Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  Worst she can say is no, right? And even then, my Metro dream is still intact. I double-click on her name and hit ‘Send’, watching as the email flies off into outer space.

  “Serenity will set you up with an appointment for the injections.” Peter’s voice drifts toward me as the door to the consulting room opens.

  I sit up on the stool and hastily switch the Word window back to the appointment screen. I wonder what Jeremy’s decided on? I don’t want him to do too much, of course; he doesn’t really need it. But the more procedures he has, the stronger my article will be. Already I’m picturing Jeremy’s dramatic before and after shots, along with a little photo of reporter Serenity Holland inset . . .

  “Serenity.” Peter’s voice jerks me back to reality.

  My head snaps up. “Yes?”

  “Book Jeremy an appointment for Botox next week, please.” Peter turns to Jeremy and claps him on the back. “We’ll discuss the other procedures and set a schedule when you’re in next. In the meantime, have a look through the patient leaflets and give us a call if you have any questions, all right?”

  Jeremy nods. “Thanks, Doctor.” He puts a stack of papers on the desk and smiles at me. Already his face looks brighter and more hopeful – and he hasn’t even had the Botox yet.

  “So what did you decide?” I nod toward the brochures.

  “Botox next week, to start off,” he says.

  I hold my breath. I need more than that to make my story good.

  “And then” – he jabs at the bags under his eyes – “I’ll get rid of these, have a new nose, and maybe some chin liposuction.”

  Good, good. “And?” I don’t mean to prompt him, but if he really wants to transform himself, he should go all the way, right?

  Jeremy looks at me uncertainly.

  “I don’t know,” he says, thumbing through the leaflets. “There’s so much information here. Maybe a bit of liposuction on my stomach, too?” He pats his belly. “I’ve always wanted one of those six-packs. Women like that, don’t they?”

  “Of course.” I mean, not me personally – I prefer a bit of a cushion when I rest my head on a man’s tummy – but most women love it.

  “So definitely that, then.” We smile at each other over the desk. “I need to have a think about the other stuff.”

  I book him into an appointment for Botox next week and say goodbye as he walks out of the clinic. Taking a deep breath, I flash a look at my inbox. Nothing from Leza – yet. But inside, my heart is pumping. I have a good feeling about this.

  Watch out, tabloid world. I’m on my way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Crikey, what a day. I’m exhausted.” Peter comes into the reception area a few hours later, loosening his tie. “Ready to go?”

  I nod and shut down the computer after checking my inbox for the millionth time. Still nothing. It’s only been three hours, I tell myself. Leza’s probably busy getting the lowdown on aging rocker Zip Johnson's hip replacement, this week’s hottest story.

  “Kirsty and Tim invited us out for a drink. The Prince Regent.” I lock the cash drawer and slide down off the stool, looking forward to seeing my best friend from back home in Maine. We’d been joined at the hip since primary school, so when she got a swanky job in London, I was determined to go, too. It was the perfect place for someone with my tabloid ambitions. Along with soccer and cricket, humiliating celebrities is a national sport.

  Peter shakes his head. “I’m knackered, Smitty needs to be fed and have his meds, and you know I like to eat promptly at seven. You go on, though.”

  “Okay, I think I will. Just for a quick one.” With all the nerves and excitement juddering around inside me right now, if I don’t do something to take my mind off Leza Larke, I’m going to scream. And that something is not cooking plain chicken fillet and green leaves for dinner, while our anxiety-prone kitten dines on a trillion-dollar combo of organic pet food and the feline equivalent of Prozac.

  My mind drifts back to the first time I met Peter, a few weeks after landing in London. I’d sent out hundreds of résumés to everyone and their dog, desperate for a job to get me started on my new life here; a temporary post before revving up for tabloid stardom. After spotting Peter’s advert in Metro (where else?), I’d emailed over my rather sparse CV. Shockingly, Peter had rung a few minutes later, and since the clinic was so close to where I’d been crashing at Kirsty’s, I’d rushed over for an interview during his lunch break. His receptionist had resigned without notice, he’d said, and he needed someone immediately.

  I remember sitting across from Peter, in awe of the perfectly fitting suit and expensive-looking tie. He’d been so pulled together, so efficient and ambitious . . . so different from the bumbling boys back home who smelled of fertiliser, not Hugo Boss. This is the kind of man I want to be with, I’d thought. Funny, I’d never imagined that man actually would be Peter.

  We leave the office and head into the little mews, me struggling to keep pace with Peter’s giant steps. The shrieking sirens and rumbling buses are music to my ears after the tomb-like quiet of the clinic. God, it’s good to be out of there.

  “Any news on your writing lark today?” Peter asks as we turn onto New Cavendish Street. I clamp down on the irritation inside. He asks me the same question every day, and he always calls it ‘your writing lark’, as if he can’t seriously believe an English Literature graduate would strive for publication in Metro.

  “No, no news today,” I chirp, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. I learned the hard way not to let Peter know about my pitches: whenever one ended in rejection, he’d pounce with his ‘maybe you should think about’ speech. As in, maybe you should think about giving up on tabloids and getting a real job, at something respectable like Rheumatics R Us or Beer Matt Collectors of the UK.

  I shudder now just thinking about it. That would be like dying a slow death, and I didn’t endure four years of analysing the crap out of Milton and travel across the ocean to waste away in a smelly beige office.

  We turn onto Marylebone High Street, following our usual route. I love that we can go from office to home in ten minutes, and Marylebone is such a gorgeous place to live, all red-bricked buildings, chi-chi shops, and organic grocers where even the bananas look like they’ve been polished. Back home in Harris, the veggies are covered with dirt and resemble country bumpkins next to these crown jewels.

  Peter bends down to kiss me goodbye as we reach the Prince Regent.

  “Sure you don’t want to come?” I ask, suddenly wanting to spend time with him outside the clinic. He’s so exhausted by the end of the day that we rarely venture beyond the confines of our flat.

  Peter shakes his head. “No, thanks. Anyway, Time Team is on. Say hello to Kirsty and Tim for me.” He lifts a hand and starts striding for home like he can’t wait to get there. Which I’m sure he can’t, given that Tony Robinson and his rag-tag crew will be digging up a copper coin any minute now. I’ll never understand the attraction of a bunch of men pretending to be Indiana Jones in the back fields of Britain.

  I open the pub door and stand there for a second, absorbing the clatter and chatter and taking in the happy faces of punters swigging beer. There is a world with normal-looking, noisy people who eat solids. I’d almost forgotten it exists.

  “Ser!” Kirsty waves to me from the corner where she’s draped all over Tim, as usual. Five years together and they still can’t keep their hands to themselves. She’s twice his size and I can just make out his eyes peeping from behind her oversized earrings and waterfall of crazy caramel curls.

  Heading through the throng – the place is heaving even on a Monday – I squeeze into a chair across from them.

  “Where’s the old man?” Kirsty’s necklaces clank together as she leans forward to gulp her drink.

  “Kirsty!” I hate when she calls Peter that. Okay, Peter’s in his early thirties, but that doesn’t exactly make him ancient . . . just old-ish. “Peter can’t make it. He’s busy.” Busy with Tim
e Team. I don’t dare tell her that, or I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Too bad,” Kirsty says, her tone suggesting anything but. Tim gives her a look, the kind where he draws his eyebrows together and frowns. He’s going to get wrinkles if he keeps doing that.

  “So how are things in the wonderful world of finance?” I ask, reaching deep into the confines of my plasticky Primark purse where I’m sure I saw some pound coins lurking last week. A glass of wine is calling, but I need at least one more pound . . . got it. One giant House Red coming up.

  Tim and Kirsty nod together.

  “Pretty good. Kirsty just closed a major deal with Centralna.” Tim smiles at her proudly. They both work at some investment bank in the City, Grant-Jonas-Blythe Investment, Jonas-Blythe-Grant Investment, some combination or other. The two of them graduated at the top of University of Maine’s Economics class, and were snapped up by headhunters and settled into the bank’s corporate London flat before I’d even collected my diploma. If only everything in my world was so easy.

  But I’ll make it soon. I will. If not Leza Larke, then some editor is sure to love my Jeremy pitch. They’ll be so blown away, they’ll offer me a job on the spot, and I’ll get to work in one of those big glass buildings and dress in trendy gear from TopShop, not these nineteen-fifties styles I have to pull off for the clinic.

  “Guess what?” I blurt out. “I’ve got a great idea for a tabloid story. I think this might be it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Kirsty takes a sip of her drink and turns toward me, face neutral. I know she’s heard it a million times before, but this really could be it.

  I quickly explain about Jeremy and all the operations he wants.

  “Why would someone do that to themselves?” Kirsty asks.

  I shrug. “Who knows? He just said he wanted women to like him. It’ll make a great feature.” My excitement is building just thinking about it.

  “And he’s agreed to be in the article?” Kirsty drains her drink and leans back.

  “Well . . .” My voice trails off and nerves shoot through me. “Not quite yet. But I’m sure he will. He wants to meet women, after all, and this will be a good way to get his name out there.” I try to sound confident but small doubts gnaw my insides. What if Jeremy says no?

  “And Peter’s okay with this? I thought he was, like, Captain Privacy or something.” She raises her eyebrows at me, and I flush. I know she’s recalling the time Peter reamed me out after I regaled her with clinic tales one night over dinner.

  “Not exactly,” I mumble, tracing a watermark on the table. I glance up, meeting her hazel eyes. “But I’m sure he will be.” I hope. “Anyway, I’ll wait until I hear back from the editor and cross those bridges when I come to them.”

  Kirsty nods, but I can see by her expression she doesn’t believe those bridges will ever need crossing. I know she thinks my tabloid dream is just a fantasy – along with Peter and half the western world. But I’ll show her. I’ll show everyone.

  “I’d better make a move,” I say, after chatting (and drinking) for another couple hours. I stand up just as Tim returns to the table with more martinis. The room swings around me and I grip onto the table for support. That wine has gone straight to my head. “I’ve got to be at work early in the morning.”

  “Aw, come on.” Kirsty waves her martini in the air, sloshing it all over the table. “What do you care? It’s just standing behind a desk, right? You could show up tomorrow with half a brain and the Botox Bitches wouldn’t even notice.”

  A jolt of annoyance flashes through me. Yes, it’s true I could rock up with minimal brainpower, and those women would tell me how clever I am when I correctly spell their surnames (because W-H-I-T-E is really challenging, don’t you know). But I hate that my friends think I’m doing a job a monkey could. I’ve got to make this tabloid thing happen – soon.

  “Naw, I should go.” I lean over to kiss her and Tim, say goodbye, then head for the street. The air is fresh, bordering on cold, the way only an early October night can be. I turn right and walk by Paddington Gardens, breathing in the smell of crisp leaves to clear my head.

  Autumn always reminds me of the beginning of school – new books, new teachers . . . potential. I couldn’t wait to be done with university; to leave Maine behind and to experience the real world. I smile up into the light-polluted London sky. So far, I love it. And even though I’m not exactly fulfilling my potential, I’ll get there. All it takes is just one yes.

  I turn onto our street and fit my key into the door of the red-bricked mansion block. It’s taken me a while to absorb the fact that I, Serenity Holland, live here. The foyer is all chandeliers and mirrors gilded in gold, and although the lift’s a rather rickety contraption, it’s carpeted in deep-red fabric with little gold paisleys swimming through it. I blink, and the paisleys stop moving then start up again like sperm. God, I’m drunker than I thought.

  Turning my key in the lock, I nudge open the door as quietly as I can. The voice of the BBC announcer – the one whose name I can never remember but always looks like she’s got haemorrhoids – floats through the darkened lounge, and I can just make out Peter’s silhouette on the sofa. Flickering light from the television reflects on the shiny parquet floor and glints off the polished antique furniture. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of an oil painting above the sideboard and grimace, pushing my hair behind my ears to try to look more presentable. Peter isn’t a fan of my ‘bed head’ look.

  “Hi!” I say, a bit louder than intended. I throw my keys toward the little dish on the sideboard. They miss and fall onto the floor with a sharp clang. Smitty looks up, annoyed, from his prime position in Peter’s lap. I swear that animal gets more quality time with my boyfriend than I do.

  “Hey, you’re home.” Peter’s tone is slightly sharp. “Bit late, isn’t it? Remember, there’s work tomorrow.”

  I kick off my high heels, trying not to let the flicker of irritation show on my face. These days more than ever, Peter’s quiet and tense after work. I don’t blame him; I’m stressed too after dealing with the Botox Bitches, and I don’t get anywhere as close to them as he does. Thank God.

  Easing Smitty away, I lower myself into the crook of Peter’s arm. The heat from his body seeps through my thin coat, warming me up from the autumn chill.

  Peter pulls me even closer. I flip on my side and we watch as the BBC woman talks her discomfited way through the war in Afghanistan, onto the Middle East and then through to some disturbed weather patterns in the North. As if that’s news.

  Ah . . . it’s so nice lying here. I snuggle even closer, thinking we should move this on to the bedroom. It’s been ages.

  Peter grunts. A grunt that sounds suspiciously like a snore.

  “Peter!” I turn, scanning his face. Yup, he’s snoozing. Guess I should have come home earlier; I know what he’s like after ten o’clock. Still, I’m not going to let a little sleepiness stop me. I move my hand down to the inside of his thigh, smiling when I feel his body respond. Oh yes, the doctor is definitely in.

  Peter lowers his lips to mine and presses against me, and I let out a contented sigh. I’ve got a successful man who cares about me, and a great new life in London. Now all I need is the job of my dreams, and everything will be perfect.

  Tomorrow, I tell myself as Peter scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom. Just wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Have you seen my blue tie?” Peter yells from the bedroom the next morning as I jam myself full of Jaffa Cakes in the kitchen. I don’t care how early it is, there’s no way I’m facing the Botox Bitches on an empty stomach. My tummy is rumbly enough just thinking about whether there’s a response from Leza Larke.

  “No,” I grunt through a mouthful of crumbs, noting with fascination how several float out of my mouth and onto the black marble counter. I grab some kitchen roll and carefully wipe them up. Brits don’t like crumbs. Or maybe that’s just Peter.

  “Serenity. Serenity!”<
br />
  I sigh and stride into the bedroom. “I don’t know where your tie is,” I say, lodging the Jaffa Cake in the side of my cheek to avoid spewing more bits.

  Peter stops rifling through his closet and turns to face me. “Didn’t you take a load of shirts to the dry cleaner’s last week? Wasn’t my tie in with that?”

  Staring up at the ceiling, I strain to remember. Every week seems the same around here, the days seamlessly blending into one giant mushy time sponge. But I sort of remember thinking I’d do something nice and take Peter’s shirts and that tie I spilled wine on (in my defence, it was abnormally splashy wine) to the dry cleaner’s around the corner. The guy had given me the tag and told me to come back . . . Monday.

  Shit. Monday last week. Eight days ago.

  “Oh, um . . . they needed extra time to get that wine stain out,” I fib. “Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  Peter’s face relaxes. “Oh, okay. I thought you’d forgotten, as usual.”

  “Of course not,” I say, coughing as more crumbs make their way down my throat. As usual? When was the last time I forgot to get the dry cleaning? Oh, right. Pretty much always. A geyser of frustration gushes inside me. Why can’t I remember all these pesky domestic details? No matter how hard I try, they always slip my mind.

  I make a mental note to pick up the shirts and tie on my way home from work tonight. Peter’s got his monthly dinner with all the other cosmeticians (he gets so annoyed when I call them that, but ‘cosmetic surgeons’ just seems too pompous), so I’ll be on my own. I’m planning an exciting evening of takeaway curry. Then I’ll use lots of dishes and leave them wherever I want. It will be nice to have a breather from Peter’s all-dishes-must-be-washed-as-soon-as-they-touch-the-surface regimen.

  I feed Smitty his organic cat food and mushed-up meds, then Peter and I head out the door, into the silent corridor, and down to the street. Just like I do when I leave the clinic, I let the sounds of traffic and the noise of people wash over me, taking in a deep breath of that wonderfully sooty London smell. I love this city. If I breathed in too deeply in Harris, I’d probably get a noseful of eau de manure.