Build a Man (28 page)

“The hospital
cleared me, thank God. If they’d cancelled my operating contract
there . . . disaster.” Peter focuses in on me, his tone deadly
serious. “Look, Serenity. I know you’re into the tabloid
scene.”

“Um, sort of.”
The banging of my heart is so loud now, it’s almost drowning out
his voice.

“Have you ever
heard of this
Beauty Bits
? I haven’t taken too close a look
at it yet, but it sounds like whoever wrote it was able to get
access to our clinic – or at least had quite a personal
relationship with Jeremy. Jeremy’s unable to articulate much right
now, and the hospital’s loathe to press him. They called
The
Daily Planet
for more details, but . . .” Peter shakes his
head.

“But?” I
squeak, caught between relief and horror. Jeremy hasn’t turned me
in – yet – but I wouldn’t put it past Leza to hang me out to
dry.

“The legal
department just said the paper protects their journalists.” Peter
shrugs. “Journalists, as if. More like vermin.”

I automatically
open my mouth to protest, but snap it closed again when I realise
Peter’s right. What I did wasn’t journalism – at least, not the
kind I can take pride in.

“Do you think
it could be another client?” Peter’s brow furrows as he tries to
puzzle it out.

“Maybe,” I
finally manage to say, my mouth dry and my throat scratchy with
Jaffa crumbs. Perhaps I
should
tell him; come clean. But
what good would that do? He’s already been cleared of any
involvement, and explaining to him what I’ve done would thrust him
squarely into the ‘involved’ side of things. No, keeping everything
locked up inside as tightly as I can is the only way to go.

“The important
thing is, it’s over,” I say, trying to keep my trembling voice
steady. “If I were you, I’d just forget about it.” Please please
please
may he just forget about it!

Peter clicks on
the TV and stretches out his long legs with a sigh. “I guess so.
Anyway, you’re right. Jeremy’s no longer a patient, so we can put
this whole thing behind us and move on. Get back to normal.”

“Yeah.” I try
to smile, but my face feels frozen. Get back to normal? Right now,
I can barely breathe.

“Come on,
Serenity.” Peter taps his foot as he hovers by the door the next
morning. “We’re going to be late.”

“Okay, okay.”
Quickly tying a Primark scarf around my neck to cover a toothpaste
stain on my blouse, I walk into the corridor. Peter closes the door
behind us and practically runs to the lift.

It’s Tuesday
morning, and my brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep. I lay awake all
night, relief that I hadn’t harmed Peter’s professional reputation
mixed with heavy guilt about Jeremy – and a glimmer of hope that
somehow he might, he just
might
, respond to my letter.

“Hurry.” Peter
nudges me into the waiting lift. Suited and booted, he looks
polished and groomed, putting his words about returning to normal
into effect. Despite my work clothes and heavier than usual
make-up, I still look exactly how I feel: like death warmed
over.

Inside the
clinic, I scoot behind the desk and turn on the computer. Sighing,
I open the browser and type in the
Beauty Bits
website, my
heart in my throat as I wait for the page to load. Have Mia and
Leza managed to find Jeremy? What will they write about today?

I click my
fingernails on the desk. Finally, the
Build a Man
icon
appears at the top of the screen, and I force myself to read the
accompanying words.

Getting
physical with a beautiful woman was our Build a Man’s dream when he
signed up for cosmetic surgery. But instead of moving his hips,
Jeremy’s now trying to move his lips. After an operation two days
ago left him brain damaged, Jeremy must now begin the long journey
back to the man he once was.

“
Jeremy’s
got it tough,” said celebrity therapist Keith Kole. “He’ll need my
three-T method to recover: time, tenderness, and tenacity.”

I can’t help
rolling my eyes at that one. They must be struggling if they had to
dig up a quote from a celebrity therapist. Obviously they haven’t
been able to track down Jeremy, thank God.

At the bottom
of the article, small print catches my eye:

The Daily Planet
would like to thank everyone who has
contacted us to wish Jeremy well. To respect his privacy,
Build a Man
column will only run when we
receive health updates from our Man. Coming tomorrow:
Tummy Trends
. Read about the latest trend in cosmetic
surgery – the designer belly button – and the pioneering surgeon
who developed it. Staff Reporter Mia Sutton has the inside
scoop.

I stare at the
words. Staff reporter?

Mia’s got the
job.

I wait for some
– any – emotion to hit me, but I feel so removed from it now, as if
all my dreams and ambition for that world existed in a former
life.

And designer
belly buttons? I’m nauseated just thinking about it. Thank goodness
they’re moving on. I wondered just how long they could keep
Build a Man
going, without any access to Jeremy.

Please
note:
Build a Man
column cannot accept
deliveries of flowers, sundry clothing items (including lingerie),
perishable goods, or any item apart from standard post. To express
your best wishes, please email:
[email protected]
.
Any additional items received will be donated to the Knightsbridge
Fund for Botox Beauty.

The
Knightsbridge Fund for Botox Beauty? My eyebrows fly up. The nerve,
donating things sent to Jeremy to a fund supporting cosmetic
surgery. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess, but I am.

“Excuse me.” My
head snaps up. In front of me are two women: an older one with
expensive-looking honey-blonde hair and a sharply tailored blazer,
and a fresh-faced teenager with wide blue eyes.

“Yes. Hello.” I
force my lips into a smile. “Can I help?”

“We’ve got an
appointment at nine with Doctor Lycett. Mrs Edith Evans and my
daughter, Felicia.” She’s already turned away from me. “Come,
Flic.” Felicia trots after her like a puppy.

Jesus Christ.
Felicia – whose face is the last place anyone would
think
to
look for a wrinkle – must only be about thirteen. “Excuse me!” I
call after their retreating backs.

Mrs Evans
lowers herself onto a leather chair and points Felicia into the one
beside her. “Yes?” she says, once settled.

“Your daughter
hasn’t been here before, has she?” God, I hope not. “She needs to
complete a consultation form.”

Mrs Evans waves
a hand. “No, no. Doctor Lycett knows us. It will be fine.”

I grit my
teeth. “Well, if Felicia could just give me a few details for our
system . . .”

Mrs Evans
sighs. “Flic, go shut that woman up. She’s hurting my head.”

What a bitch!
She
knows
I can hear her. Felicia scurries over to the desk,
smiling shyly at me.

“Does Botox
hurt?” she whispers, wrapping a chunk of hair around her
fingers.

I smile back,
debating what to say. I could go with my usual answer – that it’s
like a pinprick. But according to people who have had it done, it
does
hurt. And the last thing Felicia should be thinking
about during her teen years is Botox. When I was her age, my main
cosmetic worry was how to put on mascara without poking myself in
the eye.

“Yes. It does,”
I answer solemnly. Felicia’s eyes cloud over.

“Crap.” She
shoots a look at her mother, who’s absorbed in a copy of
Tatler
. “I don’t really want to do it, you know. But Mother
said if I get wrinkles, I’ll look ugly.”

“Ugly! No way.
You’re gorgeous.” Now I really
do
want to kill Mrs Edith
Evans. Imagine telling your adolescent daughter that. Suddenly, I
feel so lucky to have the parents I do. They’re always saying I’m a
beautiful treasure. It’s been a couple weeks since we’ve talked – I
really should call them.

“Look,” I say,
“if you don’t want to do it, just tell her. You’re too young,
anyway.”

“I can’t.”
Felicia glances fearfully toward her mother, now flipping through
the magazine with such aggression I can hear the snap of the pages
from here. “She gets angry and says I’m being stupid.”

“Well, I’ll
tell her, then.” I’m not going to let this woman inject her
daughter with unwanted substances. That’s child abuse.

“Would you?”
Felicia’s face brightens with hope.

“Sure.” I hop
off my stool and stride over to Mrs Evans, anger pushing its way up
to the surface.

“Yes?” Mrs
Evans says when she’s noticed me standing in front of her, blocking
what little light we do have.

I glance at
Felicia, who’s hovering beside the desk. “Your daughter has just
informed me she does not want to have Botox injections.”

“So?” Mrs Evans
responds calmly. “I’m her mother. I tell her what she does and what
she doesn’t want.”

“It’s this
clinic’s policy that anyone who has injections must be over the age
of eighteen,” I say, staring straight into the woman’s beady little
eyes. It’s not – Peter’s never had that policy – but hopefully
she’ll buy it.

Mrs Evans
flings the magazine onto the chair beside her. “This is ridiculous.
I’ve been here hundreds of times and I’ve never heard any such
regulation.” She stands, tugging down her blazer. “Come on, Flic.
Let’s go see Doctor Lo. He even does pets. Surely he’ll do you,
too. “

Felicia gives
me a grateful look as her mother drags her toward the door, and I
nod back. I may not have saved her from Botox, but at least she
won’t be getting it on my watch. Before the pair reaches the exit,
though, Peter pokes his head into the waiting area.

“Mrs Evans? Are
you all set?”

Mrs Evans spins
to face Peter, and I can practically see steam coming from her
ears. “No, I’m not. This” – she gestures toward me – “
girl
has told me your clinic can’t do Botox on anyone under eighteen.
Absurd.” She marches over to Peter, still dragging poor Felicia. “I
tell you, you’d better rethink your policy if you want to stay in
business. I have a friend whose baby just got Botox.” And with
that, she turns up her nose and yanks open the door so hard it
bounces off the wall.

“What policy is
she referring to?” Peter’s voice is dangerously calm as he turns
toward me.

“If we don’t
have one already, then we should. Anyone under eighteen is way too
young for Botox.”

Peter sighs.
“Botox isn’t harmful. All we need is parental approval if the child
is under the age of consent.”

My heart
twists. It’s what I thought he’d say, but still. “That sends a
terrible message to the child.”

Peter makes an
exasperated noise. “It’s a decision they and their parents can
make. It’s not up to me – I’m just giving them what they want.” He
stares at me. “Since when do you care? You didn’t seem too bothered
before.”

He’s right; I
didn’t. All this was something funny; something to write pitches
about. And when I defended Jeremy’s right to have surgery, I even
used Peter’s ‘just giving the people what they want’ line. But now,
after everything that’s happened, I can’t stand by pretending to be
okay with it all. I’m not.

I take a deep
breath. “Peter, I–”

“It’s fine,
Serenity,” he cuts me off. “Just don’t do it again. Your job is
simple: take the client’s name, give them the form, and get them
coffee. I make the policies when they’re needed. There’s no need
for you to get involved.”

My mouth drops
open at his condescending tone, and for an instant, I want to tell
him where he can shove his policies – right up alongside the giant
pole in his butt. Then a wave of guilt hits me at how I’ve risked
the clinic and his dream for mine, and I nod mutely. He’s right:
it’s his business. I’m just a receptionist. Nothing more.

The sooner I
accept that, the sooner I can put recent events behind me.

Several
mind-numbing hours later, Peter emerges from his office in a cloud
of Hugo Boss. “I’m off.”

“Where are you
going?” I try to look interested, but I shut down sixty minutes
earlier after an onslaught from Mrs Hong when I handed her Tiger
Balm instead of the pre-injection anaesthetic cream.

“I told you, I
have my Society of Cosmetic Surgeons dinner tonight. Remember? The
one that was rescheduled? Now, please give Smitty his meds on time.
And if you can . . .”

Peter’s voice
drones on and I tune him out, nodding as my brain flips back to
this same moment a few weeks ago – the night I met Jeremy at
Providores to get him on-board. Back then, I was so full of hope
and excitement. Now, I feel mostly dead inside. And the one bit of
me that
is
still open for emotional business is weighed down
with fear and anxiety. Jeremy hasn’t notified anyone of my
involvement yet, but he hasn’t got in touch, either. Does that mean
he’s still too ill?
Is
he planning to inform the hospital?
Will he ever talk to me again?

“Did you get
all that, Serenity?” Peter’s staring at me, and I jerk toward
him.

“Um, yeah. No
problem. Smitty, empty dishwasher, fillet . . .” My voice sounds
hollow as it echoes around the empty reception.

Peter drops a
kiss on my cheek and clunks the keys on the desk. “Please tidy the
files before you go. They’re in quite a state. I’ll see you
later.”

I nod again as
he leaves. Then, desperate not to be alone with my thoughts
tonight, I pick up the phone to call Kirsty. If there’s one thing I
need right now, it’s someone who knows
me
.