by Talli Roland
I settle into a chair across from him. “What happened?” My voice is clogged with fear and worry, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Well, of course the board wanted to make sure I knew nothing about those columns. Patient confidentiality is critical to the reputation of cosmetic surgery facilities. No celeb will set foot in a place if they think their procedures might end up in a sordid rag like The Daily Planet. If anyone at the hospital was involved, it could cause serious damage.”
I swallow hard. I hadn’t realised the consequences could be so severe – or rather, I’d been so gung-ho to get things going that I hadn’t stopped to think about it. Has Jeremy said anything? It feels like someone’s sitting on my chest, and I struggle to take in air.
“The hospital cleared me, thank God. If they’d cancelled my operating contract there . . . disaster.” Peter focuses in on me, his tone deadly serious. “Look, Serenity. I know you’re into the tabloid scene.”
“Um, sort of.” The banging of my heart is so loud now, it’s almost drowning out his voice.
“Have you ever heard of this Beauty Bits? I haven’t taken too close a look at it yet, but it sounds like whoever wrote it was able to get access to our clinic – or at least had quite a personal relationship with Jeremy. Jeremy’s unable to articulate much right now, and the hospital’s loathe to press him. They called The Daily Planet for more details, but . . .” Peter shakes his head.
“But?” I squeak, caught between relief and horror. Jeremy hasn’t turned me in – yet – but I wouldn’t put it past Leza to hang me out to dry.
“The legal department just said the paper protects their journalists.” Peter shrugs. “Journalists, as if. More like vermin.”
I automatically open my mouth to protest, but snap it closed again when I realise Peter’s right. What I did wasn’t journalism – at least, not the kind I can take pride in.
“Do you think it could be another client?” Peter’s brow furrows as he tries to puzzle it out.
“Maybe,” I finally manage to say, my mouth dry and my throat scratchy with Jaffa crumbs. Perhaps I should tell him; come clean. But what good would that do? He’s already been cleared of any involvement, and explaining to him what I’ve done would thrust him squarely into the ‘involved’ side of things. No, keeping everything locked up inside as tightly as I can is the only way to go.
“The important thing is, it’s over,” I say, trying to keep my trembling voice steady. “If I were you, I’d just forget about it.” Please please please may he just forget about it!
Peter clicks on the TV and stretches out his long legs with a sigh. “I guess so. Anyway, you’re right. Jeremy’s no longer a patient, so we can put this whole thing behind us and move on. Get back to normal.”
“Yeah.” I try to smile, but my face feels frozen. Get back to normal? Right now, I can barely breathe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Come on, Serenity.” Peter taps his foot as he hovers by the door the next morning. “We’re going to be late.”
“Okay, okay.” Quickly tying a Primark scarf around my neck to cover a toothpaste stain on my blouse, I walk into the corridor. Peter closes the door behind us and practically runs to the lift.
It’s Tuesday morning, and my brain is fuzzy from lack of sleep. I lay awake all night, relief that I hadn’t harmed Peter’s professional reputation mixed with heavy guilt about Jeremy – and a glimmer of hope that somehow he might, he just might, respond to my letter.
“Hurry.” Peter nudges me into the waiting lift. Suited and booted, he looks polished and groomed, putting his words about returning to normal into effect. Despite my work clothes and heavier than usual make-up, I still look exactly how I feel: like death warmed over.
Inside the clinic, I scoot behind the desk and turn on the computer. Sighing, I open the browser and type in the Beauty Bits website, my heart in my throat as I wait for the page to load. Have Mia and Leza managed to find Jeremy? What will they write about today?
I click my fingernails on the desk. Finally, the Build a Man icon appears at the top of the screen, and I force myself to read the accompanying words.
Getting physical with a beautiful woman was our Build a Man’s dream when he signed up for cosmetic surgery. But instead of moving his hips, Jeremy’s now trying to move his lips. After an operation two days ago left him brain damaged, Jeremy must now begin the long journey back to the man he once was.
“Jeremy’s got it tough,” said celebrity therapist Keith Kole. “He’ll need my three-T method to recover: time, tenderness, and tenacity.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes at that one. They must be struggling if they had to dig up a quote from a celebrity therapist. Obviously they haven’t been able to track down Jeremy, thank God.
At the bottom of the article, small print catches my eye:
The Daily Planet would like to thank everyone who has contacted us to wish Jeremy well. To respect his privacy, Build a Man column will only run when we receive health updates from our Man. Coming tomorrow: Tummy Trends. Read about the latest trend in cosmetic surgery – the designer belly button – and the pioneering surgeon who developed it. Staff Reporter Mia Sutton has the inside scoop.
I stare at the words. Staff reporter?
Mia’s got the job.
I wait for some – any – emotion to hit me, but I feel so removed from it now, as if all my dreams and ambition for that world existed in a former life.
And designer belly buttons? I’m nauseated just thinking about it. Thank goodness they’re moving on. I wondered just how long they could keep Build a Man going, without any access to Jeremy.
Please note: Build a Man column cannot accept deliveries of flowers, sundry clothing items (including lingerie), perishable goods, or any item apart from standard post. To express your best wishes, please email: [email protected]. Any additional items received will be donated to the Knightsbridge Fund for Botox Beauty.
The Knightsbridge Fund for Botox Beauty? My eyebrows fly up. The nerve, donating things sent to Jeremy to a fund supporting cosmetic surgery. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess, but I am.
“Excuse me.” My head snaps up. In front of me are two women: an older one with expensive-looking honey-blonde hair and a sharply tailored blazer, and a fresh-faced teenager with wide blue eyes.
“Yes. Hello.” I force my lips into a smile. “Can I help?”
“We’ve got an appointment at nine with Doctor Lycett. Mrs Edith Evans and my daughter, Felicia.” She’s already turned away from me. “Come, Flic.” Felicia trots after her like a puppy.
Jesus Christ. Felicia – whose face is the last place anyone would think to look for a wrinkle – must only be about thirteen. “Excuse me!” I call after their retreating backs.
Mrs Evans lowers herself onto a leather chair and points Felicia into the one beside her. “Yes?” she says, once settled.
“Your daughter hasn’t been here before, has she?” God, I hope not. “She needs to complete a consultation form.”
Mrs Evans waves a hand. “No, no. Doctor Lycett knows us. It will be fine.”
I grit my teeth. “Well, if Felicia could just give me a few details for our system . . .”
Mrs Evans sighs. “Flic, go shut that woman up. She’s hurting my head.”
What a bitch! She knows I can hear her. Felicia scurries over to the desk, smiling shyly at me.
“Does Botox hurt?” she whispers, wrapping a chunk of hair around her fingers.
I smile back, debating what to say. I could go with my usual answer – that it’s like a pinprick. But according to people who have had it done, it does hurt. And the last thing Felicia should be thinking about during her teen years is Botox. When I was her age, my main cosmetic worry was how to put on mascara without poking myself in the eye.
“Yes. It does,” I answer solemnly. Felicia’s eyes cloud over.
“Crap.” She shoots a look at her mother, who’s absorbed in a copy of Tatler. “I don’t
really want to do it, you know. But Mother said if I get wrinkles, I’ll look ugly.”
“Ugly! No way. You’re gorgeous.” Now I really do want to kill Mrs Edith Evans. Imagine telling your adolescent daughter that. Suddenly, I feel so lucky to have the parents I do. They’re always saying I’m a beautiful treasure. It’s been a couple weeks since we’ve talked – I really should call them.
“Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to do it, just tell her. You’re too young, anyway.”
“I can’t.” Felicia glances fearfully toward her mother, now flipping through the magazine with such aggression I can hear the snap of the pages from here. “She gets angry and says I’m being stupid.”
“Well, I’ll tell her, then.” I’m not going to let this woman inject her daughter with unwanted substances. That’s child abuse.
“Would you?” Felicia’s face brightens with hope.
“Sure.” I hop off my stool and stride over to Mrs Evans, anger pushing its way up to the surface.
“Yes?” Mrs Evans says when she’s noticed me standing in front of her, blocking what little light we do have.
I glance at Felicia, who’s hovering beside the desk. “Your daughter has just informed me she does not want to have Botox injections.”
“So?” Mrs Evans responds calmly. “I’m her mother. I tell her what she does and what she doesn’t want.”
“It’s this clinic’s policy that anyone who has injections must be over the age of eighteen,” I say, staring straight into the woman’s beady little eyes. It’s not – Peter’s never had that policy – but hopefully she’ll buy it.
Mrs Evans flings the magazine onto the chair beside her. “This is ridiculous. I’ve been here hundreds of times and I’ve never heard any such regulation.” She stands, tugging down her blazer. “Come on, Flic. Let’s go see Doctor Lo. He even does pets. Surely he’ll do you, too. “
Felicia gives me a grateful look as her mother drags her toward the door, and I nod back. I may not have saved her from Botox, but at least she won’t be getting it on my watch. Before the pair reaches the exit, though, Peter pokes his head into the waiting area.
“Mrs Evans? Are you all set?”
Mrs Evans spins to face Peter, and I can practically see steam coming from her ears. “No, I’m not. This” – she gestures toward me – “girl has told me your clinic can’t do Botox on anyone under eighteen. Absurd.” She marches over to Peter, still dragging poor Felicia. “I tell you, you’d better rethink your policy if you want to stay in business. I have a friend whose baby just got Botox.” And with that, she turns up her nose and yanks open the door so hard it bounces off the wall.
“What policy is she referring to?” Peter’s voice is dangerously calm as he turns toward me.
“If we don’t have one already, then we should. Anyone under eighteen is way too young for Botox.”
Peter sighs. “Botox isn’t harmful. All we need is parental approval if the child is under the age of consent.”
My heart twists. It’s what I thought he’d say, but still. “That sends a terrible message to the child.”
Peter makes an exasperated noise. “It’s a decision they and their parents can make. It’s not up to me – I’m just giving them what they want.” He stares at me. “Since when do you care? You didn’t seem too bothered before.”
He’s right; I didn’t. All this was something funny; something to write pitches about. And when I defended Jeremy’s right to have surgery, I even used Peter’s ‘just giving the people what they want’ line. But now, after everything that’s happened, I can’t stand by pretending to be okay with it all. I’m not.
I take a deep breath. “Peter, I–”
“It’s fine, Serenity,” he cuts me off. “Just don’t do it again. Your job is simple: take the client’s name, give them the form, and get them coffee. I make the policies when they’re needed. There’s no need for you to get involved.”
My mouth drops open at his condescending tone, and for an instant, I want to tell him where he can shove his policies – right up alongside the giant pole in his butt. Then a wave of guilt hits me at how I’ve risked the clinic and his dream for mine, and I nod mutely. He’s right: it’s his business. I’m just a receptionist. Nothing more.
The sooner I accept that, the sooner I can put recent events behind me.
Several mind-numbing hours later, Peter emerges from his office in a cloud of Hugo Boss. “I’m off.”
“Where are you going?” I try to look interested, but I shut down sixty minutes earlier after an onslaught from Mrs Hong when I handed her Tiger Balm instead of the pre-injection anaesthetic cream.
“I told you, I have my Society of Cosmetic Surgeons dinner tonight. Remember? The one that was rescheduled? Now, please give Smitty his meds on time. And if you can . . .”
Peter’s voice drones on and I tune him out, nodding as my brain flips back to this same moment a few weeks ago – the night I met Jeremy at Providores to get him on-board. Back then, I was so full of hope and excitement. Now, I feel mostly dead inside. And the one bit of me that is still open for emotional business is weighed down with fear and anxiety. Jeremy hasn’t notified anyone of my involvement yet, but he hasn’t got in touch, either. Does that mean he’s still too ill? Is he planning to inform the hospital? Will he ever talk to me again?
“Did you get all that, Serenity?” Peter’s staring at me, and I jerk toward him.
“Um, yeah. No problem. Smitty, empty dishwasher, fillet . . .” My voice sounds hollow as it echoes around the empty reception.
Peter drops a kiss on my cheek and clunks the keys on the desk. “Please tidy the files before you go. They’re in quite a state. I’ll see you later.”
I nod again as he leaves. Then, desperate not to be alone with my thoughts tonight, I pick up the phone to call Kirsty. If there’s one thing I need right now, it’s someone who knows me.
Luckily, Kirsty’s just as eager for company as I am. An hour later, I’ve navigated the futuristic Docklands Light Rail and managed to get my exhausted, brain-dead self over to the Hilton at Canary Wharf, Kirsty’s home for the past few days. Outside, night has fallen, and the lights of restaurants shimmer in the water and canals. It’s a part of London I don’t know, and my stomach clenches again as I think of Jeremy showing me the city. I bet he could take me to some great places around here. It’s only been a few days since our outing to Borough Market, but I miss him.
“Hey!” Kirsty waves at me from a chair in the reception area. “Is everything okay?” she asks when I reach her side. “I texted you, but you never responded. And God, Ser, you look worse than me. If that’s possible.”
I take in her wan face and crazy curls flying all over the place. “Gee, thanks. I’m sorry I never got back to you. It’s been mental.” Quickly I fill her in on the nightmare with Jeremy’s operation and how my efforts to protect him backfired, leading to his big Build a Man reveal and Peter being investigated by the hospital for suspected breach of client confidentiality.
“Shhhhhiit,” Kirsty says in a low voice, drawing out the word. “If I need a drink after just listening to that, I can only imagine how you must feel. So is Jeremy going to be okay?”
“The doctors don’t know.” I shake my head. “He might recover completely or . . . he might not.” My voice cracks on the last few words, and Kirsty leans over and touches my arm.
I glance up into her sympathetic eyes. “The worst bit of it is, if I hadn’t pushed Jeremy into having that surgery, none of this would have happened.”
“Look, you know I didn’t agree with Jeremy having the operation,” Kirsty says, “and sure, you might have given him a little added shove. But he wanted that surgery – I could see how excited he was about the whole thing. No one could have predicted the outcome.”
I nod, drinking in her words.
“And you did the right thing, not writing about him after what happened, and trying to protect him by warning the hospital. You couldn’t have known
Leza would reveal his identity. Jesus, what an absolute witch.” Kirsty’s eyes flash in indignation.
“I just hope Jeremy gets in touch, so I can make sure he’s doing okay and explain everything,” I say, sighing deeply.
Kirsty shoots me a worried look. “Listen, Ser, I wouldn’t expect too much from him. First of all, who knows how long it will take him to recover? And secondly . . .” She bites her lip.
“I know, I know, I totally betrayed his trust,” I rush out before she can say anything. “But I really did think it was in his best interest.” Now that I’ve said it, I realise how silly those words sound. His best interest, right. More like my best interest. I drop my head into my hands. How could I have been so selfish? Kirsty’s right – it’s naïve to expect Jeremy to respond to my letter after everything that’s happened. The weight inside me gets heavier.
“I take it you haven’t told Peter you wrote the column,” Kirsty says gently.
I lift my head. “No. I just thought, it’s over now so there’s not much point. Jeremy hasn’t said anything yet, and I’m praying he won’t. And if I did tell Peter, it would put him in a terrible position at the hospital – you know, that someone working for him was involved. Can you imagine the damage to his reputation and the business?”
“It wouldn’t be good, and he definitely wouldn’t be happy. He’s practically married to that clinic.” She makes a face.
“Yeah.” Peter is practically married to the clinic – my relationship with him has always come second. Underneath all my practical reasons for staying silent, I suspect if I tell him what I’ve done, even if I say how sorry I am . . . that will be it.
Is that what I want? To be with someone who has more passion for his business than our relationship – and who might choose it over me, if push comes to shove? And can I really stand sleeping beside someone each night who doesn’t care how his practice affects people? I picture Peter’s response to Jeremy’s disastrous outcome and think of Felicia, just thirteen, and how Peter was only too willing to jab her full of Botox.
