Build a Man (4 page)

“Dream it, live
it,” I whisper, repeating my mother’s favourite mantra. Whenever I
was faced with anything I doubted, Mom would smile, throw back her
braids, and repeat those words over and over.

Dream it, live
it. I’m not going to give up. All I need is just one foot in the
door. If Leza doesn’t respond by the end of the day, there’s always
Metro.
I try to push down the hard knot of disappointment,
heart sinking even more as I spot that the first patient today is
none other than the hideous Madame Lucien (or Madame Lucifer, as I
like to call her). I’m
so
not in the mood for her antics. If
there’s a speck of dust that dares settle on a nearby surface, she
sputters like she’s going to throw up a lung, rolling her eyes back
into her head in a most unattractive way. Peter had to tell her to
stop hacking so much or her recent ear-pinning might come
loose.

But the
funniest thing is, she refuses to acknowledge my existence – even
to pay!

She swans in,
gets Botoxed to the eyeballs, then walks out without even looking
at me. The first time it happened, I chased her into the street,
banging on the dark windows of her car. She rolled down the window
and – eyes firmly fixed on a spot over my shoulder – told me to
take up ‘the matter’ with her assistant. My jaw nearly hit the
ground. Back in Harris, we call that
stealing
.

Still, she can
provide a bit of entertainment. I try my best sometimes to hunt
down a mega dust-bunny, strategically place it just peeping out
from under the sofa, then await the explosion. And I always ask her
to pay – loudly, exaggerating my accent – even though she totally
blanks me each time.

What can I say?
It’s the little things that get me through the day.

After Madame
Lucien, I’ll have a bit of a breather, perfect for reading my
favourite websites:
Gawker
,
Heat
,
The Daily
Planet
, and, of course,
Metro
. If I’m feeling more
upmarket I might hit
Hello!
and maybe click onto the
Guardian
and
The New York Times
so I can feel my
university degree wasn’t in vain.

The door opens
and in sweeps Madame Lucien, wearing her ridiculously large dark
glasses. She walks right by me and sinks into a chair at the far
end of the waiting room. Of course she can’t breathe the same air
as me.

“Hello, Madame
Lucien!” I say, smiling like I’ve just devoured a whole packet of
Jaffa Cakes. The bigger the Botox Bitch, the sweeter I try to be.
It’s my passive-aggressive way of showing they won’t break me.

Madame Lucien
lifts her head a fraction of an inch and gives it a little shake,
like she’s not quite sure where that strange noise is coming
from.

I’M OVER HERE!
I want to yell.

“I trust you
had a pleasant journey?” I say instead, like she’s come from
Siberia not Mayfair.

No response.
God, I do wish I’d tracked down that dust bunny.

“Oh,
bonjour
, Doctor,” Madame Lucien says as Peter comes into the
reception area. She raises her sunglasses and stands, kissing Peter
on both cheeks.

I shake my head
at the transformation in her behaviour. Of course she’s nice to
him
. Who wouldn’t be? He’s about to inject acids and
paralytic bacteria into her face. I’d be nice to Hannibal Lecter if
he was going to do that to me.

“Come, Madame
Lucien.” Peter takes her arm, escorting her into his room as if
she’s the Queen. I snort. The Queen of the Botox Bitches, more
like.

As I plonk back
down on the stool, my eyes flick to my email and I nearly fall
over. There’s a response. From Leza Larke! My heart almost pounds
itself right out of my chest, and the Jaffa Cakes I’ve eaten for
breakfast shift uncomfortably. Part of me wants to let the email
sit there, bolded black, and hang on to the possibility that it
could be a
yes
. The beginning of my tabloid career, right
there in my inbox.

When I can bear
it no more, I take a breath and double-click the email.

Interesting.
Call me.

I stare at the
words, grinning like an idiot. Leza Larke thinks my pitch is
interesting. Leza Larke wants me to call her!

I breathe in a
few more times to steady myself then creep down the corridor.
Peter’s door is closed and I can hear him telling Madame Lucien not
to worry if she can still move her forehead; the Botox may take a
while to set. Based on my experience, it’ll be a good ten minutes
or so before she’s convinced, so I’m safe to make my call.

Settling back
on the stool, I get out my mobile and punch in the number in Leza’s
email signature.

“Leza,” a voice
barks after one ring.

“Hi, Leza? It’s
Serenity Holland?” God, I sound like I’m ten.

“Who?”

“Um, I just
sent you a pitch? About the man and cosmetic surgery . . .” My
voice trails off.

“Oh yes. Sounds
interesting. Here’s what I’m thinking.”

My heart is
beating so fast I can barely take in her bullet-like phrases.

“We’re
launching a health and beauty website called
Beauty Bits
on
Friday, and we still need content. I’d like you to write a column
on this man; follow his progress. A blow-by-blow account of the
whole thing.”

“Okay!” I
squeak. Breathe.
Breathe
.

“I want you to
write about more than the surgery stuff. This man will undergo an
all-round transformation, courtesy of our readers.”

“Courtesy of
our readers?” I echo, wondering what she means.

“Yeah. We’ll
use polls to have them choose what this bloke does to himself.
Dress him up in a tux, design his stubble, cut his hair, whatever.
They’ll select his new body parts, too. We’ll let them think that,
anyway – don’t worry too much about what he actually does; that
doesn’t matter. It’s all about having the readers
feel
like
they’re in control. We’ll call the column
Build a Man
.”

“Wow. Great
idea.” Now I sound like a bleating goat.

“We don’t have
a budget for freelancers. So you won’t be paid. But if your columns
get a lot of hits and you can keep up the pace, we
may
consider you for a junior position on staff.”

“That’s fine.
That’s awesome! Thank you.” I’m practically panting down the phone
as visions of my byline float through my head.

“I’ll send you
the details; have our online editor get in touch to talk about word
count and technical specs. We’ll see how the first column goes and
take it from there. Get this man to talk about why he wants a
makeover, his background and history. Oh, and make sure to get his
measurements, too, so we can do a before and after graph. Can you
get me the text by Thursday?”

I gulp. It’s
Tuesday now, and Jeremy won’t be in again until next week. Still,
I’ve got his phone number on the client sheet. I’ll get him
on-board somehow. I’ve got to. “Yes, that’s fine. No problem.”

“Great. Oh, and
I think it’s best if you don’t tell him you’ll be writing about
him,” Leza says. ‘To let him fully engage with you.”

“Um, what do
you mean, don’t tell him?” I ask tentatively. How can I interview
someone without them knowing?

Leza makes an
impatient noise. “You know, go undercover. Just say – well, I don’t
care what you say; that’s your problem. Look, for this column to
work, you need him to let down his guard and give you intimate
access.”

My cheeks flush
at ‘intimate access’ and I nod before realising she can’t see
me.

“And sometimes,
if people find out you’re writing about them, they get greedy and
ask for cash. We don’t
have
cash. You’ll need to write under
a different name, of course. Keep the clinic confidential, too. The
last thing we want is another lawsuit.” She hangs up before I can
say anything more.

Oh my God.
Oh my God!
I’m going to be a reporter for
The Daily
Planet
. I’ll have my own column! Okay, it’s not print. It’s not
paid. And since I’ll be undercover, I won’t have a byline in my own
name. But I could eventually.

A thrill of
excitement and nerves hits me as I think about going undercover,
and an image of me in a cute fedora and trench coat goes through my
mind. Serenity Holland, working incognito, to get the inside scoop
on surgery . . . and stuff.
Awesome
.

Thank God I
won’t need to get Jeremy – or Peter – to agree to this. I’m sure
they both would have, of course, but I’ll keep everything
anonymous. If I’m careful, there’s no way anyone will be able to
identify Peter, Jeremy or the clinic. And ‘careful’ will be my new
middle name. Anything’s better than Joy.

Determination
floods through me, and I grip onto the desk to steady myself. This
is it – the beginning of my dream.

Bring on Build
a Man.

It’s six
o’clock, and the clinic is empty and silent. Today has been the
longest ever, and when your typical workday feels like you’ve been
forced to endure
Schindler's List
a good twenty times,
that’s really saying something. I’m desperate for a bit of head
space to cook up a scheme to meet Jeremy. Every time a second of
quiet descended, though, a Botox Bitch walked in, poking at her
face like it was damaged goods and demanding to see the doctor.

One woman even
had an anxiety attack as she explained how a freckle on her nose
caused her husband’s affair. As if. I almost told her it’s because
she’s psycho, but I held my tongue. I need this job now for my
column.

I hug myself
and shiver with glee. My column. I’ve got a column!
If
I can
construct a plausible story to gain ‘intimate access’ to Jeremy,
that is. My cheeks heat up again at the words.

“Ready to head
out?” Peter emerges from the consulting room carrying his suit
jacket and wearing a crisp white shirt, all ready to meet up with
the other cosmeticians. A cloud of Hugo Boss cologne surrounds
him.

“You look
great,” I say. Between working with him and living together, it’s
easy to forget how handsome he is, in a dignified, ‘I’m-a-doctor’
sort of way. With his perfectly cut dark hair and strong, even
features, he could step right into one of those sitcoms featuring
the perfect husband. The thing is, he really
is
the perfect
husband – or partner, anyway. I’m the one who’s always messing up,
forgetting the milk and leaving things lying all over the place.
He’s so organised and controlled, whereas I, well, I’m a bit of a
walking tornado, no matter how hard I try to be otherwise. You’d
think after almost six months together, I’d have got more of a grip
on myself by now.

I shake my
head. Sometimes, I can’t believe we’re actually
together
. My
mind flips back to our first kiss, right here behind the reception
desk. Peter had wanted to get a closer look at the skin by my eyes
to see how it was aging (yes, so romantic, I know. You don’t see
that in the movies). I remember the smoothness of his hand as he
cupped my chin; his lemony cologne filling my nostrils . . . the
warmth of his lips on mine. I’d almost pulled back in shock – this
was my boss, after all. I could hardly believe such an accomplished
man would be interested in me, Serenity Holland from Harris. But he
was, and our kisses progressed to ‘making sweet music with our
bodies’, as Mom would say. Even though our relationship rarely left
the confines of the clinic or Peter’s flat, I’d been heady with
excitement at a burgeoning romance with a posh, successful British
man.

When Peter had
noticed me looking at flat listings on the internet a few weeks
later (I’d already crashed at Kirsty’s far longer than I should
have), he suggested I move in with him until I found something
suitable. I’d jumped at the chance, of course. Moving in seemed so
grown-up, and I couldn’t get my stuff there quickly enough. It was
a
slight
adjustment at first; I think Peter believed I was
the same relatively tidy, efficient person outside the clinic as I
was inside. Not wanting to burst his bubble, I tried very hard to
put everything in its place and contain my inner slob. Anyway, I
wanted to be as organised and controlled as Peter. That was what
being a real adult was all about, right? Several months later, and
I’m still there. Short-term has morphed into permanent.

Peter comes
behind the reception desk and pulls me against him. “So, how’s the
writing lark today?”

I swallow; I
was hoping to get him off to dinner without having to answer that.
So much excitement is coursing through me, I feel like I’m about to
burst. But as much as I’m dying to tell Peter about my potential
professional coup – my shot at the big time – it’s definitely
better if he’s in the dark. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt
him.

Peter’s always
moaning how he’s just as experienced as any of those big-name
doctors on
Botox or Bust
, so on the teeny, tiny, miniscule
chance someone
did
find out, this could only be good for his
reputation as a surgeon.

I smile up at
him, picturing his grateful, admiring gaze if the details ever did
get revealed.

“Thank you,
Serenity,” he would croon, leaning down to kiss me in front of a
packed waiting room, all filled with royalty and B (no, A) list
celebs awaiting his expertise. “Thank you for elevating me and my
clinic to such heights. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’d better
push off,” Peter says now, thankfully not noticing my lack of
response. “Got to be at The Ivy in a half hour.”

“Have fun,” I
say, although fun is the last thing anyone could have at The Ivy.
The food is to die for, but the atmosphere is so stiff and formal.
Peter took me there once when we first started going out. I dropped
a fork, and from the look on the waiter’s face, you’d think I’d
castrated Prince William.