Build a Man (31 page)

“Hang on,
what’s this?” Kirsty picks up something from the sideboard. “It’s
got your name on it, Ser.” She hands me a slim white envelope and I
tear it open, fingers trembling. What could it say? Has Peter
changed his mind? Maybe he wants me to stay? No matter what’s
inside, though, I know we’re not right for each other. We never
were, despite my efforts.

“Oh my God.” My
hollow laugh bounces off the polished floor as I examine the
envelope’s contents.

“What?” Kirsty
leans closer.

“It’s a
cheque,” I say, still unable to believe my eyes. “A cheque for five
thousand pounds” – I scan the accompanying note, written in Peter’s
tight, neat script – “to ensure non-disclosure of any event that
occurred during my time of employment.” I meet Kirsty’s eyes. “In
other words, he’s paying me to keep my mouth shut about the clinic
and my connection to Jeremy.” I shake my head. Does Peter really
think he needs to give me money to keep quiet? Then, guilt hits
full force. Can I blame him? Although I never mean to hurt his
business, I did risk his career and livelihood, and all behind his
back. No wonder he doesn’t trust me now.

“Well, maybe
you should take it,” Kirsty says, shrugging. “God knows, he
certainly didn’t pay you enough for working at that awful
place.”

I stuff the
cheque back in the envelope and prop it up on the sideboard. “No.
No way. I can’t start over living on Peter’s money. And taking it
feels like admitting I
do
need a pay-off to keep my mouth
closed.”

Kirsty pats my
arm. “I understand. Tim and I can loan you whatever you need until
you get back on your feet.” Shuddering, she scans the flat. “Now,
can we go? Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to live here.
It’s like a funeral parlour.”

I can’t help
smiling as I glance around. Now that Kirsty’s pointed it out, I
notice it
does
have the still, solemn air of funeral
homes.

“Peter loved
antiques,” I say, then realise I’ve spoken about him in the past
tense. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I feel like I’m struggling
to breathe.

“Bye, Smitty,”
I call out to wherever he’s scuttled off to. I’m certainly not
going to miss him and his catty ways.

“And goodbye,
Peter,” I say under my breath. I look around the room a final time,
then close the door.

“I never
understood what you saw in him,” Kirsty says as we leave the
building and walk to her house, where we dump my suitcase before
heading into Regent’s Park. The sky is a deep blue, but the
late-November air is freezing and our breath makes clouds. “I never
pictured you with a guy like that.”

We stroll in
silence for a few minutes as I ponder why I
did
stick with
Peter, despite all the signs that we weren’t a good match. “I guess
I thought that’s the kind of man I should be with. You know, to be
in a grown-up relationship.”

Kirsty turns to
face me. “Rigid and boring?”

“Peter’s not
rigid and boring!” I say automatically, then laugh. “Well, okay, he
was. He liked everything just so, and he never wanted to do
anything but work and watch TV.”

Kirsty raises
an eyebrow. “Exactly. I see you with a man who’s down-to-earth. Who
can laugh and joke around, and not take himself too seriously. You
know, someone like Jeremy.”

My head swivels
toward her at the mention of his name. “Like Jeremy?” What is she
talking about?

“I saw how you
two acted around each other. He definitely had a thing for you. And
I can’t help thinking you might have felt the same way?”

“Don’t be
ridiculous!” I say, quickening my pace. Images of Jeremy’s green
eyes and his soft lips drawing ever closer in the kitchen that day
fill my mind, and I can feel heat spreading through my cheeks.

Kirsty shrugs.
“Just sayin'. But think about this: do you want to hear from him so
badly just because you feel guilty, or is it something more?”

The crunch of
the gravel fills my ears as we continue down the path, and I turn
Kirsty’s words over in my head. I
do
feel guilty, obviously.
I’m desperate for the chance to explain everything.

But I miss
Jeremy, too. I miss the easy way we could talk about anything, how
I didn’t feel I had to act a certain way or watch that I didn’t say
anything stupid. A surge of emotion sweeps over me. I sag onto a
nearby bench and look up into Kirsty’s sympathetic face.

“It doesn’t
matter how I feel now, does it? After what I’ve done, it’s clear
Jeremy doesn’t want to talk to me. Not that I blame him.” I press
my hands against my temples, trying to block out memories of Jeremy
lying on the bed, so pale, his eyelid sagging and mouth
twisting.

Kirsty sits
down beside me. “Maybe it’s time to stop beating yourself up over
it. I’m not saying forget about him, but I think you’ve tortured
yourself enough.”

I stare out at
the boating lake, watching a few brave souls manoeuvre across the
water. It’s almost noon, but the shadows are long and the sun is
low in the frosty sky. The trees are dotted with a few brown leaves
clinging to naked branches.

Kirsty’s right:
I’ll never be able to forget Jeremy. I’ve made huge errors of
judgment, hurting those closest to me, and that’s not something I
can shake off easily. But despite the guilt pressing down on me, I
need to accept that as sorry as I am for the mistakes of the past,
I may never be able to get absolution – let alone anything more. My
heart throbs painfully as I picture Jeremy and I laughing together,
the warmth of his hand on mine in the busy street . . .

“So what are
you going to do now?” Kirsty asks. “You know you can stay with us
as long as you need to,” she adds.

“Thanks.” I
touch her arm, grateful for such a wonderful friend. “That’s the
million dollar question. I just don’t know. All I ever thought
about was tabloids. Now that it’s crashed and burned, I have no
idea. I mean, I only have an English Lit degree. It’s not like I’ve
got experience actually
doing
anything.”

“Of course you
do. You’ve got experience writing for one of Britain’s biggest
tabloids,” Kirsty says. “That’s something.”

“There’s no way
Leza would give me a reference,” I respond glumly.

Kirsty rolls
her eyes. “You’re going to let that bitch stop you? If you explain
what happened, it would probably work in your favour.”

“Maybe,” I say.
“All I know is I’ve got to figure out what I want to do, and get
myself on track – for real this time.” However that’s going to
happen.

“Come on.”
Kirsty stands, dragging me up with her. “Let’s go back home, have
some hot chocolate, and watch
Sex and the City
reruns.”

I nod and take
a deep breath, the cold air burning my lungs.

“Let’s go.”

November morphs
into December, and the days fall into a sort of routine, time
marching on toward God knows what end. Kirsty and Tim leave for
work before I get up, so the house is empty and silent when I
finally do roll out of bed. I’m desperate to move forward – to put
time and space between me and the mistakes of the past – but I
haven’t the slightest idea what to do with my future.

Nights of
battling to shut off my brain, waking up in a cold sweat after
operating-room nightmares, and the constant questions hammering
inside my head are beginning to take their toll. I look like a
woman in need of Botox, fillers, and facelifts all rolled into
one.

Every day, I
sit like a zombie in front of the computer, scanning job site after
job site as listings parade in front of me. Assistant manager,
advertising executive, copy editor . . . I’ve read so many
advertisements, I can practically quote them in my sleep. Sadly,
none of this job immersion therapy is making my future any clearer.
Maybe I should try wine therapy, I snort. I probably would, but
given the sad state of my finances, I’d only be able to afford a
thimble-full. I’m down to the last twenty of my final paycheque
Peter mailed through – without a note, or any mention of that five
thousand pound pay-off. It’s like I’m a stranger he’s simply
dismissed from his life.

I’m just about
to raid Kirsty and Tim’s alcohol cabinet when the buzzer sounds.
Who the heck is that? It’s twelve on a weekday, and everyone I know
is gainfully employed.

Peering through
the peep hole, I catch sight of the mailman.

“Hi,” I say,
opening the door. I run a hand through my hair, hoping it isn’t
sticking up too much – in its overgrown state these days, it seems
to have acquired a mind of its own. Serenity v1 has returned full
force.

“Package for
Serenity Holland,” the mailman says in a bored voice, not even
bothering to look at me.

I scrawl my
signature on his electronic keypad and take the bulging envelope,
smiling as I recognise Mom’s familiar scrawl in her favourite
glitter pen. I should have guessed; I gave her this address when I
first came to London and, since I never told her about Peter, it’s
where she still sends all my mail.

Gripping onto
the package, a strange feeling comes over me. I stare down at the
return address, and for the first time since settling in London, I
actually feel homesick. I’m in no hurry to move back to Maine, but
part of me longs for space; for the smell of damp earth and ripe
fruit in the greenhouse; and yes, even the ever-present distant
mooing of cows. I was in such a hurry to leave, I never stopped to
consider I might miss some of it.

Ripping open
the envelope, I slide out a sheaf of papers, along with a
handwritten note.

Dear
Serenity,

I was cleaning
out an old storage closet and came across these. I hope you know
your father and I will always be behind you, no matter what path
you choose. Remember, follow your bliss and the universe will open
doors where there were only walls.

Love and miss
you,

Mom

I roll my eyes
at Mom’s habit of inserting hippie quotes wherever she can. Instead
of sloughing it off without a second thought like usual, though, I
stare at the words in front of me. Follow your bliss and the
universe will open doors where there were only walls
.
I’m
trying! I want to scream. Goddamn it, I’m trying. But I don’t even
know what my ‘bliss’ is. Maybe my future lies in Jaffa Cakes? Which
reminds me, I haven’t had any for ages . . .

Lifting the
incense-scented note, I stare at the stack of yellowed sheets
beneath it. The lined paper is dog-eared, and the smell of mildew
rises in waves. Squinting, I can barely make out the pencilled
letters on the page.

Oh, God. It’s
the monthly newspaper I used to put together for the commune
alumni, back before I’d ever heard of tabloids. I shake my head,
smiling at my eleven-year-old self, as memories of my enthusiasm
run through me.

It had been one
of those wet, windy afternoons in spring and I’d been bored out of
my mind, listening to Mom and her ex-commune buddies drone on and
on about the good old days. Without a TV to plonk me down in front
of, Mom had pushed a paper and pencil into my hands and suggested I
take notes, to keep a record of their memories.

Although it’d
sounded suspiciously like an assignment Mrs Tranter had given us
the year before, there’d been nothing better to do. I’d grabbed the
pencil and started listening, even throwing in some questions of my
own. Before I knew it, I’d been interviewing Mom’s friends – and
they’d been eager to talk to me. I’d loved the heady sense of power
and the feeling that
I
was a conduit to share their
experiences.

I kept up my
commune magazine for almost a year before the evil Clarissa mocked
me for not knowing about Oprah, sending me straight into the heady
sphere of pop culture, celebrity mags, and tabloids.

I lean back on
the sofa now, leafing through the pages. How had I forgotten the
simple joy of just
talking
to people? Of learning new
things, then putting it all together and sharing? Sure, there’d
been an element of that with
Beauty Bits
, but it had got all
distorted and tied up in the quest to make everything as dramatic
as possible.

If it bleeds,
it leads, I think, my mouth twisting in disgust. My desire to be
part of what I thought was a glamorous world overshadowed any joy I
used to feel in writing.

Now, I know I
don’t need to be part of that world. Even more, I don’t
want
to be. But it’s not tabloids or broke: there must be thousands of
community newspapers and magazines all across London where I could
work.

A small current
of excitement stirs within me at the thought of reporting again,
this time without all the guilt and exploitation. Just being able
to write the facts!

Maybe I do know
my bliss, after all. I just hope the universe is listening.

Two weeks
later, I’m sitting in front of Simon Thetford, executive editor of
The British Journal of Continuing Medical Education
(try
saying that in one breath), as he scans my résumé and portfolio.
The office is all done up in various shades of beige, a few wilted
potted plants and tattered Christmas decorations providing the only
splashes of colour. It’s exactly what I didn’t want, back when my
tabloid dreams were alive and kicking. Now, I find the lack of
glitz strangely comforting.

It’s been a
desperate couple of weeks. I’ve applied for job after job –
everything from editorial assistant to writing obituaries – just
waiting for the universe to knock down those walls for me. But
whoever’s in charge obviously had a build-up of wax, because until
now, my appeals have fallen on deaf ears. When Simon Thetford
called a few days ago, I practically drooled my gratitude all over
the phone.