by Talli Roland
“What, so you’re washing your hands of him completely?” My words are loud and angry in the hushed silence of the room.
“No, I’m not washing my hands of him completely. Jesus, you really don’t know how these things work, do you? I’m not an expert in neurology. Why would I even begin to try to treat him? I’ll see how Jeremy’s doing from time to time, but that’s it. I’ve other surgeries and new patients to focus on.”
Peter’s practical tone infuriates me. “So job done, even though you messed up?” It’s a bit over the top, I know, but I want to prod my boyfriend into some kind of emotion.
Looks like I’ve succeeded. When he swings toward me, his face is angrier than I’ve ever seen it. I jerk away, worried I’ve gone too far.
“I didn’t ‘mess up’.” Peter jabs his fingers in the air as he says the words. “And I really resent the implication that I did.”
I stare at him, feeling strangely detached from the man in front of me. I’ve always admired the calm, unruffled way he goes through life. But now – when it comes to people I care about – it doesn’t seem so admirable.
There’s nothing I can possibly say, so I lower my head onto the pillow and turn away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Light filtering through the window wakes me from my shallow sleep the next morning. I stretch out my arms, grateful the torturous night is finally over. Peering at Peter, I can see his chest rise and fall with soft snores, and an image of Jeremy’s chest moving up and down in the confines of his hospital room flashes through my mind.
I slide out of the covers as quietly as possible, then pull on the heap of clothes I discarded by the bed last night. It’s still early, but I’ve got to talk to Jeremy.
Running a brush through my hair, I jam on my trainers and head out into the street. The closer I get to the hospital, the more desperate I am to see him. Guilt and regret mixed with something like hope – hope that we can begin again, hope that he will get better – churn inside, and I urge my legs to move faster and faster until I’m practically running.
Finally, I cross the hospital’s marble foyer and head straight to Jeremy’s suite on the eighth floor. Funny, there’s no guard. Maybe he’s inside? I heave open the heavy wooden door, anxious to see if Jeremy’s awake and if he’s doing better today.
“Jeremy?” My smile freezes as I take in the empty space with the bed neatly made. I search for any trace of him, but there’s nothing – it looks like a hotel room, awaiting the next guest. I glance at my watch: eight o’clock. Could he be getting the CT scan the doctor told me about?
Heart beating fast, I head back into the corridor and race over to the desk.
“Excuse me,” I say to the nurse, a dead ringer for Cindy Crawford. “I’m looking for Jeremy Ritchie. Can you tell me where he is?” Maybe he’s been moved or downgraded to a regular ward.
“One moment, please.” She smiles coolly at me and taps on the keyboard – I can hear her fingernails clicking from where I’m standing. Come on, I say inside my head. Come on! With every passing second, I want to see Jeremy more and more.
“Mr Ritchie requested a transfer earlier this morning,” she says.
“Requested a transfer?” I repeat lamely, unable to get my mind around exactly what that might mean. “Transferred where? Is he all right?”
“He is no longer in care of this hospital,” the nurse responds, sounding almost robotic.
“Okay. If you could give me the address of where he’s been transferred, that would be great.” I dig out my pen and notepad. Jeremy is stable enough to be moved, thank goodness. But why would he request a transfer? Unless . . . I gulp as the answer seeps into my mind. Unless the communications department has already talked to him about my column.
Cindy shakes her head, her long ponytail swooshing back and forth. “I’m sorry. Communications has left strict instructions not to disclose this information.”
Oh God. They have. They’ve talked to him.
“I’m his sister.” I force a smile as sweat prickles on my forehead. “And I never heard anything about a transfer. Please, can you just double-check?”
She gives me a big fake smile and pretend-clacks a few keys (I know she’s not typing, because I don’t hear her fingernails clicking). “His file says absolutely no information is to be released to anyone except his immediate-care doctors.”
My heart picks up pace. Maybe Peter can find out where he is. “Is Dr Lycett on that list?” I hold my breath.
Cindy rolls her eyes but taps the keyboard. “No. Just Mr Ritchie’s neurologist.” She raises her eyebrows. “Anything else I can help you with today?”
Unable to force a word past the lump in my throat, I shake my head, backing away from the desk and into the lift. Jeremy’s gone. He’s gone, and he knows I’ve lied to him; that I’ve betrayed his trust. As the lift judders downwards, my heart drops along with it, and I grip onto a steel railing, lightheaded with dismay.
At least . . . at least if I can’t locate Jeremy, Mia and Leza might not be able to, either. But I can’t muster up any triumphant feelings. Every inch – every last fibre of my being – is focused on Jeremy. I’ve got to find him to tell him how sorry I am, and that I’m through with the tabloid.
Okay. I take a deep breath and try to focus. I have his contact information and I know where he lives. A ray of hope flashes through me as I dig out my phone and call his number, waiting for his easy, relaxed tones on the voicemail. I’ll leave a message explaining things. He’ll have to pick up voicemail sometime.
But instead of ringing, the number just disconnects. I try again – same thing. And again. Why won’t my calls go through? Has he blocked my number?
Unable to think what else to do, I rush down commuter-clogged Marylebone toward Jeremy’s. Maybe someone’s there – he could have hired his own nurse. He’s rich enough to, right? And if he has been moved to another facility, maybe someone’s come round to gather up his things.
When I reach his house, the familiar geraniums bob over the black iron railings, and my heart lifts just seeing them. I pound on the door, willing it to open, but it remains resolutely closed. Leaning back against the white facade of the house, I try to think of what to do next.
If I can’t reach Jeremy by voicemail, then I’ll do it the old-fashioned way: by letter. I get out my notebook, cringing as I spot the opening paragraph I scrawled down last night. I can’t believe I wrote that – it feels like another person did. Well, I guess in a way I was someone else: Serenity v2. Funny, now that my tabloid dream is over, I realise how far from being Serenity v2 I actually am – and how I’m sure now I don’t ever want to be.
Flipping to a fresh page, I hunker down on the steps, tapping the pen against my teeth as I think about what to write.
Hi Jeremy! No, that sounds wrong – too upbeat and casual. I scratch it out then turn to a new page. God, if only the mistakes of my past were as easy to fix.
Dear Jeremy,
I hope you’re feeling better. I went to see you today, but you’d been transferred and they wouldn’t tell me where. I know you’ve heard about Beauty Bits.
I pause for a second, unsure what to say next. How can I ask him to forgive me for such a massive lie? My cheeks colour with shame as I recall everything I spewed, from wine therapy to how to dress for the person you want to be. God.
Jeremy, I’m so sorry I wasn’t honest with you. But I’ve stopped writing that column now – I just couldn’t carry on after your operation. Please get in touch and let me know where you are. I’ll explain everything.
Tapping my pen again, I ponder how to close the letter. Yours? No, that’s way too formal. Best wishes, from your fraudulent life advisor? I shake my head.
Love,
Serenity
There. My eyes tear up as I rip out the page, and I realise not everything between us was pretend. There was something there; we do have a connection – something like friendship – that goes beyond reporter-subject, and I think Jeremy
felt it, too. Hopefully it’s made enough of an impact for him to give me a chance whenever he does get this letter. And in the meantime, I still have his number to try. I call it again, and again it clicks off before going through.
My mobile rings and I almost drop it with surprise. Maybe it’s him!
“Hello?” I say, almost gasping with nerves.
“Where the hell are you? It’s almost eight-thirty.” Peter’s angry tones buzz through the handset and my heart plunges. Oh. It was ridiculous to think it would be Jeremy, anyway. The poor man could barely even speak yesterday.
“Sorry, um, I just went out for fresh air,” I say lamely, tucking Jeremy’s letter halfway through the slot in the door, so that if anyone does come by to get his things, they’ll be sure to see it. “I’ll meet you at work.”
I hang up, then trudge the five-minute walk to the clinic. After Peter’s response last night, I’m in no hurry to see him. And after what I witnessed in the operating room, I’m definitely not in a rush to watch others treat cosmetic surgery like it’s the same as going to the hair salon. I cringe at the memory of Jeremy comparing his operation to visiting the dentist.
Turning into the mews, I can see Peter at the clinic door, impatiently fiddling with the keys. His eyes widen as he takes in my dishevelled state.
“What are you wearing?” he asks as I approach. “Jesus Christ, Serenity.” Unlocking the door, he ushers me inside. From the straight set of his shoulders as he marches past me to his office, I can tell he’s anything but impressed.
Well, so what? I’m not exactly impressed with him, either. And for the first time since our relationship started, I don’t care. I head to the bathroom and stare into the mirror, taking in my pale cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and my tousled, greasy hair. This is me – the real me, and I’m not going to try to pretty myself up, today of all days. I go back out behind the desk and perch on my stool.
Slowly, with a growing sense of dread, I turn on the computer and type in the Beauty Bits website address. Since Jeremy has disappeared and I only gave the barest of information to Leza about his condition, I hope they won’t be able to dredge up anything too horrible.
The familiar road sign appears.
Fingers shaking, I scroll down.
BUILD A MAN REVEALED!
Disastrous Operation Leaves Property Millionaire Jeremy Ritchie in Coma
Oh my God.
No. No way.
I stare at the headline, praying it’s a figment of my imagination. That’s not Jeremy’s real name on the screen. It’s not. I jam my eyes closed to wipe the slate clean. But when I force my lids open again, there it is.
I press a fist against my mouth to stop the rising fury and panic from spewing out. If the thought of Jeremy’s story splashed all over the web under a false identity was bad, this is just . . . beyond words.
The Daily Planet can now reveal our Build a Man is none other than property multi-millionaire Jeremy Ritchie. Dumped by his ex-girlfriend in favour of his better-looking business partner, it’s easy to understand why Jeremy (or ‘James’ as we’ve been calling him) fancied a fresh new look. Sadly, his surgery yesterday didn’t turn out as planned.
I tear my eyes away from the car-crash text and look over at the sidebar. The blue cut-out paper doll is now all warped, as if someone’s run their hand across it and pushed it out of whack. Underneath it is the same photo of Jeremy and his business partner I’d seen on Google, and under that, the photo of Julia and David when they got married.
I force myself to read the rest of the text on the screen.
Instead, he emerged a groaning, moaning one-eyed wonder after a bad reaction to anaesthetic during surgery nearly left him dead on the table. Although Jeremy survived, the brain damage he suffered – resulting in left-side paralysis – means he’s more Lurch than luscious.
Jeremy’s a new man all right – a man better suited to a care home than the vigours of dating. After all, what woman wants a life with a man who needs his nappy changed?
Oh, Jesus! I drop my head into my hands, pushing my palms against my eyes as if I can erase the words.
I thought I was protecting Jeremy by warning the hospital. But by cutting off Leza’s source of future stories, I’d given her the green light to reveal his identity. Why would she care about keeping it a secret if her subject had disappeared, anyway?
Off to the side of the column is a poll:
RETURN TO SENDER?
What would you do if a man you were dating suffered brain damage? Would you:
A. Make like Florence Nightingale and happily nurse him back to health.
B. Check him into a rehabilitation centre and hope for the best.
C. Kick him to the kerb and find a man who can take care of you, too.
I glance at the results, split between B and C, and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. Over seven thousand people have voted already, on a Monday morning. Leza was right: people do love this kind of thing. An image of vultures circling over Jeremy, pecking away at him, flashes into my mind, and I shudder. As much as I don’t want to lump myself in with Leza and Mia, I know I played a part in serving him up. A big part. If it wasn’t for me, Jeremy wouldn’t be on that hospital bed. My gut clenches and guilt floods through me again. I hope he gets my letter soon. Even if he doesn’t contact me, at least he’ll know I wasn’t involved in this post.
I scroll down, marvelling at all the content they’ve managed to squeeze out of the incident. There are fact boxes, links to other stories of cosmetic surgeries gone wrong . . . and nine hundred and seventy-nine comments. I skim through them, mainly of the ‘get well soon’ variety. But some berate Jeremy for having cosmetic surgery in the first place, and one even calls him ‘a weak male specimen who deserves what he got’. Those people have obviously never heard of a little thing called sympathy.
Come back tomorrow to discover if our Build a Man can put himself back together again, it says at the very bottom. Is he destined to drool forever? Or can he fight back and find love despite the damage? We talk to the experts to find out. Jeez, they’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, even if they don’t have direct access to Jeremy.
There’s a noise behind me and I look up from the screen, quickly clicking the window closed.
“Cancel everything for the rest of the day,” Peter says tersely, shrugging on his suit jacket. Lines are etched into his face and his brows are knit together.
“What’s happened?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“The hospital board has called me in. Apparently, some sort of column is being written on Jeremy Ritchie without his consent. The reporter gained inside access to the hospital, and the whole board is on a witch hunt. Look, I’ve got to run.” He throws the keys at me and they clatter onto the desk. “Lock up when you’ve rung the clients. I’ll see you back home.”
I nod, my already buzzing head trying to comprehend his words as I watch him go. It’s like a second punch to the gut, just when I was struggling to catch my breath from the previous blow. What have I done? I was so busy trying to protect Jeremy that I never even thought the hospital might question Peter.
It’s just routine, I tell myself. Of course the hospital would want to talk to Peter – he was Jeremy’s doctor, after all, and they’d need to examine every angle. Thank goodness Peter knows nothing about what I’ve been up to. There’s no way they can implicate him in anything . . . I hope. But what if Jeremy’s told the hospital I was involved, or reported the clinic somehow? I hope to God my letter has made its way to him and he knows I wasn’t involved in his big reveal.
I dial the clients then shut down the computer, my skin prickling with tension. Writing about the clinic seemed like such a benign thing, back when I was certain everything would stay confidential – and that even if there was a breach, Jeremy would look like a million bucks, the perfect advertisement for Peter’s skills. Never in my wildest nightmares could I have imagined things turning out like this.
Before
heading back to the flat, I swing by Jeremy’s, anxious to see if the note I tucked through the slot in the door is still there. As I approach the now familiar building, my heart picks up pace. I squint at the door, looking for a scrap of white paper.
Bingo! My heart lifts as I realise the letter is nowhere to be seen. Someone’s been by, thank goodness. Now, I can only pray that my words have had some effect – or, at least, have stopped Jeremy from turning me in.
Back at the flat, I try in vain to find something to fill the time, even resorting to a book on customer service Peter bought me for ‘professional development’. A couple hours of fruitless page-flipping later, I stick our fillet in the oven for supper and hunt down Smitty for his brushing session, trying not to think about what’s taking Peter so long. For the millionth time, I glance at the grandfather clock. It’s almost six – Peter’s been gone now for hours. Smitty yelps and I realise I’ve just brushed his face by mistake.
I let him go and pad over to the kitchen, absently taking down the packet of Jaffa Cakes and shoving one after another in my mouth. Even the tangy orange doesn’t calm the small knot of tension grinding in my gut.
The flat door swings open and I hastily swallow a mangled hunk of cookie. “You’re home! Is everything okay?” My heart is beating so fast that my pulse whooshes in my ears.
Peter places his briefcase neatly by the door in its usual spot, hangs up his coat, then eases himself down on the sofa. “God. What a day.”
