Build a Man (9 page)

“Come with me.”
Leza beckons me to follow as she weaves between the pods. God, I
had no idea she was so . . . big. They always had her sitting down
on
Botox or Bust
. I’m small, yes, but she’d tower over even
Peter, and with her heavy-set frame I’m sure she could take him
down, no problem.

We enter a
narrow conference room with leopard-print seats and Leza closes the
door, fixing me with eyes so blue it can only be down to contacts.
She slides into a chair across from me, retrieves a piece of paper
from the folder she’s carrying, and thumps it on the table.

“What the fuck
is this?”

I stare, my
mouth dropping open. Is this some kind of tabloid test? Guess the
size of the paper? Looks like A4 to me . . . I stretch out my hand
and turn it over. Oh.

“It’s my
column,” I say slowly, the words on the page swimming before my
eyes. I look up at her thunderous expression.
Shit.

“Yeah.” Leza
fishes inside her shirt like she’s searching for buried treasure,
then hauls up a thick black bra-strap. It snaps against her
shoulder but she doesn’t even flinch. “It’s your column. And most
of it is fucking useless. If I wanted a feelgood feature, I’d have
hired a fucking Buddhist to write the story!”

Her strident
words echo around the small room.

“I want to know
the pain this man’s feeling. The
agony
that’s driving him to
get all these operations. You’ve made him look like a little fluffy
bunny all hippity-hoppy happy, off to get surgery for a brand new
life.” Her mouth twists in disgust.

“Have you ever
heard ‘if it bleeds, it leads’?” she asks me.

I shake my
head.

“It’s what we
live by here. Put the suffering, the blood and the guts right up
front. It’s what people really want to see.” She stares at me with
her flinty eyes. “Now, do I need to get an intern to rewrite this,
or can you do it?”

An intern! “No,
no, I’ll do it,” I babble. “If it bleeds, it leads. Got it.” I’ll
bang it into my head if I need to.

“Good. Have it
to me in an hour.” She pushes back her chair and strides out.

I stare at the
paper in front of me. Oh, Jesus. For a second, I feel paralysed.
Can I do this?
Can
I be a tabloid journalist?

I take a deep
breath. I can. Of course I can. Remember, if it bleeds, it leads.
The juicier, the better. I knew that, of course I did. It’s just, I
thought what I’d written
was
juicy. But I’m in the big
leagues now. And if I want to stay here . . .

I take out a
pen and make a big red slash across my article. Then I start the
task of transforming Jeremy – or James, as I’ve called him in the
column – into a modern-day Heathcliff, all tortured and tormented,
and just . . . ugly. I feel weird about that since Jeremy’s really
not bad-looking, but it’s not like people will know it’s
him
I’m talking about. Writing about James is almost like writing about
a character I’m creating, and for a second I almost forget he
actually is Jeremy.

An hour later,
I push out of the conference room and over to Leza’s pod.

“Here.” I hand
her the finished copy and my heart starts thumping again. I think
I’ve done it – I’ve certainly upped the drama and the anguish – but
did I go far enough? For a second, I want my article back again, to
make Jeremy even more pathetic.

But Leza’s
blood-red lips are curving into a smile. “Now
this
is what
I’m talking about. Good girl.”

Relief washes
over me. Thank God.

“We’ll post it
tomorrow for the launch. Have you given any thought to your first
poll?” she asks. “I’m thinking the nose.”

“Poll?” I echo,
before remembering she wants to run a poll alongside my column to
have readers choose Jeremy’s new bits. “Um, yes. Nose, for
sure.”

Leza turns
toward me, tossing back her platinum hair. “You know, I’m
impressed. Most first-time writers here whinge and whine about
integrity, blah blah blah. But you got on board, fast. I like your
writing; I like how you’ve gone straight for the jugular after I
told you what’s what. You could have a future here, after all.”

“That’s great!”
Happiness gushes through me. I knew I could do it. I
knew
this could be the start of my career. I push aside the finger of
doubt jabbing my gut – the thing Leza mentioned about integrity.
But that doesn’t apply to me, right? I’m not hurting anyone.

“If things go
well with the column, we might even consider upping its frequency.”
She thrusts a pointy red fingernail at me. “Just don’t get all
wussy. Remember–”

“If it bleeds,
it leads,” I finish for her, grinning.

Leza grins
back, showing off her bleached teeth in all their glory. “Exactly,
Serenity. Exactly.”

Thirty minutes
later, I pull open the door of the clinic, my chest heaving up and
down with the effort of sprinting from the Tube. It’s almost
three-thirty, and I’ve been gone much longer than the few minutes
it would take to medicate Smitty. On the way home, I developed a
story: Smitty was distressed, and I couldn’t leave again until he
calmed down. God knows how a cat in distress behaves, but hopefully
it will get me out of trouble.

Thankfully the
waiting area is empty, but I hear the low rumble of Peter’s voice
and a high-pitched squeaky one coming from the consulting room, so
I’m assuming Peter’s with either a client or a chipmunk. I head
behind the desk, eyeing the sharpened pencils and neatly capped
pens. Even the envelopes are perfectly piled, edges aligned. Guess
it wasn’t too busy here, then.

Sinking onto
the stool, I let out a big sigh. Every muscle in my body feels like
after Kirsty and I did a session on the Power Plate: shaken,
stirred, and drained. Thank God I’m on Leza’s good side now, that
she loved my column in the end, and that it will be posted
tomorrow. Determination grips me again as images of the funky
lime-green and bamboo office flash through my head. God, I want to
work there.

Peter walks
into the reception, a haughty woman trotting on stilettos behind
him. I can’t help smirking at the two stripes of blonde and black
dyed into her fringe. She
does
resemble a chipmunk.

“Oh, hello.
You’re back,” he says, with a pointed look at the clock above the
desk.

“Sorry, Doctor,
it took longer than I thought.” I drop my head to hide my
annoyance. He’s acting like I’m an errant schoolchild returning
late from my lunch hour.

“Thank you,
Doctor.” Chipmunk puts a hand on his arm, smiling as much as her
frozen face will allow. “You’re a genius. And so lovely, too.”

Ugh.
I
roll my eyes as Peter bids her goodbye and tells her not to worry;
that a bit of swelling and tightness is normal post bum-lift. I
almost gag just hearing about her butt.

“So.” Peter
turns to face me once Chipmunk and her swollen bottom have scurried
off. “What on earth took you so long?”

“Oh, Smitty was
acting weird. I didn’t want to leave until he was resting
comfortably.” Somehow I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes
again.

“Is he okay?
You know we have that special animal-care hotline you can ring.”
Peter looks at me anxiously. “Maybe you should go back and make
sure he’s all right. I can handle the rest of the day here.”

“He’s fine,
Peter,” I say, a bit more curtly than intended. Peter wouldn’t let
me go home last month when I was ready to upchuck my Jaffas, but
one hint of something ailing our kitty and he’s ready to shove me
into the street?

I stretch out
my fingers, trying to relax as Peter returns to his office. I’m
just stressed after my session with Leza, that’s all – no way am I
jealous of a
cat
. But even as I think it, I can’t help
wishing Peter would show an ounce of that same emotion toward
me.

Peter and
Smitty (now fully recovered from his earlier ‘trauma’, according to
the doctor of the house) are ensconced in front of the
Fat King
with Eight Wives
or whatever it’s called, so after pillaging
Peter’s champagne collection, I head over to Kirsty and Tim’s to
tell them my news. They live in an Edwardian terraced house, just
off Baker Street and right next to Regent’s Park. On a good day
(without high heels), I can be there in ten minutes.

The autumn air
is crisp and I turn my face toward the early-evening sun, breathing
in the scent of old leaves. The smell reminds me of home, when I
used to help Mom rake the leaves from the two massive maple trees
in our front yard. Closing my eyes, for just a second I can almost
believe I’m back in Maine. But when I open them again, the
beautiful buildings neatly lining the street and the red
double-decker buses flashing by couldn’t be further from the quiet
peace of our old clapboard farmhouse. I smile, shaking my head. I’m
actually here, in London. And I’m on my way!

Be there in
five,
I text Kirsty, half-listening for the ping of her return
text requesting her usual mammoth-sized bag of roasted cashews. But
my phone is silent and I quicken my step, bursting to tell her my
news. Kirsty’s the one person I know will give me a guaranteed
thumbs up. I ring the buzzer, smiling already as I hear someone
thumping toward the door.

“Ser!” Kirsty’s
eyebrows fly up when she spots me. Her raspy voice is even raspier
than normal, and her face is flushed. “I forgot you were coming
by.” Flashing me a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she
ushers me inside.

“Oh, yeah?”
That’s surprising. Kirsty’s mind is like a Venus Flytrap – nothing
ever escapes it. I follow her through to the living room. They’ve
polished the floorboards since I’ve last been here, and a gorgeous
new sofa is positioned in front of the fireplace. Tim’s sitting in
an armchair, resting his feet on a funky wood and metal table. It
always amazes me how they make everything look so fabulous yet cosy
and warm at the same time.

“Hey,
Serenity.” Tim’s face is glowing like he’s just had an ionic skin
scrub.

Sinking onto a
comfy leather sofa, I pull the champagne from my bag. I’m just
about to open my mouth when Kirsty bursts out: “We’ve got
news!”

I force back my
words. I’ll tell them after, and then we can have a dual
celebration. If their news is good, of course. Judging by the
strange look in Kirsty’s eyes, I’m not sure what to think.

Has Tim finally
got up the nerve to propose? According to Kirsty’s Master Life Plan
Excel spreadsheet (sad but true), the ideal proposal would take
place between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-four, leaving a
few years for dedicated marriage time before conceiving a baby at
age twenty-six or twenty-seven. Since everything else in Kirsty’s
life has gone according to schedule, I can’t see why this
shouldn’t, either.

I smile
dreamily at the two of them, already picturing Kirsty in a creamy
silk wedding gown with Tim handsome in tails, and maybe even a
horse-drawn carriage . . . not that Kirsty’s the romantic type,
really. She’d be happy to do the deed down at City Hall to be more
time-efficient.

“Ser?” Kirsty’s
voice snaps me back to reality.

“So what’s the
news, then? Don’t leave me in suspense.” My eyes dart back and
forth from Tim to Kirsty.

Tim clears his
throat. “Kirsty and I are getting married,” he announces, his voice
full of pride.

“Oh my God.” I
stand and pull Kirsty into a hug, leaning back slightly when I
notice her lukewarm response. “That’s fantastic! Congratulations,
you two.” I touch Tim’s arm and he beams at me.

“Should I crack
this open?” Kirsty tries to liberate the champagne from my
arms.

“Er, actually,
Kirst . . .” Tim’s voice trails off. “Are you sure that’s a good
idea?”

“It’s fine,
Tim.” She narrows her eyes and shoots him a look, then rips the
foil from the bottle and deftly pops the cork. “I’ll just go get
some glasses.”

“Whoa!” I grab
her arm. “You’re not
pregnant
, are you?” I snap my mouth
closed, wanting to take back the negative way I’ve said the word,
just in case. But oh,
wow
.

Kirsty turns to
face me with an expression I can’t read. Before she can reply, Tim
slings an arm around her shoulders, his face infused with
happiness. “She is. She just did the test this morning. We think
she’s about seven weeks now.”

“Wow. Well,” I
stammer, trying to think of the right thing to say. “That’s . . .
great.” At least it explains the strange way she’s acting. Things
like this don’t happen to Kirsty. In fact, I can’t remember
anything daring to deviate from her life plan.

“Isn’t it?” Tim
hugs Kirsty to him. “I mean, we would have got married soon anyway.
But this just seals the deal, you know?”

“Absolutely.” I
take Kirsty’s arm. “Why don’t I come with you to get the
glasses?”

I steer her
into the gleaming white kitchen, then grab three champagne flutes
from the cupboard. Kirsty’s face is pale and she’s leaning against
the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I’ve
never seen my friend look so scared and uncertain.

“So how are you
feeling?” I ask tentatively.

“I’m pregnant,
not terminally ill,” she snaps.

That’s more
like it, I think, happy to see some of her spirit return. But it
goes just as quickly as it came, and her face tightens into an
anxious expression.

Tiptoeing over,
I touch her back gingerly, as if she’s a bomb about to explode. “I
meant, how are you feeling about the whole situation?” I rack my
brain for a positive spin. “I know it’s not how you planned things,
but it’s not terrible, is it? You and Tim are going to get married.
You’re going to have a baby!”

Kirsty drops
her head for a second and when she lifts it again, I’m stunned by
the tears seeping from her eyes. I’ve never seen her cry, not even
when we were ten and Danny O’Brien pulled down her trousers on the
playground, then took a photo with his mobile and posted it
everywhere.