Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  Even now, Peter’s yawning and his eyes droop at half-mast. “Ready to go? After that weekend, I could really use an early night.”

  I picture the darkened, tomb-like flat, and a feeling of claustrophobia slides over me. “Kirsty and I are going shopping. I’ll be back around eight. I can bring us something for supper, if you want to wait.” He won’t though, I know – he and Smitty always like to ‘ingest’ on schedule.

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll grab something from the Organic Kitchen on the way home. Say hi to Kirsty.”

  My mouth drops open – I’ve totally forgotten to fill him in on Kirsty and Tim’s big news. But Peter’s already halfway out the door, and it’s not something I can share in ten seconds or less.

  “I’ll see you back home,” I call after him. After locking up, I hurry through Marylebone and across St Christopher’s Place toward Selfridges. Pushing inside the department store, I breathe in the scent of a thousand different perfumes, gleaming in jewel-like bottles behind glass counters. A few minutes and several escalators later, I spot Kirsty jammed in a corner of the busy fourth-floor café.

  “Hey there!” I say, swinging into a chair across from her. A bottle of sparkling water rests on the crowded table top, and a half-eaten sandwich balances on the edge of her plate.

  Kirsty glances up from a magazine. “Hey.”

  I almost do a double take as I examine her wan face and the bags beneath her eyes. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to glow? Kirsty looks more like a corpse than a mother-to-be. “You all right?”

  “Jesus Christ, I wish people would stop asking me that,” she snaps. “I’m fine.”

  I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay! Relax.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s just, between Tim and everyone at the office, I must have answered that question a million times today. I know I look like shit.”

  “No, of course not,” I say, though really, she does. “So have you told everyone at work about the engagement?” If I was her, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.

  “Not yet.” Kirsty looks straight at me, and again I’m struck by how pale her face is. “I’m worried they’ll think I won’t be focused on my job if I’m planning a wedding. Wait until they hear about the baby.” Her lips tighten.

  “It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.” I touch my friend’s cold hand, anxious to reassure her. “They have to give you time off, right?”

  “Of course. Legally, they do. But that doesn’t stop them from making comments, or taking away clients because they think you can’t deal with it.” Kirsty opens her mouth like she’s going to say more, but then just shrugs. “So, tell me about this party. And before you ask, I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance to check out your article yet. I will when I get home, though.”

  Normally I’d let Kirsty have it for not taking the time to read my masterpiece, but she looks like she’s about to fall over, so I decide to go easy on her. “That’s all right.” I clear my throat, shifting in the chair. “Any thoughts on what I should wear to the launch?”

  Kirsty sips her water. “You’re going to need a killer dress. One that will show everyone you’re ready to take on the tabloid world, undercover or not.”

  My heart starts beating fast. Kirsty’s right. In a way, this party is my debut. I need to look and act the part.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do with the rest of you?” She stares pointedly at my ponytail, then lowers her gaze to include my ragged fingernails.

  “Er, no.” I tug the elastic from my hair, letting my lank locks fall to my shoulders. “What do you suggest?”

  Kirsty tilts her head. “Well, I’ve always thought you could get away with quite a few blonde highlights, something to jazz it up a bit.” She leans forward and lifts a clump of my hair. “And when was the last time you had a trim?”

  I grimace and sit back, away from her clutches. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I had a trim; it’s so damn expensive here in London, and it’s easier to throw my hair back in a bun or a ponytail, anyway. “Okay, okay, point made. I’ll book in for a haircut tomorrow.”

  Kirsty gets to her feet. “Ready to find the perfect party frock, then?”

  I nod. “Let’s go.”

  We hop on the escalators and head to the street fashion (i.e. affordable) section. Scanning the forest of clothing rails, I thank my lucky stars Kirsty’s here. There’s so much choice I don’t even know where to begin – and I don’t recognise half the brands. It almost makes me long for Main Street in Harris, where I could just duck into JCPenney and be done with it.

  “What about this one?” Kirsty holds out a sparkly red cocktail dress.

  “I don’t know,” I say, twisting my mouth to one side as I consider it. “A bit much, don’t you think?”

  Kirsty shrugs. “I like it.” She presses the garment against her, the vibrant red giving her cheeks colour. “This would be perfect for the office Christmas party. I might give it a try . . .” She starts to drape the dress over one arm then abruptly thrusts it back onto the rail.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Thought you wanted to try it on.”

  “Not much point, is there?” She laughs hollowly. “By Christmas, I’ll probably be wearing a shapeless sack and shopping in the maternity section.”

  I sneak a look at her grim face. “Kirsty, you can talk to me about it, you know.”

  She gazes down at the rack where the red dress is hanging in all its sequined glory, then meets my eyes. “You know how you said I just need time? That’s what I’ve been telling myself, too. But I’m not sure that’s it.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask slowly.

  Kirsty lets out a sigh. “Look, if I really wanted to get married and have a baby right now, wouldn’t I be happy? Sure, it’s what I planned for the future – far in the future. But I can’t get my head around the fact that it’s happening now. I just feel . . . trapped.”

  I stare, unsure what to say. “Does Tim have any idea how you feel?”

  Kirsty shakes her head, hair flying out like a halo. “No. He’s walking around like I’ve handed him the winning lottery ticket. I don’t even know how to start that conversation.” She takes a deep breath. “The thing is, I still love him. That hasn’t changed. But none of this is like I imagined. For God's sake, when Tim proposed, I was holding a mug full of pee!”

  “Can I help you, ladies?” A bored-looking salesgirl saunters over to us.

  “Damn,” I say under my breath, as Kirsty flashes a bright smile at the woman.

  “Actually, yes. Ser?” She turns away and busies herself with another rack of dresses, and I make a mental note to pick up our conversation where we’ve left off.

  “I need a dress for a launch party,” I say to the salesgirl, hoping she’ll have more of a clue what that means wardrobe-wise than I do.

  “What kind of launch party?” The salesgirl snaps her chewing gum, then examines her glossy, green-painted nails. Yikes. Do I really want to take fashion advice from a girl with green nails?

  “For The Daily Planet’s new health and beauty website,” I respond proudly.

  Her head jerks up. “Beauty Bits?”

  “Yes. You know it?” My heart thumps as I await her response. This could be a real, live reader right in front of me!

  “It’s the one with that Build a Man thingy, innit?” The salesgirl arches an eyebrow and gives me a once-over, likely wondering how someone wearing viscose could be invited to such a trendy party. But for once, I don’t care. I’m way too excited I’ve spotted a reader in the wild.

  I nod, grinning like a fool. I’m just about to tell her Build a Man is my column before remembering my undercover status. Damn. Oh well, I’ll get my recognition once I’m a full-fledged tabloid reporter, I’m sure.

  “So you need a dress, huh? Let’s get you kitted out.”

  I nod with excitement and let the salesgirl pile my arms high with garment after garment. But as I shimmy into one after another, none
feels right. They’re all nice, but I want to be noticed; to hit the tabloid world with a bang. Then, just as the store is about to close, I pull a soft chiffon dress by All Saints over my head. It falls to mid-thigh, the Grecian draping creating curves where none exist and making my legs look longer – although the skyscraper sandals definitely help. Small sequins sewn along the artfully distressed hems sparkle as I pivot under the lights, and the grey brings out my eyes. I actually look like I belong in London now; to the funky-media-type crowd who attend launch parties; to the tabloid reporter club.

  “And?” Kirsty yells from the waiting area down the corridor.

  I push aside the fitting-room curtain and step out. “I think we’ve found it.”

  Her lips curve in a grin. “What do you mean, you think? This is it! It’s perfect. And once you have your hair done, a bit of make-up . . . you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

  I scoot back into the fitting room and carefully disrobe, then saunter over to the salesgirl at the counter, handing her the sandals and dress. I dig in my bag for my credit card as she totals the sale.

  “Three hundred and ten pounds, please,” she says.

  My mouth drops open. Three hundred and ten pounds? I’d been so caught up in the excitement of trying on dresses that I hadn’t even looked at the price. That’s almost five hundred dollars! But I need to spend this money – it’s an investment in my future. After all, this launch party is my introduction to the media world. And appearance is important: I want people to treat me seriously, not like some redneck ‘from America’, as they say over here. If ever there was anything worthy of debt, then this is it.

  I hand her the card. “Here. God, I hope this pays off,” I say, turning to Kirsty.

  “It will, don’t worry.” She glances at her watch. “Oh shit, I have to run. I’ve got a conference call with some clients in San Fran and I want to be on a landline to do it.”

  I shake my head, marvelling at her non-stop working ability. “Okay. I’ll see you later, then.”

  “Don’t forget to make that hair appointment,” Kirsty calls over her shoulder as she weaves between the racks of clothes. “Split ends are, like, so last year.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, I fidget (as much as one can fidget on a small circular stool one’s butt keeps sliding off), awaiting Jeremy’s arrival for his Botox appointment at ten. My questions – in the guise of a ‘pre-surgical therapy session’ – are all ready, and I’m feeling almost as nervous as if I was the one getting Botox (heaven forbid). It would have been much safer to conduct this interview away from Peter and the clinic, but my desperation for a dress last night and the lack of time to get my article to Leza mean it’s now or never.

  To distract myself, I run through my preparations for the launch party tomorrow. Tonight I’ve got a hair appointment at Aveda. Then tomorrow, I’m heading to Kirsty’s so she can do my make-up and give me the party-ready seal of approval. I wonder if any celebs will be at this do? Or paparazzi?

  I shiver with nerves and anticipation, picturing me, The Daily Planet’s hottest new columnist, sauntering down a red carpet as all the paps snap my photo . . .

  “Hello. Sorry, I’m a bit early.”

  My head jerks up and I see Jeremy standing in front of me, wearing his usual black T-shirt and – thankfully – a pair of un-skinny jeans. Is it just me, or has he lost a bit of weight?

  “Hi!” I smile, thinking it’s good to see him.

  “Hi, yourself.” He tries to mock my accent but it comes out sounding more Australian than American, and we laugh together. “So today’s the day. Botox.” He props himself up against the desk, his face pinched and pale.

  “It’s normal to be nervous,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone. God, if he’s this jittery now, what will he be like when he’s about to have his face ripped apart in a hospital? I glance around to make sure Peter’s tucked away somewhere, then lean forward. “Typically, I conduct a pre-treatment session to calm nerves and put you in the ideal psychological state. Sound good?”

  “Sure.” Jeremy fixes his brilliant green eyes on me. “Fire away.”

  I grab my notebook then scoot around the desk, motioning him to sit on a leather chair. Plopping into the one beside him, I flip to my list of questions. “Okay. First of all, let’s go through the areas you’re having done today. To have you focus on the specifics instead of the fear.” Gosh, that sounds good, doesn’t it? Sometimes I can’t believe the stuff I come out with.

  Jeremy points to the cute crinkly lines by the sides of his eyes. “Right here, and these wrinkles on my forehead are going today, too.”

  I bite my lip to stop a sigh of dismay from escaping. I love the way his face moves with almost every emotion. If he gets Botox, that’ll be wiped clean.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “Dr Lycett did mention an acid . . . something to give my face more definition. I might go for that, as well.” Jeremy looks almost giddy now.

  “Hyaluronic acid,” I say. “It’s a filler; really popular to plump up cheekbones and lips. But if you’re getting more work done on your face, you’re probably better off waiting. Peter will explain it all, I’m sure.” Yeah, right, I add in my head. Peter’s a great salesman and a good doctor, but explaining things to patients isn’t exactly his strong suit. I’ve had women present their bill to me without any clue what they’ve been injected with. And the sad thing is, they don’t really care, as long as they appear younger.

  “Oh. Okay, then,” Jeremy responds, looking deflated.

  “What are you hoping to achieve with Botox?” I ask, trying to get all the basic stuff out of the way before I can probe deeper.

  “Nothing too dramatic. I just want to be ‘fresher’.”

  I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. The number of times I’ve heard people say they want to look ‘fresher’, as if they were a rotting vegetable.

  “How do you feel, getting a treatment that’s generally used by women, not men?”

  Jeremy smiles. “I don’t care if it’s used more by llamas, as long as it helps me look my best.”

  “Llamas?” I can’t help snickering at that one and Jeremy joins in, our laughter echoing around the empty waiting area.

  “Thank you, Serenity.” Jeremy’s face is serious again. “I was really nervous, but you’ve helped me relax.”

  “That’s my job.” My tummy turns over as my eyes meet his. “How about we try another relaxation technique,” I say, to break the moment. “Just close your eyes and count slowly to ten. Now breathe in . . .” I watch as his broad chest expands, wondering where the hell I’m going with this. At least he’s not staring at me any more. “Now out . . .” His dark lashes quiver against his cheeks and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  “Serenity?” Peter pokes his head into the reception area. “Oh, hello, Jeremy.” Jeremy’s eyes fly open and Peter shoots me a funny look. “What on earth are you two doing?”

  Shit. My heart starts beating double-time. “Just helping Jeremy relax,” I warble, before Jeremy has a chance to respond. Please God may he not say anything!

  “Sure, sure, fine,” Peter mutters, barely even registering I’ve spoken. He gives Jeremy his trust-me-I’m-a-doctor smile. “Ready to go?”

  Jeremy nods, then turns toward me. “Wish me luck. And thanks for the pre-session therapy.”

  “Good luck,” I croak, collapsing back against the chair. Thank goodness Peter’s already halfway down the corridor.

  As I settle onto my stool, it hits me that Jeremy and I are both starting on our journeys – except all his changes are on the outside, while most of mine are taking place internally. Already I feel more successful; more confident about staking my claim in the realm of tabloid journalism.

  Just like Jeremy, by the end of this Build a Man thing, I’m sure I’ll be the person I’ve always wanted to be, with the life I’ve always dreamed of. Serenity v2: the newer, upgraded version.

  I daydream my way through the mind
-numbing task of filling in new patient forms on the computer, my head snapping up when I hear Peter’s voice. Yup, ten minutes, I think as I glance at the clock. That’s Jeremy’s Botox done, then.

  “Serenity, can you get some ice, please.” Peter gently manoeuvres Jeremy into a chair. “Now, Jeremy, you’ll be fine. Bruising is a normal part of the procedure, along with extra redness, too. Just have a seat here with some ice for ten minutes.”

  I rush to the freezer in the supply room, grab an ice pack we keep on hand for moments like this, then head back to the reception area.

  “Here you go.” I hand the ice to Jeremy, trying not to recoil as I take in the angry red bruises ringing the injection sites on his forehead and beside his eyes.

  “Thanks.” Jeremy tries to smile, flinching in pain.

  “So I’ll leave you in Serenity’s capable hands,” Peter says. “Any problems, please don’t hesitate to give me a ring. In the meantime, we’ll schedule in your blepharoplasty, rhinoplasty, and chin liposuction – probably for a few weeks from now, depending on availability. And I’ll see you next week for the laser-skin resurfacing.”

  God, if Jeremy looks like this now, I can only imagine the state of him once the top layer of his skin has been singed away.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Jeremy responds weakly, pressing the ice pack against his forehead. He glances up at me with an embarrassed expression. “I know, I’m a wuss. I’m sure women just take it in their stride.”

  I sink down beside him. “Looks like you’ve had a particularly strong reaction. It does vary, from person to person.” I touch his arm as he grimaces again. “So . . . are you sure you want to go through with the rest?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. The last thing I want is to give him any doubts, but he just looks so uncomfortable.