by Talli Roland
Now, I cross my fingers and send up a fervent plea for success. The damn universe better have had an ear wash, because this job is perfect for me.
“New Dick for the Right Chick?” Simon asks as he examines my portfolio, peering over the top of his glasses with a tiny smile.
My cheeks go hot. “Well, yes. That was the editorial style of the paper . . .” Not that I need to explain – everyone and their dog knows The Daily Planet. “But whatever you may think of the content, my posts received thousands and thousands of comments, and my column quickly became one of the most popular on the site.” It’s all true, but I just can’t be proud.
Simon raises his eyebrows. “Well, it’s obvious you can write, and those numbers are impressive.”
I nod, holding my breath.
“But I’m not sure this is the right position for you. Our articles are based on fact, you understand.”
“I know. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I can be a serious writer.” I stare hard at Simon, willing him to see how much I want this. “Please, give me a chance. I’ve had experience working in a medical clinic” – if you call Botox medical – “and I have vast expertise in cosmetic surgery procedures.” That much is true, I think grimly.
Simon studies me for a few seconds. “Let me grab our managing editor, Ryan Nicholls. I know he’ll want to meet you and have a quick word before we make any final decisions.”
I nod, my heart thudding in my chest. As Simon ducks out of the room, I wipe away the sweat that’s gathered on my upper lip.
“Here he is.” Simon returns with a small, wiry man almost vibrating with nervous energy. “Serenity, this is Ryan, our managing editor. If you come on-board, you’ll report directly to him.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, standing and holding out my hand.
“American?” Ryan asks.
“Yes, I’m from–”
“Great, great. Look, I’m really sorry I can’t chat. Bit of a crisis right now – we’ve had an advertiser pull out last minute and we need to fill extra space.”
“Have you got something you can use?” Simon’s calm voice is a direct contrast to Ryan’s anxious one.
“Dermisin’s holding a press conference on their new filler today, so we can do a story on that,” Ryan responds. “I just need someone over there ASAP.”
“Dermisin?” The word pops out of my mouth. I know that company; I used to see their logo on products back at the clinic.
Ryan glances over at me. “Are you familiar with the cosmetic surgery industry?”
I nod. “Yes, it’s my speciality.” Unfortunately. “I’d be happy to cover the conference for you, as a kind of trial run. Or a test of my skills. Or whatever you want to call it,” I babble, desperate to show how motivated and eager I am.
The two men exchange a look, then Simon turns to me with a broad smile. “Well, Serenity, you’ve convinced me. Welcome to the team. We’ll take you on as a junior medical reporter, probationary for three months as usual, then a permanent position after that – all things being well, of course.”
“Thank you!” Happiness gushes through me as I shake his hand.
Simon smiles. “Welcome to the team.”
Before I can respond, Ryan takes my arm and ushers me from the office. “Thanks so much for mucking in with the Dermisin press conference. We’re down a writer and we need to put the February issue to bed tomorrow. It’s only the middle of December, I know, but we always work at least two months ahead.”
I’m not entirely sure what ‘mucking in’ means, but I’m thrilled to begin today. I’ve already drained one vodka bottle back at Kirsty and Tim’s, and I’m now making inroads on the gin. It’s either start now or become an alcoholic. “No problem. I’m happy to help.”
“Brilliant. Now, come meet the rest of the team quickly, then I’ll give you the conference details.” Hurrying me around the cubicles, Ryan introduces Phillipa, Henry, and Gareth. They all respond with friendly waves, then turn back to their computers and clack away.
“We’re on a tight deadline,” Ryan calls over his shoulder. He scurries inside a larger cubicle, grabs a glossy press pack with the elaborate Dermisin logo on the front, and hands it over to me.
“Here you are. The conference is at the Charlotte Street Hotel at eleven.” He glances at his watch. “It’s half nine now. Should give you plenty of time to get there. Come back afterwards and write up a few lines on it, then we’ll go over your employment details.”
Ryan throws himself into a swivel chair and swings away from me, hammering at the keyboard.
God, nothing like diving into the deep end. Still, I can do this. If anyone’s an expert on cosmetic surgery, it’s me – especially after everything I’ve witnessed. I just hope I can do the article justice.
I thread through the cubicles and head out to the lift, relief flooding into me. Finally, I have a job, a start at something solid. Maybe Mom’s hippie quotes aren’t as bad as I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The coffin-sized lift deposits me back in the nineteen-seventies-style foyer. I push out the frosted glass doors, then hurry down the busy stretch of road toward Newbury Park Tube station.
Thank God the Central Line train is pretty much deserted. I drop into a seat and scan the Dermisin materials, pleased to see it’s all pretty familiar stuff. At least the clinic came in handy for something.
I sigh, thinking about the months I spent there with Peter. We haven’t talked since the day we broke up. It’s so funny – we lived together, for goodness’ sake – but I don’t miss him. Guess it goes to show it never was right for either of us, if we could let go so easily.
I exit the Tube at Tottenham Court Road and hustle through the crowds, ducking behind Oxford Street and over to the Charlotte Street Hotel. Inside the foyer, a discrete sign shows that the Dermisin press conference is in Event Room 1, on the lower ground floor. I scurry into the lift and press the button, trying my best to catch my breath and tidy my hair. I look at my watch – ten to eleven.
The lift doors slide open, revealing a scene straight from a film set. Giant palm trees arch toward the ceiling, and bright orange flowers pop up everywhere. Even the air feels hot and humid, as if I’ve been transported to the tropics. I pause for a second, wondering if I’m in the right place, before remembering that Dermisin’s claim to fame is their use of ethically-sourced plants from the rainforest. Yeah, right.
Rows of chairs are scattered strategically about the room, but hardly anyone’s sitting down. A tuxedo-clad waiter circulates with a tray full of champagne flutes, and another waiter serves up strawberries and something that’s wrapped in a leaf. Nausea rises as I watch everyone around me gorge themselves, courtesy of a company that makes its profits off people like Jeremy. I breathe in again to try to stop the queasy feeling from spreading, then sink onto a chair. Thank God I’m working for a credible magazine now. Maybe I can finally write a balanced article; get an interview from a doctor who’s objective about the whole thing.
“Fancy seeing you here.” A familiar smug voice pierces my thoughts.
I turn in horror. There, towering over me in stiletto knee-high boots and another Teflon creation, is Mia. Or, at least, I think it’s Mia – it’s hard to get past her lips to the features behind them. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as I examine the two over-inflated caterpillars on her face, jutting out almost as far as her nose.
“Thought you’d been banished for good from the journalistic world.” Mia laughs, biting into a strawberry. The sight of her bulging lips manoeuvring themselves around the small red sphere is oddly hypnotic.
“Hi, Mia,” I say quietly, determined not to show her the emotion that’s exploding inside.
“So who are you working for now?” She tosses back her hair and sips her champagne.
“The British Journal of Continuing Medical Education,” I say, trying to get it all out without stumbling.
“Sounds . . . interesting.” Mia’s lips stre
tch into a grin, their surface smooth and shiny. “I’m sure you heard I’m writing for the health and beauty section of The Daily Planet. The hard copy,” she sneers. “None of that rubbish online stuff. That’s not real reporting, anyway.”
“That’s not what you thought,” I say, standing to face her. “Back when you were so desperate to steal Build a Man.”
“Oh, Build a Man.” Mia waves a hand in the air. “How is your little friend, anyway?” She raises her voice into a breathy falsetto. “Ooh, Jeremy, I’m so sorry I wasn’t honest with you. I’ve stopped writing that column now – I just couldn’t carry on. Please get in touch and let me know where you are.” Mia smacks her oversized lips together in a kissing noise, then snorts into her drink. “God, how pathetic.”
My mouth drops open as the familiar phrases swirl around me. Those words aren’t just Mia making fun. They’re exactly the same words as in my letter to Jeremy.“Wait a second. How did you get that letter?”
“Wasn’t exactly rocket science,” Mia says, settling into her seat as the Dermisin people file into the room. “After Jeremy disappeared from the hospital, I popped by his house on the off chance he might be there – or someone might know where he was. Instead, all I found was your mushy letter. Straight to the bin.” Her lips twist in something like a smile.
My eyes bulge and my mind races. I can’t believe Jeremy never got my letter. He’s lying somewhere thinking I’m still working for the tabloid – and that I’m the one who revealed his identity! I’m so furious even Mia’s mammoth lips slide out of focus.
“It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” she says, removing her notebook from a Louis Vuitton bag. “He’s probably still drooling and pissing into a bedpan. Really, you should be thanking me for saving you from a relationship with an invalid.”
“Hello, and welcome to the Dermisin Revonuskin press conference.”
I try to concentrate on the man at the front of the room, but Mia's words keep circling around my mind. Jeremy might still be ‘drooling and pissing into a bedpan’, as she so sympathetically put it. But I don’t care, I really don’t. Because . . . I jerk upright as it hits me. Because Kirsty was right.
What I’m feeling is more than guilt – much more. It’s the intensity of emotion that was lacking with Peter; the glow that makes my internal organs feel like they’re immersed in a warm bath. And now that I know Jeremy doesn’t have all the facts, a small ray of hope is growing and growing, like a sun rising inside of me. He believes I revealed his identity, yet he still hasn’t turned me in. Maybe, possibly, he can forgive me? I have to get in touch with him somehow.
“. . . and that’s how our new filler, Revonuskin, works,” the Dermisin man finishes a few minutes later. “Thank you all for coming. Questions?” He scans the room, looking pleased with himself.
I grab the literature they’ve handed us and stand. Even with half my brain trying to figure out how I’m going to reach Jeremy, I’ve still got more than enough BS here to fill Buckingham Palace ten times over. I can’t wait to ask an objective industry expert how an all-natural rainforest product could be manufactured in – I squint at the tiny samples they’ve handed out – Slough. If writing this article doesn’t convince Jeremy I’ve changed, nothing will. If I manage to find him, that is.
“See you later,” Mia sneers. “Oh wait, actually, I probably won’t. I’ll be working in Paris for the next few months as the fashion correspondent.” She smirks, tongue darting out to moisten her lips.
I stare at the two glistening orbs, then shake my head. At one time, working in Paris as a fashion correspondent would have been the pinnacle of my dreams. Now, I don’t even care.
“Goodbye, Mia. I hope you and your lips have a very nice life together.” I turn on my heel, then wend my way through the forest of palms toward the lift.
On the Tube to the office in Newbury Park, I browse through the Dermisin literature, then start making notes for my article. When the train pulls into the station, I have almost all of it written, the final chunk waiting for an interview with an independent source. It’s fantastic to be writing seriously – to be accurate, factual, and provide both sides of the story – rather than wondering how to twist the content for maximum impact. Why didn’t I think this could be exciting, too?
At the journal’s headquarters, I jab the lift button impatiently, then rush over to the managing editor’s desk. “I’m back. I’ve got the piece almost done.”
Ryan looks up from his computer. “What do you need to finish?”
“Do we have a list of experts on cosmetic surgery?” I ask.
“Yes.” Ryan waves a hand in the direction of an empty cubicle. “Take a seat over there – your new home. There’s a file on your desktop called ‘Expert Sources’.” He glances at his watch. “You’ve got an hour.”
I gulp. “No problem.” I walk over to the cubicle and settle into the battered chair. The desk in front of me is scarred and stained with ink spots, and the stapler and light look like they’ve been rescued from a dump. On the desktop, a grimy Mac hunches over like it’s exhausted every last drop of energy. I switch on the computer, wait as it rattles to life, then click on the document called ‘Experts’.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve got everything I need. The clacking of my keyboard joins the furious tapping coming from the cubicles around me, and I can’t help feeling a sense of teamwork as we all strive to meet the deadline.
“Finished?” Ryan appears over the top of my cubicle.
I nod and motion toward the screen, where my article is displayed in all its glory. “Finished.” Ryan bends forward to read it, and my heart starts beating fast as I recall the first time Leza saw my work. What if I haven’t made this serious enough? What if it’s not what he’s looking for?
“Good job.” Ryan raises his eyebrows, looking impressed. “Solid, objective, and you obviously know your stuff about fillers.” I grin as relief whooshes through me. “Yeah. I do.” More than I want to, actually.
“Well, look. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you head home and we’ll go over your employment package tomorrow. Nice to have you on the team.” He scurries off before I can respond.
I stare at the article again, proofing the text one final time. Peter would be proud of my scientific accuracy, I think wryly – except for the minor detail that the expert source has discredited all Dermisin's claims.
But it’s Jeremy I really want to see this. I don’t know how I’m going to hunt him down. But I know one thing: I’m not going to stop until I find him.
“Let’s think about this, then.” Kirsty, Tim and I are sitting in the Prince Regent later that night, celebrating my new job and holding a pow-wow on how to locate Jeremy. After crowing for ages how she knew there was more to my feelings than guilt, Kirsty got down to business to discuss a ‘Finding Jeremy’ strategy. Not even my long day can put a damper on the nervous energy sweeping through me whenever I think of seeing him again.
Kirsty pushes back her hair and takes a sip of sparkling water. “Think hard. He must have said something about where his family’s from.”
I press my hands to my temples, forcing myself to concentrate. “He mentioned his grandmother was from Wales. That doesn’t mean he’s from there, though.” But something twigs in my mind when I think of Wales. I’m sure Jeremy said something else about it. I strain my brain, but whatever it is stays hidden, just out of reach. I take another sip of wine to try to dislodge it.
“If his grandmother’s from Wales, at least it gives us a place to start. We can look for all the – what did you say his last name was?”
“Ritchie,” I say absently, just as the bit of information I was looking for floats into my head. “Wait. He talked about a place in Wales called the Rye Valley. No, the Wye Valley. He owns a converted barn up there. Said it’s like heaven or something.” I look at Kirsty and Tim excitedly. “Do you think he could be there?”
Tim shrugs. “Well, it’s possible. At least we have a region to start with.”
He glances over at the door and his expression changes. “Um, ladies . . .”
My heart stops as I follow his stare. Peter’s coming through the entrance of the pub, and he’s not alone. Holding onto his arm and staring up at him like he’s a demigod is a woman with long, glossy blonde hair and the perfectly smooth skin of someone who’s been Botoxed to within an inch of her life. As she shrugs off her coat, I notice she’s wearing a beautifully cut dress that manages to be both sexy and professional at the same time. Together, the two of them look like they’ve stepped off the pages of a John Lewis catalogue. I try to lower myself in my seat, but it’s too late – Peter’s eyes meet mine. A look of unease flits across his face before his features relax into their usual placid expression. I raise my hand in a limp wave, and the couple starts to make their way toward our table.
“Hello, Serenity,” Peter says stiffly when they’re beside us. He nods to Kirsty and Tim, who bob their heads back.
“Hi, Peter. Good to see you.” I smile, feeling surprisingly calm. Strangely, despite our acrimonious parting, it is good to see him, in the same bland way it’s good to see a former classmate from a completely different phase of your life.
The woman by his side taps Peter’s arm playfully. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
The tips of Peter’s ears go red, the only sign of his discomfort. “Oh yes. Serenity, this is Christina. Christina, Serenity.”
“Pleasure, Serenity.” Christina’s face strains to smile.
I nod, struggling to find words.
“Christina is the clinic’s new Botox sales rep,” Peter says, to fill the empty air.
“Great.” I toy with the stem of my wine glass, unsure what else to say. I feel so distant from him, the clinic, and that whole crazy world. It’s almost difficult to imagine the two of us . . . I shake my head to dispel the image.
