Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  Okay. First things first: the headline. Maybe I can focus on what went right. The Eyes Have It? I shake my head – that’s not what Leza wants. She’s craving every gory detail of the surgery gone wrong, and then some. I stare at the lines on the paper, willing the right combination of words to come to mind.

  What about . . . Brain Drain? I scrawl down the opening sentence as fast as I can, almost on auto-pilot.

  James didn’t want to choose between brains and beauty, but when his surgery for a ‘fresher’ look went wrong, the choice may have been made for him.

  Today was supposed to be the day our Build a Man really kicked off his quest for transformation. Checking into a luxurious private hospital, James was nervous, but happily anticipating his new chiselled jaw, Romanesque nose, and bag-free eyes.

  A moan fills the room, and I glance up to see Jeremy’s head move slightly to one side. I rush to the bed. “Jeremy? Jeremy!”

  He keeps groaning, as if he’s trying to fight his way through to consciousness. A doctor and nurse burst into the room. I step back as they check Jeremy’s monitors.

  “He’s coming around,” a doctor says. “Jeremy. Mr Ritchie. Can you hear me?”

  Jeremy opens his eyes, and I swallow back a gasp. His right eye is perfectly fine – or as fine as you can imagine with all the bruising. But the left one sags, struggling to open halfway. My heart plummets and all the air squeezes from my chest.

  The doctor leans over Jeremy, waving a light in his face. “Abnormal pupil dilation.” He lifts Jeremy’s limp right hand. “Jeremy, squeeze my hand if you can.”

  I focus on Jeremy’s fingers, willing them to move. Relief floods through me when I see his fingers twitch, closing the doctor’s hand in his.

  “Good, Jeremy, good.” The doctor takes Jeremy’s left hand. “Now, can you try squeezing again?”

  Watching closely, I wait for Jeremy’s fingers to move. But they don’t, and I notice the doctor give the nurse a meaningful look, then scribble something on his clipboard.

  “What?” I ask, unable to stay silent any longer. “What’s wrong?”

  “Please let us finish, Miss,” the doctor says as Jeremy starts moaning again. Jeremy’s eyes look more alert now, but his left lid still droops.

  “Can you say your name?” the doctor asks him.

  What a stupid question. Of course Jeremy can say his damn name.

  I stare in horror as Jeremy’s lips move and he struggles to form the sounds. The right side of his mouth looks normal, but when he tries to speak, the left side doesn’t move. He manages a word, but it sounds nothing like ‘Jeremy’.

  Oh my God.

  The doctor pats Jeremy’s arm. “Excellent. Thank you.” He glances at me. “Let’s talk outside.”

  I lean over the bed, watching Jeremy’s eyes as they focus on my face. He struggles to speak, and I touch his shoulder. “It’s all right, Jeremy. You’re going to be fine.” Tears gather in the corners of my eyes and I dash them away. “I’ll be right back.”

  I follow the doctor from the room and into the private consultation pod outside the door. With a padded, circular banquette and calming lounge-style music, it seems more restaurant than hospital. I can’t imagine anyone giving me bad news in a place like this, but judging from the doctor’s serious face, it’s definitely not going to be good.

  “Have a seat.” The doctor points to the bench and I sit down, every muscle in my body quivering with tension. He swivels to face me awkwardly. “So. Your brother is suffering from brain damage.”

  I nod, still trying to absorb the words.

  “The lack of oxygen to his brain appears to have affected the muscles on the left side of his body,” the doctor continues. “The severity of it still needs to be determined by a CT scan, which he’s booked in for tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll do a full neurological exam to see what other responses and brain centres might have been affected.”

  “He will get better though, right?” I study the doctor’s face, desperate to spot a glimmer of hope. I can’t imagine Jeremy like this forever, unable to speak or move the left side of his body. He loves working with his hands, building things. What will happen if he can’t?

  “It’s hard to say at this stage,” the doctor answers. “Jeremy will need to undergo rehabilitation, certainly. How fast and how much he recovers can’t be predicted, but the good news is that he’s regained consciousness. He should be more alert tomorrow.”

  I nod mutely.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know. If you want to stay the night here, the nurse can book you into one of our complimentary relative rooms. They come with a free massage and unlimited broadband access.” The doctor sounds like he’s reading off a cue card.

  I stare, unable to believe he thinks I want a massage and free broadband when my friend is lying brain damaged next door.

  “No?” the doctor says when I don’t respond. “Well, you can call our twenty-four-hour patient hotline any time for a status update. Jeremy’s key-in code is” – he consults his chart – “six-six-seven-five. I’ll be back later to check on him.” He pats my arm and leaves.

  Slouching back against the soft leather, I try to take in what the doctor’s just told me. No matter how desperately I want to pretend it’s not true, Jeremy’s not fine – he’s brain damaged. I repeat the words in my head, trying to get to grips with them. Brain damaged. Brain damaged. Brain damaged. It’s a game Kirsty and I used to play when we were kids: take the worst word you know (back then, it was ‘bitch’), and say it over and over until it loses its badness; until the jumble of letters becomes meaningless. But as many times as I chant ‘brain damaged’, it still sends a sharp pang through me.

  But, of course, it’s not just that. I encouraged Jeremy to have the surgery when he questioned going forward. What’s he thinking, lying there now? Will he ever be able to forgive me?

  Rubbing my tired eyes, I leave the pod and head back into the room, steeling myself to face him. But when I walk over to the bed, Jeremy’s lids are closed, and his chest is moving up and down in a regular rhythm. I reach out and smooth a lock of hair from his forehead. God, I hope he’ll be all right, with time. Lots of people have recovered from brain damage and gone on to lead successful, productive lives. People like . . . okay, so I can’t think of anyone right now. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.

  I sit on the chair by Jeremy’s bed for hours, watching his chest rise and fall as the room darkens. My eyes pop with surprise when I finally glance at my watch. It’s already ten o’clock. One more hour to deliver the goods on Jeremy and his botched operation. One hour until that job – the job I’ve dreamed of since forever – is mine.

  Can I do it? Can I write about the man in front of me – the man I now know is not okay – as if he’s some other person; someone I’m offering up to the tabloid gods and the ‘deserving’ public, like he’s a piece of meat on a platter?

  My phone bleeps and I click on the ‘New Message’ icon.

  I need the copy now. And get a photo – a close-up of his eyes. We’ll crop it later.

  A photo? I shake my head, anger building inside as I picture myself focusing in on Jeremy’s limp form, snapping away as he lies there, ill. I shudder at the thought of it; of how I would feel, sinking to that level. Invading his privacy and taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable.

  No. No way. No matter what name I give him, I can’t separate Jeremy from the anonymous Build a Man any longer. Going undercover seemed so harmless before, when it was just Botox and beauty adjustments. But now that Jeremy is brain damaged . . . I can’t. My head throbs as I think about what I’m giving up – everything I’ve ever wanted, since those boring, dreary days back in Harris.

  I look over to where Jeremy’s lying so still and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I’m not going to write that article.

  Creeping from the room, I call Leza before I lose my nerve. This is it: the end of my tabloid career.

  “Serenity. Where’s
the copy?” she barks when she comes on the line.

  “I can’t do the column,” I say in a low voice.

  “What?” A sharp banging noise hurts my ears. “The reception’s terrible here. I thought I heard you say you can’t do the column.” Her voice is almost menacing.

  “I did say that.” I pause and wait for her response, but there’s just silence. “He’s really ill, Leza. Maybe I can write about the risks of cosmetic surgery, the percentage of things that go wrong . . .”

  “You know as well as I do that’s not what our readers want. You got them to know this James bloke personally. They don’t fancy a clinical explanation of bloody cosmetic surgery risks. They want to know exactly what happened.”

  “I know, but it’s just . . .” My eyes fill with tears. “He can barely say his name.” Too late, I realise I probably shouldn’t have told her anything. I wanted Leza to know the severity of the situation, but I’ve probably piqued her interest further.

  “Even more of a reason to write about it,” Leza says crisply. “Look, I think I know what’s going on here.”

  “You do?” My brow wrinkles with confusion.

  “You two have a personal relationship going, yeah? If you’re a good undercover reporter, you probably do. That’s how reporters get inside the skin of their subjects, Serenity. By making friends, building a relationship. Do you think I got that exposé on Scottie Leon just by asking him a few questions?”

  “But isn’t he gay?” I wonder out loud. The last I’d heard, the famous comedian had been caught in a loo on Hampstead Heath with a ‘lady man’, according to Snap!.

  “Not with me, he wasn’t,” Leza says smugly. “Look, I know it’s difficult being objective in situations like this, when you’ve got to sever ties and do your job. But you’ll get used to it.”

  I turn her words over in my head. Get used to screwing people over – people like Jeremy, who’s lying there defenceless? “I can’t, Leza.”

  She makes a disgusted noise. “I thought you had what it takes to be in the business, but clearly you don’t. Well, I’m not going to waste my time with you. Hand your notes and sound files over to Mia. I’ll have her meet you outside the hospital. Thank God we got her in on the act earlier.”

  Yeah, right. I’m not going to let Jeremy be torn to bits by the two of them. Any information I have is staying with me. “No. Sorry, but no.” My voice is firm, but inside I’m terrified. You don’t tell Leza no.

  She laughs incredulously. “You think you can stop us by holding back the pitiful info you have? We can find out anything, Serenity. Anything. And we will, don’t you worry. We’ll have that column front and centre tomorrow, without your help.” She pauses. “Oh, and good luck finding another tabloid job. Once I tell everyone what an absolute waste of space you turned out to be, they won’t let you anywhere near their offices.” The line goes dead.

  I stare at a painting in front of me, the blobby red bit in the centre changing shape as tears fill my eyes. My dream is over – everything I’ve worked for in the past few weeks, all the excitement of thinking I’ve finally made it . . . finished.

  But if I’m honest, the reality of it wasn’t really my dream. Sure, I enjoyed having tons of people reading my column and being invited to a swanky launch party. But my dream didn’t include the lying bit – and certainly not the part where I’d have to betray friendships. I wanted the gloss, not the accompanying dirty deeds.

  Trudging back into the room, I reach out and take Jeremy’s right hand. Something inside me gives way when his fingers slowly close around mine. Tears fill my eyes, but they have nothing to do with losing Build a Man – it’s not my driving force any longer. I just want the man in front of me to be well again.

  I picture Jeremy splashed all over the Beauty Bits homepage, and a sick feeling washes over me. I’ve no doubt Leza’s right. With or without my help, a Daily Planet reporter will worm their way in here. And I can’t let that happen. Somehow, I need to protect Jeremy. I grasp his hand harder as the tears drip down my cheeks, falling onto the crisp white sheets below.

  Jeremy’s eyelids flutter.

  “Jeremy?” I whisper. But he just turns his head a fraction of an inch, and the room stays silent.

  A couple hours later, Jeremy still hasn’t awakened. Thankfully, no Daily Planet reporter has shown up – yet, anyway. I’m sitting beside him, staring down and willing him to get well, while fending off the attentions of the hospital’s grooming staff. One stylist who came to do Jeremy’s hair had the nerve to tell me I need to get my eyebrows threaded. Exactly what I want to hear in the Critical Care unit.

  Finally a doctor enters the room, checks Jeremy’s machines, and scribbles something on his chart. “You have to go now,” he says to me. “The wards are closed to visitors during the night.”

  There’s no way I’m leaving Jeremy unprotected – I wouldn’t be surprised if Mia and Leza were shimmying up the wall James-Bond-style right this second. Jeremy is Beauty Bits’ lead story, and they’re not going to let him go without a fight.

  “I’m staying,” I say to the doctor, in what I hope is a firm voice.

  He shakes his head, dismissing me like a school kid. “You’re not. Visiting hours are over. In fact, they ended long ago. Now, do I need to ask security to remove you from the premises?”

  Oh, God. “No, no, that’s fine.” I squeeze Jeremy’s hand a final time, then ease myself past the doctor and out into the corridor. I’ll think of something. I have to. I may have left Jeremy’s side, but I’m not going home until I’m sure Leza won’t get her claws into him. Maybe I can tip off the hospital that Jeremy’s being targeted by the paparazzi?

  I push into the private pod outside the room, a plan forming in my mind. Talking to hospital personnel face-to-face is too risky. They’ll probably ask uncomfortable questions I don’t want to answer. But there’s a twenty-four-hour patient hotline – I can call from a pay phone (no chance of tracing my number), and warn the hospital their solid reputation when it comes to patient privacy is about to be compromised. A lot of celebs come here for surgery, so they should take the threat seriously. But what if they don’t? Or, even more likely, what if they ask for more details before taking action? After all, they wouldn’t want to disturb a patient by implementing protective measures without evidence. It’s almost guaranteed I’ll need to spill the specifics on Beauty Bits to be taken seriously.

  If I do, though, the hospital is bound to tell Jeremy about the column when he wakes up, to justify the additional security. And when he reads the posts . . . well, it will be pretty obvious I’m the one behind it. There are things in there only I could have known.

  My heart clutches as I picture his reaction to the fact that I’m not what he thought I was; that I tricked him into telling me personal details, and that those personal details were splattered across the internet for everyone to see – even if I did protect his identity. And what if Jeremy tells the hospital I was the one behind the column?

  A jab of fear hits me as I hurry through the corridors, down the lift, and out to the payphone I’d spotted right outside the hospital entrance. I’ll come to the hospital early tomorrow morning, before anyone has a chance to fill him in, and explain everything. Hopefully, somehow, he’ll see how sorry I am and how much I do care. So much that I couldn’t carry on writing about him.

  No more deals with the devil. I’m done.

  I pull open the smeared glass door of the telephone booth. Heart thumping, I dial the patient hotline, then stay on the line as they transfer me to their emergency communications department for ‘further investigation’. Just as I suspected, they demand to know more before agreeing to provide extra security, so I give them the Beauty Bits website address and explain that ‘James’ is really Jeremy. Tapping my fingers against the metal of the phone, I wait while they check out the site. Finally, they agreed to station a guard outside Jeremy’s room as soon as possible, and I hang up before they can ask more questions.

  As I pu
sh out of the booth, I still can’t believe what’s happened. Jeremy’s brain damaged. I’ve quit the column. And tomorrow, I’ll have to face the man I’ve betrayed and tell him what I’ve done. Moving like a robot, I somehow manage the short walk back to the flat.

  It’s almost twelve-thirty when I crawl into bed beside Peter, wondering how on earth I’m ever going to sleep. Every muscle in my body aches with exhaustion and my head throbs, but whenever I even think of closing my eyes, all I can hear are the awful noises that came from Jeremy’s mouth when he tried to say his name. I turn over on my side and the bed jiggles in response.

  “Serenity?”

  “Sorry,” I whisper, trying to lie still.

  Peter flips on the light. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Uh-oh. I probably should have called, but it was the last thing on my mind. “I was at the hospital.”

  Sitting up, Peter rubs a hand over his face. “Until now? Doing what, exactly?”

  What does he think I’ve been doing, getting my nails done (although I’m sure they have a manicurist there)?

  “Checking on Jeremy. Did you know he can’t even speak properly? Or move his left side?”

  Peter shakes his head. “No. I didn’t. But I’ll look at his chart tomorrow.” He flops down on the pillow and closes his eyes. “Let’s go to sleep. I’ve another early start in the morning.” He turns off the light.

  I lie there for a second with my eyes wide open, exhaustion giving way to anger. I’ve just told Peter that Jeremy’s brain damaged from an operation he performed, and he wants to sleep? I flick the light back on and sit up.

  “Don’t you care at all about Jeremy? He’s your patient.”

  Peter makes an impatient noise. “Actually, Serenity, he’s not. He’s out of my care now – he’s the responsibility of the neurologist.”