Build a Man (8 page)

My mouth
stretches in a giant yawn. I couldn’t start working on my article
until Peter went to bed, so I was up until all hours, reviewing the
sound files and trying to craft a perfect article of around five
hundred words to meet the contributors’ guidelines the online
editor emailed through.

It’s a solid
piece of writing, if I do say so myself. I tweak a few words here
and there, spell check for the zillionth time, then take a deep
breath and email it to Leza.

I drift into a
daydream where she emails me back, thanking me for my wonderful
contribution and offering me a job at the paper.

You deserve to
be in print, she says, handing me a juicy contract to sign . .
.

My head jerks
up as I nearly slide off the stool. I open my eyes wide, trying to
stay alert. Honestly, as much as I hate the Botox Bitches,
sometimes the dead times here are the worst. I tried to convince
Peter to let me play the radio or Hotel Costes; something funky to
keep me awake. Instead, he came back from the Pound Shop with
wailing whales and annoyingly chirpy birds. I much prefer silence
to the sounds of animals getting it on.

Shaking my head
to clear the fog, I glance up at the clock. Thank goodness it’s
finally eleven – now I can call Mom and Dad and fill them in on the
good news. It’s only six in the morning in Maine, but my parents
get up super early for their ‘greet the sun’ ritual, or whatever
they call it. I swear, the older they get, the more hippie they
become.

When I first
told them I wanted to move to London to pursue my reporting dreams
(I didn’t mention the word ‘tabloid’; to them it’s worse than
capitalism), they were behind me one hundred percent, chattering on
about all the great socialist papers I could work for. But as time
marched on and no such jobs materialised, their enthusiasm waned.
Just last week, Mom asked if I’d think about coming home. But now I
can confirm Mom’s ‘dream it, live it’ mantra works in foreign
environments, too.

I’ll keep the
undercover bit to myself, though. There’s no need for them to know
all the little details, and Mom’s always said that if you feel the
need to do something in secret, you probably shouldn’t be doing it
at all. Obviously that doesn’t apply to undercover reporting, but I
don’t feel like having to explain.

“Hello?” Mom’s
calm voice comes through the receiver, and I can’t help smiling
already, just imagining her joyous reaction.

“Hi, Mom.” I
tap my foot against the chair, bursting with my news.

“Serenity! Hi,
honey. Let me get Dad on the line. He’s just out back.” She puts
down the phone and I hear her bellowing for my father.

There’s a click
as he picks up the extension they installed recently in their
hydroponic greenhouse. Since they’ve only just managed to get the
hang of an answering machine, a mobile is a step too far. “Lesley,
these plants need more solar power. I thought you turned it up
yesterday.”

Mom sighs.
“Dear, Serenity’s on the phone.”

“Oh, Serenity.
Still saving the world, one cosmetic surgery at a time?” Dad’s tone
is light, but I know how he really feels about my place of
employment: ‘a cauldron of all that’s wrong with the modern world’,
or something along those lines.

Good thing I
never told them I was shacking up with the head warlock. Not that
they’d mind the living together bit – they’re all for free love –
but in their view of the world, Peter is the living, breathing
definition of ‘the man’.

“Well,
actually, guess what? I’m going to be a reporter. I got a job!” I
catch sight of my face in the mirror. I’m grinning like an idiot,
but I don’t care.

“Oh!” Mom lets
out an excited squeak. “I knew it would happen, Serenity. Dream it,
live it – that’s all you needed to do. What’s the name of the
paper?’

“Um . . .” I
pause, wondering if I should tell them. As happy as they might be
about my job, they definitely won’t be thrilled it’s a tabloid.

My mind flashes
to the moment Mom caught me reading
Teen People,
right after
Clarissa Dixon teased me mercilessly in front of the whole sixth
grade when she discovered I’d never heard of Oprah. (What can I
say? We had no TV.) With a look of sorrow and disappointment as if
her beloved tomatoes had dry rot, Mom had sat me down, taken my
hand, and explained in her soft voice that today’s society is
shallow and vacant, and we should look inside ourselves for
validation. I had no idea what she was talking about then, and even
now I’m not sure.

Mom and Dad
won’t know
The Daily Planet
is a tabloid, though. They
wouldn’t recognise one if it walked up to them and introduced
itself. Heck, until I saved enough for a TV in my room (no way
would anyone accuse me of being a freak ever again), the only bit
of pop culture in our house was an ancient, scratched record by
John Lennon.

“It’s called
The Daily Planet
,” I say finally, grateful for once for the
distance between us. They’ll never be able to find out what it
really is.

“
The Daily
Planet
,” Mom repeats in a reverential tone.

“What’s the
paper’s political leanings?” Dad asks.

“Um . . .
socialist.”
The Daily Planet
is sort of socialist, isn’t it?
It’s about society and all. “But my column’s not going to be in the
paper itself,” I add, before they ask me to send a thousand copies.
“It’ll be on a website.” Thank goodness my parents don’t own a
computer.

“That’s just
groovy,” Dad says. I cringe at his use of the word – no matter how
many times I tell him it’s a cliché, he won’t stop saying it. “Your
mother and I are so happy you’re doing your part for the
cause.”

“Yeah,” I
respond weakly, hoping they don’t find out exactly what part I’m
playing.

Peter walks by
the desk, grimacing when he spots me on the phone. My heart starts
thumping and I cast a sidelong glance to see if he’s overheard
anything. His nose is buried in a patient file, and he doesn’t even
turn my way. God, I’ve got to remember to be careful.

“I should go,”
I say, using Peter as an excuse to hang up before my parents ask
for more details. I tell them I’ll call later, and say goodbye.
Somehow, all my excitement at sharing the big news has faded
away.

Sighing, I turn
back to the computer. They
will
be proud of me, once I
really make it big. And maybe then, I can even write a few articles
on homeless people or . . . whatever the burning social issues of
the day are here in London. Strange – I can name almost all the
members of the British Royal Family and Elton John’s pet dogs, but
I have no idea what challenges face the nation’s citizens.

At least Kirsty
knows what a massive break this is for me, landing a column on a
tabloid’s website – unpaid or not. She’ll understand I need to do
whatever it takes to make it happen. I’m dying to call her, but
this kind of thing demands a face-to-face, and I can’t risk Peter
walking by again. He wants to watch some TV programme tonight about
a king who had eight wives, so instead of hanging around feeling
bored and drinking too much wine, I’ll head over to her house.

I’ve just
slurped down my tasty lunch of Pot Noodles when my email pings. My
heart jumps when I spot Leza Larke’s name in the inbox.

I click on the
message.

Come see me
this afternoon. I’m free at one.

Shit. SHIT!
What does this mean? She hates my column? I’m through before I’ve
begun? Or she loves it and my dream is about to come true? My eyes
flick to the signature of her email. Her office is all the way over
in Notting Hill Gate. There’s no question – I need to get there.
But how can I leave here?

I glance at the
appointment schedule. There’s a patient at one for Botox, and
another at one-thirty for hyaluronic acid injections, then no one
again until three. Peter can handle it, I’m sure. I just need to
come up with a plausible excuse. I could say . . . I have cramps?
But no, Peter knows I’m nowhere near my period. Stupid
BlackBerry.

The only thing
I can think of is Smitty. If I say I forgot to feed him – or even
worse, I neglected to mix his anti-anxiety medication into his
stinky food – Peter
might
let me leave. Then, once I’m free,
I can make up something about why it took me so long to get back
here. I press my fingers to my temples to try to ease the pounding.
All this subterfuge is doing my head in – either that or it’s the
wine from last night.

Sliding off the
stool, I walk down the corridor to Peter’s office. “Peter? Can I
talk to you?”

“Sure.” He
points to the chair across from his desk. For a second I almost
feel like a patient.

“I’m really
sorry. I just remembered I forgot to feed Smitty his
medication.”

Peter’s head
snaps up from the computer screen. “You
what
? Serenity, it’s
almost half past twelve now! You were supposed to give him the meds
hours ago. This could have a severe impact on his mental condition
and the dosage level in his system.”

“I know,” I
respond gravely, but I can’t help wondering what planet Peter’s on.
Smitty is a
cat
, not a psychiatric patient. Back home, our
cats were lucky if they got de-wormed, let alone fed Prozac. “I
feel terrible.”

“Well, you’d
better get back home. I can handle reception until you return.”
Peter turns to the computer, dismissing me.

“There are only
a couple appointments anyway.” Relief at my easy getaway floods
through me as I back toward the open doorway. “Just check the
schedule, and go out to reception to collect the women when it’s
time.”

“Fine, fine.”
Peter waves one hand in the air and clicks the mouse with the
other. “It’s hardly rocket science, is it?”

Irritation
sweeps over me as I rush out front. I’d love to tell Peter I’m on
my way to bigger and better things, but I squash down the desire.
Peter wouldn’t think a tabloid is a ‘better thing’, anyway.

I scribble down
the address of
The Daily Planet
, then push out of the clinic
without a backward glance. Time to meet the maker or breaker of my
dreams.

One hot and
sweaty Tube ride later – I’m always amazed how many people are on
the Tube during the day; don’t they have jobs to go to? – I emerge,
blinking into the light of Notting Hill Gate. A chip wrapper swirls
into the air and smacks into my face. I push it away, hoping I
don’t have the remains of chips in my hair. I like salt ‘n’ vinegar
as much as the next girl (possibly more), but it’s not the kind of
look I want when I first meet Leza.

All the way
down the Central Line, I rehearsed scenarios in my head. Now that
I’m here, though, my brain has gone into fuzzy-TV-screen mode. I
wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, praying the clamminess doesn’t
have time to seep back again before I shake hands. Or will I even
shake hands? Maybe I should kiss; that’s what all the media people
do, right? One cheek or two? My heart starts pounding again.

Ah, here it is.
I stop in front of a modern glass and steel building, exactly what
I envisioned in my tabloid dreams. Tugging open the door, I walk
into the light and airy reception area. Modern art lines the walls
– the kind that makes me feel dumb because as hard as I try, I just
can’t see how it’s art – and water cascades silently behind the
reception desk.

“Hi!” I say to
a perfectly groomed man, my voice echoing around the foyer. “I’m
here to see Leza Larke. I have an appointment at one.” Gosh, I
sound so official, don’t I? A real journalist, meeting with one of
London’s top editors.

“Here.” The man
slaps a crimson ‘Visitor’ sticker on the counter. “Fill this out.
Leza’s on the fifth floor. I’ll tell her you’re on the way.”

“Great,
thanks.” I scrawl my name then fix the badge on the waistband of my
skirt, attempting to minimise its impact. Striding over to the
lift, I do a few deep-breathing exercises to try to ‘feel my core’,
just like I saw on late-night TV. But my core feels kind of queasy
and the more in touch with it I am, the worse I feel.

Fifth floor. I
wipe my hands on my skirt – again – as the lift doors open.

My jaw drops.
In front of me is the office of my dreams, like something out of
Ugly Betty
, only better. In the middle of the floor,
lime-green couches form a cosy circle where people sit, chatting
and working. Chocolate-coloured bamboo work-pods dot the floor.
Inside each, Macs glisten and comfy-looking chairs nestle against
steel desks. Off in the corner there’s a full-on bar, with hundreds
of bottles shining behind backlit glass. Chattering plasma-screen
TVs – tuned into the all-news networks, including my favourite from
back home,
E!
– fill the space with sound.

I stand there
for a moment, watching people dash back and forth between the pods.
A rail-thin woman with long red hair swoops by, wearing a leather
skirt and a futuristic top straight off the runway. A longing like
I’ve never known sweeps through me, almost taking away my breath
with its intensity. I’d give anything to work here.
Anything.

“Serenity?” A
loud voice breaks into my thoughts, and I turn.

“Hi, Leza.” I
recognise her from
Botox or Bust
, even though she looks like
she’s sloughed off ten years since then. Instantly I know she’s had
the new cosmetic procedure Peter’s been talking about, using
hyaluronic acid to plump up the cheeks. Her blonde hair is even
blonder – almost white – and the make-up plastered over her broad
features is so heavy it would give Katie Price a run for her
money.

I stick out my
hand, but Leza turns away before she sees it. I let it drop to my
side, feeling my face flame up again. Maybe I should have gone for
the cheek, after all.