Build a Man

by Talli Roland

  “Yes. Well.” Peter glances at his watch, then slides an arm around Christina’s non-existent waist. “We’d better sit down. Goodbye, Serenity.”

  “Bye.” The three of us watch in silence as the couple glides around the corner out of sight.

  “Well, that was awkward.” Kirsty puts a hand on my arm. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I am.” I don’t feel upset that Peter’s with someone else. And Christina is exactly the kind of woman he should be with – polished, groomed, and gorgeous. Together with a bit of Botox, they can take over the world, one injection at a time.

  “Good. Now all we need to do is find your man.” With the look of determination on Kirsty's face, I’m sure she could have uncovered Osama Bin Laden in record time.

  Two hours later, though, we’re no closer. Despite poring over Google Earth back at the house – and spotting plenty of sheep engaged in rather risqué activities – we’ve yet to track down Jeremy.

  “If he said it’s within view of an abbey in the Wye Valley, he must mean Tintern Abbey.” Tim points at a tiny dot on the computer screen. “Right here.”

  Kirsty chews her lip. “But what if there’s more than one abbey in the Wye Valley? By the looks of things, it’s a pretty big area.”

  Tim shrugs. “We’ve got nothing else to go by. Worth giving it a shot. Let’s zoom in more. Maybe we’ll see some barns around there.” He clicks the mouse, and green blobs give way to fields and trees.

  “Go left a bit.” I hold my breath, waiting for the satellite image to come into focus as Tim moves across the land. I could be looking at Jeremy’s house in a second!

  “There it is. That’s Tintern.” Tim squints at the screen. Stone columns and peaks rise up from a grassy field. Nearby, we can make out a few houses and settlements scattered here and there within view of the ruins. Any one of them might be Jeremy’s. My heart drops. I don’t know what I was expecting – a big sign with a flashing arrow saying ‘Jeremy’s house’?

  “I’ll do a search around the area to see if there are any hospitals or rehabilitation centres nearby. Jeremy might still be there.” I gulp, wondering what condition he’s in now.

  “That’s probably the most practical place to start,” Tim agrees.

  “I’ll help you when we’re home from work tomorrow.” Pushing back from the computer, Kirsty lets out a giant yawn. “Right, I’m off to bed. Coming, Tim?”

  He nods. “Night, Serenity.”

  “Night.” I watch them go up the stairs together, then turn back to the screen, staring at the houses nestled against the countryside. In one of them, Jeremy might be puttering around the kitchen, plating up that yummy spaghetti . . . or kicking back in the living room, watching TV. On a whim, I pick up my phone, find his name in my contacts, and hit ‘Call’. But it disconnects again.

  Maybe he’s blocked my number. I just hope that when I finally reach him, he won’t block me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Got something to show you.” Ryan sticks his head over the top of my cubicle, and I can’t help smiling at the alfalfa sprouts his hair has formed. If possible, he looks even more like a hedgehog than, well, a hedgehog.

  I push my chair back from the desk – quite a feat, really, since one of its wheels is broken.

  “What is it? Not more wonderful photos of a digital rectal examination, I hope.” I’ve recently undergone the office initiation of having to log the most cringe-worthy set of photos known to humankind. I shudder again, just thinking about the location of the doctor’s fingers.

  “Plenty more where those came from,” Ryan jokes. “But no.” He scoots around the side of the cubicle and hands me a shiny, glossy copy of the February issue. “Here – your first issue. Well, the proof copy, anyway. Your article is toward the front, if memory serves. Have a look through and let me know if you spot any errors.”

  I glance down at the thick magazine in my hands, pride growing inside of me. It’s only been a week, but I’m really liking it here and starting to settle in, despite knowing way more now than I ever needed to about rectal exams. This job isn’t where I want to be forever, but it’s a start.

  “Up for a bevvy?” Ryan interrupts my thoughts. “It’s a tradition here. Every Friday, we all head out for a drink down the pub across the street. And it’s the last Friday night before Christmas, so even more reason to join us.”

  “Um, sure. You guys go on, though. I want to do a bit more on this article.” I gesture toward the screen.

  Ryan nods and disappears around the side of the cubicle. I type a few more words into my feature on old-age dementia then rub my eyes, fatigue weighing down every muscle. I’ve spent the past few nights on a desperate mission to find Jeremy, but phone call after phone call to almost every hospital and rehabilitation centre in Wales has been fruitless. I’ve tried Jeremy’s mobile at least fifty times each night, and I’ve walked by his house on Welbeck Street every day on my way home from work. But . . . nothing.

  I shut down the computer as the office empties around me and silence descends. Then, slowly, I open the cover of the magazine and flip through the pages until my article appears.

  Independent Scientist Refutes Dermisin Claims, the headline reads in stark black and white. There aren’t any graphics, polls, or pretty pictures. The words are written in small font, crammed in on themselves so you almost need to squint. But they’re serious, solid, and all mine. Ryan’s made a few minor punctuation changes here and there, but the article is almost exactly as I’d written it.

  Reading through the rest of my words, the feelings of pride and accomplishment grow stronger. This is me – this is the kind of journalism I want to be doing. It seems so clear now that I wonder how I ever desired anything different.

  If only . . . if only I could find Jeremy and tell him I know what I want now. Not tabloids. Not Peter, but something real, something solid. Him.

  Determination floods through me and I get to my feet. I’m done trying to track down Jeremy from afar. This mountain’s going to Mohammed – even if the mountain doesn’t exactly know where Mohammed is. George Bush isn’t the only one who can smoke people out. I’ll smoke out Jeremy from the Welsh wilds if it’s the last thing I do.

  I tear out of the building and down the street past the pub, smiling to myself at the group’s stunned faces as I fly by them.

  “See you Monday,” I shout, not even caring they won’t be able to hear me through the glass. I’m going to that abbey and finding Jeremy’s barn. Somehow. And hopefully he’ll be in it!

  On the Tube back to Kirsty’s, I formulate a plan: I’ll rent a car and drive to Wales. My license from back home is still valid, and Kirsty might be able to lend me some money until I get paid. I gulp just thinking about navigating my way across England on the wrong side of the road, but it’s the most practical thing. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I want to get to Wales as quickly as possible. A smile spreads across my face and my heart starts beating faster as I picture Jeremy’s surprised expression when he sees me. I bite my lip, remembering he still thinks I revealed his identity. Fingers crossed he’s surprised in a good way.

  Out of breath, I burst into Kirsty’s house. Thankfully Kirsty and Tim are both home, puttering around in the kitchen.

  “Kirst! Need a favour.” I collapse onto the kitchen chair, kicking off my flats.

  “Are you all right?” Kirsty glances over at me, eyebrows raised. “What, have you just run a marathon?”

  “Pretty much.” I peel the sweaty blouse from my skin, flapping the fabric to get some air. “Can I borrow some cash? I’m going to rent a car and drive to Wales.”

  “What? Tonight?”

  “Yes. I can’t wait any longer.” I try to make my breathing even and regular. “I’m tired of sitting around, waiting for Jeremy to get in touch.”

  “So you managed to find out where he is?” Kirsty asks.

  “Um . . . well, that’s the thing. I haven’t exactly found him yet. I figure I’ll go up, drive ar
ound, and get the lay of the land.”

  Kirsty hands a spoon to Tim and pulls out the chair beside me. “I know you want to tell Jeremy how you feel and make sure he’s okay,” she says. “But that sounds like a recipe for disaster. You could get all the way up there and find nothing. Or” – she touches my arm – “he could still be really sick. Remember my grandpa after his stroke? It took him ages to get better again. And even when he was fully recovered, he wasn’t the same.”

  I shift in the wooden chair. When we were growing up, Kirsty’s grandpa was the neighbourhood kids’ favourite. He always had sweets, a big grin, and a belting belly laugh – kind of like Santa. He’d take us on treasure hunts through the fields, and he always listened. But after his stroke, he seemed sad and distant. He never returned to the man we loved.

  A small flash of fear goes through me. What if Jeremy’s not the same man? What if he hasn’t recovered, if he’s distant and bitter now, too?

  “I need to see him, Kirsty,” I say, holding her gaze. “That’s all. However he responds, I can deal with it.” My voice is strong, but inside I’m not so sure. Is it enough for me to see him, to tell him how I feel? What if he just blanks me?

  I shake my head. I have to try, whatever the outcome.

  Kirsty nods. “Okay, then. Do you want me to go with you?”

  I turn the idea over in my mind. It would be good to have company, but this is something I need to do on my own. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine.”

  She reaches over and gives me a quick hug. “I hope you find him. And I hope you get what you want.”

  I give a short laugh. “Me too, Kirst. Me too.”

  A few hours later, I’m on the M4 highway in my little rental car on the way to Wales. Darkness has closed in, and all I can see for miles ahead are the red tail lights of thousands of people fleeing London. I had a few hairy moments getting through some roundabouts (has this country never heard of traffic lights?) onto the motorway, but thanks to the car’s SatNav, it’s been smooth sailing ever since. I’ve been driving for almost two hours, and the rhythm of the road is hypnotic.

  In the distance, the lights of a bridge rear up in front of me. Glancing at the SatNav, I see it’s the bridge spanning the River Severn, dividing England from Wales. My palms grow clammy and cold on the steering wheel. I’m getting close to Jeremy – once I cross the river, it looks like it’s only about ten miles to Tintern Abbey. And then . . .

  I shove away my nervousness, slowing to pay the bridge toll. I’ll find him. I will. I can’t imagine going back to London without seeing him, without expressing how I feel. Even if – I take a breath – even if he doesn’t want me.

  The bridge arches over the dark water, and I steer the car across the river and down into Wales. Croeso i Gymru, a sign spells out in what I guess is Welsh – the jumble of letters is unlike any other language I’ve seen. I pull over onto the shoulder of the road, pondering my next step. Maybe I should have planned this better, but all I could think about was getting here.

  It’s past ten now, and the roads are quiet. I roll down my window and breathe in the cold, fresh air scented with dead leaves and earth, so different from the gritty air of the metropolis. The only sound is the quiet whoosh of cars in the distance, and the stars above shine brightly. I forgot stars could be so dazzling – in London, you’re lucky if you can catch sight of the moon. For the first time since leaving Maine, it feels kind of nice to be free from the grip of the city.

  As much as I want to hunt down Jeremy, it’s a bit too late to go investigating country barns. I shiver, roll the window back up, then dig out the guidebook on Wales that Kirsty packed in my bag. I’ll just call a B&B in – I glance up at a road sign – Chepstow. Book in for the night, then start out tomorrow. I scrounge blindly in my black hole of a bag for my mobile, but none of the objects I grip are phone-shaped.

  God. Cursing myself for being so disorganised, I dump the bag’s contents onto the front seat and rummage through them. I couldn’t have forgotten my phone. I couldn’t have! No one sets out on a cross-country journey without a phone, right?

  Wrong. Apparently I do. I shake my head, remembering Kirsty telling me to make sure to charge my mobile. I’d put it on the charger in the lounge . . . and left it there. I thump the steering wheel, then take a deep breath. Okay. Not a big deal. I’ll just drive into Chepstow and find the tourist information centre or something; maybe spot a hotel on the way.

  I key in my destination then start up the car engine, following the calm voice of my SatNav as it guides me through yet another roundabout and toward the town. The land slopes downwards, and I navigate between white-stoned buildings and under a narrow archway. Lights shine from pubs, and the streets are dotted with people here and there, wrapped up warmly. Christmas lights twinkle from boughs in shop windows, and I can’t help being charmed.

  Ah, there’s the tourist information centre. And it’s – my heart sinks as I take in the dark, deserted building – closed, of course. Inching down the empty street, I scan the white-washed houses, sagging in relief when I spot a building with a sign reading ‘Chepstow Inn’. Yellow light streams from its windows, and inside I can see someone behind a desk. Thank God. After parking the car, I grab my bag and duck into the cosy interior.

  “I’d like a room for the night, please.” I hold my breath there’s space at the inn.

  “Of course. Just fill this out.” The white-haired man at reception slides over some paperwork. His accent is lilting and soft, like Jeremy’s but stronger. “Would you prefer a castle view or river view?”

  There’s a castle? I didn’t even see it. “Um, castle, please.” I love the thought of waking up to a castle in the morning.

  He hands me an old-fashioned heavy metal key. I grab my bag and make my way to the room, suddenly exhausted. Once inside, I sink down on the soft white duvet, and before I can even kick off my boots, I’m asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I awake the next morning to a strange white light seeping through the thin net curtains. I sit up slowly and yawn, trying to get my bearings. Gazing out the large window in front of me, I notice a stone castle sitting proudly on the side of a snow-covered hill. Something about the white blanket makes the castle seem otherworldly.

  I stand and stretch, every muscle in my body protesting. My head is fuzzy and my neck sore, but even that can’t stop the excitement building inside me. Today is the day. I’m going to find Jeremy.

  One glimpse in the mirror brings me back down with a thud. Looking like this, I’d probably scare Jeremy back into a coma. My hair wings up over one ear like some kind of alien appendage, and mascara has trickled down my face to create a look even a raccoon would shun. I take a quick shower, carefully dry my hair, and ensure my mascara is clump-free. For good luck, I even slick on some lipstick before my customary gloss, then pinch my cheeks like they do in the movies. There, I think as I smack my lips. Ready to face the world. And Jeremy.

  After gathering up my things, I head down to the reception and hand over the remaining notes that Kirsty’s lent me. Thank God I’ll get paid soon.

  “You’ll want to be careful driving out there,” the man says as he checks me out. “They haven’t got ‘round to gritting the roads yet.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” I look out the window at the small coating of snow. I don’t know what all the fuss is about – back home, this wouldn’t even qualify as a flurry.

  I find out when I try to get my little car back up the hill. It goes a few feet, then slides sideways. Goes a few feet, then slides sideways – and repeat, a few hundred times. Thank God it’s still early and the roads are empty. Finally, heart in my throat, I make it to the top of the hill and ease the car down the road, following the brown heritage signs and my trusty SatNav toward Tintern Abbey.

  Despite my shaking hands and the car’s slippery tires, I can’t help noticing the beauty of the countryside. Trees gilded in white arch over the road, and hills swell in the distance. I gulp at the sheer drop o
n one side and the sign for falling rocks on the other, trying not to think what would happen if I lost control.

  The road twists and turns, and finally I descend into a valley. To my right, I catch a glimpse of majestic stone ruins rising up from the land like a skeleton. Tintern Abbey, a sign says, and I pull off into the large car park and get out of the car. The graceful arches of the ruins are mesmerising, merging with the hills around it like something from a fairytale. I swivel in the early morning silence, taking in the valley’s panorama. I can see why Jeremy loves it here so much. It is a piece of heaven.

  ‘Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.’ Mom’s quote pops unbidden into my head. A smile tugs at my lips as I run my eyes over the abbey’s crumbling stone walls, that strange grey light streaming in through large gaps where doors once stood. This must be a good omen, right? I’ve followed my bliss, straight to the abbey. And here, there aren’t even doors. I scan the valley again, sure Jeremy’s nearby. I’m almost tempted to bellow out his name à la Rocky (Ad-ri-an! Jer-e-my! They even have the same number of syllables) but cars pulling into the car park stop me from recreating my favourite movie scene.

  Two women get out, and I hear the chatter of their voices as they unlock the visitor centre, a small building a few yards from the gateway to the ruins. I hurry toward it, my breath making white puffs in the frosty air.

  “Excuse me,” I say when I finally reach them, just as they push open the doors.

  “We’re not open yet, love,” a ruddy-cheeked, rounded woman responds. “Give us a half-hour, all right?” Her accent is even stronger than the man’s back at the hotel, and its down-home warmth makes me feel cosy despite the cold.

  “I’m looking for someone. Someone who lives around here,” I blurt out before they can shut the door on me.