Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  Jeremy still looks dubious.

  “An important part of wardrobe therapy is being open to trying new things,” I say. Plus, I really need a picture for Leza. This outfit will be the Trendy Man look.

  “Okay, okay, if you say so.” Jeremy starts sliding off his T-shirt, and I catch a glimpse of smooth skin – not nearly as flabby as I’d thought – before he remembers I’m here and lets the shirt drop again.

  I lower my eyes and turn toward the door. “I’ll wait out there,” I mumble, conscious of the heat in my cheeks.

  A few minutes later, Jeremy calls me back in.

  “I look bloody ridiculous.” He grins, pivoting in the trousers and shirt.

  Biting my lip to keep from smiling, I take in the tight trousers (which, in a word, are just wrong) and the salmon – okay, pink – shirt that makes his olive complexion appear downright sickly.

  “How do you feel?” I ask, struggling to maintain my impartial advisory role.

  “I feel ridiculous, too. Honestly, this is not how I want to be perceived.” He starts to unbutton the shirt.

  “Wait! I need to get a photo. To . . . you know, to help you remember this moment, this feeling, for future reference.” I grab my mobile, make sure his head is out of the frame, then snap a shot.

  “Okay, onto the next one. Why don’t you try the tux?” I open the Cancer Research bag, wrinkling my nose at the faint mothball odour rising from the fabric.

  “You brought me a tux to try?” Jeremy asks incredulously.

  “This is a regular part of our therapy, you know,” I blag. “We’ve got it in several sizes back at the clinic. I’ll just step outside again while you get it on, okay?”

  I slip into the hallway, eyeing a few open doors down the corridor. My eyes pop as I poke my head into one. It’s my dream bathroom come to life, all gleaming white, with a large claw-footed bath and a separate Rainshower installed in the corner. The floor tiles are warm under my feet and even the toilet looks inviting. A giant mirrored medicine cabinet shines above a polished white ceramic sink. Hmm. As an undercover reporter, maybe I should check to see if there’s anything interesting in there.

  I close the bathroom door then open the cabinet slowly, feeling a bit odd. I mean, I wouldn’t like people rooting through my medicine cabinet – not that there’s anything of mine in there, anyway. It looked so nice and neat with Peter’s toiletries that I couldn’t bear putting my plastic BIC razors and drugstore perfume next to his superior stuff.

  Jeremy’s is cluttered with shampoo bottles, vitamins, and the odd empty package here and there. I’m just about to head back to the bedroom when my eye spots a glimmer of silver. I push aside some hair gel and there, hidden in the corner, is the most beautiful watch I’ve ever seen. Diamonds almost drip off the face, but there’s nothing garish about it. Peering closely, I can make out ‘Bvlgari’. It’s the kind of watch a woman in Vogue would wear; a watch that wouldn’t look out of place amidst the twenty thousand pounders that almost made me hyperventilate in Harrods last month – I never dreamed such expensive things existed.

  I flip it over. To Jules, I’ve had the time of my life. Happy Two Years! Much love, Jer. Wow. He really must have loved her to write something like that. To buy something like that. But what is her super-expensive anniversary gift doing shoved in the corner of his cabinet?

  He did say they were together for almost two years. Maybe they split before he could give her the gift. My heart fills with sympathy as I picture him hanging on to her present; unable to bring himself to return it . . .

  “I’m ready!”

  Jeremy’s shout makes me jump and even though I know he’s nowhere near me, I shove the watch back in the cabinet and slam the door closed. “Coming!”

  I hurry down the corridor and into his room, stopping at the sight of his broad shoulders in the tux. Even from the back, I can tell he’s standing straighter, and there’s a hint of confidence about him that wasn’t there before.

  He turns to me and smiles. “Well?”

  “You look fantastic.” Too late, I remember I’m supposed to be impartial. But he does look great – the tuxedo’s classic cut fits like it was made for him. Despite the extra weight, Jeremy has perfect proportions and I can’t help admiring how nice he looks all dressed up.

  “Can you fix this bowtie?” Jeremy tweaks the strip of fabric around his neck. “I can never get it right.”

  “Sure, I can try.” I move toward him, conscious of his eyes focused on my face. The air between us suddenly feels like it’s snapping with energy, and my heart starts thumping. I create a bow as quickly as I can and step back again.

  “I must get a photo,” I say, eager for something to focus my attention on. What is it about this man that makes me feel so unsettled? It’s probably normal for an undercover reporter to feel a connection with their subject, right? That’s a good thing, I’m sure – it shows I’m gaining his trust.

  Jeremy strikes a Zoolander-style pose and I laugh. “Be serious,” I say through my giggles, clicking the photo from the neck down. Thankfully the Beauty Bits readers will be saved from his Blue Steel impression.

  “If I’d worn something like this more often, maybe Julia would have stayed with me.” Jeremy shrugs off the jacket.

  “What really happened between you two?” I ask tentatively, sinking onto the bed. Now might be the moment to get him talking.

  Jeremy sighs and sits down beside me. “Whatever I tell you is completely confidential, right? I know you told me before that it stays between us, but . . . I just want to make sure.”

  “Of course!” I say quickly, pushing away the pangs of guilt. It’s not like I’m lying: whatever he says will stay private. I’m certainly not going to reveal his identity. And I was right – I am gaining his trust.

  “Well, a friend and I started up a company together. It grew to be pretty big and quite successful. And then I met Julia. We had a couple good years together – or at least I thought they were good.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Turns out for the last few months before we split, she and my business partner David had started seeing each other behind my back. I walked in on them one day in our offices.”

  “Oh my God.” I reach out and touch Jeremy’s leg lightly, but he doesn’t even move. He’s staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a memory I can’t even begin to imagine.

  “When she noticed me, Julia just laughed and said I’d let myself go – and that she preferred her men more fit than fat.”

  “Bitch,” I breathe, then curse myself for being so unprofessional. But at least I was right in my initial assessment.

  Jeremy shoots me a half-grin. “I know. Anyway, that’s what happened. And that’s why I need your – and Dr Lycett’s – help.”

  No wonder the poor man wants to remake himself from the ground up. I’d want to jump off a bridge. “We’re here for you, Jeremy,” I say, then glance at my watch. Christ, it’s almost eight-thirty. Kirsty’s going to kill me. Funny that she hasn’t texted back to bawl me out – usually she does that when I’m going to be even five minutes late.

  “Why don’t you put on your normal clothes, I’ll get a quick photo of you in your usual outfit for comparative purposes, and we’ll call it a night? I think you’ve made real progress today,” I say gravely.

  Jeremy tilts his head to the side. “I think so, too. It’s really good to have someone like you to talk to.”

  His eyes meet mine and that funny feeling sweeps over me again. “I’ll wait outside,” I say, standing quickly and moving toward the door to put a bit of distance between us.

  A couple minutes later, Jeremy’s back in his T-shirt and jeans. As handsome as he looked in the formal wear, this is more natural; more him. I snap a photo, then gather up the discarded outfits and shove them in the shopping bags to return later.

  “So where are you going tonight?” I ask in a chipper voice as we head down the stairs toward the front door.

  “Just o
ff to visit my parents,” he says.

  So he’s not from London, then. I forgot he hadn’t actually answered my question. I open my mouth to ask where his parents are from, but he lunges back up the stairs.

  “Here, you forgot this,” Jeremy puffs once he’s returned, handing me the foul salmon shirt. “Please take it with you.”

  I laugh at his grimace, then put the shirt in a bag and stick out my hand before he can swoop in for the traditional kiss on the cheek. My face heats up as I picture his soft lips – well, they look soft, anyway – against my face, and I clasp his warm hand in mine.

  “Bye!” Yanking away my hand, I wave like a maniac as I back out the door. On the dark street, I pick up pace as I move away from his house. I’m practically running by the time I get to Kirsty and Tim’s, and I have to bend over to catch my breath after ringing the buzzer.

  “Hi, Serenity,” Tim whispers, cracking open the door a few inches. “I didn’t know you were coming over. Kirsty’s sleeping.”

  “Sleeping? It’s not even nine.” Kirsty’s a night owl if I ever met one.

  Tim shrugs. “This pregnancy has really wiped her out. I’ll tell her you came by.” He looks at me closely, opens his mouth as if he wants to ask me something, then shakes his head. “Night.”

  “Night,” I say, as the door swings closed. I peer up at the darkened bedroom window, hoping my friend is okay. This pregnancy thing might have thrown her for a loop, but Kirsty is the most unflappable person I know. I’m sure she’ll be playing Mozart to her belly and teaching the embryo Latin verbs in no time.

  I’ll come by bright and early tomorrow with Kirsty’s favourite pain au chocolat and that caramel-toffee thing from Starbucks she loves, and explain to her what happened. If anyone understands work commitments, it’s her.

  I head for home down the dark and quiet streets. Even Marylebone Road – usually clogged and noisy – seems empty and deserted for a Friday night. I quicken my steps, eager to hop on Google. If Jeremy and this David guy started a company together, I might be able to find something on them. Even if I can’t, at least I have a juicy titbit to work with for the column, thank God.

  Peter’s sleeping on the sofa to the constipated tones of that BBC announcer, so I open up his laptop as quietly as possible and click on the browser. I’ve been so busy I never thought of Googling Jeremy until now – shocking, really, since in the dead hours between five and six in the evening, when all the women who’ve had their fat sucked out are busy replacing it by chowing down at the Ritz – I’m a Google fiend, searching everyone I can think of.

  I type in Jeremy’s name plus David plus property and hit ‘Search’. Hundreds of results filter onto the screen and I scroll down until . . . bingo.

  Earlham Property Founder Sells Shares for £20 million. Earlham Property founding partner Jeremy Ritchie today sold his shares to former partner David Chase for £20 million, giving up his stake in one of Britain’s most successful and rapidly growing property enterprises . . .

  Twenty million! I blink. Jeremy has twenty million pounds? I knew he was rich, but rich to me is a million or two, not twenty. I click the link to read the rest of the article.

  Earlham Property was founded by Ritchie and Chase, who set up the business in a converted petrol station in King’s Cross and laboured around the clock to ensure the company’s success. Chase interfaced with clients while Ritchie oversaw the renovation of the company’s portfolio. From its humble beginnings, Earlham Property has now grown to over two hundred employees in fifty branches across Greater London.

  While Ritchie cites his decision to sell as simply ‘time to move on’, inside sources claim the breakdown of the founders’ friendship is the real reason.

  Earlham Properties has since been renamed Chase Estates and has continued its exponential growth despite the recent market meltdown.

  There’s a photo of Jeremy and David standing proudly with their arms around each other’s shoulders, the Earlham logo shining out from a building behind them. I squint at the screen. Jeremy’s so young – and about fifty pounds lighter. He looks handsome, fit and happy, and my heart squeezes as I think about the sad man I’ve just met.

  I type in David Chase plus Julia, just on the off chance I can find something.

  Chase Estates Owner Weds Girlfriend Julia Adams comes up straight away. Oh God, I think as I look at the date: October fifth, just a day before Jeremy turned up at the clinic.

  In a lavish ceremony in front of three hundred family and friends, millionaire and Chase Estates owner David Chase wed girlfriend Julia Adams at their country manor in the Cotswolds. Celebrity guests arrived by helicopter while the bride made her entrance in a horse-drawn Bugatti.

  Horse-drawn Bugatti? For real? I can’t help snickering at that one. A large colour photo to the side of the article shows David and Julia smiling smugly at the camera in front of a massive house set in groomed gardens. Julia is beautiful, with a perfectly proportioned face that looks like it belongs in a painting, and a model-thin body. But there’s something about her, even in the photo, that just feels cold.

  He might be a millionaire, but David is every inch the typical estate agent: hair gelled to within an inch of its life, smarmy expression, and natty suit. Together, the two of them make me feel nauseous, and even more so when I think of what they did to Jeremy.

  Is all this really a valid reason for Jeremy to have such drastic cosmetic surgery? Would he feel differently if he had a bit more time to get over the shock of the wedding? Maybe I should show Peter my discovery; get his professional opinion.

  I shake my head to dispel the thoughts – I’m probably being silly. As ambitious as Peter is to build his clinic, he wouldn’t agree to perform procedures on someone who wasn’t psychologically fit. And Peter is a doctor. He knows the right questions to ask to uncover such patients. Jeremy must be fine or Peter wouldn’t have agreed to operate, I’m certain of it.

  Jeremy’s surgery is just what he needs to move his life forward. And with me as his life advisor, he can meet the future head on, new nose and all.

  It’s a win-win situation for everyone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I open my eyes the next morning to the sound of Peter clanking dishes in the kitchen, the BBC at an ungodly volume. I jerk upright, my heart beating fast, before remembering it’s Saturday.

  Thank goodness, I think, slowly lowering myself back onto the rock-hard mattress. Last night was a late one and my head still feels fuzzy. I stayed up until three working on my column, trying to strike the right balance between drama and sympathy – and making sure not to give away too many details to maintain anonymity. The words filter into my mind and I smile proudly.

  DON’T FEEL PATHETIC: GO COSMETIC

  What do you do when you catch your girlfriend cheating with your best friend? For our Build a Man James, the answer’s easy: redesign yourself completely with cosmetic surgery.

  Jeremy – or James – comes out looking a bit like an abandoned puppy, but when people read this column, they’ll want to tear Julia and David limb from limb for what they’ve done. I know I do. It’s such a shame I can’t actually reveal who they are.

  Hopefully Leza will like it. I emailed it to her late last night, along with the photos for the wardrobe poll so the graphics man could work his magic.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.” Peter strides into the bedroom. Yanking open the wardrobe, he selects one of the neatly hanging blazers and shrugs it on. “I’m at the hospital until six. Can you take Smitty to his grooming appointment at four?”

  I struggle into a sitting position and let out a giant yawn, quickly covering my mouth when I notice Peter staring.

  “Sure, no problem.” I have no plans of my own, anyway, apart from a visit to check on Kirsty this morning. I swear, that cat has a more action-packed social schedule than I do. Not that it would take much.

  “Goodbye, then. I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” I echo, rubbing my eyes.

  Pete
r leans down and pecks me on the cheek – he refuses to kiss on the mouth until both of us have brushed our teeth – then I hear him grab his work bag. The front door creaks open.

  “Oh, and Serenity?” he calls. “Please don’t forget to ask the stylist to clip Smitty's nails this time. They’re much longer than appropriate.” I roll my eyes at the thought of an appropriate length for cat claws.

  The flat door thuds closed, and silence descends. Sighing, I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes tracing the elaborate plaster decoration in the centre where a light used to hang, back in Victorian times. Another weekend. And while I’m happy the Botox Bitches aren’t part of it, I have to admit that sometimes, I feel a little lonely. Peter often has surgeries booked at the boutique hospital up the street, Kirsty’s usually busy with work, and that just leaves Smitty and me. And quite honestly, a cat isn’t exactly the best company, especially one as snooty as Smitty. The damn thing will barely deign to look in my direction.

  If I had a normal job – in an office or something – I’d have tons of friends by now. We’d go out after work for a pint, like all those suited workers I see standing on the street, laughing and drinking every Friday afternoon.

  Soon, I tell myself, turning my head to stare out the window at the heavy grey sky. Soon I’ll have a whole new crowd of tabloid pals. They’ll show me the city, maybe take me to some of those cool East London bars they’re always raving about in Metro . . .

  At least this morning, I’m going to see Kirsty. I slide off the giant pedestal bed, perking up a bit as I imagine us poring over all those wonderful bridal and baby magazines I’m sure she’s collected by now – or, at the very least, the brochure from the registrar’s office. I turn on the ancient handheld shower and climb into the steam, trying to picture Kirsty cradling an infant. It takes a few attempts, but I can’t help smiling as an image of her and Tim, beaming beatifically at their shiny newborn, comes to mind.