by Talli Roland
We walk at Peter’s break-neck pace to the clinic. It’s only eight-thirty and we open at nine, but sometimes the women are pacing around out front just waiting for us. They stare daggers at me like it’s my fault we’re late, even though they’re the ones who can’t tell time.
What makes it worse is that Peter actually apologises, then tells me to get them coffee, tea, Ex-Lax, and any other mushy food they consume. When we first opened, we actually had biscuits in the waiting room – until Mrs Rhinod, a recovering gastric-band patient, binged and had to be rushed to hospital. Now we have yoghurt.
For once, though, I don’t mind being rushed – I’m dying to check my inbox. I flick on the computer, nervously tapping my nails on the desk as it boots up. Please please please, I chant, clicking on Outlook and holding my breath. This could be it. The pot of gold at the end of my pitch rainbow.
But . . . I let out my breath. There’s nothing. Nothing. Not even spam. Disappointment floods into me, and I slump onto the stool. I was so sure this was the pitch that would launch me straight to my dream job.
Maybe everyone’s right, I sigh, clicking open the patient schedule. Maybe I should give up, focus on a real career. Join the pasty-faced zombies I see every morning on the street lurching toward the Tube.
I give my head a little shake to clear the depressing thought.
“Dream it, live it,” I whisper, repeating my mother’s favourite mantra. Whenever I was faced with anything I doubted, Mom would smile, throw back her braids, and repeat those words over and over.
Dream it, live it. I’m not going to give up. All I need is just one foot in the door. If Leza doesn’t respond by the end of the day, there’s always Metro. I try to push down the hard knot of disappointment, heart sinking even more as I spot that the first patient today is none other than the hideous Madame Lucien (or Madame Lucifer, as I like to call her). I’m so not in the mood for her antics. If there’s a speck of dust that dares settle on a nearby surface, she sputters like she’s going to throw up a lung, rolling her eyes back into her head in a most unattractive way. Peter had to tell her to stop hacking so much or her recent ear-pinning might come loose.
But the funniest thing is, she refuses to acknowledge my existence – even to pay!
She swans in, gets Botoxed to the eyeballs, then walks out without even looking at me. The first time it happened, I chased her into the street, banging on the dark windows of her car. She rolled down the window and – eyes firmly fixed on a spot over my shoulder – told me to take up ‘the matter’ with her assistant. My jaw nearly hit the ground. Back in Harris, we call that stealing.
Still, she can provide a bit of entertainment. I try my best sometimes to hunt down a mega dust-bunny, strategically place it just peeping out from under the sofa, then await the explosion. And I always ask her to pay – loudly, exaggerating my accent – even though she totally blanks me each time.
What can I say? It’s the little things that get me through the day.
After Madame Lucien, I’ll have a bit of a breather, perfect for reading my favourite websites: Gawker, Heat, The Daily Planet, and, of course, Metro. If I’m feeling more upmarket I might hit Hello! and maybe click onto the Guardian and The New York Times so I can feel my university degree wasn’t in vain.
The door opens and in sweeps Madame Lucien, wearing her ridiculously large dark glasses. She walks right by me and sinks into a chair at the far end of the waiting room. Of course she can’t breathe the same air as me.
“Hello, Madame Lucien!” I say, smiling like I’ve just devoured a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes. The bigger the Botox Bitch, the sweeter I try to be. It’s my passive-aggressive way of showing they won’t break me.
Madame Lucien lifts her head a fraction of an inch and gives it a little shake, like she’s not quite sure where that strange noise is coming from.
I’M OVER HERE! I want to yell.
“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” I say instead, like she’s come from Siberia not Mayfair.
No response. God, I do wish I’d tracked down that dust bunny.
“Oh, bonjour, Doctor,” Madame Lucien says as Peter comes into the reception area. She raises her sunglasses and stands, kissing Peter on both cheeks.
I shake my head at the transformation in her behaviour. Of course she’s nice to him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s about to inject acids and paralytic bacteria into her face. I’d be nice to Hannibal Lecter if he was going to do that to me.
“Come, Madame Lucien.” Peter takes her arm, escorting her into his room as if she’s the Queen. I snort. The Queen of the Botox Bitches, more like.
As I plonk back down on the stool, my eyes flick to my email and I nearly fall over. There’s a response. From Leza Larke! My heart almost pounds itself right out of my chest, and the Jaffa Cakes I’ve eaten for breakfast shift uncomfortably. Part of me wants to let the email sit there, bolded black, and hang on to the possibility that it could be a yes. The beginning of my tabloid career, right there in my inbox.
When I can bear it no more, I take a breath and double-click the email.
Interesting. Call me.
I stare at the words, grinning like an idiot. Leza Larke thinks my pitch is interesting. Leza Larke wants me to call her!
I breathe in a few more times to steady myself then creep down the corridor. Peter’s door is closed and I can hear him telling Madame Lucien not to worry if she can still move her forehead; the Botox may take a while to set. Based on my experience, it’ll be a good ten minutes or so before she’s convinced, so I’m safe to make my call.
Settling back on the stool, I get out my mobile and punch in the number in Leza’s email signature.
“Leza,” a voice barks after one ring.
“Hi, Leza? It’s Serenity Holland?” God, I sound like I’m ten.
“Who?”
“Um, I just sent you a pitch? About the man and cosmetic surgery . . .” My voice trails off.
“Oh yes. Sounds interesting. Here’s what I’m thinking.”
My heart is beating so fast I can barely take in her bullet-like phrases.
“We’re launching a health and beauty website called Beauty Bits on Friday, and we still need content. I’d like you to write a column on this man; follow his progress. A blow-by-blow account of the whole thing.”
“Okay!” I squeak. Breathe. Breathe.
“I want you to write about more than the surgery stuff. This man will undergo an all-round transformation, courtesy of our readers.”
“Courtesy of our readers?” I echo, wondering what she means.
“Yeah. We’ll use polls to have them choose what this bloke does to himself. Dress him up in a tux, design his stubble, cut his hair, whatever. They’ll select his new body parts, too. We’ll let them think that, anyway – don’t worry too much about what he actually does; that doesn’t matter. It’s all about having the readers feel like they’re in control. We’ll call the column Build a Man.”
“Wow. Great idea.” Now I sound like a bleating goat.
“We don’t have a budget for freelancers. So you won’t be paid. But if your columns get a lot of hits and you can keep up the pace, we may consider you for a junior position on staff.”
“That’s fine. That’s awesome! Thank you.” I’m practically panting down the phone as visions of my byline float through my head.
“I’ll send you the details; have our online editor get in touch to talk about word count and technical specs. We’ll see how the first column goes and take it from there. Get this man to talk about why he wants a makeover, his background and history. Oh, and make sure to get his measurements, too, so we can do a before and after graph. Can you get me the text by Thursday?”
I gulp. It’s Tuesday now, and Jeremy won’t be in again until next week. Still, I’ve got his phone number on the client sheet. I’ll get him on-board somehow. I’ve got to. “Yes, that’s fine. No problem.”
“Great. Oh, and I think it’s best if you don’t tell him you’ll
be writing about him,” Leza says. ‘To let him fully engage with you.”
“Um, what do you mean, don’t tell him?” I ask tentatively. How can I interview someone without them knowing?
Leza makes an impatient noise. “You know, go undercover. Just say – well, I don’t care what you say; that’s your problem. Look, for this column to work, you need him to let down his guard and give you intimate access.”
My cheeks flush at ‘intimate access’ and I nod before realising she can’t see me.
“And sometimes, if people find out you’re writing about them, they get greedy and ask for cash. We don’t have cash. You’ll need to write under a different name, of course. Keep the clinic confidential, too. The last thing we want is another lawsuit.” She hangs up before I can say anything more.
Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m going to be a reporter for The Daily Planet. I’ll have my own column! Okay, it’s not print. It’s not paid. And since I’ll be undercover, I won’t have a byline in my own name. But I could eventually.
A thrill of excitement and nerves hits me as I think about going undercover, and an image of me in a cute fedora and trench coat goes through my mind. Serenity Holland, working incognito, to get the inside scoop on surgery . . . and stuff. Awesome.
Thank God I won’t need to get Jeremy – or Peter – to agree to this. I’m sure they both would have, of course, but I’ll keep everything anonymous. If I’m careful, there’s no way anyone will be able to identify Peter, Jeremy or the clinic. And ‘careful’ will be my new middle name. Anything’s better than Joy.
Determination floods through me, and I grip onto the desk to steady myself. This is it – the beginning of my dream.
Bring on Build a Man.
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s six o’clock, and the clinic is empty and silent. Today has been the longest ever, and when your typical workday feels like you’ve been forced to endure Schindler's List a good twenty times, that’s really saying something. I’m desperate for a bit of head space to cook up a scheme to meet Jeremy. Every time a second of quiet descended, though, a Botox Bitch walked in, poking at her face like it was damaged goods and demanding to see the doctor.
One woman even had an anxiety attack as she explained how a freckle on her nose caused her husband’s affair. As if. I almost told her it’s because she’s psycho, but I held my tongue. I need this job now for my column.
I hug myself and shiver with glee. My column. I’ve got a column! If I can construct a plausible story to gain ‘intimate access’ to Jeremy, that is. My cheeks heat up again at the words.
“Ready to head out?” Peter emerges from the consulting room carrying his suit jacket and wearing a crisp white shirt, all ready to meet up with the other cosmeticians. A cloud of Hugo Boss cologne surrounds him.
“You look great,” I say. Between working with him and living together, it’s easy to forget how handsome he is, in a dignified, ‘I’m-a-doctor’ sort of way. With his perfectly cut dark hair and strong, even features, he could step right into one of those sitcoms featuring the perfect husband. The thing is, he really is the perfect husband – or partner, anyway. I’m the one who’s always messing up, forgetting the milk and leaving things lying all over the place. He’s so organised and controlled, whereas I, well, I’m a bit of a walking tornado, no matter how hard I try to be otherwise. You’d think after almost six months together, I’d have got more of a grip on myself by now.
I shake my head. Sometimes, I can’t believe we’re actually together. My mind flips back to our first kiss, right here behind the reception desk. Peter had wanted to get a closer look at the skin by my eyes to see how it was aging (yes, so romantic, I know. You don’t see that in the movies). I remember the smoothness of his hand as he cupped my chin; his lemony cologne filling my nostrils . . . the warmth of his lips on mine. I’d almost pulled back in shock – this was my boss, after all. I could hardly believe such an accomplished man would be interested in me, Serenity Holland from Harris. But he was, and our kisses progressed to ‘making sweet music with our bodies’, as Mom would say. Even though our relationship rarely left the confines of the clinic or Peter’s flat, I’d been heady with excitement at a burgeoning romance with a posh, successful British man.
When Peter had noticed me looking at flat listings on the internet a few weeks later (I’d already crashed at Kirsty’s far longer than I should have), he suggested I move in with him until I found something suitable. I’d jumped at the chance, of course. Moving in seemed so grown-up, and I couldn’t get my stuff there quickly enough. It was a slight adjustment at first; I think Peter believed I was the same relatively tidy, efficient person outside the clinic as I was inside. Not wanting to burst his bubble, I tried very hard to put everything in its place and contain my inner slob. Anyway, I wanted to be as organised and controlled as Peter. That was what being a real adult was all about, right? Several months later, and I’m still there. Short-term has morphed into permanent.
Peter comes behind the reception desk and pulls me against him. “So, how’s the writing lark today?”
I swallow; I was hoping to get him off to dinner without having to answer that. So much excitement is coursing through me, I feel like I’m about to burst. But as much as I’m dying to tell Peter about my potential professional coup – my shot at the big time – it’s definitely better if he’s in the dark. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Peter’s always moaning how he’s just as experienced as any of those big-name doctors on Botox or Bust, so on the teeny, tiny, miniscule chance someone did find out, this could only be good for his reputation as a surgeon.
I smile up at him, picturing his grateful, admiring gaze if the details ever did get revealed.
“Thank you, Serenity,” he would croon, leaning down to kiss me in front of a packed waiting room, all filled with royalty and B (no, A) list celebs awaiting his expertise. “Thank you for elevating me and my clinic to such heights. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I’d better push off,” Peter says now, thankfully not noticing my lack of response. “Got to be at The Ivy in a half hour.”
“Have fun,” I say, although fun is the last thing anyone could have at The Ivy. The food is to die for, but the atmosphere is so stiff and formal. Peter took me there once when we first started going out. I dropped a fork, and from the look on the waiter’s face, you’d think I’d castrated Prince William.
While Peter fiddles with the lock on the door, I shove Jeremy’s file with his phone number into my bag. Outside on the busy street, Peter flags down a cab then kisses me quickly and climbs in.
I hurry down the pavement. I can’t wait to be home, have a look over Jeremy’s file, then conjure up a plan to meet and start his transformation. Lucky man!
Smitty comes running when I enter the flat, gives me a foul look when he notices Peter’s not with me, and stalks off again. God, you’d think the fact that I rescued him from a filthy life in a London skip would entitle me to something. But ever since Peter’s taken on the cat as his own personal pedigree project – even naming him after Jurgen Schmidt, a German doctor who pioneered eyelash transplant surgery or whatever – Smitty barely deigns to look in my direction.
I grab Jeremy’s file and dump my bag on the floor, then plop down on the sofa. Leafing through his consultation form, my eyes pop when I notice Jeremy’s ticked almost everything. I can’t help looking to see if there’s anything related to the penile area. Nothing. Hmm, must mean he is fairly well endowed – guess sex isn’t the reason he hasn’t found someone. For a second, I can’t help picturing him in bed, his green eyes staring down into mine . . .
I flip back to the front of the document, tapping my pen against it as I try to come up with a reason to meet. I could say we need more information, but that could be easily solved over the phone – and there’s more than enough personal details in front of me. Anyway, I need something to start a lasting relationship with my subject. Pride shoots through me and I si
t up straight. My subject. Finally!
How about a special fashion service from the clinic? New clothes to match your new nose? I glance down at my boring outfit. Um, no. Not exactly believable, given my obvious lack of fashion credentials. But maybe something similar; something that would let me into Jeremy’s world and justify a bit of prying – all to help him, of course. Maybe . . . a life advisory service? Transforma Life: creating a new life to match the new you.
Yes – that’s it. We could do a little fashion, like Leza suggested, but I’d also get the chance to delve into Jeremy’s past, work on his personality, and make him into my ideal man. My readers’ ideal man, that is. This life advisory thing is inspired, if I do say so myself.
To celebrate, I amble over to the kitchen and grab a handful of Jaffa Cakes. Hastily chomping through their orangey goodness, I clear my throat, pick up my cheapo plastic mobile, and call Jeremy’s number. As an official reporter now, I really should get one of those fancy iPhones.
“Hello?” Jeremy’s voice interrupts all thoughts of a shiny new gadget.
“Hi, Jeremy. It’s Serenity Holland, from the clinic.” I try to make my voice smooth and professional, but an errant Jaffa crumb makes me sputter. I hold my hand over the phone and cough to dislodge it.
“Oh, yes. Is something wrong? Do you need more information?”
Suddenly I don’t want to launch into my Transforma Life sales pitch over the phone. It would be more convincing in person, right?
“Um, yes, actually,” I fib, guilt pinging my gut. “It would be better to meet up. Are you free this evening?”
“Yes, I’m free.” Jeremy’s voice is glum. “What time should I come by the clinic?”
