Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  I can’t even begin to examine all this right now.

  “So how are things with you?” I ask Kirsty, aware I’ve been fixated on me since I arrived and dying to think about something else.

  “Horrible. Tim keeps trying to talk to me at work; I keep hiding in the bathroom to avoid him. Between that and morning sickness, it feels like I spend most my time in there these days.”

  “God.” I don’t know what else to say. It sounds so grim.

  “Yeah.” Her eyes well with tears. “I do love him. It’s just a lot to handle right now.” Kirsty shakes her head. “Look at the two of us! Ten years ago, would you ever have thought we’d be in such a state? I was sure I knew what I wanted back then. But once I had it, I couldn’t run away fast enough.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” I lean over and put my arms around her. I wish there was a pill we could swallow to fast-forward past all this confusion. The days when we knew beyond a doubt what our futures held seem so long ago. I’m afraid nothing will ever be that clear again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next few weeks pass in a blur as I go from clinic to home to clinic again, with a weekend outing here and there to visit Kirsty in Canary Wharf. Neither of us has made a move in any direction. It feels like we’re floating aimlessly through life, unable to break free from our inert state.

  The only thing I do care about is hearing from Jeremy. I should just be happy he hasn’t reported me – and I am, of course – but I’m longing for him to get in touch. With each passing day, though, I’m more and more convinced Kirsty’s right: it’s too much to expect. I’ve lost him.

  Things between Peter and me have reached a similar inertia. I do what he asks at the clinic and home, moving like an automaton most the time. Peter’s so absorbed in his own world that he doesn’t notice my lack of response, and since he’s been doing paperwork at the clinic most nights, I’m usually alone at the flat.

  Peter’s working late as usual when my phone buzzes. I scrabble between the sofa cushions to find it, thinking it’s probably him asking me to pop the fillet in the oven.

  “I’ll put them in now,” I answer.

  “Ser, it’s me.” Kirsty’s voice is tense.

  “Are you okay?” I sit up straight, my heart beating fast.

  “I’m bleeding. I’m worried something might be wrong with the baby. Can you meet me at the hospital? I’m about to call a taxi. I tried to get Tim, but he’s not answering.” She sounds close to tears.

  “Of course. But maybe you should call an ambulance?” Horrific images of women lying in pools of blood flash through my head, courtesy of ER. “Lie down, put your legs in the air, and call 911. Or whatever it is here.”

  “It’s not serious enough for an ambulance,” Kirsty says tightly. “But it’s still pretty bad.”

  I’m already on my feet, shrugging on my coat. “Okay. I’ll grab a taxi. What hospital are you going to?” I’ve no idea which one is closest to her.

  “Limehouse Hospital. Hurry, please.” She hangs up, and I snatch my keys and two tenners from Smitty’s emergency fund, then dash down the corridor and into the lift, willing it to go faster. Outside, it’s raining, and little wet beads patter onto my face as I rush toward Marylebone High Street, where there’s sure to be a taxi. I flag one down and climb in, instructing the cabbie to go as quickly as possible to the hospital.

  Finally – after what feels like forever – the driver pulls up in front of the brightly lit Accident and Emergency Room (why Accident and Emergency? Isn’t an accident, by default, an emergency?). I hand him some money then run through the doors, spotting Kirsty on a row of dingy chairs. Her face is paler than I’ve ever seen, and even her normally springy hair looks flat and lifeless.

  “Are you okay?” God, what a stupid question. Even by the way she’s sitting – both arms crossed over her womb as if protecting herself from invisible forces – it’s obvious she’s anything but fine.

  Kirsty just shakes her head.

  “How much blood was there?” I ask softly.

  “There wasn’t much, but enough,” she says, brow furrowed with worry. “It seems to have stopped now.” Kirsty grasps my hand and I almost gasp at the coldness of her fingers. “What if I’ve lost the baby, Ser? What if it’s gone?”

  I cradle her hand between mine to get it warm again. “There’s no point thinking about that now. Let’s wait until the doctors take a look at you before we jump to any conclusions. Have you checked in?”

  Kirsty nods. “About ten minutes ago. They asked me to wait for a second.”

  The nurse behind the glass check-in desk beckons us over, and I can’t help making comparisons with the private hospital where Peter works – the contrast is as stark as the difference between an army barracks and a luxury hotel. The chairs here are battered and mended with duct tape, the linoleum tiles worn, and even the plants look like they’ve been resurrected from the eighteen-hundreds. The whole place seems near collapse.

  “Right,” the nurse says busily. “Let’s get you in to see a doctor. First things first, they’ll do an ultrasound to make sure everything is all right with the baby, and a blood test to make sure Mum is fine. I’m sure it will be okay, love. You say you’re about twelve weeks? Bleeding during the first trimester is very common. Just give me a few details, and we’ll sort you out.”

  Kirsty’s face relaxes slightly under the nurse’s warm, reassuring tone, and she lowers herself gingerly onto a metal chair, scrawling her details on a form the nurse has handed her.

  “Now, if you’re finished with that paperwork, I’ll get someone to transport you to the ultrasound unit.” The nurse points to a rusty wheelchair in the corner. I help Kirsty into the stained seat.

  “Can my friend come?” Kirsty asks.

  The nurse nods. “Of course. She can take you up. Fourth floor.”

  I wheel Kirsty down the corridor and over to the lift in silence.

  “Want me to try Tim again?” I ask, as the lift creaks and clanks its way upwards.

  Kirsty nods slowly. “Yes, please.”

  Digging out my phone, I find Tim’s number in my contacts and hit ‘Call’, but it goes right to voicemail. “Hi Tim,” I say quickly, conscious of Kirsty listening to me. “Kirsty and I are at Limehouse Hospital, in the ultrasound unit. Please call.” I don’t know what else to say, so I hang up.

  “I have no idea where he could be. He’s been at work every day – not that we talk. Guess he took my request for space to heart. But he’s always there.” Kirsty twists her neck to look up at me. “I might have blown it, Ser. Everything. Tim, the baby . . . what if I lose them both? God.” She presses her fingers to her forehead.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine.” I touch her back, hoping my words will come true.

  Two hours later, there’s good news. The ultrasound shows the baby’s heartbeat is steady and strong, and a bit of life has flooded back into Kirsty’s face. We’re sitting in the ultrasound department waiting to see a doctor to discuss the possible cause of the bleeding, and I’ve already made three trips to the cafeteria to pick up food for Kirsty.

  I’ve ducked down the corridor to ring Tim several times and I’ve left more messages, but there’s still no sign of him. Even though Kirsty hasn’t said anything, her hopeful glances toward the door each time it opens give her away.

  “I could have five more of these.” Kirsty licks her fingers as she polishes off yet another pastry.

  I stare at her with horror. “That’s the last of them at the cafeteria. I could head over to McDonald’s and grab you a burger, if you want.”

  “Relax, I’m just kidding.” She grins over at me and I smile back, happy to see some colour in her cheeks.

  “Kirsty Grainger?” the nurse at the counter calls.

  “Come with me?” Kirsty asks, looking nervous again.

  I nod and take her arm as we approach the counter.

  “Room one,” the nurse says, pointing down the corridor.

>   Inside the small space, the two of us settle into chairs across from a Formica desk. A doctor sweeps in and plonks a file down in front of him.

  “Hello, ladies. I’m Dr Chandler. Which one of you is Mrs Grainger?”

  Kirsty raises her hand, like we’re back at school. Dr Chandler just has that authoritarian air about him. “That’s me, Doctor.” Her cheeks colour a bit. “And actually, it’s Miss.”

  “Well, Miss Grainger. You have placenta previa.” He pauses, takes in the blank look on our faces, and says: “That means your placenta is lower than normal, and, in your case, almost completely covering the uterus.”

  “How does that affect the baby?” Kirsty asks.

  “It doesn’t. As your pregnancy progresses, the placenta should move into the right position. We’ll keep an eye on it through ultrasounds, make sure everything is all right. And if you have any more bleeding, come to the A&E straight away.”

  “So the baby’s going to be okay?” Kirsty still looks worried.

  Dr Chandler nods. “Yes. If you take it easy – no heavy lifting or straining – the baby will be fine.”

  Kirsty slumps and lets out a deep breath. I can almost see the pent-up tension draining from her.

  “I’ve scheduled you for a follow-up ultrasound in another two months. So if that’s everything–”

  The door bursts open. “Kirsty? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  Kirsty and I turn in surprise as Tim rushes into the cramped room, crouching down beside her. His face is beaded with sweat and his hair sticks up like little horns.

  “I’m so sorry,” he pants. “I just got your messages now. I was at the gym.” He’s wearing the ratty old Spandex biking shorts Kirsty always mocks, and a flimsy, faded T-shirt.

  But Kirsty doesn’t seem to notice his clothes. With an expression of absolute relief mixed with joy, she reaches out and draws him to her, burying her face in his neck. Tim folds her in his arms, and the two of them rock back and forth. Kirsty’s shoulders heave in silent sobs and I glance away, embarrassed to be witnessing such an intimate scene.

  Dr Chandler clears his throat and they look up, as if realising for the first time where they are. Tim straightens, still grasping Kirsty’s hand like he never wants to let go.

  “Would you like to have a seat?” Dr Chandler points to a small stool squeezed into the corner.

  “Here, have mine,” I say, standing. “I’ll wait outside.” Now that Tim is here, it feels like I’m intruding.

  Kirsty shoots me a smile, and I head out into the corridor, closing the door behind me. Leaning against the wall, I picture the two of them, arms entwined, each gripping the other like they’re the only thing that makes sense.

  Something shifts in my chest, and a longing pulls at the very core of me. I want that: the closeness, the overwhelming strength of emotion, the knowledge that no matter what life throws their way, they can handle it – together.

  How do you know someone’s ‘the one’? Jeremy asked me, back at Providores. I remember running Peter through my mental checklist: handsome, ambitious, successful . . . he had everything I thought I wanted.

  But for the first time, I realise I’ve left off something critical from my list.

  I’ve left off love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Scanning my wardrobe a few days later, I try for the millionth time to muster up the energy to throw on a clinic-appropriate outfit. The morning is gloomy, with rain falling in big, steady drops, and my mind is buzzing from the relentless questions that have been tormenting me since I saw Kirsty and Tim together. Do I love Peter? Does he love me? Is he really the man I want?

  I picture the two of them clinging onto each other in the hospital that night, and the same strong yearning sweeps over me. They’re back on solid ground – stronger than ever, Kirsty says – and after everything she’s been through, it’s good to see Kirsty’s finally found her way to what’s really important. If only I could do the same.

  Reaching into the packed wardrobe, I select a pair of trusty black trousers and a soft cashmere top that always makes me feel like I’m wearing a fuzzy blanket. I’ve been craving comfort all week – or, at least, a respite from the storm raging inside me.

  It’s always been obvious Peter and I are different: he’s so rational, while ‘irrational’ could have been my middle name. But we both had ambition, wanted stability and, well, I thought I could somehow make myself be a cool, calm person like him – the now-defunct Serenity v2, perhaps. I’ve come to realise it’s just not possible, though, and I don’t even want to be like that. So where does that leave us?

  “Ready?” Peter pushes into the bedroom, neatly turned out as usual in a dark suit with a perfectly matching paisley tie.

  “Almost.” I step into my flats. I’m not going to wear high heels, no matter what he says. I’ve had enough of cramps in my arches.

  He doesn’t seem to notice, placing his hand on the small of my back and propelling me out the door.

  A few minutes later, we’re in the claustrophobic world of the clinic. Without my tabloid dreams to distract me, it feels like the walls are closing in more and more, until one day they’ll finally crush me, and all the fillers in the world won’t be able to plump me up again.

  I’m so absorbed in my personal nightmare that I barely notice the clinic door opening.

  “Hiya!” A chirpy voice cuts across the silence of the waiting room.

  My head snaps up. And my mouth drops open.

  There in front of me – so tanned she’s now the colour of peanut butter – is Princesz Gayle.

  “Oh, hello.” I turn my head away, hoping she won’t look too closely. Thank God I’m completely different from when she last saw me at the launch party – my hair is a mess, I’m not wearing make-up, and I’m sporting a saggy sweater. “Do you have an appointment?” I mumble, staring at the computer screen to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “Yeah, at nine, innit?” She props herself up against the desk. “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere recently.”

  Oh, shit. “Well, you were here a few weeks ago.” I lift the corners of my mouth in a smile, still gazing at the screen.

  “That’s right, just before that Beauty Bits launch party.” She squints, then clicks her fingers together. “Snap! I knew I’d seen you somewhere. You were at that party, weren’t you?”

  “Princesz?” Peter walks into the reception area, and my heart drops. “You ready?”

  Her bracelets jingle as she holds up a hand. “Just a sec, Doc. So what did you think? It were a great knees up, hey? Why were you there, anyway? Market research?” She snorts.

  “What are you two talking about?” Peter asks in his conversational, yes-I’m-interested-in-my-patients tone.

  “Oh, nothing.” I make a big show of looking at the clock. “You’d better get started, Doctor. Madame Lucien’s at half past, and you know she likes to be prompt.”

  “Pffffff! Madame Lucien can wait.” Princesz puts a hand on her hip.“So, did you have a good time?” She turns to Peter. “We’re on about that launch party last month, innit? Your girl here was there, looking fierce.”

  Peter laughs. “No, I think you’re mistaken. Serenity wasn’t at any launch party.”

  Princesz nods, stamping her stiletto on the floor for extra emphasis. “Oh yes, she was. Beauty Bits, just last month. I never forget a face, me. That were her.”

  Peter freezes. “Beauty Bits?”

  “Yeah, the one with that bloke who wanted to pull birds, but he was too ugly? He was going to get everything done, you know.” Princesz leers at us.

  My head swivels back and forth between the two of them as if they’re actors on a stage and I’m in the audience, unable to interrupt. I’m not sure I could interrupt, even if I wanted to. My mind has gone blank.

  Peter turns toward me, eyes colder than I’ve ever seen. “Serenity?” he asks in a dangerously calm voice. “Were you at the Beauty Bits launch party last month?”

  I focus
on his face, my mind racing. I’m so tired of hiding things; of playing games; of uncertainty. But I know how important the clinic is to Peter. If he finds out what I’ve done – how I jeopardised his baby, even if I didn’t quite realise it at the time – will he ever be able to forgive me?

  Am I ready to find out?

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I was at the launch party.”

  Peter’s face twists with anger before the mask slides back into place. “We’ll talk later,” he says through gritted teeth as he takes Princesz’s arm and escorts her into the consulting room.

  In the ten minutes that follow, I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t sit still, so I pace up and down the waiting area, the Norwegian pine floor creaking under my flats. How will Peter react? Will he listen to my explanation, or will he chuck me out faster than I can say ‘collagen’? Do I mean as much to him as this place, or am I just a fixture in his life that he’s got used to having around, like Smitty? And what do I want?

  Finally Princesz reappears, pays her bill and departs, leaving Peter and I facing each other.

  “So?” he asks finally.

  I swallow. His face is so cold he almost looks like a stranger, not the man I’ve spent seven months of my life with. “Peter, I wrote that column on Jeremy,” I say quickly, suddenly desperate to get everything out there. “It was all under different names. No one was ever supposed to know it was about Jeremy – or this clinic. I really thought it might do us some good in the end.”

  Peter stares at me, a slight redness in his cheeks the only sign of anger. “Jesus, Serenity.” He turns away and traces my previous route up and down the floorboards. “You could have written about anything. But you had to choose something that would threaten the clinic, didn’t you? What if Jeremy informed the hospital’s board of directors? And did you even stop to think what might happen if someone did connect the dots? Someone like Princesz?”