Build a Man (23 page)

Thank God for
coffee – and hot water, I think, turning up the temperature on our
shower and directing the puny flow of water over my head. Why the
Brits are so advanced in other aspects but can’t seem to fashion a
proper shower is beyond me. An image of the Rainshower in Jeremy’s
house flashes through my mind. I’d give anything to have one of
those.

I pull on a
pair of black trousers and a matching blazer to resemble an
official life advisor, whatever they’re supposed to look like.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I grimace. I’m more Darth
Vader than the female equivalent of Dr Phil.

What would Mia
wear? Probably something fashioned from a cutting-edge material
NASA just discovered. I can’t wait to ditch this whole undercover
thing and really break out a few Serenity v2
‘I’m-a-tabloid-reporter’ ensembles. And if I’m honest, all the
subterfuge is starting to get to me. I’ve had some close calls
lately and if this keeps up, I’ll be in the cardiac unit soon
instead of the newsroom. Another few weeks and I’ll be home
free.

I take off the
blazer and throw on a fitted white shirt and a bright red cardigan
to give the outfit some colour. Slipping on my red kitten heels, I
yank a brush through my tousled hair then slick on lip gloss.

There.
Professional, pulled together and still stylish, thanks to the
splash of red. I grab my notebook and recorder, throw on my trench
coat, and I’m out the door.

The streets of
Marylebone are Sunday-morning quiet, and fifteen minutes later I’m
inside the private hospital’s elaborate entrance, standing in front
of a receptionist so perfectly beautiful she looks like she’s been
airbrushed. Chandeliers hang from the mosaic ceiling, and the whole
foyer is done up in Italian marble. If I didn’t know better, I’d
think I was in a Venetian palace, not a London hospital.

“I’m Serenity
Holland,” I announce. The receptionist lifts a perfectly sculpted
eyebrow, eyeing my ensemble with something like distaste. My face
flushes. It seemed stylish back at the flat, but now it feels like
I’ve hijacked Primark’s discount rails. “For Jeremy Ritchie?”

“One moment,
please,” the receptionist responds, voice dripping with derision as
she taps away on a Mac computer. “Jeremy Ritchie is in suite
three-zero-five, on the third floor. Johnson will escort you
up.”

Johnson? I turn
as a man clad in what looks like a bespoke three-piece suit comes
forward, ushering me toward the lift. Jeez! In the Harris Regional
Hospital, the most fashionable suit is worn by Ernie the Janitor –
and that’s an army-green one-piece jumpsuit. And if you think
jumpsuits are trendy, one look at Ernie bulging out of his will
change your mind faster than you can say ‘beer belly’.

“Oh, Dr Lycett
left this for you.” The receptionist hands me a stapled sheaf of
papers. Glancing at the document, I see it’s the patient consent
form I need Jeremy to sign if I want to observe his operation.

Taking deep
breaths, I follow Johnson across the marble floor toward the lift.
Now that I’m actually here, it all seems so real. Jeremy will be
going under the knife today – the first irreversible step on his
way to becoming the man he always wanted to be. For just a second,
I feel a sense of loss that he’s leaving behind who he is now. But
this is his dream, and he needs to go for it. No one understands
that more than I do.

The lift pings
as it reaches the third floor, and Johnson ushers me down a
corridor and into suite 305.

“Hey there!
Ready for today?” I sweep into the room and smile at Jeremy. He’s
sitting on the bed staring down at his feet, and his shoulders have
that stiff set to them again.

Jeremy lets out
a shaky breath and glances up at me. His cheeks are pale and his
eyes look greener than ever. “Hi. Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for
dropping by. I didn’t want to impose on your advisory duties too
much on the weekend, but I was kind of hoping you’d come
round.”

I sink onto the
bed beside him, my face flaming as I remember the last time we sat
side by side and he leaned toward me . . . Clearing my throat, I
force my lips in an even wider smile. Jeremy’s so tense I can
almost see it pouring from him.

“Of course.
Helping you through these difficult moments is part of my job
description. And I’ll be there during the operation, too, just for
your peace of mind,” I say. “Don’t worry. Peter’s done these
surgeries a thousand times – probably more. He’s very experienced.”
I take my recorder from the bag and click it on. Jeremy’s so used
to it now he doesn’t even comment.

“I know.” He
tries to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It will all be
worth it. I want to show Julia I
can
be a man worth being
with, even if she’s not the sort of person I want any more.”

“Why were you
with Julia, anyway? She doesn’t sound that nice.” It’s something
I’ve been wondering about. They’re so different it’s hard to
imagine the two of them laughing together, living together, doing
other
things together . . . Ugh. I push away the
thought.

Jeremy shrugs.
“She was the kind of woman I thought I wanted back then. I was
happy to make her happy. Now I realise that a one-way relationship
isn’t what I want at all. I want someone who wants to make
me
happy, too.”

“I understand.”
I nod, trying to stop myself from asking why, if he really wants
someone who loves him for who he is, is he having cosmetic
surgery?

“So, how are
you feeling?” Predictable question, I know, but it has to be
posed.

“Terrified,
actually.” Jeremy slides off the bed and lumbers to the window.
“You know about my sister and everything . . .”

I walk over and
touch his arm. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy.” I can’t begin to imagine
what that must feel like, losing a loved one.

“It’s why I
hate hospitals – even this one, with all its luxury. It still can’t
hide what it really is.” He sighs, then collapses onto a chair.
“It’s part of the reason I was considering cancelling the surgery –
cold feet, as you say. I couldn’t bear to come back to a hospital
again. It just reminds me of her.”

“I understand.
But you’re only in here today and tomorrow. You’ll be back home and
looking hot in no time. Not that you’re not hot now. Um, you know
what I mean.” God damn it, my face is heating up again.

Jeremy smiles.
“I know what you mean. Look, thanks for pushing me to do this. I
know there’s nothing to worry about. It’s kind of like going to the
dentist, right?”

“Exactly.” I
smile back, ignoring the jabs in my belly – and Peter’s answer that
there’s always a risk of complications. But this is what Jeremy
wants. And he said it himself: his cold feet are mainly down to the
earlier experiences with his sister.

A nurse wearing
the classiest whites I’ve ever seen pops her head into the room.
With blonde hair pulled into a chignon and chic straight-leg white
denim paired with an embroidered tunic, she looks right off the
runway. I tug down my own red cardigan and pat my hair back into
place.

“Shall we get
you into your hospital attire, Mr Ritchie?” The nurse smiles,
revealing the glossiest and whitest teeth known to humankind. God,
where do they recruit these people from? The Perfect Nurse
Planet?

Jeremy nods. “I
guess so.” He takes the neatly folded stack of hospital clothes
from the nurse and glances over at me. “You’ll hang around until
I’m out of the recovery room, right? I probably won’t be in much of
a mood to talk, but it’ll be good to have someone here.”

“Of course.
I’ll be here all along, and I’ll come visit tomorrow, too. Did you
know they have a chef in residence? I wouldn’t dream of missing out
on that. Do you think they do homemade Jaffa Cakes?”

Jeremy laughs.
“Not in a high-class joint like this one.” He plonks the bundle of
clothes down on the bed. “Guess I’d better get changed.” The tense
expression has reappeared.

I pick up the
item on top and shake it out. It’s a hospital gown – in black –
with a small tag bearing the name ‘Versace’. Versace designed the
hospital gowns? “Well, at least you’ll be operated on in style.” I
say, handing it over to him. “I’ll wait in the hall. Just holler
when you’re ready.”

I go out to the
corridor and lean against the pearl-gray wall, feeling like I’ve
stumbled into an alternate universe – the same way I feel when
women fork over three thousand pounds in cash without batting an
eyelid. A world where hospitals have chandeliers, nurses are
models, and Versace designs black hospital gowns. I mean, I read
the tabloids. I knew places like these existed. It’s just different
when you’re in them.

Jeremy pokes
his head out. “You can come back in now.”

“You look
great,” I say, catching sight of him in his full hospital regalia.
No limp pastel ensembles here – Jeremy’s wearing the black gown
underneath a deep-red Chinese-style tunic. He actually does look
pretty damn good.

“I’m like a
bloody ninja,” he says, making a face. “I can’t believe this
get-up. Honestly, I’d prefer good old flash-your-bottom gowns to
these poncy things.”

I’d prefer
flash-your-bottom ones too, if there was any chance of seeing his
cute butt, I think, sitting back down on the bed.

“How’s it going
in here?” Peter strides into the room and for some reason, I jump
off the bed and over to a Philippe-Starcke-style chair in the
corner.

“I’m fine, I
guess.” Jeremy’s voice sounds shaky.

Peter pulls up
a chair beside the bed and settles into it, in full authoritative
doctor mode. “So what we’re doing today is removing the bags under
your eyes” – he reaches out and grabs the loose skin under Jeremy’s
eyes – “and then some chin liposuction, and then the nose job.” He
tweaks Jeremy’s small jowls (very small, I’d say) and I turn away,
mortified to watch my boyfriend poke and prod his patient like a
side of beef. “All in all, you should be in and out in an hour or
so.”

“Great.” Jeremy
sounds a bit embarrassed, too.

“The orderlies
will come get you in a few minutes, once we have everything prepped
in the OR. And you’re sure you’re okay with Serenity being present
during surgery?”

Jeremy throws
me a warm look. “It’s the one thing keeping me sane right now. I
must say, your clinic does provide a very comprehensive
service.”

Peter nods,
smiling proudly. “Customer satisfaction is our top priority.”

“We’ll leave
you now,” I say quickly, before Jeremy can elaborate on how
comprehensive the service really is. I leap off the chair and grab
Peter’s arm, propelling him toward the door. “Good luck, Jeremy.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realise how ridiculous they
sound. Do people wish each other luck for surgery? I smile at
Jeremy over my shoulder, noting with chagrin that his face is
glistening with sweat and a muscle under his eye is twitching.

“You’ve got the
signed patient consent form, right?” Peter asks as we head toward
the lift. “There’s no way I’m letting you in the OR without
it.”

Oh, God. I put
the form on a table in Jeremy’s room . . . and it’s still there.
“Just a sec.”

“Hurry up,”
Peter huffs. “I have to start operating in ten minutes or I miss
the slot.”

I race down the
corridor and back into Jeremy’s room. He’s at the window again,
arms crossed over his chest as if protecting himself from a coming
blow. “Sorry, I just need you to sign this form for me to be in the
operating room.”

“Sure.” As
Jeremy scrawls his signature across the document, I can’t help
noticing his hand is trembling.

“I’ll check in
with you after the operation. And I’ll even bring you some Jaffa
Cakes from my private stash. Now
that’s
sacrifice.” I smile,
worried now at how pale and shaky he is. Maybe he really doesn’t
want to go through with this. But you wouldn’t have something as
major as surgery if you didn’t want to, would you? He’ll be happy
when everything’s done and dusted.

Jeremy looks so
anxious that I put my arms around him in a friendly hug. The thick
cotton of his tunic is soft against my skin and his spicy scent
envelopes me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, and
I feel a rush of warmth from his body pressed up against mine.
Then, without warning, he releases me and takes a step back, his
chest rising and falling.

“Right.” His
voice sounds husky and he clears his throat. “I’ll see you after
the surgery.”

I grab the form
and dash down the corridor to where Peter is waiting, tapping his
foot. “Jesus Christ, Serenity. We’re going to be late.” He glances
sideways at me. “You all right?”

“Fine, fine. I
got the form.” I wave it in his face to distract him from looking
at me too closely. I can barely catch my breath. But that’s
probably from all the running around, right?

The lift dings
and we start our ascent toward the operating room.

A few minutes
later, my hands and arms have been scrubbed to within an inch of
their lives, and I’m wearing a rather trendy tunic and trouser
outfit (by Chanel, this time) in Egyptian cotton.

“The patient’s
ready, Doctor.” A nurse pops her head between the operating room
doors.

“Great. Thank
you.” Peter’s all business now, tying a mask over his mouth. I do
the same, trying not to gag as I breathe in its starchy smell.
What, they could get designer gowns, but they couldn’t fashion
something better than this?

“Ready?” Peter
turns toward me, eyes serious. “Just stay in the corner. Don’t ask
any questions or try to talk.” His words are muffled through the
mask.

“Okay,” I say,
suddenly terrified. I can’t even bear to watch
Extreme
Makeover
. How on earth am I going to witness someone I know
being torn to bits in front of me? I have to, I tell myself, wiping
my sweaty palms on my tunic. I’m a reporter now, and I need the
detail. If it bleeds, it leads. Blood is a good thing. People love
it!