by Talli Roland
Wow, I think as I furiously rub my body with my favourite apricot scrub (thank God The Body Shop has it over here). Kirsty’s going to be a wife. A mother. A strange feeling comes over me, like she’s all grown up now and moving on to a new phase . . . without me. I stick my head under the hot stream of water to wash away the unease.
Standing in front of my jumbled closet, I choose a pair of jeans, my favourite black turtleneck, and a thick checked blazer. Back home, this is the kind of day where I’d snuggle into the fleecy warmth of a tracksuit. But no one wears tracksuits here – unless it’s a thousand-pound designer suit and you’re a fake-tanned footballer’s wife.
Embarrassment rises inside as I remember the time I pulled on my comfy sweats, when Peter and I were about to hit Pain Quotidien for a rare Saturday morning breakfast in the outside world. He took one look at me, asked why I was still in my pyjamas, and told me to hurry up. I know he wasn’t trying to be mean – he genuinely thought they were nightwear – but I’ve never been able to wear that tracksuit again. Dress how you want to be perceived and all that. It’s hard to muster up the energy to care on the weekends, but even I don’t want people to think I’m cruising down the street in my PJs.
Too bad Peter can’t take me to grooming sessions like Smitty, I think, twisting my damp hair into a bun. Sighing, I put on a bit of mascara – narrowly avoiding losing an eyeball – jam on my favourite Zara boots, and I’m out the door.
A few minutes later, after popping into a busy patisserie on Baker Street to grab some steaming chocolate croissants, I’m banging on Kirsty’s door.
Tim answers. “Hi, Ser. She’s upstairs.”
I say hello and trot inside. “Kirst!” I yell as I race up the steps. “I’ve got breakfast.”
“In here.” Her voice floats from their bedroom.
“Hey,” I say in surprise as I round the corner. She’s still in bed, reading an old book on – I squint at the spine – military manoeuvres from the Second World War? Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her face is scrubbed clean. I can’t remember the last time I saw Kirsty without make-up. I always tease that she should have worked for MAC, not a bank.
“Hey, yourself. Come sit down.” She waves me over.
I hand her a pastry and squeeze in beside her on the bed. “So! Ready to start planning?”
I wait for her usual assured voice to launch into next steps and outlines for moving forward. Instead, an awkward silence descends, a kind I’ve never felt between us. Then she shrugs and starts devouring the pain au chocolat. Little flaky bits drift onto the pillow like snowflakes, and I resist the urge to sweep them away. Maybe some of Peter’s principles are finally rubbing off on me.
“Sure,” Kirsty says finally, sounding anything but. Her usually expressive face looks like it’s been Botoxed into an unreadable mask.
God, I was certain she’d be raring to go with this whole thing. I stare at my friend for a second, unsure what to do.
“Let’s go for a walk.” Grabbing her arm, I haul her off the bed. Some fresh air will set her straight and help put things in perspective. She’s had a shock, of course. Maybe I was expecting too much of her, too soon. After all, trying to absorb becoming a wife and mother is a lot, even for my efficient friend.
“Aw, come on, Ser,” Kirsty whines in a voice I’ve never heard from her before. “I’m tired.”
“Get dressed.” I throw a pair of jeans at her, and a few minutes later we’re strolling through the Rose Garden at Regent’s Park under a grey sky. There’s something about the grey in London that’s so oppressive, like it’s compressing the atmosphere and pushing in on you.
“Talk to me,” I say as we jostle past a group of noisy Italian tourists. “What are you thinking?” Strange, I’ve never had to ask her that before.
Kirsty sinks onto a nearby bench and I plop beside her. “I don’t know. Have you ever thought you wanted something, but when you actually got it, you realised . . . you’re not sure it’s what you wanted in the first place?”
I think back to the events of the past week. “Um, no.” I can’t even begin to imagine not being happy with my tabloid assignment after craving it for so long. I swivel toward her, unable to believe she means what she’s saying. “I’m sure how you’re feeling now has nothing to do with not wanting – er, well, what’s just happened,” I say, tiptoeing around the recent issues. “You just need time.”
“Yeah, time.” Kirsty stares straight ahead for a minute, then shrugs. “I’ll figure it out. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Well . . .” I pause, wondering if now’s the right moment to share my news. “The Daily Planet asked me to write a column for their new health and beauty website!” The words burst out of me.
Kirsty raises her eyebrows. “Really? Wow. That’s awesome!” She squeezes my arm. “When did this happen?”
“A few days ago,” I answer, my heart doing a happy dance that I can finally talk to someone about it.
“Is it the one about the guy who’s redesigning himself?” Kirsty stands, pulling me up from the bench.
“That’s the one. His name is Jeremy, and he’s really nice.” A memory of our eyes meeting as I fixed his bow-tie flashes through my mind, and my tummy does a wonky flip.
“So Peter’s agreed to all this?” Kirsty asks as we crunch along the gravel path.
“Um, well, that’s the thing.” I stop to finger a withered blossom. “He doesn’t exactly know I’m writing the column. I’m working undercover.” It feels funny saying that out loud, like I’m some kind of modern-day spy. I guess I am, in a way.
Kirsty stops and turns toward me with an incredulous expression. “Undercover? For real?”
I nod. “Yup, for real.”
She stares for a minute, then shakes her head. “How the hell are you managing that?”
“Jeremy thinks I’m a life advisor, working for the clinic. He’s signed up for my services. And Peter, well, he has no idea. But there’s no reason why either of them needs to know,” I add quickly, before Kirsty can say a word. “All the names are changed in the column, so there’s no way anyone can find out who – or where – I’m writing about.”
“You’d better hope not,” Kirsty says as we start walking again. “It’s kind of risky, isn’t it? What if someone does connect your column with the clinic or Jeremy? Peter’s going to be furious – not to mention Jeremy.”
I huff impatiently. “They won’t, Kirsty. The chances of anyone reading my column, thinking it might be Jeremy, then being able to find him and tell him are, like, one in a zillion.”
“Okay. Just be careful.” She gives me a quick hug. “I know how much you wanted this. I hope it turns out to be everything you’d hoped.”
Normally I’d dismiss her words as the kind of pleasantries friends automatically exchange, but in light of recent events, they feel more weighted.
“It will, I’m sure.” As we tramp down the path, excitement grows inside. I’m more than sure this is everything I want, actually. I’m . . . two hundred and ten percent sure, like they say on The Apprentice.
I meet Kirsty’s eyes, happy to see some life in them again, and give her a grin so big even Botox couldn’t keep it down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wake up Monday morning practically vibrating with anticipation. My column on Jeremy and Julia – or rather, James and Jemima (ha! Isn’t that a horrible name?) – comes out today, and since the only thing I heard back from Leza was a quick ‘thanks’, I must have got this one spot on.
Lifting my head, I see it’s only six, but there’s no way I can lie here a second longer. Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe from the room and over to Peter’s laptop, humming the Rocky tune again. I peck in the Beauty Bits address, then hold my breath as the page loads.
ONCE SAD AND PATHETIC, NOW GOING COSMETIC!
Yikes. I didn’t write that Jeremy was sad and pathetic – Leza obviously changed it. Thank goodness for hidden identities; I’d hate to see Jeremy’s face if
he ever read that. What else has Leza fiddled with? I scan the rest of the article, relaxing only when I get to the end and see that everything is just as I’d written.
To the right of the column, the blank cut-out paper doll now sports a Sean-Penn-like nose – obviously the winner of the last poll – floating oddly in the otherwise featureless face. Today’s poll on wardrobe is positioned underneath the cut-out, along with three Jeremy-shaped mannequins, each sporting the outfits I’d brought him but in slightly different shades.
I shake my head as I read the captions: Messy Mister, under Jeremy’s own T-shirt and jeans; Suits You, Sir, under the tuxedo snapshot; or Fashion Passion, under the terrible skinny trousers and the salmon shirt that’s now violently pink. I cast a vote for Messy Mister, eager to see how many people have participated this time. 1,557!
I blink, barely able to believe the number. One thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven people have not only read my column, but have voted, too – albeit, many for Fashion Passion (how anyone can find a man attractive in skinny trousers is beyond me – they make everyone look like they’re wearing a nappy).
Whooping as quietly as possible, I throw a few punches in the air. Seeing my column onscreen is like that buzzing feeling after one glass of wine – no, better: each of my words gives me a rush unlike anything I’ve ever known. I can’t wait to get started on my next article now, to experience the same thrill again. And if it’s this good online, imagine the feeling when my words are in print. I leap up, excitement filling every cell of my body. If I can make every column stronger and secure even more readers, that job will be mine.
To celebrate my future success, I decide to buck routine and make a big breakfast. Peter prefers eating his organic yoghurt only once he’s safely installed in the clinic, but he does enjoy a cheeky crumpet now and again. After padding into the kitchen, I click on the kettle to make Peter’s tea, and carefully place two crumpets in the toaster. He likes them perfectly golden brown, and if I stand sentinel, I might get it just right. As I wait, I can’t help reaching up into the cupboard and grabbing a handful of Jaffas. Chocolate has caffeine, and who doesn’t like a little pick-me-up in the morning?
“Serenity?” The bedroom door creaks open, and my head snaps up from the toaster. “Keep it down, please. It’s only six-fifteen.” Peter sniffs the air. “What are you burning?”
Oh, the crumpets! I jiggle the toaster handle frantically, but it’s too late – the tips of the silly things are singed. “Sorry, I was making us breakfast. I didn’t realise it was so early.” Whoops. In all my excitement, I’d forgotten there were still forty-five minutes to Peter’s daily rising time. But surely he can forgo a few extra winks for a yummy breakfast. Well, breakfast.
Peter shakes his head. “I’m not really hungry. I’m going back to bed.”
I sigh as he closes the bedroom door, then chuck the crumpets into the bin. A celebratory breakfast was nice in theory, but Peter isn’t exactly one for spontaneous gestures – giving or receiving. Still, even my disastrous crumpets and routine-loving boyfriend can’t bring me down today.
My exhilaration propels me all the way to the clinic, where it’s a quiet Monday morning, as usual. Most women are lying low, detoxing (aka purging) from their weekend binges. I click onto my column for the billionth time – almost three thousand poll votes now! I’m just about to cast another vote for Messy Mister when the phone rings.
“Transforma Harley Street, how may I help?” I answer automatically.
There’s a silence, then a woman sounding close to tears says: “It’s Sara Collins. I’m at the hospital. My consultant says I need an urgent mammogram. I’ll have to cancel my Botox appointment this morning.”
“Absolutely. No problem.” God, imagine having the presence of mind to cancel at such a stressful time. She must be one of those rare nice patients we’ve been known to have. I’m about to hang up when she stops me.
“Wait! I’m calling to reschedule, silly girl.” Mrs Collins’s voice is dripping with disdain. “Is there anything available this afternoon? I can pop in after my scan.”
I can barely speak for a second, I’m so stunned. She’s about to be screened for breast cancer and she’s worried about Botox? Really, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. I check the schedule, then slot in a new appointment and hang up.
It shouldn’t surprise me these people exist – I’ve been reading about them ever since I came here. The woman with Britain’s largest breasts; the one who had her appearance altered to match her toy poodle; the lady who hated her ears so much, she had them removed. But now that such crazies are in front of me, sometimes I can’t believe they’re genuine. In a way, I guess Jeremy’s one of them. But there’s something about him that makes him real, down to earth.
“Hello? Anybody home?” I glance up to see a woman with skin so tanned it resembles a rotten banana.
“Can I help you?” I try not to let distaste show on my face.
“’Course you can,” she twitters. “That’s why I’m here, innit?” She smoothes back a lock of bleached hair so fried it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall out of her head. “Call me when the doc’s ready, eh, hon?” Prancing over to the leather chairs, she crosses her PVC-covered legs and grabs a magazine, blowing a bubble with her chewing gum as she flips through the pages.
“Do you think you might be able to tell me your name?” I attempt to make my request sound genuine, but instead it comes out a little sarcastic. Thankfully, it goes straight over her (oddly large) head.
She chomps away for a few seconds, then turns to look at me. “Aw, hon, you don’t need to pretend. You know who I am.”
We lock eyes for a second as she waits for me to recognise her, but sadly (well, thankfully, for me) I haven’t the slightest idea who she is. As inconspicuously as possible, I glance over at the appointment schedule on the screen.
“Princesz Gayle?” I ask, crossing my fingers it’s her.
“Hellz, yeah!” She raises her arms and legs in the air as if I’ve cured malaria instead of identifying the first cast-off from Big Brother Season 1098 – or whatever she’s ‘famous’ for. “You know it.”
“Princesz? Ready to look beautiful – er, even more beautiful?” Peter appears in the reception area and bustles the masticating Princesz into his consulting room. I shake my head as the room falls silent again. This place is a loony bin today. I certainly don’t need to worry about Jeremy’s sanity with patients like Princesz around.
My email pings and I look at the screen to see Leza’s name. There’s no subject line, so I quickly open the message.
Great response to column. Need another for Wednesday. Deadline tomorrow by five.
PS: You coming to the Beauty Bits launch party Wednesday night? Hospital Club, Covent Garden, 7 pm. Please RSVP to invitation!
My mouth drops open. Launch party? I never received any invitation! I quickly type a response saying a column by Wednesday is no problem – Jeremy’s coming in tomorrow for his first Botox injections and I can write about that – and yes, I am definitely attending the party. I hug myself, my heart fluttering with excitement. My first launch party!
Keying ‘Hospital Club’ into Google, I stare at the screen as a brick building comes up – apparently, it used to be an eighteenth-century hospital. Only in London would that have morphed into a club. I scroll down, catching my breath as modern rooms resembling an art gallery flash on the monitor.
Gnawing my lip, my brain flits through my wardrobe of black polyester trousers and jeans. No way am I hitting this trendy venue looking like I’ve rolled up from Hicks R Us. A trip to Oxford Street is most definitely in order. Okay, I don’t have any money and I don’t get paid for another two weeks. But that’s what credit is for, right? After returning Jeremy’s clothes, my card should still have room. And when I get this job at the paper, I’ll be able to pay it all back, no problem.
Picking up the phone, I punch in Kirsty’s mobile number.
“Hey, you. Up for a trip
to Selfridges after work today?” I ask when she answers. “We can meet in the champagne bar, have a bit of bubbly . . .” My voice trails off when I remember that she won’t be having a bit of bubbly for quite some time. “Or a coffee,” I add hastily.
“Today’s not great,” she responds, sounding distracted. “It’s insanely busy here right now, and I have a client coming in this afternoon.”
I stare at the receiver, wondering where my best friend has gone. Normally Kirsty would risk life or limb to go shopping. Which she actually did once, on a corporate trip to Moscow when she had to navigate through a protest to get to a mall. That bump on the head was totally worth the Prada discount she scored, or so she says.
I’m not letting her off that easily. “Come on, I really need your help. I’m going to a launch party for the Beauty Bits website and I have no idea what to wear.” That should get her – she knows what a terrible shopper I am under pressure. When I had to buy a graduation outfit with just an hour until the ceremony, I ended up in Wal-Mart with a belted jersey dress from the kids’ section.
Kirsty sighs. “Okay. Meet me in the café on the fourth floor at six-thirty.”
I smile victoriously. I knew she’d come around. “See you then.”
The rest of the day passes in a ‘what the hell am I going to wear’ haze, and I barely even register the appearance of the Botox ‘n’ Breast Cancer patient. Finally, Peter comes into the reception area and I realise I’ve barely seen him all day. No, scratch that, all weekend. He came home exhausted both nights and, after our usual organic chicken fillet and greens, fell asleep in front of the TV. It’s not like we’ve ever had a particularly romantic relationship – more like Love Mediocrity than Love Actually – but these days, we seem more flatmates than boyfriend and girlfriend. Middle-aged flatmates. My parents stay up later than he does. Actually, he behaves more like a parent than they ever did. Hmm.
