earth has he got to? Oh, there he is, performing a
mini-consultation on one of Kirsty’s colleagues, turning her head
this way and that as he examines the wrinkles around her eyes.

“So.” An
elegant woman sporting a tailored grey suit appears at my side.
“Romantic, eh?” She nods toward Kirsty and Tim, who are still
shaking hands and accepting congratulations. “How do you know
them?”

“Oh, we go way
back. Kirsty and I went to school together.”

“American,
huh?” The woman raises an eyebrow and I nod. “What are you doing
over here?” She scans the room as she speaks, no doubt looking for
someone more interesting to talk to.

I almost say
‘I’m a reporter’ before remembering I’m undercover. “I’m a
receptionist,” I answer glumly, staring down into my champagne.

The woman nods,
sipping her drink. Five seconds later, she’s off. God, I can’t wait
until I really am a full-fledged tabloid reporter. Then everyone
will want to chat to me; I’ll have to beat people off with a
stick.

Feeling
slightly self-conscious standing here on my own like a party
pariah, I make my way over to Peter’s consultation corner. He’s got
another woman with him now. As she tilts her head, he traces lines
by her lips so fine, you’d practically need a magnifying glass to
see them.

“. . . and a
bit of filler should get rid of that, no problem,” he’s saying.
“Pop by any time this week and we can take care of it for you.” He
hands her a card and the woman – with beautiful long dark hair and
features straight out of
Vogue
– stares at it like it’s a
precious metal.

“Thank you,”
she says with a hint of a Spanish accent.

It never ceases
to amaze me how people with such perfect looks feel the need for
cosmetic surgery, but I’ve long since learned not to try to figure
it out. Quite honestly, you’d need someone along the lines of Freud
to get to the bottom of it, and I’m sure Freud has better things to
occupy his time. Isn’t he dead, anyway?

“Ah, here she
is,” Peter says as he spots me beside him. “This is Serenity. She’s
the clinic’s receptionist and she’ll make you comfortable before
you come in to see me.”

I give him an
incredulous look.
Clinic receptionist?

“Oh, and my
girlfriend, of course,” Peter adds, catching my eye. He eases an
arm around my shoulders.

“Hello.” The
woman shows off her blindingly white teeth and holds out a
manicured hand for me to shake. “So both of you work in the
cosmetic surgery industry? How fascinating.” She strokes her
gleaming hair. “Have you been reading that column about the man
who’s completely doing himself over through surgery?”

Oh my God.
She’s been reading
Build a Man
? I’m caught between pride and
horror.

“No, I haven’t
heard of that.” Peter sips his champagne. “But I’ve long predicted
male cosmetic surgery would become a trend. In fact, just the other
day, a man came into our clinic seeking a comprehensive
makeover.”

“I think it’s
fantastic men are taking the initiative now. This man in the column
has just had Botox, and he’s doing a nose job” – she touches her
nose – “and quite a few other procedures, too.”

Peter stares.
“What a coincidence. My patient just had Botox, and he’s doing a
rhinoplasty, as well. I wonder if it will become a discernable
pattern?”

“Let’s go
congratulate Kirsty.” Heart thumping, I grab Peter’s arm, and his
drink splashes onto the floor.

“Serenity!”
Peter exclaims as I drag him across the room. “I wasn’t finished
talking.” I don’t care how annoyed he is – I have to get him away
before he twigs that Jeremy and
Build a Man
are actually one
and the same. I risk a glance at his face. His forehead is
scrunched up in irritation, but thankfully he doesn’t appear to
have made any connections. I let out my breath and my heart rate
slowly returns to normal.

The party goes
on, the crowd getting louder and the champagne supply lower. As
people start trickling out the door, Kirsty comes over and touches
my shoulder.

“I need to see
you upstairs for a second,” she says, in a low, urgent voice.
Before I have time to open my mouth, she’s propelling me forward
and up the narrow staircase. She leads me into the bedroom and
closes the door, creating a cocoon from the noise below.

“What’s up?” I
ask, scanning her white face. Her normally confident features are
pinched.

She shakes her
head. “I can’t do this.”

“I know, I can
imagine. The party must have been a bit of a shock. I’m sorry,
Kirst. I didn’t know about it until I got here.”

“No, no. That’s
not what I meant.” Sinking onto the bed, she buries her face in her
hands.

“Kirsty?” I sit
down beside her, alarmed at her strange wheezing and the way her
shoulders are heaving.

“I can’t
breathe. I just can’t breathe!”

Oh God;
Kirsty’s having a panic attack. I’ve seen so many at the clinic –
usually when I tell patients we’re closed on the weekends, so
they’ll have to wait until Monday for their Botox – that I can
diagnose it in a heartbeat. I scrabble around for a paper bag or
something, but I can’t find anything. Unsure what else to do, I rub
Kirsty’s back until she takes a shuddering breath, then straightens
up.

“I thought I
just needed time to accept everything. But the truth is, I need to
get away from it all. Away from Tim. Away from” – she touches her
hand to her abdomen – “this. I need space to think.”

She looks over
at me, liquid pooling in her hazel eyes. “Can I crash with you and
Peter tonight? And maybe for the next few days, until I clear my
head?”

Wow.
I
can just imagine Tim’s expression when Kirsty tells him she needs
space. “Kirsty, are you sure you want to do that?” I ask
gently.

She nods,
pushing a few curls back from her face. “Yes. I am.”

“Well, of
course it’s no problem. You can stay as long as you like.” It’s the
least I can do – be there for her, like she asked. And Peter will
understand. A friend in need and all that. “I’ll just go let Peter
know.”

I head back
down the stairs, thoughts banging in my head. Kirsty’s uncertainty
has thrown me completely. I knew she was overwhelmed with
everything that happened. But I’d chalked that up to shock, and I
was positive she’d come around in time. Never in a million years
would I have suspected my confident friend, who always knows just
what to do, was floundering over her future.

Downstairs is
deserted, with empty glasses and wine bottles littering every
surface. Peter’s sitting on the sofa – ramrod straight with that
perfect posture he’s been practising lately – watching the BBC News
discuss something boring to do with the economic crisis. The
humming of the dishwasher comes from the kitchen, where Tim’s
whistling as he clears up.

“Oh, good.
There you are.” Peter practically leaps off the sofa when he spots
me. “We should get going. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Um, Peter?” I
lower my voice. “Kirsty’s going to stay with us for the next few
days. She says she needs a bit of space.”

Peter stops
fiddling with the buttons on his blazer and glances up at me. “Did
you already say she could?” he asks in a tight voice.

“Well, yes. She
won’t mind sleeping on the sofa.” Hell, back in our university
days, Kirsty once slept in my bathtub.

Peter’s shaking
his head as if I’ve done something naughty. “I wish you’d asked me
first, Serenity. You know Smitty doesn’t react well to strangers.
And the flat isn’t set up for an extra person; it won’t be
comfortable for her – or us, for that matter. Doesn’t she have
other friends she can ask?” He pushes past me toward the door as if
the case is closed. I stare at his rigid back, anger swirling
through me.

“Peter!” My low
whisper sounds more like a hiss. “She does have other friends, but
she asked
me
. I can’t say no. Please – it’s only for a few
nights.”

Peter’s
shoulders heave in a sigh and he swings around, face set in that
super-calm expression I recognise from the clinic when he’s dealing
with a difficult patient. And, increasingly, when he’s talking to
me. “I’d like to help, but this is a very busy time for me, and we
don’t need the stress of an extra guest. Now let’s head home, shall
we?”

My mouth drops
open. I can’t believe he won’t interrupt his precious routine for
someone so important in my life, someone who needs my help. I
know
he’s busy, and I understand he requires his eight point
five hours of ‘brain regeneration time’, as he calls it, but
still.

“No, you go,” I
say, my voice hard as my heart pounds with anger. “I’ll see you
back home.”

He narrows his
eyes like he’s trying to understand what thought processes are
running through my mind, then shrugs and hands me a five-pound
note. “Make sure you call a cab. It’s late. And please be quiet
when you come in.” Leaning down, he pecks my cheek then goes out
the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

Irritation
swirls through me as I stare at the closed door. Just now, it hits
me that Peter probably
doesn’t
have any idea what I’m
thinking, or how annoyed I am. I don’t tell him how his little
jibes make me feel, probably because I’ve always wanted to be as
ordered and pulled-together as he is. Serenity v2, and all. And
I’ve never asked him for anything that would interfere with his
daily life; there hasn’t been any reason to. But I always thought
if I needed something – or someone close to me did – it would be a
given. Guess not.

An unsettled
feeling washes over me as I drag myself back up the stairs. If my
boyfriend won’t even bend a little to help me . . . what kind of
relationship is this, really? I know in a heartbeat I’d do whatever
I could to help a friend of his, if he asked. I shake my head and
push away the thought. Right now, I need to face Kirsty and tell
her that no, I
can’t
be there for her when she needs me. My
jaw clenches as anger fills me again.

When I open the
door to the bedroom, Kirsty’s already packing.

“Everything
set?” she asks, jamming closed the heaving suitcase. God, it looks
like she’s moving out, not just leaving for a few days.

“Um . . .”
Shoving aside a few empty hangers, I sit on the bed. “Peter didn’t
tell me, but we’re having some painting done in the flat tomorrow.
He’s worried it might make you feel ill.” I trace the stitching on
the white duvet cover, feeling terrible. I hate lying to her, but
there’s no way I can tell the truth. Kirsty’s never been a massive
Peter fan to begin with, and this would put him even lower on her
list than Justin Bieber (and believe me, that’s low).

“It’s okay,
Ser,” she says in a tone that tells me I haven’t fooled her at all.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll check into a hotel for tonight then
figure out where to crash.”

“Isn’t there
anyone else you can stay with?” The thought of Kirsty all alone in
a bland hotel room makes me even more furious at Peter.

“No, not
really.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. “I don’t want to
ask anyone from work. They know too much as it is – I can’t
believe
Tim told them everything without even checking with
me first. He knows what it’s like there.” Sinking down on the bed,
she runs a hand over her face.