Build a Man (6 page)

When I get
home, the flat is silent. I peel off my damp clothes, throw on the
silk pyjamas Peter bought me (even though he got them a size too
small and the inseam likes to wiggle into places where the sun
don’t shine) then head out to the lounge. Finally, a night when I
can watch whatever TV channel I want without having to feign
interest in some obscure History Channel documentary.

“Serenity?”
Peter sits up on the sofa, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and I
jump. I didn’t even see him there.

“Hi! How was
the dinner?” I walk over to him, surreptitiously tugging down my
pyjama bottoms.

Peter shakes
his head. “Bloody BlackBerry. I got all the way down there, and
then I remembered they’d postponed it this month. I’m sure I keyed
it in but it didn’t come up as rescheduled.”

He looks so
disturbed that I snuggle up to him and rub his back. It’s rare he
does something like this; he’s so meticulously organised he even
has my periods scheduled in his BlackBerry. And I know how much he
looks forward to these dinners. He works hard, and he’s so tired
that he rarely goes out.

“Cup of tea?” I
ask, hoping that might make him feel better. Tea seems to be a
cure-all this side of the Atlantic.

Peter smiles
and squeezes my leg. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

He lumbers into
the bedroom, and I head to the kitchen and switch on the electric
kettle. I put the teabag in the mug, flat against the bottom, then
pour the water so it strikes the centre of the bag. After counting
to twenty, I remove the bag and splash in a teaspoon of milk. It’s
Peter’s tried and true tea method, perfected over years of practice
to result in the ideal cup. And I have to say, it usually does –
for him. I like my tea all milky and weak, more along the lines of
tea-flavoured water. Peter always jokes Americans never appreciate
good tea: just look what they did at the Boston Tea Party.

“Here you go.”
I hand him the steaming mug after he emerges from the bedroom, all
tucked into his robe. He sits back down on the sofa and sips his
drink, and I cuddle in next to him.

“Feeling
better?” I ask, soaking in the heat from his body.

“Yes, thanks.”
Peter takes another sip, then makes a face. “Serenity, did you keep
the teabag in for twenty seconds, like I showed you? This is way
too weak.” Sighing, he strides into the kitchen and I hear the
sound of liquid pouring down the drain, then the rattle of a spoon
against a mug as he makes a new cup. Oh, for God’s sake. I
did
keep the stupid teabag in for twenty seconds.

He’s probably
annoyed about tonight, I tell myself, forcing a smile onto my face
as he comes back into the lounge. I know he doesn’t mean to be
ungrateful for my tea attempt; he’s just a perfectionist.

As Peter drinks
in silence, I lean against his shoulder and nestle into him even
more. Ah, this is nice. The two of us together, the two of us–

With Tony
Robinson? I lift my head as Peter cranks up the volume on a rerun
of
Time Team
. Gosh, we’re on a romantic roll tonight. I
might as well cram a Jaffa into my mouth and blow crumbs. I move
away, tugging down the inseam again as Smitty takes my place on
Peter’s lap.

Still, romance
is over-rated, right? What matters is that you and your partner are
working toward the same goals; that you complement each other’s
‘life path’, as my mother would say. And right now, I can’t imagine
a couple more on track than Peter and me. Even though he doesn’t
know my big news, I feel like we’re partners; that he and the
clinic are helping me reach my dream.

All I need now
is to get Jeremy on-board, and I’ll start my way down the Yellow
Brick Road.

I can – I
will
– make this happen.

“Morning.”

I lift my head
to see Peter beside me on the sofa. He’s already dressed and by the
light streaming through the window, I can tell it’s well past my
usual rising time. Sitting up, I try to remember why I’m in the
lounge – I must have fallen asleep here. I stayed up until late,
trying to figure out something extra to entice Jeremy, along with a
back-up plan in case he says no. I even ventured onto Peter’s
state-of-the-art laptop to Google ‘life coaching’ for some ideas,
but all I could find was some mumbo-jumbo about confidence, setting
goals, and getting clarity. Well, duh. I could have figured that
out. Still, the fact that it’s so nebulous gives me leeway to ask
probing questions. Maybe with the help of wine therapy. It
could
be a valid method. And if it isn’t, it should be.

“Are you all
right?” Peter’s impatient voice interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve got a
meeting with one of our suppliers this morning. Come on; we need to
be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

Even Peter’s
stressy attitude can’t bite into my happy place inside – although
that silly inseam definitely can. Ugh! I tug down my pyjama bottoms
for the umpteenth time. “Give me ten minutes.”

Inside the
bedroom, I throw on the one clean pair of black trousers I have
left and a polyester paisley nightmare of a blouse resembling a
reject from Bozo the Clown’s costume. There’s no time to change
between the clinic and meeting Jeremy tonight, but life coaches are
supposed to be bright and cheery, right? This blouse certainly
meets that criteria.

“I thought
since last night was a dud, we might head out for dinner this
evening. I’ve got a voucher for a new restaurant in Mayfair.”
Peter’s voice floats into the room.

Shit. I’ve been
so busy trying to come up with something to convince Jeremy that I
haven’t even considered how to give Peter the slip tonight. He
often stays at the clinic later than me, and as long as I have the
chicken fillet good to go at seven when he returns, he never asks
what I’ve been up to. Tonight of all nights he wants to go out for
dinner?

“Um . . . !” I
call back, my mind racing as I button the blouse. What to say?
“It’s just” – what’s the one thing Peter has no interest in? –
“I’ve got a special seminar tonight on how to write for tabloids.
You know, making it big in the industry and such.”

As I await his
response, an uncomfortable feeling circles around my empty tummy
(no time for Jaffa love today, sadly). I know my column isn’t going
to hurt the clinic – it might even do great things for it – but it
feels strange keeping something so big from my boyfriend.

“Come on,
Serenity.” I can hear Peter’s long-suffering sigh from here. “Not
tabloids again. If you’re really serious, why don’t you focus on a
real paper?
The Times
or something? Learn the ropes
properly, work your way up. Forget about those silly rags.”

Instantly my
stomach discomfort morphs into irritation. Peter may think tabloids
are silly rags, but millions of people read and love them. And why
would I ‘work my way up’ at the boring
Times
when I’ve got a
big break now – without having to pour someone’s coffee for five
years first?

“Okay, I’m
ready.” I skid across the parquet toward the door, grabbing my coat
from the hooks by the sideboard on the way.

“You’re wearing
that
?” Peter eyes my ensemble as if it’s about to attack.
Given the vibrant colours, I can’t say I blame him. A little
appreciation for getting ready so quickly might be nice, though.
Before I can open my mouth, he heaves another sigh and helps me
into my coat. “Come on, then.”

Ten minutes
later, we’re in front of the clinic. Peter unlocks the door, and I
scurry behind the desk and boot up the computer. It’s only
eight-fifteen – plenty of time to get started on my life-coaching
questions for Jeremy. Because once he agrees, I’ll need to begin
the counselling session straight away. My first undercover
interview! Then I’ll have all night to craft the column before
sending it off to Leza tomorrow morning.

God, I haven’t
the slightest clue exactly what I need to be an effective
undercover reporter. I don’t want to blow my cover the first time
out. What kind of equipment do undercover reporters use? Visions of
me taping a wire to my bits – with Jeremy patting me down to make
sure I’m ‘clean’ – filter through my head. Something flutters in my
belly at the thought of his hands on me, and I quickly open the
internet, telling myself that’s the last time I go without
breakfast.

I type
‘undercover reporting equipment’ into Google then lose myself in
the pages and pages of options. Who knew it was such a big
industry? There’s a beautiful silk scarf wired for digital sound,
and just
look
at the gorgeous stilettos with recorders in
the heels. I squint at the number onscreen. For . . . £1,895. Yeah,
right. Not with the state of my bank account.

Guess I’ll have
to settle for a good old regular voice recorder. That makes sense,
anyway – as a life advisor, I’d have to tape each session to make
notes for my files. I’ll nip over to Oxford Street, buy the
cheapest one possible, then head to Providores to meet with Jeremy.
Done.

My eyes nearly
fall out of my head when I realise it’s quarter to nine and I
haven’t even started on my interview questions. I click open a Word
document and stare at the empty page. If I was a reader, what would
I want to know about Jeremy? I’ll definitely need to get the dirt
on his past; any gory story of despair. Makes sense to ask, too,
given this is our initial life advisory session.

First things
first – I’ll have to get his measurements. I’ll say it’s for my
records, for comparative purposes. Sounds reasonable. Should I
bring a measuring tape? My cheeks flush as I imagine Jeremy facing
me while I stretch my arms around his chest . . . no. No way am I
getting
that
up close and personal. If he doesn’t know his
dimensions off by heart, he can always email them to me later.

Okay. Question
one.

Why do you want to be
a new man?

Boring, yes,
but it’s a start. A chance to get him warmed up, drink some wine,
and maybe gather some background info.

2. Why do you think
you haven’t found the right woman?

Hopefully
there’s a terrible tale of heartache in there. And you never know;
he could have a hidden deformity, like that three-nipple man
The
Daily Planet
featured last month. I live in hope.

3.

Hmm. I’ve
really got to get in there, get the dirt.

3. Will being a new
man make you better in bed?

Throwing in a
bit of sex always captures people’s attention, right? But can I
really ask Jeremy that? Yes. I can. I’m a reporter now. I need to
dig.

4. Why aren’t you
getting
everything
done?

I’ll have to
cast a meaningful glance down below to make sure he gets my
drift.

There’s a
banging at the front of the clinic and I realise I’ve forgotten to
unlock the door. Still five to nine, though, so it’s not like I’m
remiss in my duties. I stare as the door shakes under the force of
whoever’s outside pulling it back and forth.

Bang. BANG! The
whole wall shudders.

“Jeez, take a
chill pill,” I mutter, sliding off the stool and walking – slowly –
over to the entrance. Fitting the key in the lock, I turn it as
quietly as possible, then tiptoe back behind the desk, awaiting the
next round of bangs.

I’ve just
settled onto the stool when Mrs Lipenstein throws herself against
the door and comes crashing into the reception area, almost landing
on the desk.

Ha! That should
teach her. She tugs down her cardigan and straightens her scarf,
throwing me a look like it’s my fault she tried to bust inside
before nine.

“Good morning,”
I say pleasantly. “How can I help you?” I almost smirk as I notice
one of her varnish-lacquered curls has dislodged itself and is now
sticking out over her ear like a wilted antenna.

“Is Dr Lycett
free?” she asks, scanning the room as if he’s hiding in the corner
just waiting for her to find him.

I glance at his
appointment schedule. “No, he’s booked up until one. He can see you
then.”

“But I’m here
now!” Mrs Lipenstein cries. “Can’t I just duck in? I have this
terribly itchy . . .”

She starts
unbuttoning her cardigan and I jerk my head away before she can pop
her crusty nipple out of her sweater. Honestly, I should get trauma
pay working here. When it seems safe to look, I turn toward her.
Thankfully her breast is still covered, but she’s patting it like
it’s Smitty.

“Um, well, let
me just see.” I scurry down the corridor to find Peter, happy to
get away from the boob stroking. Peter always squeezes in extra
patients when he can – it’s money and he keeps everyone content.
But that means the reception area gets clogged with crazed women
demanding they’re next in line, and I’m the one who has to referee.
Let me tell you, they don’t take kindly to being bossed around by
some ‘youngster from the Colonies’.

One time a
fight broke out, plastic nails went flying everywhere, and someone
even lost a hairpiece (we found it a month later, under the sofa,
when Madame Lucien was having one of her dust bunny fits).

“Peter?” I call
softly into the consulting room. He spins around, wearing those
horn-rimmed glasses that make him look so smart. “Mrs Lipenstein
wants to know if you can see her now.”

“Sure, sure,”
he says. “Send her in.”

“You have Mrs
Clarke at nine.” Mrs Clarke hates waiting and pretends to faint if
it’s longer than five minutes.

Peter makes an
impatient noise. “That’s fine, just send her in.”

I head back to
reception. “He says to go on through.” Sheesh, she’s still touching
her breast.

Mrs Lipenstein
shoots me a look. “Of course he does,” she says as she glides by
me, like I’m an idiot for having to check first.