by Talli Roland
“Just calling to say your column has been doing quite well, as you’re probably aware.” Her voice is wry and I blush, praying she can’t see the hundreds of times I’ve refreshed the page. “We need you to post again on Monday; keep the momentum going. Until the bloke actually has something physical done, focus on wardrobe. Get him to try on different looks for the man he wants to be, or some shit like that, and we’ll have our readers choose his new image. We’ve got to get clothes on our cut-out. Right now, it’s more turn-off than turn-on.”
“Um, okay.” Jeremy was keen to upgrade his wardrobe, anyway, and this will fill the gap between now and his Botox next Tuesday. “But wouldn’t it be better to wait until after he has the liposuction?” It seems a bit of a waste to dress the old Jeremy, not the person he’ll become.
Leza huffs impatiently. “In an ideal world, yes. But we need to up our site stats, and our most popular columns in the paper have always been women playing dress-up with blokes. Given the response to your first post, our readers are already on-board with this man. Until he starts making physical changes, we need them to get more emotionally involved in his progression.”
“Sure. Not a problem,” I say, injecting confidence into my voice. This life advisory idea was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. It will make almost any intrusion into Jeremy’s private life believable.
“Go through his wardrobe Geek Wan style. You know, throw around his rubbish clothes. Bring in a few sample outfits – grab them from the high street; you can return them later. Trendy, sloppy, you get the picture. Do at least three different ensembles, and take some photos from the neck down. I’ll have our graphics guy knock up to-scale models of how the outfits look. We’ll change a few clothing details so the bloke won’t be able to identify himself.”
“Okay,” I say quickly, wondering who Geek Wan is. Gok Wan’s unfashionable twin? “I’m on it.”
“Get some more background dirt, too,” Leza says. “You know, ex-girlfriend shit. Remember, I don’t want any airy-fairy ‘we weren’t right for each other’ rubbish.”
“Fine.” If it bleeds, it leads, I repeat in my mind.
“Get it to me on Sunday,” Leza says, and there’s a click in my ear as the line goes dead.
I nod even though she can’t see me. Then I hang up and call Jeremy.
“Hi, there,” I say when he answers. “It’s Serenity, calling from the Transforma Life Advisory Service.”
“I know who you are, Serenity,” Jeremy laughs. “How are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you,” I respond perkily, trying to stay true to my professional role. “Just calling to book our next session. I thought we could do a wardrobe analysis and test drive a few new looks for your future.”
“Well sure, that sounds brilliant. I told you before, I could definitely use some help in that department.”
“Great! Are you free tomorrow morning?” I hold my breath he is – Leza needs the column by Sunday, so that doesn’t leave much time.
“Sorry, I’m away all weekend,” Jeremy says. “If you need to meet up, it’ll have to be tonight. Half past six okay? I want to be on the road by eight. No wine therapy this time, I’m afraid.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Er, that’s fine, I don’t like to mix therapeutic techniques,” I stammer. “And sure, six-thirty works for me.” Sort of. I won’t get out of here until six. How on earth am I going to gather outfits for him in half an hour? I’ll do it. Somehow. Thank God I noted down his measurements.
Jeremy gives me his address and we hang up. I start scribbling down a few random questions.
What does your current wardrobe say about you? Has your wardrobe ever contributed to a relationship breakdown? How many relationships have you had?
Tapping my pen against the desk, I can’t help smiling and shaking my head. Who would have thought I’d be conducting a wardrobe analysis as an undercover reporter disguised as a life coach – for The Daily Planet, no less?
Not in a zillion years would I have imagined I’d be in such a cool position.
CHAPTER NINE
At five past six, I leave Peter to deal with another surprise visit from Mrs Lipenstein – whose other nipple has started itching – and rush home to grab my voice recorder. After dashing into the bedroom to slip off my high heels and pull on my trainers, I glance into the wardrobe. Would Peter have anything I could snag for an hour or so, to save me the trouble of hitting the shops? Reaching in, I select a dark suit, not unlike the one Peter’s wearing today – or every day, for that matter.
Assessing the folded trousers, I shake my head. Without even looking at the measurements, I know they won’t fit. Peter and Jeremy are two completely different shapes. Peter’s long and lean, whereas Jeremy is slightly stocky and just . . . solid. Sure, he’s got a bit of extra weight on him, but I bet underneath that, he’s one of those men that when you hug them, you feel like they’re completely surrounding you; taking you in. Sometimes when I hug Peter, I can feel his ribs.
I push away the thought of my preferred hugging experience and jam the suit back in the wardrobe, trying to arrange it neatly. Then I grab Jeremy’s measurements from my clipboard, scribble down a note that I’m headed to Kirsty’s for a few hours, and rush over to Marylebone High Street to do the fastest shop of my life.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’ve managed to cobble together one trendy outfit (if you call a salmon shirt ‘trendy’) and unearth a slightly crusty but fully functional tuxedo, complete with cummerbund and bowtie, from the Cancer Research charity shop. The third outfit will be Jeremy’s own clothes, his usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans. I’ve just turned onto his street when my phone rings.
“Hey, Ser,” Kirsty says when I answer. I drop my shopping bags to the pavement to take a breather, wondering why she’s calling. On Friday nights she’s usually out entertaining corporate clients with the bank’s limitless resources.
“Hey, engaged mother to be,” I joke, thinking how strange that all sounds. If I know my friend, though, she’s probably got the whole wedding planned and the nursery set up. I wait for Kirsty to join in with my laughter, but instead there’s an odd silence.
“Are you busy tonight? Do you think you can come over? I need to talk.” Her voice is tight and I swallow, hoping she’s okay. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never needed to just chat. Usually, it’s the other way around. Maybe she wants to sort out bridesmaid stuff? God knows she takes details very seriously.
“Sure, no problem.” I do a quick calculation in my head: Jeremy needs to be on the road by eight; I can be at Kirsty’s a few minutes later. “Give me a couple hours and I’ll see you just after eight.”
I hang up and glance at the house numbers. Number nineteen, Jeremy’s, has a white stucco facade and lovely columns. Even though I’m running late, I can’t help staring for a second at the brickwork covering the upper floors and the bright red geraniums peeping out from the wrought-iron balcony above me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe people actually live in houses like this; that it’s not a film-set recreation. Hands full of shopping bags, I shove my elbow against the buzzer, and footsteps thump toward me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I huff as Jeremy opens the door.
He waves me inside. “That’s quite the load you’ve got there,” he says, relieving me of some bags. “Come on in.”
Wow, I mouth, walking into the lounge. It’s bright and airy, with large sash windows in the front and plenty of skylights. I can see straight through the homey kitchen and out to the back, where lots and lots of greenery gives the impression of being in a forest, not smack in the centre of London. It’s cosy and inviting, reminding me of Kirsty and Tim’s. Dropping the remainder of my packages with a thud, I sink onto a leather sofa and sigh with pleasure. It feels so good to sit.
“Nice place,” I say, trying to sound like I encounter such luxurious abodes on a regular basis.
“Thanks.” Jeremy’s eyes light up. “It was in a state when I b
ought it. Rotting walls, no floor . . . rats had chewed through pretty much everything. Took me almost a year to do it up properly.”
“You did all this?” I glance around, trying to picture Jeremy pounding nails and sawing boards. Actually, it’s not that difficult. He’s got those strong, solid hands.
He shrugs. “Yeah. I really enjoy renovating, making something new out of the old. Kind of like me.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “How about a bite first, and then we can get started?”
“I thought you had to be on the road by eight?” I sneak a peek at my watch. Not that I want to cut our session short, but something in Kirsty’s tone was unsettling and I need to be sure she’s okay. “Maybe we should get started now.”
Jeremy’s face drops. “But I made us some bruschetta and tomato soup. I thought you might be hungry after work.”
How sweet! He builds, he bakes – why on earth can’t he find someone? My tummy moans loudly at the thought of food, and Jeremy laughs.
“You might not want to eat, but your stomach does. Come on.” He pads into the kitchen. Telling myself it’ll be a good chance to get more background info, I follow him and take a seat at an old wooden table. It’s large, clunky and scarred, contrasting with the modern surroundings.
“Interesting table,” I say to fill the silence that’s descended as Jeremy gets the food ready.
“Yeah, it was my grandmother’s. She had a proper big kitchen, and it looked just right there. Whenever I visited, I used to climb onto it and watch her cook. She actually taught me how to bake. When she died, I moved the table down here. Every time I sit there, it reminds me of her.”
My heart melts and I run my hand along the grooved wood, imagining Jeremy with his gran in an old country kitchen up in . . . where?
“So where did your grandmother live? Are you from London?” I really need to get more detail on him.
“Gran lived in Wales all her life,” Jeremy says, placing a tray of bruschetta on the table, then ladling thick tomato soup into a bowl in front of me. God, it smells divine. Mom used to make it all the time, and there’s something about the scent that reminds me of feeling all warm and snug on a cold winter’s day.
“So what do you do?” I ask, before biting into the bruschetta. It’s blunt, I know, but there aren’t many ways to frame that question. And I’m super curious now. This house must have cost at least two million, if not more. How does someone as young – and nice and normal – as Jeremy come into that kind of money? Maybe he’s one of those exiled princes from . . . Wales. Do the Welsh have royalty? Diana was Princess of Wales, right? Prince Jeremy. Has a nice ring to it.
Jeremy smiles. “To be honest, I’m not doing much at the moment. Just puttering around, working on a few property redevelopments, you know.”
I nod like I do know, but he still hasn’t answered my question. Now’s not the time to dig, though; I’ll get to that later once I’ve got my hands on his wardrobe. We finish our soup and bread, Jeremy chatting all the while about the house and how he saved it from demolition. When the dishes are cleared, I get out my notepad and pencil, along with the recorder.
“So,” I say in a business-like tone, signalling it’s time to get started. I look at my watch. God, it’s already seven-fifteen and we haven’t even begun. I fire off another quick text to Kirsty: On my way! Be there in 45. If I go fast, it’s possible. Maybe.
“Ready to begin wardrobe therapy?” I paste an I-know-what-I’m-doing look on my face, even though quite honestly, Jeremy would be better off taking fashion advice from Marilyn Manson. At least he has a definite look.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” Jeremy wipes his hands on a tea towel. “I’m ready for a whole new me.”
“Great. To start, I’ll need to assess your current wardrobe.” I stand and face him, noticing how he’s the perfect height for me to stare into those big green eyes without needing a neck brace afterwards.
“Okay. We’ll have to go upstairs, to the bedroom.” A hint of red tinges his cheeks and I can feel mine colouring up, too.
“Perfect. I can’t wait to see it. Your wardrobe, I mean, not your bedroom. Not that I don’t want to see your bedroom. I mean, as a life advisor, it offers many key signals to your aspirations.” Oh, Jesus. What the hell am I saying? My cheeks are flaming now and I duck into the lounge to grab the shopping bags, praying my face returns to normal.
When I no longer resemble an overripe strawberry, I head back to the kitchen. “Lead the way.”
I follow Jeremy up a narrow staircase – trying not to focus on the nicely shaped bottom in front of me – and into a spacious room. A puffy, comfy-looking duvet covers a massive bed. The cream walls are bare, and even though the room feels lived in and warm, there’s nothing to give any hint about Jeremy’s personal life. Guess he really does want to start over fresh.
Settling onto the soft bed (there’s nowhere else to sit!), I hit the record button and position my notepad on my lap.
“Session two, wardrobe therapy,” I say gravely into the recorder, like I’ve seen all good TV therapists do. “Okay, well, the first thing we’ll do is examine your wardrobe in its present condition.”
“Sure.” Jeremy squeezes past me to a small wardrobe in the corner, then slides open its door. “There’s not really that much to see, though.” He indicates the rows of T-shirts and jeans, which I’m pleased to note are every bit as jumbled as my own back at Peter’s.
I glance down at my pad, thankful I’d written a few questions. For some reason, my head feels a bit fuzzy. “And what do you think your clothing says about you, Jeremy?”
He thumbs through a few T-shirts and shrugs. “Um . . . I like to be comfortable?”
Nothing wrong with that, I almost respond before remembering I’m supposed to be making him over. What is it that Peter always says?
“You need to dress how you want others to perceive you,” I state authoritatively, echoes of Peter’s voice when he coerced me into wearing high heels at the clinic ringing through my head. I’m not quite sure what impact wearing high heels has on people’s perception of me, but at least they can see me over the desk now.
Jeremy raises his eyebrows, shooting my grubby trainers a look. “Okay. So what do those shoes say about you, then?”
I’ve got bunions from wearing stupid high heels? I respond inside my head.
“We’re not here to discuss me,” I say primly, tucking my feet under the bed. I glance down at my notepad again. “Has your wardrobe ever contributed to a relationship breakdown?” Trying not to appear too eager for dirt, I stroke my chin to channel my inner Dr Phil.
Jeremy grimaces. “Well, I can’t say Julia was too keen on my T-shirts.”
“Julia?” I motion for him to keep talking.
“Yeah. I was with her for almost two years. We met at the property development company I was working in at the time. Straight away, I fell for her.” A distant look comes into his eyes. “I know that sounds wanky, but it’s true. She was gorgeous – tall and blonde, the kind of woman other men stare at on the street. I was so proud to be with her.”
Bitch, I think automatically. Tall blonde women just bring out that response.
“She was smart, too. Just . . . together.”
Now I really hate her. Smart and beautiful. “So what happened?” I ask.
Jeremy shuts the wardrobe door with force. “About six months ago, we decided it wasn’t working any longer. She’d moved on to other interests.” His face twists.
There’s definitely something he isn’t telling me. “Other interests?”
“She wanted to go into a new side of property development. We drifted apart. You know how it is.” His face is shuttered and closed now.
I don’t know how it is, actually. I’ve never had a relationship longer than six months (Peter) and you can’t really drift apart in six months, can you?
“And has there been anyone since Julia?” Hideous name. Jeremy and Julia – the cutesiness of it makes me want to spew m
y soup.
“A few here and there.” He waves a hand dismissively. “They stay around for a month or so, see that I’m not the type to go out partying or dine in posh restaurants, get bored of me, and go off again.”
Hmm. “And you think redesigning yourself will help?”
“Well, yeah. I need to attract the right women. Right now, I only get those who are interested in this.” Jeremy gestures around at the house. “If I look good, too, I’ll get women who are interested in me.” He thumps his chest. “Then I’ll have the complete package.”
“But Jeremy, you got Julia without cosmetic surgery.” I want to hit myself when the words slip out. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be planting doubts in his mind.
Jeremy shakes his head. “I didn’t look like I do now, Serenity. I was in great shape from all the work I was doing.”
“Right, right. I see what you mean.” I nod, and a silence falls between us. I don’t know what more to ask, and I feel kind of weird probing him about Julia, even if I do have therapeutic license to be nosy. I’ll leave it for now and circle back later.
“Well!” I stand and grab a shopping bag. “New look, new life. Let’s see how you can shape your future with clothes. Even if you haven’t begun your physical transformation yet, there’s nothing stopping you from dressing for the man you want to be.” I almost roll my eyes at myself, but Jeremy’s just nodding along as if I’m making sense. God, I must be better at this therapy thing than I thought.
I pull out the hideous salmon dress shirt, along with a pair of skinny-fit navy trousers. “Here, try these.”
Jeremy looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “That top is pink. And you do realise skinny fit is for skinny people, right?”
“No, this style can be worn by anyone, anywhere. All you need is the confidence to pull it off. And salmon is bang on trend right now,” I add, throwing in Gok Wan’s favourite catchphrase.
