Build a Man Read online

  Mia’s spine stiffens. “There’s only one position coming up. I should know; I had to do a week’s work in HR, and I saw the files.” She narrows her eyes again, then shrugs like she couldn’t care less.

  She can squint at me all she wants in her plasticized dress, I think, still reeling from the fact that I now have competition. It doesn’t matter – that job’s mine. I’m not going to back down.

  I turn away to rearrange my features into the perfectly blasé expression Mia’s adopted, and my heart drops.

  No.

  No way.

  Latched onto a man dripping with gold chains, and – if possible – even more tanned than when I saw her yesterday, is Princesz Gayle. My eyes widen as she throws back her head in a loud, grating laugh, then downs her pink champagne in one gulp.

  ‘Who do I have to fuck to get another drink around here?’ Her elephant-sized head swivels in the direction of the bar and, as if she senses my gaze, focuses in on me.

  Shit.

  I drop my head and examine my drink, hoping she doesn’t come any nearer. If she recognises me from the clinic . . . I don’t even want to think what might happen. I shuffle closer to Mia, wishing there was a bit more of her to hide behind.

  “Hiya!” Princesz Gayle’s nails claw at my arm, and I lower my head even more, praying she’ll go away.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” The scratching intensifies to a persistent poking.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mia hisses.

  I’ve no choice but to face the harpy. “Hello. Um, no, I don’t think so,” I say in as bland a tone as possible, staring at a point just over Princesz’s shoulder to avoid meeting her eyes. There’s no way I can escape that biscuity smell of fake tan, though, which hangs around her like an ominous cloud. The odour makes me long for my Jaffas and my stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten since I slurped back my Pot Noodles at lunch.

  Princesz’s eyes bore through me and I hold my breath. With my new look, there’s a chance she won’t be able to place me. I was nothing more than an insignificant receptionist to her, anyway.

  “I’m really good with faces.” Tilting her head, she leans in to peer more closely. I jerk away, my drink sloshing over the edges of my martini glass. “Were you at the Porn or Die show at the O2 last week?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m pretty sure we’ve never met.”

  “Maybe I’ve seen you around Stringfellows? Because you look so familiar . . .” She’s staring at me so intently, I feel like there’s a sign blinking above my head spelling out: BOTOX CLINIC! BOTOX CLINIC! I’ve got to get away.

  “Is that the time?” I make a big show of looking at my watch before realising I’m not actually wearing one. Idiot. It’s too late to stop my little charade, though, so I plough ahead, ignoring Mia’s smirk. “I’ve got an appointment, so I have to jet. Goodbye!” I throw a manic smile over my shoulder and push through the crowd. My breath’s coming fast and I can feel sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  “I’ll give Leza your best, shall I?” Mia shouts after me.

  I turn and see her smiling to herself as she wraps a fistful of hair around her hand. God, she’d fit right in with the Botox Bitches at the clinic.

  I clunk down the stairs as fast as my high heels will let me, stumbling into the guard at the bottom.

  “Whoa,” he says, helping me upright. “You can’t take that with you, love.” He points to the martini glass in my hand, where a hint of liquid pools at the bottom. I swig it quickly, then push the glass at him and head into the street. It’s cold and wet, and without a jacket, every bit of moisture against my bare skin feels like a prick of ice.

  I glance up at the bright windows – lights, laughter and music still streaming from them – as drizzle drips down my face, likely taking half my make-up with it. Wrapping my chilly arms around me, I try to stop shivering. Maybe I shouldn’t have run out, but my only thought was escape. Seeing Princesz amidst all those tabloid people was like a collision of my two worlds, as if two separate colour spheres overlapped for a second, creating a scarily ugly shade. And what if Princesz does figure out where she knows me from?

  A wave of fatigue sweeps over me, and it’s all I can do to stay on my feet as the jumbled mix of nervous tension, excitement, and determination drains away. The dress, my hair, my make-up – this party – seem like part of another life, and all I want is to throw on my shapeless tracksuit, curl up with my Jaffas, and watch sitcoms for hours until sleep overtakes me. But I know that as soon as I get home, Peter will have the TV tuned to some educational yet oh-so-boring programme, and I’ll sit there, mute, until he falls asleep and I can change it over to Friends. I enjoy being with him, of course I do. Sometimes, though, I wish it wasn’t such an effort; that I didn’t have to continually try to be neat, organised, and everything else I’m not. Not yet, anyway.

  I rummage in my bag for my mobile, then punch in Kirsty’s number. It’s still early, and if I jump on the Tube now, I can be there in thirty minutes.

  But the phone just rings and rings, then clicks through to voice mail. No point leaving a message; it’ll probably be tomorrow before she calls back. I stare at the mobile in my hand and watch as my fingers – like they’re separated from the rest of my body – scroll through the contacts, find Jeremy, and hit ‘Call’.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I’m about to hang up when Jeremy’s warm voice comes on the line. I smile, feeling better already.

  “Just checking in to see how you’re feeling,” I say. That sounds plausible, right? He really wasn’t in great shape post-Botox. And some people do have severe reactions to injections. It’s good practice to follow-up.

  “I’m fine,” he responds. “The swelling’s gone down, and my face is almost back to normal. Well, except for the fact that my forehead doesn’t move.” I can almost imagine him looking in the mirror now, trying to wiggle his eyebrows.

  “Good, good.” An awkward silence descends and I cough. “Well, um,” I say, just as Jeremy starts to talk, and we laugh.

  “You go first.” I gesture for him to carry on, then realise he can’t see me and drop my arm to my side.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

  “Nothing right now.” Sighing, I look up at the still-rollicking party.

  “Well, if you’re not busy, do you want to come round to mine?” he asks. “In your official capacity, of course – maybe for some wine therapy?”

  For a split of a second, I’m not sure what to say. Jeremy’s not asking me out, is he?

  Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. He did say ‘official capacity’, after all. It’s not a date; it’s a life advisory session. And I should jump at the opportunity to get closer to my subject, right?

  “That would be awesome.” I’m already envisioning a large red in Jeremy’s cosy, warm house. “I mean, yes, that sounds delightful.”

  “Great. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up and I scurry toward the Tube as fast as I can.

  Half an hour later, Jeremy’s door swings open and I practically swoon with relief. The straps on my new sandals feel like razor blades, cutting deeper into my skin with every step. My hands are so cold, my fingernails have turned purple, and I’ve just spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes on the Tube being ogled by a group of butch lesbians out on their hen night.

  Jeremy’s eyes widen as he scans my outfit. “Wow! Look at you. Where have you been?”

  I flush. In my haste to get here, I hadn’t thought up an excuse for my rather un-life-advisory outfit. “I was at a convention for life coaches. Just an evening session.”

  “You lot are certainly a classy bunch,” he says, ushering me inside. “I like your new look.” The heat hits my bare skin and I stand still for a second. Bliss.

  “Yes, well. You know. Dress for the person you want to be and all that.” I glance up at him and smile. The after effects of yesterday’s injections are barely visible, and the skin around his eyes and forehead is tighter a
nd smoother. He looks ‘fresher’, all right, but I miss those tiny crinkles.

  “Does not wearing coats fit into that? You’re soaking.” Jeremy reaches out and touches my arm, and I can’t help but take a step closer into his warmth. “And you’re absolutely freezing. Why don’t I give you something dry to put on? Go take a hot shower, if you like, and get yourself warmed up. You’re going to catch your death, as my gran used to say.”

  The thought of a steamy hot shower – especially in Jeremy’s wonder-bathroom – and comfy dry clothes is irresistible. “That sounds fantastic.”

  “Come on. I’ll find you something to wear.” He beckons for me to follow him up the stairs. I slip off my grimy, wet sandals and pad after him into the bedroom, squealing as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is plastered to my head, mascara and kohl have seeped down my eye sockets like Alice Cooper gone wrong, and my All Saints organza dress looks like a sodden bin liner. I quickly wipe under my eyes as best I can, slick back my hair, and pluck the dress from my skin.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like something the cat dragged in?” I ask as Jeremy rummages through the wardrobe.

  “I happen to like what the cat drags in. Anyway, you always look great.” He ducks his head, rifling through a drawer. “Hope this is all right.” Jeremy hands me a worn sweater in the same shade as his eyes, and a pair of drawstring jogging bottoms. “Not exactly ‘dress for the person you want to be’, but it’s all I have that might possibly fit you.”

  “It’s perfect.” Already, I’m imagining the feel of soft, yielding fabric against my skin. “Right now, that” – I point to the clothes – “is exactly who I want to be. Warm and comfy.”

  Jeremy shoots me a grin like he completely understands, then hands me a fluffy white towel. “Use whatever you like in the shower, and give me a yell if you need anything else. Do you want me to pop that dress in the dryer?”

  “No!” I yelp, cringing at the thought of my precious dress shrinking. “I mean, no thank you, that’s fine. Thanks again, Jeremy. I’ll be ready to start wine therapy as soon as I’m down.” He just shakes his head and keeps grinning, then turns to go.

  Fifteen glorious Rainshowered minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of Jeremy’s bathroom, wrapped in a soft towel. I scrub some steam from the medicine cabinet, pausing as a thought hits me. Is Julia’s watch still there? Slowly, I ease open the cabinet door, running my eyes over the packets and bottles. I push aside a few to reach the corner where the watch was jammed. But . . . it’s nowhere to be found. A small pang of happiness hits me. He must be over Julia! My therapy with Jeremy is working, after all. I knew this would be mutually beneficial.

  I give my hair a quick rub then scrub the remaining bits of mascara from my face, wishing I was one of those walking-make-up-case women. The best I can do is slick on some lip gloss. Then I pull on Jeremy’s drawstring trousers (thank God for the drawstring or they’d be around my ankles) and jam the sweater over my head. A spicy scent rises up around me, and for a second I feel like I’m wrapped in Jeremy’s arms.

  After arranging my wet dress over the shower rail, I leave behind the lovely warmth of the bathroom and go downstairs. The delicious scent of grilled meat hits my nose and my stomach growls.

  “Feeling warmer?” Jeremy asks over the sizzle of something on the hob. “I hope you like burgers, because I’m frying up a storm here.”

  Burgers! I haven’t had one since coming to London (no way would anyone label me a gauche McAmerican, I’d vowed), but back home, I’d considered myself a burger aficionado. “I love them.” I smile at Jeremy, my mouth watering.

  “Ready for some pre-dinner wine therapy?” Jeremy turns from the stove and hands me a brimming glass of red wine. I take a big sip and sit down at the wooden table, thinking how comfortable I feel here and how nice it is to just be with him, without my notebook and questions. There’s none of the awkward silence that settles over my conversations with Peter as I struggle to find something intellectual to say.

  “So tell me.” Jeremy puts two plates with giant burgers on the table. “Why a life advisor? You don’t seem the usual type. And you’re quite young, aren’t you?”

  I pause as I breathe in the delicious odour of grease and meat, unsure how to take his words. What does being young have to do with anything? It’s not that hard to know what you want out of life. I know exactly what I want, and I’m well on my way to achieving it, too.

  “It’s just so rewarding, helping people get their lives on track.” I take a big bite of the burger, chewing slowly to prevent having to say more. I swallow, then ask: “What about you? What do you enjoy about your chosen career path?” I sip my wine then motion for him to do the same, remembering we’re supposed to be in the throes of a session.

  Jeremy gulps his drink. “It’s very fulfilling working with wood; doing property reconstructions. I like taking something old – that other people have given up on – and creating something new.” He wipes his mouth. “Kind of what you and Dr Lycett are doing for me, I guess.”

  I nod, turning his words over in my head. If I’m honest, building something new by assembling words is the bit about reporting that I really like, too. Add a little glamour and gossip into the mix, and it’s the perfect job.

  We chat the rest of the way through our burgers, Jeremy telling me enthusiastically about all the renovations he’s done – including a barn he owns in some place called the Wye Valley, which he says is like heaven on Earth – and his most recent project, a flat he’s working on for a housing shelter scheme. Finally, our plates are empty and we rub our bellies, laughing at how we’ve both managed to put away the humongous burger. I haven’t seen portions like that since leaving home.

  “I’d better go,” I say, looking at the kitchen clock in horror. It’s almost eleven, and Peter will no doubt be wondering where I am. “Do you mind if I rush off? I’ll just change first and give you back your things.” I shudder inwardly at the thought of climbing into my sodden dress and the sandals from hell, and a thought hits me: without a coat to hide my outfit, how am I going to explain my attire to Peter?

  Jeremy waves a hand as we walk toward the door. “Don’t worry about it – you can return everything the next time I see you. That sweater looks better on you than it ever did on me, anyway.”

  Phew. At least I can tell Peter I borrowed these clothes from Kirsty . . . or something. “Thank you – and thanks for the great burger, too.” I pat my very full tummy, certain that whoever invented drawstrings must have been a woman. Shame there isn’t a drawstring equivalent for evil shoes, I think, reaching down for them. I’m not sure I can fit my swollen, bloodied feet back into these things.

  “It’s quite late. Would you like me to get you a cab?” Jeremy’s face is serious, and an expression I can’t read has come into his green eyes. He reaches for the door handle but puts a hand on mine instead, and for a second everything freezes.

  Suddenly I’m desperate to get out of there and into the fresh air.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say quickly, turning away from him to open the door. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Before Jeremy can respond, I’ve jammed my feet into my shoes and I’m on the street. The baggy-trousers-with-sandals ensemble certainly won’t win any fashion awards, and my feet throb with every step, but the pain is a welcome distraction from the confusion churning inside.

  It’s only when I’m halfway home that I realise Serenity v2’s dress is still hanging, like shed skin, from Jeremy’s shower rail.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Saw you come in last night. No chance to chat. Call me.

  I try to decipher the tone of Leza’s email, but the words onscreen tell me nothing. My head pounds and my stomach is still struggling to digest those burgers, but last night’s indulgences are the least of my worries. What’s really on my mind is Mia. With everything that happened yesterday – fleeing Princesz Gayle, seeing Jeremy, then coming home to a half-asleep Peter, who barely even lo
oked at me (thank goodness drawstring trousers aren’t his thing) – I hadn’t fully absorbed the fact that I’ve got stiff competition. Well, I’ve certainly absorbed it now.

  Breathing in deeply, I clutch onto the reception desk. Everything will be fine, I tell myself. I’ll probably never see Mia again, anyway. I’ll just get on with my column and nail that job.

  The waiting room’s empty and Peter’s office door is closed, so I pick up my mobile and call Leza.

  “Leza? It’s Serenity, from Build a Man.”

  “Serenity. Hang on a sec; just let me grab Mia.” There’s a click as she puts me on hold, and my head starts racing. Why does Mia need to be in on this? Mia has nothing to do with Build a Man.

  “All right. We’re back.” Leza’s voice sounds tinny and far away, and I realise she’s put me on speakerphone.

  “Hello,” Mia says smoothly. I can almost imagine her flipping that flame-coloured hair over her shoulder. “Lovely to meet you last night. Brilliant party, wasn’t it? Shame you had to leave early. Guess you couldn’t reschedule your appointment for something as unimportant as a launch party.”

  I grit my teeth. Remember, put a smile in your voice! I stretch my lips wide, hoping it will translate into my tone. “No, I couldn’t. But anyway,” I say, eager to change the topic, “I have some great ideas for my next column.”

  “Well, that’s exactly why I’m calling,” Leza says. “We’re low on content this weekend and with your column doing so well, I want to make it Sunday’s lead story on the site. We’ll put it right up under the banner.”

  “Awesome.” Already I’m picturing the Build a Man logo at the top of the webpage. Only my fourth column and already the lead story! But why oh why is Mia in on this call?

  “Yeah, it’s awesome,” Leza mocks my accent. Mia breaks into a snorting laugh, and I vow never to use that word again. “Anyway, look. For this article, I want you to get more detail on Jeremy’s ideal woman and his dream date, blah blah blah. We’ve an inbox full of emails from readers just gagging to know, silly idiots. We need to throw them a bone.”