Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  “No, no, no.” I wag a playful finger at Jeremy. “We’re supposed to be talking about you, not me. Anyway, we’re done for tonight,” I say to put an end to any more questions.

  “Great. So when will we meet up next?” He actually looks excited at the thought.

  “Um, well, I’ll let you know. Probably later this week?” If Leza likes my column, I add in my head. God, I hope she does.

  “Great.” Jeremy shoots me an easy smile and gets to his feet, seemingly unaffected by my alcohol-heavy therapeutic methods. When I stand, however, the restaurant sways before me.

  We say goodbye and I watch him walk away, the events of the day running through my mind. Jeremy’s signed up to my little scheme, I asked the tough questions without flinching (I may have blushed, but I definitely didn’t flinch), and everything is going according to plan.

  Even a table-induced knock on the head and the beginnings of a red-wine headache can’t drag down my spirits as I head for home.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The clinic is quiet and deserted this morning, so I have just enough time to put the finishing touches on my column. It’s due today, and even though Leza didn’t specify exactly when she needs it, I want to send her the copy by lunch at the latest. Not only will that show her I can meet deadlines, I can beat them.

  My mouth stretches in a giant yawn. I couldn’t start working on my article until Peter went to bed, so I was up until all hours, reviewing the sound files and trying to craft a perfect article of around five hundred words to meet the contributors’ guidelines the online editor emailed through.

  It’s a solid piece of writing, if I do say so myself. I tweak a few words here and there, spell check for the zillionth time, then take a deep breath and email it to Leza.

  I drift into a daydream where she emails me back, thanking me for my wonderful contribution and offering me a job at the paper.

  You deserve to be in print, she says, handing me a juicy contract to sign . . .

  My head jerks up as I nearly slide off the stool. I open my eyes wide, trying to stay alert. Honestly, as much as I hate the Botox Bitches, sometimes the dead times here are the worst. I tried to convince Peter to let me play the radio or Hotel Costes; something funky to keep me awake. Instead, he came back from the Pound Shop with wailing whales and annoyingly chirpy birds. I much prefer silence to the sounds of animals getting it on.

  Shaking my head to clear the fog, I glance up at the clock. Thank goodness it’s finally eleven – now I can call Mom and Dad and fill them in on the good news. It’s only six in the morning in Maine, but my parents get up super early for their ‘greet the sun’ ritual, or whatever they call it. I swear, the older they get, the more hippie they become.

  When I first told them I wanted to move to London to pursue my reporting dreams (I didn’t mention the word ‘tabloid’; to them it’s worse than capitalism), they were behind me one hundred percent, chattering on about all the great socialist papers I could work for. But as time marched on and no such jobs materialised, their enthusiasm waned. Just last week, Mom asked if I’d think about coming home. But now I can confirm Mom’s ‘dream it, live it’ mantra works in foreign environments, too.

  I’ll keep the undercover bit to myself, though. There’s no need for them to know all the little details, and Mom’s always said that if you feel the need to do something in secret, you probably shouldn’t be doing it at all. Obviously that doesn’t apply to undercover reporting, but I don’t feel like having to explain.

  “Hello?” Mom’s calm voice comes through the receiver, and I can’t help smiling already, just imagining her joyous reaction.

  “Hi, Mom.” I tap my foot against the chair, bursting with my news.

  “Serenity! Hi, honey. Let me get Dad on the line. He’s just out back.” She puts down the phone and I hear her bellowing for my father.

  There’s a click as he picks up the extension they installed recently in their hydroponic greenhouse. Since they’ve only just managed to get the hang of an answering machine, a mobile is a step too far. “Lesley, these plants need more solar power. I thought you turned it up yesterday.”

  Mom sighs. “Dear, Serenity’s on the phone.”

  “Oh, Serenity. Still saving the world, one cosmetic surgery at a time?” Dad’s tone is light, but I know how he really feels about my place of employment: ‘a cauldron of all that’s wrong with the modern world’, or something along those lines.

  Good thing I never told them I was shacking up with the head warlock. Not that they’d mind the living together bit – they’re all for free love – but in their view of the world, Peter is the living, breathing definition of ‘the man’.

  “Well, actually, guess what? I’m going to be a reporter. I got a job!” I catch sight of my face in the mirror. I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t care.

  “Oh!” Mom lets out an excited squeak. “I knew it would happen, Serenity. Dream it, live it – that’s all you needed to do. What’s the name of the paper?’

  “Um . . .” I pause, wondering if I should tell them. As happy as they might be about my job, they definitely won’t be thrilled it’s a tabloid.

  My mind flashes to the moment Mom caught me reading Teen People, right after Clarissa Dixon teased me mercilessly in front of the whole sixth grade when she discovered I’d never heard of Oprah. (What can I say? We had no TV.) With a look of sorrow and disappointment as if her beloved tomatoes had dry rot, Mom had sat me down, taken my hand, and explained in her soft voice that today’s society is shallow and vacant, and we should look inside ourselves for validation. I had no idea what she was talking about then, and even now I’m not sure.

  Mom and Dad won’t know The Daily Planet is a tabloid, though. They wouldn’t recognise one if it walked up to them and introduced itself. Heck, until I saved enough for a TV in my room (no way would anyone accuse me of being a freak ever again), the only bit of pop culture in our house was an ancient, scratched record by John Lennon.

  “It’s called The Daily Planet,” I say finally, grateful for once for the distance between us. They’ll never be able to find out what it really is.

  “The Daily Planet,” Mom repeats in a reverential tone.

  “What’s the paper’s political leanings?” Dad asks.

  “Um . . . socialist.” The Daily Planet is sort of socialist, isn’t it? It’s about society and all. “But my column’s not going to be in the paper itself,” I add, before they ask me to send a thousand copies. “It’ll be on a website.” Thank goodness my parents don’t own a computer.

  “That’s just groovy,” Dad says. I cringe at his use of the word – no matter how many times I tell him it’s a cliché, he won’t stop saying it. “Your mother and I are so happy you’re doing your part for the cause.”

  “Yeah,” I respond weakly, hoping they don’t find out exactly what part I’m playing.

  Peter walks by the desk, grimacing when he spots me on the phone. My heart starts thumping and I cast a sidelong glance to see if he’s overheard anything. His nose is buried in a patient file, and he doesn’t even turn my way. God, I’ve got to remember to be careful.

  “I should go,” I say, using Peter as an excuse to hang up before my parents ask for more details. I tell them I’ll call later, and say goodbye. Somehow, all my excitement at sharing the big news has faded away.

  Sighing, I turn back to the computer. They will be proud of me, once I really make it big. And maybe then, I can even write a few articles on homeless people or . . . whatever the burning social issues of the day are here in London. Strange – I can name almost all the members of the British Royal Family and Elton John’s pet dogs, but I have no idea what challenges face the nation’s citizens.

  At least Kirsty knows what a massive break this is for me, landing a column on a tabloid’s website – unpaid or not. She’ll understand I need to do whatever it takes to make it happen. I’m dying to call her, but this kind of thing demands a face-to-face, and I can’t risk Peter wa
lking by again. He wants to watch some TV programme tonight about a king who had eight wives, so instead of hanging around feeling bored and drinking too much wine, I’ll head over to her house.

  I’ve just slurped down my tasty lunch of Pot Noodles when my email pings. My heart jumps when I spot Leza Larke’s name in the inbox.

  I click on the message.

  Come see me this afternoon. I’m free at one.

  Shit. SHIT! What does this mean? She hates my column? I’m through before I’ve begun? Or she loves it and my dream is about to come true? My eyes flick to the signature of her email. Her office is all the way over in Notting Hill Gate. There’s no question – I need to get there. But how can I leave here?

  I glance at the appointment schedule. There’s a patient at one for Botox, and another at one-thirty for hyaluronic acid injections, then no one again until three. Peter can handle it, I’m sure. I just need to come up with a plausible excuse. I could say . . . I have cramps? But no, Peter knows I’m nowhere near my period. Stupid BlackBerry.

  The only thing I can think of is Smitty. If I say I forgot to feed him – or even worse, I neglected to mix his anti-anxiety medication into his stinky food – Peter might let me leave. Then, once I’m free, I can make up something about why it took me so long to get back here. I press my fingers to my temples to try to ease the pounding. All this subterfuge is doing my head in – either that or it’s the wine from last night.

  Sliding off the stool, I walk down the corridor to Peter’s office. “Peter? Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.” He points to the chair across from his desk. For a second I almost feel like a patient.

  “I’m really sorry. I just remembered I forgot to feed Smitty his medication.”

  Peter’s head snaps up from the computer screen. “You what? Serenity, it’s almost half past twelve now! You were supposed to give him the meds hours ago. This could have a severe impact on his mental condition and the dosage level in his system.”

  “I know,” I respond gravely, but I can’t help wondering what planet Peter’s on. Smitty is a cat, not a psychiatric patient. Back home, our cats were lucky if they got de-wormed, let alone fed Prozac. “I feel terrible.”

  “Well, you’d better get back home. I can handle reception until you return.” Peter turns to the computer, dismissing me.

  “There are only a couple appointments anyway.” Relief at my easy getaway floods through me as I back toward the open doorway. “Just check the schedule, and go out to reception to collect the women when it’s time.”

  “Fine, fine.” Peter waves one hand in the air and clicks the mouse with the other. “It’s hardly rocket science, is it?”

  Irritation sweeps over me as I rush out front. I’d love to tell Peter I’m on my way to bigger and better things, but I squash down the desire. Peter wouldn’t think a tabloid is a ‘better thing’, anyway.

  I scribble down the address of The Daily Planet, then push out of the clinic without a backward glance. Time to meet the maker or breaker of my dreams.

  One hot and sweaty Tube ride later – I’m always amazed how many people are on the Tube during the day; don’t they have jobs to go to? – I emerge, blinking into the light of Notting Hill Gate. A chip wrapper swirls into the air and smacks into my face. I push it away, hoping I don’t have the remains of chips in my hair. I like salt ‘n’ vinegar as much as the next girl (possibly more), but it’s not the kind of look I want when I first meet Leza.

  All the way down the Central Line, I rehearsed scenarios in my head. Now that I’m here, though, my brain has gone into fuzzy-TV-screen mode. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, praying the clamminess doesn’t have time to seep back again before I shake hands. Or will I even shake hands? Maybe I should kiss; that’s what all the media people do, right? One cheek or two? My heart starts pounding again.

  Ah, here it is. I stop in front of a modern glass and steel building, exactly what I envisioned in my tabloid dreams. Tugging open the door, I walk into the light and airy reception area. Modern art lines the walls – the kind that makes me feel dumb because as hard as I try, I just can’t see how it’s art – and water cascades silently behind the reception desk.

  “Hi!” I say to a perfectly groomed man, my voice echoing around the foyer. “I’m here to see Leza Larke. I have an appointment at one.” Gosh, I sound so official, don’t I? A real journalist, meeting with one of London’s top editors.

  “Here.” The man slaps a crimson ‘Visitor’ sticker on the counter. “Fill this out. Leza’s on the fifth floor. I’ll tell her you’re on the way.”

  “Great, thanks.” I scrawl my name then fix the badge on the waistband of my skirt, attempting to minimise its impact. Striding over to the lift, I do a few deep-breathing exercises to try to ‘feel my core’, just like I saw on late-night TV. But my core feels kind of queasy and the more in touch with it I am, the worse I feel.

  Fifth floor. I wipe my hands on my skirt – again – as the lift doors open.

  My jaw drops. In front of me is the office of my dreams, like something out of Ugly Betty, only better. In the middle of the floor, lime-green couches form a cosy circle where people sit, chatting and working. Chocolate-coloured bamboo work-pods dot the floor. Inside each, Macs glisten and comfy-looking chairs nestle against steel desks. Off in the corner there’s a full-on bar, with hundreds of bottles shining behind backlit glass. Chattering plasma-screen TVs – tuned into the all-news networks, including my favourite from back home, E! – fill the space with sound.

  I stand there for a moment, watching people dash back and forth between the pods. A rail-thin woman with long red hair swoops by, wearing a leather skirt and a futuristic top straight off the runway. A longing like I’ve never known sweeps through me, almost taking away my breath with its intensity. I’d give anything to work here. Anything.

  “Serenity?” A loud voice breaks into my thoughts, and I turn.

  “Hi, Leza.” I recognise her from Botox or Bust, even though she looks like she’s sloughed off ten years since then. Instantly I know she’s had the new cosmetic procedure Peter’s been talking about, using hyaluronic acid to plump up the cheeks. Her blonde hair is even blonder – almost white – and the make-up plastered over her broad features is so heavy it would give Katie Price a run for her money.

  I stick out my hand, but Leza turns away before she sees it. I let it drop to my side, feeling my face flame up again. Maybe I should have gone for the cheek, after all.

  “Come with me.” Leza beckons me to follow as she weaves between the pods. God, I had no idea she was so . . . big. They always had her sitting down on Botox or Bust. I’m small, yes, but she’d tower over even Peter, and with her heavy-set frame I’m sure she could take him down, no problem.

  We enter a narrow conference room with leopard-print seats and Leza closes the door, fixing me with eyes so blue it can only be down to contacts. She slides into a chair across from me, retrieves a piece of paper from the folder she’s carrying, and thumps it on the table.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  I stare, my mouth dropping open. Is this some kind of tabloid test? Guess the size of the paper? Looks like A4 to me . . . I stretch out my hand and turn it over. Oh.

  “It’s my column,” I say slowly, the words on the page swimming before my eyes. I look up at her thunderous expression. Shit.

  “Yeah.” Leza fishes inside her shirt like she’s searching for buried treasure, then hauls up a thick black bra-strap. It snaps against her shoulder but she doesn’t even flinch. “It’s your column. And most of it is fucking useless. If I wanted a feelgood feature, I’d have hired a fucking Buddhist to write the story!”

  Her strident words echo around the small room.

  “I want to know the pain this man’s feeling. The agony that’s driving him to get all these operations. You’ve made him look like a little fluffy bunny all hippity-hoppy happy, off to get surgery for a brand new life.” Her mouth twists in disgust.

 
“Have you ever heard ‘if it bleeds, it leads’?” she asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s what we live by here. Put the suffering, the blood and the guts right up front. It’s what people really want to see.” She stares at me with her flinty eyes. “Now, do I need to get an intern to rewrite this, or can you do it?”

  An intern! “No, no, I’ll do it,” I babble. “If it bleeds, it leads. Got it.” I’ll bang it into my head if I need to.

  “Good. Have it to me in an hour.” She pushes back her chair and strides out.

  I stare at the paper in front of me. Oh, Jesus. For a second, I feel paralysed. Can I do this? Can I be a tabloid journalist?

  I take a deep breath. I can. Of course I can. Remember, if it bleeds, it leads. The juicier, the better. I knew that, of course I did. It’s just, I thought what I’d written was juicy. But I’m in the big leagues now. And if I want to stay here . . .

  I take out a pen and make a big red slash across my article. Then I start the task of transforming Jeremy – or James, as I’ve called him in the column – into a modern-day Heathcliff, all tortured and tormented, and just . . . ugly. I feel weird about that since Jeremy’s really not bad-looking, but it’s not like people will know it’s him I’m talking about. Writing about James is almost like writing about a character I’m creating, and for a second I almost forget he actually is Jeremy.

  An hour later, I push out of the conference room and over to Leza’s pod.

  “Here.” I hand her the finished copy and my heart starts thumping again. I think I’ve done it – I’ve certainly upped the drama and the anguish – but did I go far enough? For a second, I want my article back again, to make Jeremy even more pathetic.

  But Leza’s blood-red lips are curving into a smile. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Good girl.”