Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  “It’s a deal then. First up tomorrow: the market. They have the best coffee there – Monmouth, my favourite.”

  “What, you’re not a tea drinker? I thought all Brits loved tea,” I joke.

  Jeremy waves a hand in the air. “Sod tea. If I need caffeine, I’m going for coffee.”

  Silence falls as our laughter fades away, and the only thing I can concentrate on is the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. As much as I know I should, I can’t move away. I can barely breathe, let alone send any commands to my body, which seems to have gone all gooey and marshmallow-like. Ever so slowly, Jeremy leans closer and closer.

  So close I can smell his musky, spicy scent. So close I can feel the bristle on his skin. So close I–

  The ringing of my phone jerks us apart. I give my head a little shake and spring to my feet. What the hell was that? It was like I was in a trance, as if my body wasn’t my own. Well, whatever it was, it was just . . . one of those things. I glance at Jeremy, who appears just as confused as I feel.

  “Hello?” My voice is shaky, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.

  “It’s me,” Kirsty says. “You okay?”

  “Fine, fine. One sec.” I put a hand over the phone and turn to Jeremy. “I’ll just be a minute,” I say, grateful for the chance to scoot into the hallway and let my heart rate return to normal.

  “So how was the day?” I ask softly, knowing Kirsty would have faced Tim at work.

  “Terrible,” she says. I can hear her sigh through the phone. “Tim didn’t come in today or answer his phone. I got called into the director’s office to talk about my ‘future plans’.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask, hoping she’s got it all figured out.

  “I don’t know,” Kirsty says. “I still love Tim, but this is too fast. I thought I wanted it all, but now I just want to get away.”

  Unsure how to respond, I nod silently. It’s such a strange role reversal: usually it’s me in a mess, uncertain what to do.

  “Maybe some time apart will do you both good,” I say finally, raising my voice over the clanking of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. “And whatever you decide, you know I’m here for you.”

  “I know. Thank God! Listen, what are you up to tomorrow? I have to work in the morning, but do you want to meet for coffee around lunchtime?”

  “I’m going with Jeremy, a client,” – I throw in, in case he’s listening – “to Borough Market. Just let me check and see how long we’ll be there.”

  I stick my head into the kitchen, where Jeremy’s levering a huge chunk of pasta into a pot of boiling water. Yum, I’m starving. “Jeremy? How long do you think we might be tomorrow? A friend of mine wants to meet up in the afternoon.”

  He turns to face me, clad in a plaid apron that should look silly, but just . . . doesn’t. “Why doesn’t she join us down there for coffee?”

  I tilt my head, considering his words. Kirsty knows all about Jeremy and my undercover mission, but I’m not sure I want the two of them to meet. Still, I know she can keep her mouth shut when she needs to, and it will be nice for Kirsty to see that what I’m doing isn’t such a bad thing – I’m actually helping Jeremy, too.

  I nod then lift my hand from the phone. “Do you want to meet at the market at noon, in front of Monmouth Coffee?” I say to Kirsty.

  She agrees and I hang up, then plonk down at the table.

  “Ready to eat?” Jeremy calls from the stove. A delicious garlic smell is drifting through the air.

  “Ready.” I smile up at him as he hands me a plate then sits down across from me. An image of Lady and The Tramp filters into my head, where they slurp the same strand of pasta, drawing nearer and nearer until . . . Get a grip, I tell myself. This isn’t a Disney film, it’s reality. And the reality is, I’m hardly a ‘lady’ and Jeremy, well, Jeremy’s definitely not a tramp.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter, dodging the throngs of people exiting Borough Tube station. I’m supposed to meet Jeremy at ten this morning, and it’s already five past. A bad night’s sleep fighting with my pillow as Jeremy’s lips floated through my mind meant I’d awoken way too late. Since I’m seeing him in my professional capacity, there’s no way I could rock up without at least finding a pair of jeans free from random air ventilation pockets (i.e. holes) and putting on a touch of make-up. I must admit, advisory session or not, it is good to be doing something on a Saturday.

  Pushing through the turnstile, I catch sight of Jeremy looking fantastic in a dark corduroy blazer and a pair of baggy jeans.

  “Hi!” I shout, raising a hand as I approach.

  Jeremy smiles warmly. “Hello. Ready to pick up some good, healthy food for the new me? What’s that saying: you are what you eat?”

  I nod, feeling curiously hollow. So he really did ask me here in my official role. Of course he did, I tell myself as we head away from the packed station and down a busy street. Why else would he?

  “Okay?” Jeremy throws a look over his shoulder, then takes my hand and pulls me along after him so we don’t lose each other in the crowd. I stare down at his strong fingers gripping mine, mesmerised by the tan colour of his skin against my pale hand.

  A few minutes later – my palm sweaty and my face hot – we reach an area stuffed with people, food stalls, and smoking barbecues. The air is pungent with the smell of cheese, fresh bread and meat, and I realise we’re still holding hands. I drop his quickly and rub my nose, fabricating an itch.

  “Here we are! Borough Market. Why don’t we grab a sausage, get something sweet, and have a picnic?” Jeremy asks.

  “That sounds fantastic,” I respond, before remembering I’m supposed to be guiding him toward healthy eats. “But that’s not exactly food for life, Jeremy.” God, I sound like Peter. He’s always talking about sausage like it needs to be burned at the stake.

  “Ah, we can get the ‘food for life’ later.” Jeremy shrugs.

  Well, if the man wants a sausage, who am I to complain? It’s been ages since I’ve had one. I trail after him toward the smoking barbecue where plump sausages are grilling. Jeremy hands me a bun dripping with onions and sauce, then worms his way over to an organic chocolate brownie vendor, grabs two, and leads us to an empty space in the nearby courtyard of a church. We sink down onto the stones and I tilt my face upwards, feeling the warmth of the autumn sun and taking in the robin’s-egg blue sky. What a gorgeous day. When I turn back to Jeremy, I catch him staring and he quickly drops his eyes.

  “So.” He gestures toward the buzzing market stalls. “What do you think?”

  “It’s fantastic,” I say, meaning it. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”

  Jeremy bites into his bun, nodding as he chews. “Me neither,” he says once he’s swallowed. “Just wait until you see Hampstead Heath – it’s like a piece of wilderness in the city. You can even swim there. Maybe we’ll head over next weekend.”

  “That would be great,” I say, suddenly feeling shy. It’s so nice of him to show me around London.

  We chew companionably for a few minutes, then explore more stalls under a giant metal awing, me pushing random veggies at Jeremy in a bid to appear like I know what I’m doing. Then, before I know it, it’s almost noon and time to meet Kirsty. I can’t believe how quickly time has flown – and how much fun I’m having. Jeremy leads me over to Monmouth Coffee, where a line snakes down the pavement and the heady scent of coffee beans taints the air.

  “There she is!” I wave an arm at Kirsty, who’s waiting just out front. Nerves leap inside me for a second, but I tell myself it will all be okay. Kirsty knows the deal, and she’s good at keeping secrets when she needs to.

  “Hey.” She gives me a quick hug, then pulls back and runs her eyes over Jeremy. I take the time to study her face, my heart sinking as I note the dark circles under her eyes and the pale complexion.

  “Kirsty, this is Jeremy,” I say. “Jeremy, Kirsty.”

  Jer
emy holds out a hand politely. “Nice to meet you.”

  We join the back of the line, Kirsty and Jeremy chatting easily about how long we’ve known each other and our hometown back in Maine.

  “So Serenity’s really helped you, huh?” Kirsty asks when they’ve exhausted our two-street town.

  Jeremy nods. “Oh, definitely – everything from wardrobe, to dating, to getting psyched up for treatments.” He shudders. “I really hate hospitals and needles. My younger sister had leukaemia, and she was in and out of the hospital a lot. She lost the battle, in the end.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Kirsty touches his arm.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I echo. Poor Jeremy; I can’t believe he didn’t tell me that. God, he must really want to change to endure all the hospital visits in his future.

  “It was ages ago now, but I still miss her. All those years in the hospital . . . I don’t like to go to one, even today. It’s why I’ve waited so long to have cosmetic surgery, even though I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

  Kirsty and I nod, and a sombre silence falls as we shuffle forward in the line.

  Jeremy’s mobile rings and he turns away to answer it.

  Kirsty leans closer to me. “Ser, you can’t really believe Jeremy needs all this surgery stuff. He’s actually quite good-looking. Sure, he could lose a little weight, but he has a nice face.”

  The memory of just how nice his face is up close floods into my head, and I can feel my cheeks getting hot. I shrug nonchalantly to cover it up. “If it makes him feel better, what’s the problem?”

  Kirsty stares. “What’s the problem? The problem is that he’s basically risking his life for nothing.”

  I snort at her melodrama. “He’s not risking his life.” I hope. I make a mental note to talk to Peter about that one later. “And it’s his decision.”

  She shakes her head. “Maybe. But I can’t help thinking it’s a little unethical for doctors to perform surgeries on patients who clearly don’t need it.”

  “They’re just giving people what they want,” I respond. “People should have the freedom to do as they wish to their bodies if it makes them feel better.” As the words come out of my mouth, I realise it’s the same line I’ve heard Peter repeat whenever anyone challenges what he does for a living.

  “Have you had a shot of Botox to the brain?” Kirsty stares at me incredulously. “You never–” She stops mid-sentence as Jeremy puts the phone in his pocket and swivels toward us, face drained of colour.

  “What?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”

  He nods. “That was Doctor Lycett.”

  Peter? What’s Peter doing calling Jeremy?

  “There’s been a cancellation tomorrow afternoon for one of his surgeries. Doctor Lycett asked if I wanted the spot for my eye-bag fix, nose job, and chin liposuction.”

  My heart starts thumping. Tomorrow! This could be great for the column, really kick off the action. And great for Jeremy too, of course. He’ll get started on his transformation even sooner than expected.

  “And?” I ask, when I can’t bear the silence any longer.

  Jeremy drops his head, running a hand through his hair.

  A pang of fear shoots through me. Surely he said yes!

  “I don’t know,” he answers finally. “When the operations were a few weeks away, it seemed safer. Like I had a cushion of time to think more about it, to change my mind if I wanted.”

  I stare, unable to make a sound. Change his mind? What?

  “I told Doctor Lycett I’d ring back in a few minutes to let him know.” Jeremy meets my gaze. “What do you think? Should I just go for it?”

  I look into his green eyes, thoughts racing through my head. This is the first time I’ve ever thought Jeremy might have doubts about the surgeries ahead – he seemed dead set on everything. Beside me, I can feel Kirsty’s disapproving stare as she awaits my answer. But what does she know? She hasn’t listened to Jeremy’s tales of woe; heard his Julia horror story. If ever anyone needed this surgery emotionally – to pick himself up and feel more confident – it’s Jeremy.

  “You should do it,” I say. “Just think of your dream woman.”

  Jeremy swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on mine. “I am.”

  My stomach shifts at his words, and I tell myself not to be ridiculous. He doesn’t mean me, of course. “It’s a great opportunity for you to get started with your real transformation, sooner than you thought. You should definitely go for it.”

  An emotion I can’t quite pinpoint slides over Jeremy’s face – something like hurt and disappointment – and he turns away from me, taking out his phone. Kirsty and I stand mutely as we listen to him make arrangements to be at the hospital tomorrow. When he swings toward us again, his face is an unreadable mask.

  “So?” I ask.

  “So, this is it.” Jeremy shoves the phone back in his pocket. “I’m on my way.”

  I bite my lip as I notice the stiff set of his shoulders. This is the beginning of his journey; of everything he wanted. Why doesn’t he sound happier?

  “Do you mind if I head home? If I’m going to do this tomorrow, I have a few things I should take care of.” Jeremy’s words come out tense and tight, nothing like his usual warm, relaxed tone.

  “But what about the coffee?” I ask, unwilling to let him go like this.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not in the mood for it any more.”

  Kirsty and I say goodbye, watching Jeremy’s broad back weave its way through the crowds away from us.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Kirsty says, shaking her head.

  “Of course.” Thankfully, my voice sounds way more confident than I feel.

  By the time I’ve navigated all the weekend Tube delays to get home, I’ve managed to suppress any earlier doubts about Jeremy’s surgery. I’m sure his hesitation was down to cold feet. Peter’s always saying patients get antsy pre-operation. Well, he did tell me once about a woman who cried for hours before her gastric-band surgery because she didn’t want to give up venison.

  I’ve got two hours to write the ideal woman/ dream date piece for Leza, and I need to let her know about the change of plans for the operation. I scrabble in my purse for my mobile then punch in her number.

  “Yes?” she barks when she comes on the line.

  “Jeremy’s surgery has been moved to tomorrow afternoon,” I say quickly, knowing Leza won’t want to waste time with pleasantries. “It’s the blepharoplasty, rhinoplasty, and chin liposuction.” God, that sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? Another thread of uncertainty weaves its way back in.

  “Brilliant,” comes her quick response. “Shadow Jeremy while he’s in the hospital. Get into the operating room. I want details. Remember, the more blood, the better.”

  I swallow hard, my stomach turning over at the thought of Jeremy’s blood. I’ve never been good with bodily fluids, let alone those from people I know. But if that’s what it takes to impress Leza and get the job, I’m there with bells on. Or whites. Or whatever you have to wear in the operating room. “Sounds good.”

  “Get the dream date copy to me by five today, and the surgery copy on Monday. And tell Mia to do a fact box with surgery stats.”

  “Okay.” I can’t wait to pass that along; to show Mia I’m the one spearheading this and that she really is just secondary.

  “Keep me posted on any issues.”

  “Okay,” I say again. “I–”

  I realise the phone has gone dead and I slump onto the sofa, wondering how best to go about getting into the operating room to watch. I can tell Jeremy it’s part of the life advisory package – seeing him through surgery, etcetera – but what the hell am I going to say to Peter to explain my sudden interest in surgical procedures? He knows I’m hopeless when it comes to the technical aspects. He’ll never let me forget the time I asked what a ‘subcutaneous contusion’ was after snooping around in Madame Lucien’s post-op files (disappointingly, it’s just a bruise).

  Well,
Peter’s always after me to take more of an interest in the biology of things, so he should jump at the chance for me to get first-hand experience . . . or first-face experience. I shudder again at the thought of Jeremy lying there, still, as Peter cuts into him, but I draw in a deep breath and sit up straight. I need to do this.

  Right, time to get started on the dream date column. I get out my notepad, tapping a ragged nail against my teeth as I think about how to begin.

  THE WAY TO A MAN’S HEART: THROUGH HIS (SOON TO BE GONE) STOMACH

  Before his first major operation tomorrow, our Build a Man James took some time out of his preparations to speak about his ideal woman – and his dream date.

  I glance down at my notes from last night.

  ‘My ideal woman is someone who’s easy to talk to; someone I feel really comfortable with,’ I write, remembering Jeremy’s laughter and how much fun we had earlier today. Whoever he ends up with is a lucky woman.

  The door opens and I hear the click of Smitty’s newly trimmed claws on the floor as Peter comes in.

  “I’m home!” he calls.

  Damn. I snap the notepad closed.

  “Insanity at the hospital today.” Peter flops onto the sofa beside me and clicks on the television, cranking up the volume.

  I wince at the blaring of the TV. “Peter, can you–”

  “Shh!” He holds up a hand as a reporter details how one of those fanatics with a metal detector found a stash of Anglo-Saxon gold in a field. Thank God Peter hasn’t taken up that yet, although lately he’s been making noises about buying a device. Still, where’s he going to use it? Regent’s Park? The most you’d find there would be a junkie’s needle.

  Sighing, I scoot closer to him. If I don’t ask Peter now about getting into the operating room, I may never get a chance – particularly if Tony Robinson comes onscreen. Thankfully the story’s over quickly and Peter leans back, stretching out his long legs.

  “So I hear Jeremy’s going in for surgery tomorrow,” I say, to get the conversation headed in the right direction.