by Talli Roland
Oh, shit. “We’re having some work done there tonight,” I say, wondering where on earth that lie sprang from, “so we’ve closed early. Can you meet me at Providores on Marylebone High Street?” Providores is my and Kirsty’s favourite haunt. They’ve got great tapas and lots of good wine. That should help Jeremy relax, settle into the idea. “Say, around eight?”
“Sure.” He sounds a bit brighter. “See you there soon.”
I hang up and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, exactly what Jeremy was wearing yesterday. It’s a mirroring technique Kirsty taught me, way back when I actually thought at least one tabloid would call me for an interview. Dress how you think your interviewer will dress; mimic their actions. If they touch their chin, you touch yours. And so on. I draw the line if Jeremy scratches his groin, though.
After pouring some organic food mixed with meds in a bowl for Smitty, I slip on my favourite trainers. It’s seven-thirty, and I want to get to Providores before Jeremy. Claim the space, assert my dominance – another tip from Kirsty, that time in relation to blind dating. I went through a blind-dating phase when I first moved to London, in a desperate bid to widen my social circle beyond Kirsty and Tim. After two weeks and five dates – one with a man who turned up lugging an antique bow and a full set of arrows – I discovered the London blind-dating scene is full of lunatics.
Thank God for Peter, I think, shaking my head. Who would have thought I’d end up with a doctor? My last boyfriend worked in a corner store on Main Street – not that there’s anything wrong with that, but when your number one ambition is selling last Easter’s Cadbury Creme Eggs, it might be time to move on. Last I heard, he’d been promoted to night manager.
I race out of the building and down to Marylebone High Street, past the Waitrose where I once spotted Alan Rickman (so hot, even if he does play an evil teacher) and open the door to the cosy confines of Providores. To my surprise, Jeremy’s already there, hunched over a magazine, with an almost-empty bottle of wine on the table. He doesn’t waste time, does he?
“Hello.” I swing into the chair opposite him, knocking the table by accident. The bottle of wine sways back and forth in slow motion before tipping over and spilling its contents into Jeremy’s lap.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” I stand and pull some tissue from my bag, pressing it down hard on his thighs to try to absorb as much wine as possible from his jeans.
Well done, I berate myself. Sneaking a look at Jeremy’s face, I almost do a double-take when I realise he’s smiling. If it was Peter, he’d be ready to kill me right about now.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Jeremy takes the tissue from my hand and gently pushes me away from his crotch area. (That’s a first.) “Just relax. It’ll dry.”
“I’m so sorry,” I babble. “Do you want me to grab a cloth for you? You should get as much out as you can.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Naw. Don’t worry. I live around the corner anyway. I’ll just throw them in the washing machine as soon as I get home.” He motions to the waiter for another bottle. “Come on, sit down. Relax.”
I sink carefully into my seat. “You live nearby? Me, too.”
“Yeah, I’m just on Welbeck, down the street.” Jeremy waves a hand in the air. “Your clinic was so close, I figured I’d give you a try. I’m happy I did.” He smiles. “I was really depressed, and you cheered me up. Well, you and the thought of a new nose.” He taps his nose as if it’s behaved poorly.
I almost say he doesn’t need a new nose, but I snap my mouth closed just in time. Who am I to tell someone what they need and what they don’t? That will be up to the women of Great Britain when they vote in the poll.
“So.” Jeremy pours me a large glug of wine then fills his own glass. “Why did you want to meet?”
I take a mouthful of liquid, swallow, then breathe in. “Okay. Well.” I put on the life-affirming, bushy-tailed expression I imagine every life coach employs. “So here’s the thing. For a select group of clients, Transforma offers our life advisory service. And I’m thrilled to report that you’ve been chosen.” God, I sound like I’ve swallowed a whole pharmacy of happy pills.
Jeremy’s brow does a cute crinkly thing. “A life advisory service? What’s that, exactly?”
“A new life to match the new you,” I chirp. “How to dress, how to date, how to turn yourself into the ideal man, both inside and out.” I can feel my face turning red as I hold his eyes.
“Serenity, what are you on about?” he asks with a lovely lopsided grin. “I don’t need a new life. I just need a new face.” He grimaces, as if an unpleasant memory has come to mind.
“Yes, that’s a typical response,” I say knowingly. “Many patients don’t realise it takes more than a new appearance to make one happy with oneself. That’s why we, at the Transforma Harley Street Clinic, undertake a global approach, helping our clients become the person they’ve always wanted by working with them on everything from wardrobe to waistline. Because, you know,” – I lower my voice dramatically – “you can’t embrace your future without understanding your past.” God! Where the hell is all this spewing from? And is that cheesy infomercial voice mine?
“Well, I could use some help with my wardrobe, I guess.” Jeremy looks down at his wine-stained jeans. “But I don’t know about the rest of it. I’d rather forget the past, to be honest.” His face twists, and I can’t help wondering what he’s so keen to forget. I’ll find out soon enough – if I can pull this off.
I nod understandingly. “I know. A lot of people feel that way before they start. But it’s a very rewarding process, and when it’s over I can guarantee you’ll be happy with the results.” More than happy, actually. He’ll be the man of every woman’s dreams.
“Anyway, my methods are very relaxed. Some have even called them ground-breaking,” I say in a desperate bid to convince him.
“Ground-breaking, huh? What exactly do you do?”
“Well . . .” My mind works frantically. “We start with a complete clothing analysis. What does your wardrobe say about you, your hopes and your dreams? What do you want it to say?” I risk a glance in his direction, and he’s nodding slowly. “Then, we move on to, er,” – my gaze falls onto the bottle on the table – “wine therapy.”
“Wine therapy?” Jeremy raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, you know. In vino veritas.” Or whatever that saying is. “It’s a method used to ensure complete relaxation, developed by Ziggy, um, Moyles.” Christ. I hold my breath that Jeremy’s bought it.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” he says. “Is there an extra fee involved?”
He’s going to go for it! “No, no, of course not,” I respond. “If you purchase over five thousand pounds of surgery, the life service is complimentary.”
“Give me some time to think about it,” Jeremy says. “I hear what you’re saying about the past and all. It’s just, well, I’m quite a private person. I’m not sure I’m ready to start sharing it, with wine or without.”
My heart starts beating faster. How much time will he need? The first column is due in two days. And what if he doesn’t agree? “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle with you.” For some reason, my cheeks heat up.
“You seem too nice to be otherwise.” Jeremy’s face is reddening, too.
“Why don’t we meet back here tomorrow, around six-thirty? You can tell me then.” That won’t give me much time to pull together the article, but I’ll work at the speed of light if I have to. I grab my wine glass and drain it, trying to wash away the tension. I feel like I’m about to keel over from the stress of it all.
“Sure, okay.” Jeremy tilts his head to the side. “Where are you from, anyway?”
If I had a dollar for everyone who’s asked me that, I’d be a rich woman.
“Maine. It’s right across the Atlantic Ocean, just up the coast from Boston.” I launch into my standard answer because few Brits ever seem to have heard of my home state. I’m not surprised – there’s not a lot going on th
ere.
Jeremy nods. “I know where it is. I haven’t been, but I imagine it’s beautiful countryside.”
Images of trees and lakes flash through my head and for a split second, I feel homesick. Until I remember how I was about to gnaw off my arm with boredom.
“So you’re a life advisor and a receptionist? Busy lady.”
I wave a hand. “Oh, receptionist. Well, it’s a great way to assess clients right from the get-go, you know? You can learn a lot from how people carry themselves when they first walk in. Plus, since our advisory service is only for select clients at the moment, the receptionist position helps top up my salary.”
“I hope Dr Lycett knows how lucky he is to have you,” Jeremy says.
“Um, yeah, he does.” I think. I hope, anyway. For some reason, I don’t feel right telling him Peter’s my boyfriend.
“Good. He seems a decent bloke. Really professional; thorough.” Jeremy gets to his feet, laughing as he looks down at the red splotches decorating the front of his jeans.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again. “If you want, I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
“Dry cleaning? For jeans?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I kind of thought it was crazy, too, but Peter gets all his jeans done, so I figured it must be a London thing. Oh God, I must remember to pick up the dry cleaning tonight! Thank goodness they’re open twenty-four hours, a fact that always makes me laugh. Who’s going to need a freshly laundered shirt at three in the morning? I love that some shops stay open around the clock here, though. In Harris, you’d be lucky to see a car on the road past ten.
“No, don’t worry. I’m good,” Jeremy says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you.” I focus on his back as he leaves, sending ‘Do it! Do it!’ thoughts into his head with all my might. He has to agree – how on earth am I going to get access to his life if he doesn’t?
“Miss? Anything else?” A waiter hovers over me.
“No,” I say, standing. All I really need is to get Jeremy signed up. If he says no tomorrow . . . I’ll come up with something. Somehow.
I push through the narrow tables and head into the street toward the dry cleaner’s. It’s quiet and dark now, and a fine drizzle is drifting through the air. I scrabble in my pocket for the dry cleaning ticket, then go inside and collect Peter’s tie and shirts. Nothin’ says lovin’ like starched collars.
When I get home, the flat is silent. I peel off my damp clothes, throw on the silk pyjamas Peter bought me (even though he got them a size too small and the inseam likes to wiggle into places where the sun don’t shine) then head out to the lounge. Finally, a night when I can watch whatever TV channel I want without having to feign interest in some obscure History Channel documentary.
“Serenity?” Peter sits up on the sofa, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and I jump. I didn’t even see him there.
“Hi! How was the dinner?” I walk over to him, surreptitiously tugging down my pyjama bottoms.
Peter shakes his head. “Bloody BlackBerry. I got all the way down there, and then I remembered they’d postponed it this month. I’m sure I keyed it in but it didn’t come up as rescheduled.”
He looks so disturbed that I snuggle up to him and rub his back. It’s rare he does something like this; he’s so meticulously organised he even has my periods scheduled in his BlackBerry. And I know how much he looks forward to these dinners. He works hard, and he’s so tired that he rarely goes out.
“Cup of tea?” I ask, hoping that might make him feel better. Tea seems to be a cure-all this side of the Atlantic.
Peter smiles and squeezes my leg. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
He lumbers into the bedroom, and I head to the kitchen and switch on the electric kettle. I put the teabag in the mug, flat against the bottom, then pour the water so it strikes the centre of the bag. After counting to twenty, I remove the bag and splash in a teaspoon of milk. It’s Peter’s tried and true tea method, perfected over years of practice to result in the ideal cup. And I have to say, it usually does – for him. I like my tea all milky and weak, more along the lines of tea-flavoured water. Peter always jokes Americans never appreciate good tea: just look what they did at the Boston Tea Party.
“Here you go.” I hand him the steaming mug after he emerges from the bedroom, all tucked into his robe. He sits back down on the sofa and sips his drink, and I cuddle in next to him.
“Feeling better?” I ask, soaking in the heat from his body.
“Yes, thanks.” Peter takes another sip, then makes a face. “Serenity, did you keep the teabag in for twenty seconds, like I showed you? This is way too weak.” Sighing, he strides into the kitchen and I hear the sound of liquid pouring down the drain, then the rattle of a spoon against a mug as he makes a new cup. Oh, for God’s sake. I did keep the stupid teabag in for twenty seconds.
He’s probably annoyed about tonight, I tell myself, forcing a smile onto my face as he comes back into the lounge. I know he doesn’t mean to be ungrateful for my tea attempt; he’s just a perfectionist.
As Peter drinks in silence, I lean against his shoulder and nestle into him even more. Ah, this is nice. The two of us together, the two of us–
With Tony Robinson? I lift my head as Peter cranks up the volume on a rerun of Time Team. Gosh, we’re on a romantic roll tonight. I might as well cram a Jaffa into my mouth and blow crumbs. I move away, tugging down the inseam again as Smitty takes my place on Peter’s lap.
Still, romance is over-rated, right? What matters is that you and your partner are working toward the same goals; that you complement each other’s ‘life path’, as my mother would say. And right now, I can’t imagine a couple more on track than Peter and me. Even though he doesn’t know my big news, I feel like we’re partners; that he and the clinic are helping me reach my dream.
All I need now is to get Jeremy on-board, and I’ll start my way down the Yellow Brick Road.
I can – I will – make this happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Morning.”
I lift my head to see Peter beside me on the sofa. He’s already dressed and by the light streaming through the window, I can tell it’s well past my usual rising time. Sitting up, I try to remember why I’m in the lounge – I must have fallen asleep here. I stayed up until late, trying to figure out something extra to entice Jeremy, along with a back-up plan in case he says no. I even ventured onto Peter’s state-of-the-art laptop to Google ‘life coaching’ for some ideas, but all I could find was some mumbo-jumbo about confidence, setting goals, and getting clarity. Well, duh. I could have figured that out. Still, the fact that it’s so nebulous gives me leeway to ask probing questions. Maybe with the help of wine therapy. It could be a valid method. And if it isn’t, it should be.
“Are you all right?” Peter’s impatient voice interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve got a meeting with one of our suppliers this morning. Come on; we need to be out of here in fifteen minutes.”
Even Peter’s stressy attitude can’t bite into my happy place inside – although that silly inseam definitely can. Ugh! I tug down my pyjama bottoms for the umpteenth time. “Give me ten minutes.”
Inside the bedroom, I throw on the one clean pair of black trousers I have left and a polyester paisley nightmare of a blouse resembling a reject from Bozo the Clown’s costume. There’s no time to change between the clinic and meeting Jeremy tonight, but life coaches are supposed to be bright and cheery, right? This blouse certainly meets that criteria.
“I thought since last night was a dud, we might head out for dinner this evening. I’ve got a voucher for a new restaurant in Mayfair.” Peter’s voice floats into the room.
Shit. I’ve been so busy trying to come up with something to convince Jeremy that I haven’t even considered how to give Peter the slip tonight. He often stays at the clinic later than me, and as long as I have the chicken fillet good to go at seven when he returns, he never asks what I’ve been up to. Tonight of all nights he wants to go out for dinner
?
“Um . . . !” I call back, my mind racing as I button the blouse. What to say? “It’s just” – what’s the one thing Peter has no interest in? – “I’ve got a special seminar tonight on how to write for tabloids. You know, making it big in the industry and such.”
As I await his response, an uncomfortable feeling circles around my empty tummy (no time for Jaffa love today, sadly). I know my column isn’t going to hurt the clinic – it might even do great things for it – but it feels strange keeping something so big from my boyfriend.
“Come on, Serenity.” I can hear Peter’s long-suffering sigh from here. “Not tabloids again. If you’re really serious, why don’t you focus on a real paper? The Times or something? Learn the ropes properly, work your way up. Forget about those silly rags.”
Instantly my stomach discomfort morphs into irritation. Peter may think tabloids are silly rags, but millions of people read and love them. And why would I ‘work my way up’ at the boring Times when I’ve got a big break now – without having to pour someone’s coffee for five years first?
“Okay, I’m ready.” I skid across the parquet toward the door, grabbing my coat from the hooks by the sideboard on the way.
“You’re wearing that?” Peter eyes my ensemble as if it’s about to attack. Given the vibrant colours, I can’t say I blame him. A little appreciation for getting ready so quickly might be nice, though. Before I can open my mouth, he heaves another sigh and helps me into my coat. “Come on, then.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in front of the clinic. Peter unlocks the door, and I scurry behind the desk and boot up the computer. It’s only eight-fifteen – plenty of time to get started on my life-coaching questions for Jeremy. Because once he agrees, I’ll need to begin the counselling session straight away. My first undercover interview! Then I’ll have all night to craft the column before sending it off to Leza tomorrow morning.
God, I haven’t the slightest clue exactly what I need to be an effective undercover reporter. I don’t want to blow my cover the first time out. What kind of equipment do undercover reporters use? Visions of me taping a wire to my bits – with Jeremy patting me down to make sure I’m ‘clean’ – filter through my head. Something flutters in my belly at the thought of his hands on me, and I quickly open the internet, telling myself that’s the last time I go without breakfast.
