Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  Jeremy nods and a whoosh of relief – mixed with something else – goes through me. “I’m sure. This probably looks worse than it is, and, well, I’m tired of being a loser women only want for money. I’ve got to go through with it.” He turns to face me and I feel a jolt as his green eyes connect with mine. “This is it, Serenity. I’m not going to back down now.”

  I hold his gaze. “I understand.” God, do I ever.

  Ten minutes later, the swelling on Jeremy’s face has reduced and the redness has faded slightly. He pushes out the clinic door, looking relieved to escape. The day drags on and finally, it’s time for me to head to the Aveda on Marylebone High Street. As I sit in the stylist’s chair listening to the same wailing whale CD we have back at the clinic, I await my own transformation. Sure, it’s minor compared to what Jeremy has planned, but it’s symbolic of much bigger changes inside. New look, new life! I almost snort as my patter from Jeremy’s wardrobe session floats into my head.

  “So what are we doing today?” Zach, the stylist, eyes my limp sandy hair with distaste.

  “I don’t know . . .” My voice trails off. “I’m thinking blonder?”

  “Too right. I’m thinking a lot blonder.” He squints in the mirror at my reflection. “And one of those asymmetrical cuts. You know, like Ciara Mattos. They’re really in right now.”

  An image of the lead singer from DoMe flashes into my brain, and I swallow hard. No way do I want to look like I’ve had half my head shaved. “Um, I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

  I grab a magazine and flip through it, looking for something close to what I want. A photo of a model, standing on top of a globe as if she owns it, catches my eye. I stare at her hair, cut in a blunt line just grazing her cheekbones. Power oozes from her and I gaze at the image, entranced. I’d kill to be like that. Confident. Taking over the world.

  “How about this?” I shove the picture toward Zach, who raises his over-plucked eyebrows in surprise.

  “Well, hell, yeah!” He moves my hair around this way and that, lifting it up and yanking it back. “You have the face to pull it off. It’ll be a big change, though.”

  I think of Jeremy and his determination, and my lips lift in a smile. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  After paging through the magazine for a few hours (yes, hours) as Zach works his magic, he finally stops toying with my locks and swivels me toward the mirror. “Ta da!” he says with a flourish, fluffing my hair a final time.

  My eyes pop as I stare at a woman with a short blonde bob. Is that me? I lift my hands to touch the now-golden hair. “Wow.”

  “I know,” Zach crows. “What a difference. You look brill.”

  My stylish new cut actually gives me cheekbones, and my eyes seem even bigger. Somehow, Zach’s managed to make my hair shinier and full of light, like I’ve been sitting outside in the sun. It’s blonde, but it’s not the Leza white-blonde I was dreading. I look trendy and cool.

  I look like a real, live tabloid reporter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Big Pricks First Step to Meeting Dream Woman, the headline on my Build a Man column says the next day, and I can’t help giggling even though I’ve read it a million times already. I was sure Leza would like that one. Jeremy probably would, too, if he knew the column featured him.

  James says the painful pricks of the Botox needle are nothing if it gets him closer to his ideal woman. Yesterday, our Build a Man endured multiple shots of Botox to the forehead and eye areas in the first step of his transformation.

  “It hurt like hell, but it’ll be worth it if I meet the woman of my dreams,” he said, once the treatment was completed.

  The woman of his dreams. Is it possible? Does the perfect partner really exist? I let out a puff of air, thinking of Peter’s reaction to my brand new image. When I got home from the salon last night, he barely looked up from his brushing session with Smitty. It was only when I climbed into bed that he noticed my hair, saying it was ‘very nice; more clinic appropriate . . . but a touch too blonde’, before flipping over and snoring within five seconds.

  It’s funny, but I never noticed how everything in our life revolves around him. His job, his eating habits, his needs. I guess it’s because I didn’t have anything of my own. Now that I do – even though I can’t share it with him – it’s becoming more and more obvious how lopsided our relationship is.

  Just wait until I get that job, I tell myself. Then I’ll quit the clinic and we’ll be on equal footing. I’ll be a strong career woman, Peter will respect my ambition and drive (if not my place of employment; I can’t expect miracles), and things will be fine. Serenity v2 will be that perfectly pulled together person I’ve been striving for.

  I glance at the screen again, grimacing at the cut-out paper doll with Sean Penn’s nose, now dressed in the skinny trousers and pink shirt combo. I can’t believe Fashion Passion won! Who on earth is voting in this thing?

  Today’s poll focuses on eyes, asking readers to choose from Tom Cruise (not bad); Justin Bieber (seriously?); or Simon Cowell (what? Can anyone really get past the high-waisted jeans and gleaming teeth to notice his eyes?). I shake my head, thinking Jeremy’s eyes are a million times better than any of these celebs. Tom Cruise comes the closest, so I click on him and blink as the screen refreshes. Almost eight thousand readers have voted. A grin spreads across my face and my heart starts beating fast. Eight thousand! That’s more people than live in Harris.

  The phone rings and I glance at the clock. It’s almost six, and I should be racing out the door to Kirsty’s for my pre-party hair and make-up.

  ‘Hello, Transforma Harley Street,’ I say in a tired voice, hoping whoever’s on the other end will take the hint. Instead, a woman unleashes a torrent of angst about her droopy eyelid, a possible side effect of her recent Botox injection.

  “I must see the doctor,” she demands. “I look like a retard.”

  A retard? I shake my head as she continues her tirade. Peter always mocks my over-the-top penchant for political correctness, but I’m pretty sure even in Britain it’s considered offensive to call someone a retard.

  “I can’t go to this charity benefit looking like a one-eyed wonder,” she screeches. I hold the phone away from my ear, thinking how ironic it would be if the charity was something to do with helping the developmentally delayed or the blind.

  “Just let me talk to the doctor,” I interrupt, jabbing a finger at the ‘hold’ button.

  “Peter!” I shout. “I need to leave, but there’s a woman on the phone who wants to come in and see you. Droopy eyelid or something.” I’m desperate to get out of here now.

  “Put her through. You can go if you want.”

  I quickly transfer the call and hear it ringing in his office.

  “I’ll be home in a few hours,” Peter yells before picking it up. “Hello, Doctor Lycett here. What can I do for you?” he says in smooth tones before his door swings closed.

  I haven’t had the chance to fabricate an excuse for tonight, so I quickly scribble down a note that I’m over at Kirsty’s – not exactly a lie, since I will be there (for about thirty minutes, anyway). Then I grab my bag, dash home for my dress and shoes, and rush over to her house. By the time I get there, I’m dripping with sweat and more in need of a makeover than ever.

  “Sorry, Kirst,” I pant when she answers the door. “I got caught up with a crazy woman at the clinic.”

  She shakes her head, but she’s too busy staring at me to launch into her usual speech about the importance of timekeeping. “Wow. You look amazing, Ser. Great haircut!” There’s an admiring look in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. Not that I blame her – it’s hard to admire mousy, flat hair.

  “Oh, thanks.” I reach up and stroke my locks tentatively. In my haste to get here, I’d completely forgotten about my new look.

  “When I told you to get a trim, I didn’t expect you’d chop it all off.” She ushers me up the stairs and into the bedroom.

  I shrug
and collapse on the bed, trying to catch my breath. “I just felt it was time, you know? Peter’s always saying ‘dress for the person you want to be’ and all that . . . well, this” – I point to my hair – “is who I want to be.”

  Kirsty nods, looking impressed. “It’s awesome.” She rubs her hands together, then picks up her bulging cosmetics case. “And once you have your make-up done and you’re in that dress, you’ll be fabulous. Now, hurry up and change so we can get started. I’ll be back in a second.”

  I pull off my usual clinic outfit of black trousers and blouse. Then I reverentially lift the grey dress from its clinging cellophane wrapper, admiring the sequins and floaty chiffon. I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything quite so beautiful (or expensive, for that matter). I carefully ease myself into the garment, holding my breath as I zip up the side. It catches my soft skin and I yelp, cursing the extra Jaffa I shoved down my throat this morning.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” I lower myself onto the bed. The dress barely covers the tops of my thighs, and I tug at it nervously.

  “Right, well, your hair is fine,” Kirsty says after bursting back into the room. “I’m just going to backcomb it a bit for some body.” I can feel her moving my locks around, then the whoosh of the hairspray. “And a little foundation, some powder and blusher . . .”

  “So what are you doing tonight?” I ask, expecting her to say that she and Tim are off to the latest client dinner or the bank’s box at the opera, as usual.

  “Not much.” She sweeps a soft brush over my cheek. “The firm’s really cutting back on all the corporate entertainment stuff. And I’m so tired these days. Now, press your lips together for a sec.”

  As Kirsty works her magic, I think about how strange this is. Usually, she’s the one preparing to go out and schmooze at big client dinners, getting all dressed up. Now, it’s me.

  “Look my way,” she commands, picking up a mascara wand.

  I meet her hazel eyes, noticing they’re still red with even bigger bags than before. Snippets of our conversation at Selfridges yesterday drift through my mind and I bite my lip, recalling her words about feeling trapped.

  “Kirsty, tell me how I can help,” I say suddenly, dodging the wand nearing my eye.

  “You can stay still and let me get on with it.” She comes at me with the wand again.

  I force myself to relax as she glides mascara over my lashes. “Tell me how I can help with what’s happening. You now, the baby and stuff.” The gliding stops and I look up, my heart sinking when I notice her eyes glinting with tears. God, I wish I knew what to say. But Kirsty’s so strong and confident that I’ve never been in this situation with her before.

  She leans back and heaves a sigh. “Just be there for me. Like you always are.” Her voice is sad, and I reach out and touch her arm.

  “Oh, before I forget, Tim wants me to invite you and Peter over for dinner tomorrow night. Six okay?” Kirsty grabs a pink lipstick, back to her efficient self. “Sorry for the late notice. Tim’s had his head buried in something the past few days and he only just told me about his grand plans now.”

  “Okay, sure. I think we’re free tomorrow.” I know we’re free – we always are. I’ll have to drag Peter from the clinic, but anything other than chicken fillet is a welcome change.

  I sit in silence as Kirsty paints on a few coats of lip-gloss, then brushes some loose power over my face.

  “There, finished. Have a look.”

  I glance into the compact, gasping at my reflection. Kirsty’s lined my eyes with black kohl and piled on the blush. Along with my new haircut, I could fit right into that super-stylish newsroom. I slip on my new sandals and stalk over to the full-length mirror beside the door.

  “So? What do you think, Madame Tabloid Star?”

  “Thanks, Kirsty. I love it!”

  I look tall. I look glamorous. I look nothing like the usual me. But that’s the whole point. If I wanted to show everyone the usual me, I might as well throw on my cat-hair-covered jogging bottoms and my old Britney Spears T-shirt. This is the confident, eat-you-alive woman I want to be – Serenity v2, with bells on – and I just might be getting there.

  What will Jeremy think when he sees me? I’m certainly different to the receptionist he met just a week or so ago. My cheeks heat up as I picture his eyes raking over me, his face full of awe and admiration (as much as the Botox will allow) as he takes in my makeover . . .

  “Ready to go, then?” Kirsty’s voice cuts into my daydream and my cheeks flush even more.

  I turn away to hide my glowing face, grabbing my belted red H&M trench coat.

  “Um, no.” Kirsty wags her finger at me as I shrug it on. “You’re not wearing that over your dress.”

  I grimace at myself in the mirror. She’s right – the casual red jacket really doesn’t go with the urban-cool dress, not to mention my make-up and hair. I look like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to a street corner. “I didn’t bring anything else.”

  Kirsty shakes her head. “I’m not letting you ruin my handiwork by wearing that. You don’t need a coat, anyway. Just grab a cab.”

  I nod, not wanting to tell her that I don’t have cash for a cab right now. The last time I mentioned not having money, Kirsty launched into a tirade that Peter really should be paying me more, so at least I could live each month without relying on my overdraft. It’s hard to ask for a raise from your boyfriend, though – especially when you’re living rent free. “Yeah, okay.”

  Swinging open the door, Kirsty gives me a quick hug. “Good luck!”

  Wrapping my arms around my chest to try to keep warm, I watch the door close behind her. God, I wish she could come, too – break the ice with everyone for me, the way it’s always been. Now, I’m on my own.

  Taking a deep breath, I let my arms drop to my sides and stride along, the sharp staccato of my high heels echoing down the street. The old me might have been a little shy, but this is the new, upgraded me. And Serenity v2 can face a room full of strangers, no problem.

  Clattering down the stairs into the Tube, I ignore the looks of interest from the stodgy, tired men bundled into ill-fitting polyester business suits, and race toward the platform where a wonderfully warm (if smelly) train awaits.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of the brick exterior of the Hospital Club. It’s just after seven-thirty, and judging from the shouts of laughter and music I hear from the open windows, the launch party is in full swing. There aren’t any paps and there’s no red carpet, but this is it – my debut into the tabloid world.

  I puff up my hair, smooth down my dress, and adopt a confident stride over to the door, where a man in black is guarding the entrance.

  “Serenity Holland for the Beauty Bits launch party,” I say to the guard, cursing my quavery voice.

  “Right.” He scans the list in front of him, then puts a tick on the clipboard and points to some stairs. “First floor.”

  Nodding, I head up the steps toward the noise, almost dizzy now with nerves.

  At the top of the staircase, I scan the room in front of me, looking for Leza . . . or anyone I might be able to talk to. The small space is packed with bodies, and the soft glow of pink lights makes everyone look like featureless blobs. People cluster together in tight little groups with their backs to me, and I can’t even begin to make out where the bar might be. I’m dying for a drink to take the edge off my nerves.

  I push my way through the braying crowd, grimacing as I bang my knees against a glass bar. A couple bruises are a small sacrifice for alcohol, and I practically collapse in relief as I order up a Cosmopolitan. Yes, I know I’m not Sarah Jessica Parker – I’m practically Celibate and the City – but this doesn’t seem like a rum-and-Coke kind of venue. Cold fingers grasp my arm and I spin around.

  “Aren’t you that Build a Bloke writer?” A girl around my age and about a foot taller – with long, sleek auburn hair and a pale complexion to die for – is studying me th
rough narrowed eyes.

  “Hi. Yes, I am. It’s Build a Man, actually.” It must be okay to ditch my undercover persona if she already knows it’s me. I stretch out my hand to shake hers, but I end up knocking her glass. A few drops splash out onto her metallic shift dress. “Oh, sorry!”

  The glamazon laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s Teflon-coated, specially made by Kenzie King. You know, the up-and-coming designer from Saint Martins.”

  Kenzie who? “Oh yes, of course.” I nod, making a mental note to look up Kenzie King and Saint Martins (whatever the hell that is) as soon as I get home.

  Glamazon smirks, arching her eyebrows like she can read my mind. “So . . . what do you think?” She throws out her arms and looks around the room with a smug expression.

  “Um, yes, it’s great. Great party,” I stammer. Who the hell is this person?

  She nods, then delicately sips her drink. “I know. I organised the whole thing. I was worried you wouldn’t make it. For some reason, your email invite kept bouncing back.”

  Glamazon’s eyes are wide and innocent, but I’m not sure I believe her. Leza’s emails got through fine, along with several thousand spam. Why wouldn’t this person want me here?

  “So we haven’t been introduced,” I say, trying to figure out who she is. Judging by the way she’s acting, she must be some bigwig reporter.

  Her thin lips stretch in a smile and she holds out a skeletal hand. “Mia Sutton.”

  “What do you do on the paper?” The barman finally passes me my drink, and I take a giant slurp. If I was desperate for one before, now I’m practically gagging.

  Mia flips a section of perfectly straight glossy hair over a bony shoulder. “I’m an intern. For now. But I’m a dead cert for the junior reporter position that’s opening up.”

  “Junior reporter position?” I croak, her words swirling around my head. That can’t be the same one Leza’s promised me, can it? “That’s great. Me too.”