by Talli Roland
Relief washes over me. Thank God.
“We’ll post it tomorrow for the launch. Have you given any thought to your first poll?” she asks. “I’m thinking the nose.”
“Poll?” I echo, before remembering she wants to run a poll alongside my column to have readers choose Jeremy’s new bits. “Um, yes. Nose, for sure.”
Leza turns toward me, tossing back her platinum hair. “You know, I’m impressed. Most first-time writers here whinge and whine about integrity, blah blah blah. But you got on board, fast. I like your writing; I like how you’ve gone straight for the jugular after I told you what’s what. You could have a future here, after all.”
“That’s great!” Happiness gushes through me. I knew I could do it. I knew this could be the start of my career. I push aside the finger of doubt jabbing my gut – the thing Leza mentioned about integrity. But that doesn’t apply to me, right? I’m not hurting anyone.
“If things go well with the column, we might even consider upping its frequency.” She thrusts a pointy red fingernail at me. “Just don’t get all wussy. Remember–”
“If it bleeds, it leads,” I finish for her, grinning.
Leza grins back, showing off her bleached teeth in all their glory. “Exactly, Serenity. Exactly.”
Thirty minutes later, I pull open the door of the clinic, my chest heaving up and down with the effort of sprinting from the Tube. It’s almost three-thirty, and I’ve been gone much longer than the few minutes it would take to medicate Smitty. On the way home, I developed a story: Smitty was distressed, and I couldn’t leave again until he calmed down. God knows how a cat in distress behaves, but hopefully it will get me out of trouble.
Thankfully the waiting area is empty, but I hear the low rumble of Peter’s voice and a high-pitched squeaky one coming from the consulting room, so I’m assuming Peter’s with either a client or a chipmunk. I head behind the desk, eyeing the sharpened pencils and neatly capped pens. Even the envelopes are perfectly piled, edges aligned. Guess it wasn’t too busy here, then.
Sinking onto the stool, I let out a big sigh. Every muscle in my body feels like after Kirsty and I did a session on the Power Plate: shaken, stirred, and drained. Thank God I’m on Leza’s good side now, that she loved my column in the end, and that it will be posted tomorrow. Determination grips me again as images of the funky lime-green and bamboo office flash through my head. God, I want to work there.
Peter walks into the reception, a haughty woman trotting on stilettos behind him. I can’t help smirking at the two stripes of blonde and black dyed into her fringe. She does resemble a chipmunk.
“Oh, hello. You’re back,” he says, with a pointed look at the clock above the desk.
“Sorry, Doctor, it took longer than I thought.” I drop my head to hide my annoyance. He’s acting like I’m an errant schoolchild returning late from my lunch hour.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Chipmunk puts a hand on his arm, smiling as much as her frozen face will allow. “You’re a genius. And so lovely, too.”
Ugh. I roll my eyes as Peter bids her goodbye and tells her not to worry; that a bit of swelling and tightness is normal post bum-lift. I almost gag just hearing about her butt.
“So.” Peter turns to face me once Chipmunk and her swollen bottom have scurried off. “What on earth took you so long?”
“Oh, Smitty was acting weird. I didn’t want to leave until he was resting comfortably.” Somehow I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes again.
“Is he okay? You know we have that special animal-care hotline you can ring.” Peter looks at me anxiously. “Maybe you should go back and make sure he’s all right. I can handle the rest of the day here.”
“He’s fine, Peter,” I say, a bit more curtly than intended. Peter wouldn’t let me go home last month when I was ready to upchuck my Jaffas, but one hint of something ailing our kitty and he’s ready to shove me into the street?
I stretch out my fingers, trying to relax as Peter returns to his office. I’m just stressed after my session with Leza, that’s all – no way am I jealous of a cat. But even as I think it, I can’t help wishing Peter would show an ounce of that same emotion toward me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peter and Smitty (now fully recovered from his earlier ‘trauma’, according to the doctor of the house) are ensconced in front of the Fat King with Eight Wives or whatever it’s called, so after pillaging Peter’s champagne collection, I head over to Kirsty and Tim’s to tell them my news. They live in an Edwardian terraced house, just off Baker Street and right next to Regent’s Park. On a good day (without high heels), I can be there in ten minutes.
The autumn air is crisp and I turn my face toward the early-evening sun, breathing in the scent of old leaves. The smell reminds me of home, when I used to help Mom rake the leaves from the two massive maple trees in our front yard. Closing my eyes, for just a second I can almost believe I’m back in Maine. But when I open them again, the beautiful buildings neatly lining the street and the red double-decker buses flashing by couldn’t be further from the quiet peace of our old clapboard farmhouse. I smile, shaking my head. I’m actually here, in London. And I’m on my way!
Be there in five, I text Kirsty, half-listening for the ping of her return text requesting her usual mammoth-sized bag of roasted cashews. But my phone is silent and I quicken my step, bursting to tell her my news. Kirsty’s the one person I know will give me a guaranteed thumbs up. I ring the buzzer, smiling already as I hear someone thumping toward the door.
“Ser!” Kirsty’s eyebrows fly up when she spots me. Her raspy voice is even raspier than normal, and her face is flushed. “I forgot you were coming by.” Flashing me a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she ushers me inside.
“Oh, yeah?” That’s surprising. Kirsty’s mind is like a Venus Flytrap – nothing ever escapes it. I follow her through to the living room. They’ve polished the floorboards since I’ve last been here, and a gorgeous new sofa is positioned in front of the fireplace. Tim’s sitting in an armchair, resting his feet on a funky wood and metal table. It always amazes me how they make everything look so fabulous yet cosy and warm at the same time.
“Hey, Serenity.” Tim’s face is glowing like he’s just had an ionic skin scrub.
Sinking onto a comfy leather sofa, I pull the champagne from my bag. I’m just about to open my mouth when Kirsty bursts out: “We’ve got news!”
I force back my words. I’ll tell them after, and then we can have a dual celebration. If their news is good, of course. Judging by the strange look in Kirsty’s eyes, I’m not sure what to think.
Has Tim finally got up the nerve to propose? According to Kirsty’s Master Life Plan Excel spreadsheet (sad but true), the ideal proposal would take place between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-four, leaving a few years for dedicated marriage time before conceiving a baby at age twenty-six or twenty-seven. Since everything else in Kirsty’s life has gone according to schedule, I can’t see why this shouldn’t, either.
I smile dreamily at the two of them, already picturing Kirsty in a creamy silk wedding gown with Tim handsome in tails, and maybe even a horse-drawn carriage . . . not that Kirsty’s the romantic type, really. She’d be happy to do the deed down at City Hall to be more time-efficient.
“Ser?” Kirsty’s voice snaps me back to reality.
“So what’s the news, then? Don’t leave me in suspense.” My eyes dart back and forth from Tim to Kirsty.
Tim clears his throat. “Kirsty and I are getting married,” he announces, his voice full of pride.
“Oh my God.” I stand and pull Kirsty into a hug, leaning back slightly when I notice her lukewarm response. “That’s fantastic! Congratulations, you two.” I touch Tim’s arm and he beams at me.
“Should I crack this open?” Kirsty tries to liberate the champagne from my arms.
“Er, actually, Kirst . . .” Tim’s voice trails off. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s fine, Tim.
” She narrows her eyes and shoots him a look, then rips the foil from the bottle and deftly pops the cork. “I’ll just go get some glasses.”
“Whoa!” I grab her arm. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” I snap my mouth closed, wanting to take back the negative way I’ve said the word, just in case. But oh, wow.
Kirsty turns to face me with an expression I can’t read. Before she can reply, Tim slings an arm around her shoulders, his face infused with happiness. “She is. She just did the test this morning. We think she’s about seven weeks now.”
“Wow. Well,” I stammer, trying to think of the right thing to say. “That’s . . . great.” At least it explains the strange way she’s acting. Things like this don’t happen to Kirsty. In fact, I can’t remember anything daring to deviate from her life plan.
“Isn’t it?” Tim hugs Kirsty to him. “I mean, we would have got married soon anyway. But this just seals the deal, you know?”
“Absolutely.” I take Kirsty’s arm. “Why don’t I come with you to get the glasses?”
I steer her into the gleaming white kitchen, then grab three champagne flutes from the cupboard. Kirsty’s face is pale and she’s leaning against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I’ve never seen my friend look so scared and uncertain.
“So how are you feeling?” I ask tentatively.
“I’m pregnant, not terminally ill,” she snaps.
That’s more like it, I think, happy to see some of her spirit return. But it goes just as quickly as it came, and her face tightens into an anxious expression.
Tiptoeing over, I touch her back gingerly, as if she’s a bomb about to explode. “I meant, how are you feeling about the whole situation?” I rack my brain for a positive spin. “I know it’s not how you planned things, but it’s not terrible, is it? You and Tim are going to get married. You’re going to have a baby!”
Kirsty drops her head for a second and when she lifts it again, I’m stunned by the tears seeping from her eyes. I’ve never seen her cry, not even when we were ten and Danny O’Brien pulled down her trousers on the playground, then took a photo with his mobile and posted it everywhere.
“For God’s sake, I’m only twenty-three. I don’t want a baby now.” A hollow laugh escapes from her. “This was not how it was supposed to happen.”
I stare, dismayed to see my strong friend in such a state. “It’s not the end of the world. Sure, it might have happened a few years off schedule, but you and Tim are getting married and everything will go as planned, just a few years sooner. Right?”
Thankfully, Kirsty nods and pushes herself away from the counter. “Right. I just need time for it all to sink in.” Wiping the streaks of tears from her cheeks, she grins bravely. “Let’s go celebrate.” I examine her closely to see if she really means it, but she turns away from me and heads to the lounge.
“Everything okay, ladies?” Tim asks when we join him.
“Fine, just fine,” Kirsty says, although the smile nailed to her face looks as fake as Mrs Lipenstein’s new boobs. It will be genuine soon, I’m sure: Kirsty can deal with anything. She sloshes some champagne in our glasses, and we raise them in the air.
“Here’s to Kirsty and Tim.” My eyes well up as the enormity of their news hits me. “Cheers.”
“Cheers!” they chorus, clinking their glasses with mine.
Tim leans forward to take Kirsty in his arms again, and a tiny pang of envy mingles with my happiness. It might be a slight deviation from plan, but they’re still getting everything they ever wanted – sooner, rather than later.
As the champagne bubbles hit the back of my throat, I cross my fingers that I should be so lucky.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I jerk awake the next morning. My head is heavy from a night of tossing and turning, tormented by dreams featuring screaming babies, a crazed Leza Larke demanding I dye my hair platinum like hers, and, of all things, Jeremy’s wide green eyes.
Easing myself upright, my heart starts beating crazily. This is it – finally. The day my first Build a Man column comes out; the day I’m a real tabloid journalist. With all the excitement last night (and champagne), I almost forgot for a second there.
The Rocky theme tune starts playing in my head and even though a glance at the clock shows me it’s only five, I carefully crawl out of bed, trying not to disturb Peter who’s still snoring softly beside me. Smitty grunts in protest as the bed shakes, shooting me his best ‘stupid human’ glare.
I jog into the living room, humming Rocky out loud now, then grab Peter’s laptop and boot it up. It’s only seconds but it seems like years before the computer springs into action. I cock my ears in the direction of the bedroom, ready to detect any noise, but all I can hear is Peter’s distant rumbling. Fingers shaking, I type the URL into the browser – www.beautybits.co.uk – and finally the site fills the screen.
I scroll down, my heart in my throat. There it is. Cool! Build a Man is written inside one of those triangular construction signs you see on the highways over here, except instead of a person shovelling, there’s a man’s body with needles and scalpels shot through it.
BUILD A MAN
Ever wanted to transform a dud into the dude of your dreams? Now you can! When hideous horror James* declared his need for everything from a new nose to navel, The Daily Planet jumped at the chance to get involved. Follow James in his quest to become Britain’s new heartthrob, and vote in our reader polls to help the nation construct its perfect man.
(* Name changed to protect identity.)
Hmm. I never said Jeremy was a ‘hideous horror’; that must be Leza’s addition. But it doesn’t matter – it’s not like he’ll ever see this. Somehow, I doubt Jeremy is Beauty Bits’ target audience.
To the right of the text is the outline of a blank cut-out paper doll shaded in baby blue, just awaiting readers’ input. I stare at its blobby shape, an odd feeling sliding over me as I picture that form in the future, with defined features and a brand new wardrobe. Will it even look like Jeremy? Or will it be some kind of Frankenman, cobbled together from thousands of women’s desires?
NEW DICK FOR THE RIGHT CHICK
How far would you go to meet the woman of your dreams? For James, the further he gets from his tired old self, the better. From his head to his toes – and all the bits in between – there isn’t anything James wouldn’t do to meet a lady for life.
God, I just love that title. Isn’t it clever? I know James – Jeremy – doesn’t want his dick done, but I couldn’t resist the rhyme with ‘chick’. And he might decide to do it, after all.
You Nose Best, the poll header off to the side says, and asks people to help choose Jeremy’s new nose from three photo options: Sean Penn, Owen Wilson or Mike Tyson. I stare at the selection. Mike Tyson? Really? What if people actually vote for that? I click on Sean Penn’s nose, by far the best, blinking with surprise when the poll tells me there’s already been six hundred votes. What? It’s only five in the morning!
Wow. Six hundred people have read my article – at least. For a second, it almost feels unreal. I knew my column would be out there for public consumption, but it hadn’t hit me people would read it until now. Grinning like an idiot, I sit back and throw a few Rocky-style punches in the air.
There’s a noise behind me and I turn to see Peter coming from the bedroom. Flushing, I drop my fists into my lap and snap the laptop closed.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asks, squinting at me.
“Oh, um, I couldn’t sleep.” I fake a yawn to cover my excitement. I’ve never felt more alive in my life.
“Are you using my laptop?” Peter leans toward it, his eagle eyes no doubt catching sight of the flashing lights indicating I haven’t shut it down properly. Damn thing. “Serenity, how many times . . .” He reaches out to flip open the lid.
“It’s okay,” I say shrilly, clutching it onto my lap. “I’ll make sure to turn it off right this time. If I don’t do it myself, I’ll never learn.” I
parrot his favourite line to me whenever I mess up, desperately hoping he doesn’t get his mitts on the computer.
Thankfully Peter just raises an eyebrow and holds up his hands. “Fine. Can we go back to bed now? Still an hour or so before we need to get up.”
“You go.” I wave him off. “I’m going to stay here.” And keep reading my lovely article, relishing my moment of glory – alone. Peter disappears into the bedroom, shutting the door with a thud.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t share my moment of celebration. What’s important is that I’m in, baby! I get to my feet, throwing a final Rocky victory punch in the air.
Unfortunately, the Botox Bitches don’t seem to have got the message that I’m a rising tabloid star.
It’s a typically crazy Friday afternoon in the clinic, with women near and far coming for their Botox top-ups before heading out to their country chateaux or dinners with Saudi sheikh. I barely have a second to breathe between clients dumping their offspring in my arms as they get pricked, and a ratty Baroness demanding I call her chauffeur to bring forth a special teabag. Whenever I get a chance, though, I keep refreshing the Beauty Bits website to see how many people have voted. At last count, there were two thousand votes! People have started commenting, too, and a minor debate has broken out over the best penile implant.
I’ve just settled on my stool after heating up Mrs Smythe-Johnson's milk (cold milk gives her colic, she says) when my mobile rings.
I scrabble in my purse to find it. “Hello?”
“Serenity?”
“Hi, Leza,” I squeak, recognising the familiar abrupt tone. Beads of sweat immediately gather on my upper lip. I look around quickly to make sure Peter’s still locked away with the Page Three girl who, according to her consultation form, wants ‘Inglens gr8est nipples’.
