Build a Man (25 page)

“I’m sorry,
Leza. There were complications with the surgery, and Jeremy’s still
not awake.” I cross my fingers for the millionth time that when he
does come to, everything will be all right.

“Complications?” she interrupts. “Like what?” Instead of sounding
angry, her voice is kind of . . . happy.

“Well, Jeremy
had a reaction to the anaesthetic. The doctors think he may have
suffered brain damage as a result.” I lean back against the cool
wall, struggling to breathe against the heavy weight on my
chest.

“Brain damage?”
Now Leza sounds downright gleeful. A flash of anger goes through
me. How can someone be giddy about brain damage? “What kind of
brain damage?”

“They don’t
know yet. The doctors are waiting for Jeremy to wake up to assess
him.”

“This is good
shit, Serenity. Seriously good shit.”

Good
shit?
Jeremy lying in bed, damaged, is good shit? I try to form
words to respond, but my mind can’t even begin to conjure up
anything coherent.

“Hang tight
there, Serenity,” Leza continues. “Discover the extent of the
damage. Jeremy should wake up in the next few hours, right? Write
the column, and add in the damaged bits once you find out. Even if
it’s just a bloody eyelid twitch, I want to know. We couldn’t have
asked for a better story, really. This is drama at its best, and
our readers deserve to know
everything
.”

I shake my
head, unable to process what she’s saying. Leza wants me to offer
up Jeremy on a plate because our readers deserve it?

“Serenity?
Serenity! You’re not getting wussy on me, are you? You wanted to be
a tabloid reporter. This is what tabloid reporters do. Forget the
Monday deadline – get me the copy by eleven tonight, and that job
is yours. I want to make a big splash with this tomorrow
morning.”

Thoughts swim
round my head like caffeinated goldfish. If I can do this, the job
will be mine. Everything I’ve wanted – a full-fledged reporter on
London’s top tabloid. But–

“Or should I
get Mia onto it?” Leza’s voice is low and threatening.

My head snaps
up. Mia? “No. No, I’ll do it.” The words fly out of my mouth.

“Good.” The
line goes dead.

I stare at the
phone in my hand, feeling like I’ve done a deal with the devil:
Jeremy, in exchange for my coveted job. Kind of like that Faustus
guy who offered his soul in return for knowledge. I shiver,
remembering what happened to him in the end. Let’s just say it
wasn’t good.

Easing open the
door to Jeremy’s room, I slink over to the corner. The room is
deathly silent, and the chair squeaks loudly as I shift on its hard
surface.

Right. I can do
this, I say to myself as I flip open my notebook. I’m a reporter; I
need to act like one.
Dream it, live it.
I’m pretty sure Mom
might not approve of me using her mantra in this instance, but hey,
a mantra is a mantra.

Tapping my pen
on the pad, I try not to stare at Jeremy’s pale face or his
unmoving body – or think about those terrible moments on the
operating table, when the doctors struggled to get oxygen back to
his brain. But the more I try to push away the memories, the more
they demand centre stage.

I slam the
notebook closed and walk over to the window, drawing in deep
breaths. It’s not like I’m using Jeremy’s real name. It’s perfectly
anonymous – and Jeremy
will
be fine. All I need to do is
concentrate on separating the broken man in front of me from James,
the fictional guy in my column
.
I sit and open my notebook
again.

Okay. First
things first: the headline. Maybe I can focus on what went right.
The Eyes Have It
? I shake my head – that’s not what Leza
wants. She’s craving every gory detail of the surgery gone wrong,
and then some. I stare at the lines on the paper, willing the right
combination of words to come to mind.

What about . .
.
Brain Drain
? I scrawl down the opening sentence as fast as
I can, almost on auto-pilot.

James didn’t
want to choose between brains and beauty, but when his surgery for
a ‘fresher’ look went wrong, the choice may have been made for
him.

Today was
supposed to be the day our Build a Man really kicked off his quest
for transformation. Checking into a luxurious private hospital,
James was nervous, but happily anticipating his new chiselled jaw,
Romanesque nose, and bag-free eyes.

A moan fills
the room, and I glance up to see Jeremy’s head move slightly to one
side. I rush to the bed. “Jeremy? Jeremy!”

He keeps
groaning, as if he’s trying to fight his way through to
consciousness. A doctor and nurse burst into the room. I step back
as they check Jeremy’s monitors.

“He’s coming
around,” a doctor says. “Jeremy. Mr Ritchie. Can you hear me?”

Jeremy opens
his eyes, and I swallow back a gasp. His right eye is perfectly
fine – or as fine as you can imagine with all the bruising. But the
left one sags, struggling to open halfway. My heart plummets and
all the air squeezes from my chest.

The doctor
leans over Jeremy, waving a light in his face. “Abnormal pupil
dilation.” He lifts Jeremy’s limp right hand. “Jeremy, squeeze my
hand if you can.”

I focus on
Jeremy’s fingers, willing them to move. Relief floods through me
when I see his fingers twitch, closing the doctor’s hand in
his.

“Good, Jeremy,
good.” The doctor takes Jeremy’s left hand. “Now, can you try
squeezing again?”

Watching
closely, I wait for Jeremy’s fingers to move. But they don’t, and I
notice the doctor give the nurse a meaningful look, then scribble
something on his clipboard.

“What?” I ask,
unable to stay silent any longer. “What’s wrong?”

“Please let us
finish, Miss,” the doctor says as Jeremy starts moaning again.
Jeremy’s eyes look more alert now, but his left lid still
droops.

“Can you say
your name?” the doctor asks him.

What a stupid
question. Of course Jeremy can say his damn name.

I stare in
horror as Jeremy’s lips move and he struggles to form the sounds.
The right side of his mouth looks normal, but when he tries to
speak, the left side doesn’t move. He manages a word, but it sounds
nothing like ‘Jeremy’.

Oh my God.

The doctor pats
Jeremy’s arm. “Excellent. Thank you.” He glances at me. “Let’s talk
outside.”

I lean over the
bed, watching Jeremy’s eyes as they focus on my face. He struggles
to speak, and I touch his shoulder. “It’s all right, Jeremy. You’re
going to be fine.” Tears gather in the corners of my eyes and I
dash them away. “I’ll be right back.”

I follow the
doctor from the room and into the private consultation pod outside
the door. With a padded, circular banquette and calming
lounge-style music, it seems more restaurant than hospital. I can’t
imagine anyone giving me bad news in a place like this, but judging
from the doctor’s serious face, it’s definitely not going to be
good.

“Have a seat.”
The doctor points to the bench and I sit down, every muscle in my
body quivering with tension. He swivels to face me awkwardly. “So.
Your brother is suffering from brain damage.”

I nod, still
trying to absorb the words.

“The lack of
oxygen to his brain appears to have affected the muscles on the
left side of his body,” the doctor continues. “The severity of it
still needs to be determined by a CT scan, which he’s booked in for
tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll do a full neurological exam to see
what other responses and brain centres might have been
affected.”

“He will get
better though, right?” I study the doctor’s face, desperate to spot
a glimmer of hope. I can’t imagine Jeremy like this forever, unable
to speak or move the left side of his body. He loves working with
his hands, building things. What will happen if he can’t?

“It’s hard to
say at this stage,” the doctor answers. “Jeremy will need to
undergo rehabilitation, certainly. How fast and how much he
recovers can’t be predicted, but the good news is that he’s
regained consciousness. He should be more alert tomorrow.”

I nod
mutely.

“It’s a lot to
take in, I know. If you want to stay the night here, the nurse can
book you into one of our complimentary relative rooms. They come
with a free massage and unlimited broadband access.” The doctor
sounds like he’s reading off a cue card.

I stare, unable
to believe he thinks I want a massage and free broadband when my
friend is lying brain damaged next door.

“No?” the
doctor says when I don’t respond. “Well, you can call our
twenty-four-hour patient hotline any time for a status update.
Jeremy’s key-in code is” – he consults his chart –
“six-six-seven-five. I’ll be back later to check on him.” He pats
my arm and leaves.

Slouching back
against the soft leather, I try to take in what the doctor’s just
told me. No matter how desperately I want to pretend it’s not true,
Jeremy’s
not
fine – he’s brain damaged. I repeat the words
in my head, trying to get to grips with them.
Brain damaged.
Brain damaged. Brain damaged.
It’s a game Kirsty and I used to
play when we were kids: take the worst word you know (back then, it
was ‘bitch’), and say it over and over until it loses its badness;
until the jumble of letters becomes meaningless. But as many times
as I chant ‘brain damaged’, it still sends a sharp pang through
me.

But, of course,
it’s not just that.
I
encouraged Jeremy to have the surgery
when he questioned going forward. What’s he thinking, lying there
now? Will he ever be able to forgive me?

Rubbing my
tired eyes, I leave the pod and head back into the room, steeling
myself to face him. But when I walk over to the bed, Jeremy’s lids
are closed, and his chest is moving up and down in a regular
rhythm. I reach out and smooth a lock of hair from his forehead.
God, I hope he’ll be all right, with time. Lots of people have
recovered from brain damage and gone on to lead successful,
productive lives. People like . . . okay, so I can’t think of
anyone right now. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there.

I sit on the
chair by Jeremy’s bed for hours, watching his chest rise and fall
as the room darkens. My eyes pop with surprise when I finally
glance at my watch. It’s already ten o’clock. One more hour to
deliver the goods on Jeremy and his botched operation. One hour
until that job – the job I’ve dreamed of since forever – is
mine.

Can I do it?
Can I write about the man in front of me – the man I now know is
not okay – as if he’s some other person; someone I’m offering up to
the tabloid gods and the ‘deserving’ public, like he’s a piece of
meat on a platter?

My phone bleeps
and I click on the ‘New Message’ icon.

I need the
copy
now
. And get a photo – a close-up of
his eyes. We’ll crop it later.

A photo? I
shake my head, anger building inside as I picture myself focusing
in on Jeremy’s limp form, snapping away as he lies there, ill. I
shudder at the thought of it; of how I would feel, sinking to that
level. Invading his privacy and taking advantage of him at his most
vulnerable.

No. No way. No
matter what name I give him, I can’t separate Jeremy from the
anonymous Build a Man any longer. Going undercover seemed so
harmless before, when it was just Botox and beauty adjustments. But
now that Jeremy is brain damaged . . . I
can’t
. My head
throbs as I think about what I’m giving up – everything I’ve ever
wanted, since those boring, dreary days back in Harris.

I look over to
where Jeremy’s lying so still and I know, beyond a shadow of a
doubt, I’m not going to write that article.

Creeping from
the room, I call Leza before I lose my nerve. This is it: the end
of my tabloid career.

“Serenity.
Where’s the copy?” she barks when she comes on the line.

“I can’t do the
column,” I say in a low voice.

“What?” A sharp
banging noise hurts my ears. “The reception’s terrible here. I
thought I heard you say you can’t do the column.” Her voice is
almost menacing.

“I did say
that.” I pause and wait for her response, but there’s just silence.
“He’s really ill, Leza. Maybe I can write about the risks of
cosmetic surgery, the percentage of things that go wrong . . .”

“You know as
well as I do that’s not what our readers want. You got them to know
this James bloke personally. They don’t fancy a clinical
explanation of bloody
cosmetic surgery risks
. They want to
know exactly what happened.”

“I know, but
it’s just . . .” My eyes fill with tears. “He can barely say his
name.” Too late, I realise I probably shouldn’t have told her
anything. I wanted Leza to know the severity of the situation, but
I’ve probably piqued her interest further.

“Even more of a
reason to write about it,” Leza says crisply. “Look, I think I know
what’s going on here.”

“You do?” My
brow wrinkles with confusion.

“You two have a
personal relationship going, yeah? If you’re a good undercover
reporter, you probably do. That’s how reporters get inside the skin
of their subjects, Serenity. By making friends, building a
relationship. Do you think I got that exposé on Scottie Leon just
by asking him a few questions?”

“But isn’t he
gay?” I wonder out loud. The last I’d heard, the famous comedian
had been caught in a loo on Hampstead Heath with a ‘lady man’,
according to
Snap!
.

“Not with me,
he wasn’t,” Leza says smugly. “Look, I know it’s difficult being
objective in situations like this, when you’ve got to sever ties
and do your job. But you’ll get used to it.”