Build a Man (30 page)

The door bursts
open. “Kirsty? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Kirsty and I
turn in surprise as Tim rushes into the cramped room, crouching
down beside her. His face is beaded with sweat and his hair sticks
up like little horns.

“I’m so sorry,”
he pants. “I just got your messages now. I was at the gym.” He’s
wearing the ratty old Spandex biking shorts Kirsty always mocks,
and a flimsy, faded T-shirt.

But Kirsty
doesn’t seem to notice his clothes. With an expression of absolute
relief mixed with joy, she reaches out and draws him to her,
burying her face in his neck. Tim folds her in his arms, and the
two of them rock back and forth. Kirsty’s shoulders heave in silent
sobs and I glance away, embarrassed to be witnessing such an
intimate scene.

Dr Chandler
clears his throat and they look up, as if realising for the first
time where they are. Tim straightens, still grasping Kirsty’s hand
like he never wants to let go.

“Would you like
to have a seat?” Dr Chandler points to a small stool squeezed into
the corner.

“Here, have
mine,” I say, standing. “I’ll wait outside.” Now that Tim is here,
it feels like I’m intruding.

Kirsty shoots
me a smile, and I head out into the corridor, closing the door
behind me. Leaning against the wall, I picture the two of them,
arms entwined, each gripping the other like they’re the only thing
that makes sense.

Something
shifts in my chest, and a longing pulls at the very core of me. I
want that: the closeness, the overwhelming strength of emotion, the
knowledge that no matter what life throws their way, they can
handle it – together.

How do you know
someone’s ‘the one’? Jeremy asked me, back at Providores. I
remember running Peter through my mental checklist: handsome,
ambitious, successful . . . he had everything I thought I
wanted.

But for the
first time, I realise I’ve left off something critical from my
list.

I’ve left off
love.

Scanning my
wardrobe a few days later, I try for the millionth time to muster
up the energy to throw on a clinic-appropriate outfit. The morning
is gloomy, with rain falling in big, steady drops, and my mind is
buzzing from the relentless questions that have been tormenting me
since I saw Kirsty and Tim together. Do I love Peter? Does he love
me? Is he really the man I want?

I picture the
two of them clinging onto each other in the hospital that night,
and the same strong yearning sweeps over me. They’re back on solid
ground – stronger than ever, Kirsty says – and after everything
she’s been through, it’s good to see Kirsty’s finally found her way
to what’s really important. If only I could do the same.

Reaching into
the packed wardrobe, I select a pair of trusty black trousers and a
soft cashmere top that always makes me feel like I’m wearing a
fuzzy blanket. I’ve been craving comfort all week – or, at least, a
respite from the storm raging inside me.

It’s always
been obvious Peter and I are different: he’s so rational, while
‘irrational’ could have been my middle name. But we both had
ambition, wanted stability and, well, I thought I could somehow
make myself be a cool, calm person like him – the now-defunct
Serenity v2, perhaps. I’ve come to realise it’s just not possible,
though, and I don’t even
want
to be like that. So where does
that leave us?

“Ready?” Peter
pushes into the bedroom, neatly turned out as usual in a dark suit
with a perfectly matching paisley tie.

“Almost.” I
step into my flats. I’m
not
going to wear high heels, no
matter what he says. I’ve had enough of cramps in my arches.

He doesn’t seem
to notice, placing his hand on the small of my back and propelling
me out the door.

A few minutes
later, we’re in the claustrophobic world of the clinic. Without my
tabloid dreams to distract me, it feels like the walls are closing
in more and more, until one day they’ll finally crush me, and all
the fillers in the world won’t be able to plump me up again.

I’m so absorbed
in my personal nightmare that I barely notice the clinic door
opening.

“Hiya!” A
chirpy voice cuts across the silence of the waiting room.

My head snaps
up. And my mouth drops open.

There in front
of me – so tanned she’s now the colour of peanut butter – is
Princesz Gayle.

“Oh, hello.” I
turn my head away, hoping she won’t look too closely. Thank God I’m
completely different from when she last saw me at the launch party
– my hair is a mess, I’m not wearing make-up, and I’m sporting a
saggy sweater. “Do you have an appointment?” I mumble, staring at
the computer screen to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Yeah, at nine,
innit?” She props herself up against the desk. “I’m sure I’ve seen
you somewhere recently.”

Oh, shit.
“Well, you were here a few weeks ago.” I lift the corners of my
mouth in a smile, still gazing at the screen.

“That’s right,
just before that
Beauty Bits
launch party.” She squints,
then clicks her fingers together. “Snap! I
knew
I’d seen you
somewhere. You were at that party, weren’t you?”

“Princesz?”
Peter walks into the reception area, and my heart drops. “You
ready?”

Her bracelets
jingle as she holds up a hand. “Just a sec, Doc. So what did you
think? It were a great knees up, hey? Why were you there, anyway?
Market research?” She snorts.

“What are you
two talking about?” Peter asks in his conversational,
yes-I’m-interested-in-my-patients tone.

“Oh, nothing.”
I make a big show of looking at the clock. “You’d better get
started, Doctor. Madame Lucien’s at half past, and you know she
likes to be prompt.”

“Pffffff!
Madame Lucien can wait.” Princesz puts a hand on her hip.“So, did
you have a good time?” She turns to Peter. “We’re on about that
launch party last month, innit? Your girl here was there, looking
fierce.”

Peter laughs.
“No, I think you’re mistaken. Serenity wasn’t at any launch
party.”

Princesz nods,
stamping her stiletto on the floor for extra emphasis. “Oh yes, she
was.
Beauty Bits
, just last month. I never forget a face,
me. That were her.”

Peter freezes.
“
Beauty Bits
?”

“Yeah, the one
with that bloke who wanted to pull birds, but he was too ugly? He
was going to get
everything
done, you know.” Princesz leers
at us.

My head swivels
back and forth between the two of them as if they’re actors on a
stage and I’m in the audience, unable to interrupt. I’m not sure I
could
interrupt, even if I wanted to. My mind has gone
blank.

Peter turns
toward me, eyes colder than I’ve ever seen. “Serenity?” he asks in
a dangerously calm voice. “Were you at the
Beauty Bits
launch party last month?”

I focus on his
face, my mind racing. I’m so tired of hiding things; of playing
games; of uncertainty. But I know how important the clinic is to
Peter. If he finds out what I’ve done – how I jeopardised his baby,
even if I didn’t quite realise it at the time – will he ever be
able to forgive me?

Am I ready to
find out?

“Yes,” I say.
“Yes, I was at the launch party.”

Peter’s face
twists with anger before the mask slides back into place. “We’ll
talk later,” he says through gritted teeth as he takes Princesz’s
arm and escorts her into the consulting room.

In the ten
minutes that follow, I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t
sit still, so I pace up and down the waiting area, the Norwegian
pine floor creaking under my flats. How will Peter react? Will he
listen to my explanation, or will he chuck me out faster than I can
say ‘collagen’? Do I mean as much to him as this place, or am I
just a fixture in his life that he’s got used to having around,
like Smitty? And what do
I
want?

Finally
Princesz reappears, pays her bill and departs, leaving Peter and I
facing each other.

“So?” he asks
finally.

I swallow. His
face is so cold he almost looks like a stranger, not the man I’ve
spent seven months of my life with. “Peter, I wrote that column on
Jeremy,” I say quickly, suddenly desperate to get everything out
there. “It was all under different names. No one was ever supposed
to know it was about Jeremy – or this clinic. I really thought it
might do us some good in the end.”

Peter stares at
me, a slight redness in his cheeks the only sign of anger. “Jesus,
Serenity.” He turns away and traces my previous route up and down
the floorboards. “You could have written about anything. But you
had to choose something that would threaten the clinic, didn’t you?
What if Jeremy informed the hospital’s board of directors? And did
you even stop to think what might happen if someone
did
connect the dots? Someone like Princesz?”

I gulp. “What
did you tell her?”

Peter waves a
hand in the air. “I made up a story about how we like to keep in
touch with what the media are saying. She’s thick as a plank, so it
wasn’t exactly difficult to fool her. But it could have been
someone else. It only takes one person to ruin a clinic’s
reputation on patient confidentiality.”

“I know that
now,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He keeps pacing
as if he hasn’t heard my words. “Christ! I even brought you into
the hospital. That stunt with the OR – that wasn’t because you
wanted to know more about the surgeries, was it?”

“No.” I shake
my head as shame seeps in.

“Here I was
telling the hospital board there was no way anyone in my employ
could be involved, when all this time my own
girlfriend
was
doing it behind my back.” He stops pacing and turns to face me, and
I jerk back from the venom in his eyes. “I can’t even stand to look
at you right now.”

“Peter, I’m so
sorry. I–”

“Just go,” he
spits out. “We’re through. Get your things from the flat tomorrow
when I’m at work. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Let me
explain,” I sputter. “I didn’t realise . . .” My voice trails away
as he spins on his heels, and a few seconds later, I hear the slam
of his office door.

I stand as
still as a statue for a moment. I did something terrible – I know
that now – by not telling Peter what I was writing. I
knew
he’d be furious, but I had to be honest, to see if our relationship
was based on more than chicken fillet and convenience; to find out
if it had the strength to survive something tough. Well, now I
know. And even though I’m slightly stunned at how quickly we’ve
folded, I’m not surprised.

“Goodbye,
Peter,” I say softly. Turning, I force myself to walk at a normal
speed to the door. I heave it open then stand in the mews, gulping
in air.

With just one
word, I’ve chucked away a job, a boyfriend, and a home – my
so-called perfect London life, gone in a heartbeat. But the really
funny thing?

I don’t think
I’ll miss it at all.

“Morning.”

Kirsty’s voice
drifts into my consciousness and I crack open an eye, squinting
against the brilliant sun slanting into her guest room. Sitting up
slowly, the events of yesterday replay in my head and I wince,
recalling the hardened expression on Peter’s face when I told him
the truth.

I keep waiting
for a tsunami of emotions to hit, for a sense of loss to sink in .
. . but it just doesn’t. Those months with Peter seem like a life
lived by someone else, not
me
. And I can’t mourn something I
don’t feel connected to.

“What are you
doing home?” I rub my eyes, trying to focus.

“Called in
sick.” Kirsty grins mischievously at me.

“Really?” The
old Kirsty would have gone to the office even if she had dengue
fever.

Kirsty shrugs.
“Yeah. I figured, what’s the point of being labelled a ‘delicate
pregnant woman’ if you can’t capitalise on it every once in a
while? Anyway, I want to hang out with you today.”

My eyes fill
with tears. “Thanks, Kirst.”

I lean back and
look at her properly. A faint swell bulges from under her heavy
cable-knit sweater, and her eyes are sparkling. I give her a quick
hug, pleased to see my friend looking so happy and healthy.

“Shower, get
dressed, and we’ll head over to Peter’s. We can grab all your stuff
and dump it back here. Then” – Kirsty glances outside, where the
sun is almost blinding in the November sky – “I dunno, we’ll get
some fresh air. Celebrate your freedom.” She pumps a fist in the
air. “Sound good?”

“Yeah. Sounds
good.” I slide out of bed and into the shower as Kirsty thumps
downstairs.

An hour later,
after scrubbing myself senseless and downing some very strong
coffee, Kirsty and I are standing in Peter’s flat. It’s strange
being back – already, I feel like I’m invading his personal space.
Not that it’s much different to how I felt when I was living here,
really. It never seemed like my home, too.

My small,
battered suitcase rests almost exactly in the middle of the parquet
floor. It’s the same one I stuffed full of my favourite clothes
when I left Maine for London, eight months ago now. I stare at the
garish
Feed the Hungry
sticker Mom stuck on it, feeling a
tiny thread of connection to the person I was before all this
began.

“That’s
everything?” Kirsty asks in disbelief, eying the tiny suitcase with
its jumble of clothing. In my own little rebellion, I’ve left
behind my hideous clinic wardrobe for Peter to dispose of.

“That’s it.”
God, I can’t believe after several months in London, this is all I
have to show for my life here – exactly what I came with. I’m
surprisingly okay with that, though.