Build a Man (5 page)

While Peter
fiddles with the lock on the door, I shove Jeremy’s file with his
phone number into my bag. Outside on the busy street, Peter flags
down a cab then kisses me quickly and climbs in.

I hurry down
the pavement. I can’t wait to be home, have a look over Jeremy’s
file, then conjure up a plan to meet and start his transformation.
Lucky man!

Smitty comes
running when I enter the flat, gives me a foul look when he notices
Peter’s not with me, and stalks off again. God, you’d think the
fact that I rescued him from a filthy life in a London skip would
entitle me to
something
. But ever since Peter’s taken on the
cat as his own personal pedigree project – even naming him after
Jurgen Schmidt, a German doctor who pioneered eyelash transplant
surgery or whatever – Smitty barely deigns to look in my
direction.

I grab Jeremy’s
file and dump my bag on the floor, then plop down on the sofa.
Leafing through his consultation form, my eyes pop when I notice
Jeremy’s ticked almost everything. I can’t help looking to see if
there’s anything related to the penile area. Nothing. Hmm, must
mean he
is
fairly well endowed – guess sex isn’t the reason
he hasn’t found someone. For a second, I can’t help picturing him
in bed, his green eyes staring down into mine . . .

I flip back to
the front of the document, tapping my pen against it as I try to
come up with a reason to meet. I could say we need more
information, but that could be easily solved over the phone – and
there’s more than enough personal details in front of me. Anyway, I
need something to start a lasting relationship with my subject.
Pride shoots through me and I sit up straight. My
subject
.
Finally!

How about a
special fashion service from the clinic? New clothes to match your
new nose? I glance down at my boring outfit. Um, no. Not exactly
believable, given my obvious lack of fashion credentials. But maybe
something similar; something that would let me into Jeremy’s world
and justify a bit of prying – all to help him, of course. Maybe . .
. a life advisory service? Transforma Life: creating a new life to
match the new you.

Yes – that’s
it. We could do a little fashion, like Leza suggested, but I’d also
get the chance to delve into Jeremy’s past, work on his
personality, and make him into my ideal man. My
readers’
ideal man, that is. This life advisory thing is inspired, if I do
say so myself.

To celebrate, I
amble over to the kitchen and grab a handful of Jaffa Cakes.
Hastily chomping through their orangey goodness, I clear my throat,
pick up my cheapo plastic mobile, and call Jeremy’s number. As an
official reporter now, I really should get one of those fancy
iPhones.

“Hello?”
Jeremy’s voice interrupts all thoughts of a shiny new gadget.

“Hi, Jeremy.
It’s Serenity Holland, from the clinic.” I try to make my voice
smooth and professional, but an errant Jaffa crumb makes me
sputter. I hold my hand over the phone and cough to dislodge
it.

“Oh, yes. Is
something wrong? Do you need more information?”

Suddenly I
don’t want to launch into my Transforma Life sales pitch over the
phone. It would be more convincing in person, right?

“Um, yes,
actually,” I fib, guilt pinging my gut. “It would be better to meet
up. Are you free this evening?”

“Yes, I’m
free.” Jeremy’s voice is glum. “What time should I come by the
clinic?”

Oh, shit.
“We’re having some work done there tonight,” I say, wondering where
on earth that lie sprang from, “so we’ve closed early. Can you meet
me at Providores on Marylebone High Street?” Providores is my and
Kirsty’s favourite haunt. They’ve got great tapas and lots of good
wine. That should help Jeremy relax, settle into the idea. “Say,
around eight?”

“Sure.” He
sounds a bit brighter. “See you there soon.”

I hang up and
throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, exactly what Jeremy was
wearing yesterday. It’s a mirroring technique Kirsty taught me, way
back when I actually thought at least
one
tabloid would call
me for an interview. Dress how you think your interviewer will
dress; mimic their actions. If they touch their chin, you touch
yours. And so on. I draw the line if Jeremy scratches his groin,
though.

After pouring
some organic food mixed with meds in a bowl for Smitty, I slip on
my favourite trainers. It’s seven-thirty, and I want to get to
Providores before Jeremy. Claim the space, assert my dominance –
another tip from Kirsty, that time in relation to blind dating. I
went through a blind-dating phase when I first moved to London, in
a desperate bid to widen my social circle beyond Kirsty and Tim.
After two weeks and five dates – one with a man who turned up
lugging an antique bow and a full set of arrows – I discovered the
London blind-dating scene is full of lunatics.

Thank God for
Peter, I think, shaking my head. Who would have thought I’d end up
with a doctor? My last boyfriend worked in a corner store on Main
Street – not that there’s anything wrong with that, but when your
number one ambition is selling last Easter’s Cadbury Creme Eggs, it
might
be time to move on. Last I heard, he’d been promoted
to night manager.

I race out of
the building and down to Marylebone High Street, past the Waitrose
where I once spotted Alan Rickman (so hot, even if he does play an
evil teacher) and open the door to the cosy confines of Providores.
To my surprise, Jeremy’s already there, hunched over a magazine,
with an almost-empty bottle of wine on the table. He doesn’t waste
time, does he?

“Hello.” I
swing into the chair opposite him, knocking the table by accident.
The bottle of wine sways back and forth in slow motion before
tipping over and spilling its contents into Jeremy’s lap.

“Oh my God! I’m
so sorry.” I stand and pull some tissue from my bag, pressing it
down hard on his thighs to try to absorb as much wine as possible
from his jeans.

Well done, I
berate myself. Sneaking a look at Jeremy’s face, I almost do a
double-take when I realise he’s smiling. If it was Peter, he’d be
ready to kill me right about now.

“It’s okay,
it’s okay.” Jeremy takes the tissue from my hand and gently pushes
me away from his crotch area. (That’s a first.) “Just relax. It’ll
dry.”

“I’m so sorry,”
I babble. “Do you want me to grab a cloth for you? You should get
as much out as you can.”

Jeremy shrugs.
“Naw. Don’t worry. I live around the corner anyway. I’ll just throw
them in the washing machine as soon as I get home.” He motions to
the waiter for another bottle. “Come on, sit down. Relax.”

I sink
carefully into my seat. “You live nearby? Me, too.”

“Yeah, I’m just
on Welbeck, down the street.” Jeremy waves a hand in the air. “Your
clinic was so close, I figured I’d give you a try. I’m happy I
did.” He smiles. “I was really depressed, and you cheered me up.
Well, you and the thought of a new nose.” He taps his nose as if
it’s behaved poorly.

I almost say he
doesn’t need a new nose, but I snap my mouth closed just in time.
Who am I to tell someone what they need and what they don’t? That
will be up to the women of Great Britain when they vote in the
poll.

“So.” Jeremy
pours me a large glug of wine then fills his own glass. “Why did
you want to meet?”

I take a
mouthful of liquid, swallow, then breathe in. “Okay. Well.” I put
on the life-affirming, bushy-tailed expression I imagine every life
coach employs. “So here’s the thing. For a select group of clients,
Transforma offers our life advisory service. And I’m thrilled to
report that you’ve been chosen.” God, I sound like I’ve swallowed a
whole pharmacy of happy pills.

Jeremy’s brow
does a cute crinkly thing. “A life advisory service? What’s that,
exactly?”

“A new life to
match the new you,” I chirp. “How to dress, how to date, how to
turn yourself into the ideal man, both inside and out.” I can feel
my face turning red as I hold his eyes.

“Serenity, what
are you on about?” he asks with a lovely lopsided grin. “I don’t
need a new life. I just need a new face.” He grimaces, as if an
unpleasant memory has come to mind.

“Yes, that’s a
typical response,” I say knowingly. “Many patients don’t realise it
takes
more
than a new appearance to make one happy with
oneself. That’s why we, at the Transforma Harley Street Clinic,
undertake a global approach, helping our clients become the person
they’ve always wanted by working with them on everything from
wardrobe to waistline. Because, you know,” – I lower my voice
dramatically – “you can’t embrace your future without understanding
your past.” God! Where the hell is all this spewing from? And is
that cheesy infomercial voice mine?

“Well, I
could
use some help with my wardrobe, I guess.” Jeremy looks
down at his wine-stained jeans. “But I don’t know about the rest of
it. I’d rather forget the past, to be honest.” His face twists, and
I can’t help wondering what he’s so keen to forget. I’ll find out
soon enough – if I can pull this off.

I nod
understandingly. “I know. A lot of people feel that way before they
start. But it’s a very rewarding process, and when it’s over I can
guarantee you’ll be happy with the results.” More than happy,
actually. He’ll be the man of every woman’s dreams.

“Anyway, my
methods are very relaxed. Some have even called them
ground-breaking,” I say in a desperate bid to convince him.

“Ground-breaking, huh? What exactly do you do?”

“Well . . .” My
mind works frantically. “We start with a complete clothing
analysis. What does your wardrobe say about you, your hopes and
your dreams? What do you want it to say?” I risk a glance in his
direction, and he’s nodding slowly. “Then, we move on to, er,” – my
gaze falls onto the bottle on the table – “wine therapy.”

“Wine therapy?”
Jeremy raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, you
know. In
vino veritas.
” Or whatever that saying is. “It’s a
method used to ensure complete relaxation, developed by Ziggy, um,
Moyles.” Christ. I hold my breath that Jeremy’s bought it.

“Well, that
doesn’t sound
so
bad,” he says. “Is there an extra fee
involved?”

He’s going to
go for it! “No, no, of course not,” I respond. “If you purchase
over five thousand pounds of surgery, the life service is
complimentary.”

“Give me some
time to think about it,” Jeremy says. “I hear what you’re saying
about the past and all. It’s just, well, I’m quite a private
person. I’m not sure I’m ready to start sharing it, with wine or
without.”

My heart starts
beating faster. How much time will he need? The first column is due
in two days. And what if he doesn’t agree? “Don’t worry. I’ll be
gentle with you.” For some reason, my cheeks heat up.

“You seem too
nice to be otherwise.” Jeremy’s face is reddening, too.

“Why don’t we
meet back here tomorrow, around six-thirty? You can tell me then.”
That won’t give me much time to pull together the article, but I’ll
work at the speed of light if I have to. I grab my wine glass and
drain it, trying to wash away the tension. I feel like I’m about to
keel over from the stress of it all.

“Sure, okay.”
Jeremy tilts his head to the side. “Where are you from,
anyway?”

If I had a
dollar for everyone who’s asked me that, I’d be a rich woman.

“Maine. It’s
right across the Atlantic Ocean, just up the coast from Boston.” I
launch into my standard answer because few Brits ever seem to have
heard of my home state. I’m not surprised – there’s not a lot going
on there.

Jeremy nods. “I
know where it is. I haven’t been, but I imagine it’s beautiful
countryside.”

Images of trees
and lakes flash through my head and for a split second, I feel
homesick. Until I remember how I was about to gnaw off my arm with
boredom.

“So you’re a
life advisor and a receptionist? Busy lady.”

I wave a hand.
“Oh, receptionist. Well, it’s a great way to assess clients right
from the get-go, you know? You can learn a lot from how people
carry themselves when they first walk in. Plus, since our advisory
service is only for select clients at the moment, the receptionist
position helps top up my salary.”

“I hope Dr
Lycett knows how lucky he is to have you,” Jeremy says.

“Um, yeah, he
does.” I think. I hope, anyway. For some reason, I don’t feel right
telling him Peter’s my boyfriend.

“Good. He seems
a decent bloke. Really professional; thorough.” Jeremy gets to his
feet, laughing as he looks down at the red splotches decorating the
front of his jeans.

“I’m so sorry,”
I say again. “If you want, I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”

“Dry cleaning?
For jeans?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I kind of thought it was
crazy, too, but Peter gets all his jeans done, so I figured it must
be a London thing. Oh God, I must remember to pick up the dry
cleaning tonight! Thank goodness they’re open twenty-four hours, a
fact that always makes me laugh. Who’s going to need a freshly
laundered shirt at three in the morning? I love that some shops
stay open around the clock here, though. In Harris, you’d be lucky
to see a car on the road past ten.

“No, don’t
worry. I’m good,” Jeremy says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you.” I
focus on his back as he leaves, sending ‘Do it! Do it!’ thoughts
into his head with all my might. He
has
to agree – how on
earth am I going to get access to his life if he doesn’t?

“Miss? Anything
else?” A waiter hovers over me.

“No,” I say,
standing. All I really need is to get Jeremy signed up. If he says
no tomorrow . . . I’ll come up with something. Somehow.

I push through
the narrow tables and head into the street toward the dry
cleaner’s. It’s quiet and dark now, and a fine drizzle is drifting
through the air. I scrabble in my pocket for the dry cleaning
ticket, then go inside and collect Peter’s tie and shirts. Nothin’
says lovin’ like starched collars.