Build a Man Page 14

  “Okay.” That’s going to be an easy one – getting more detail out of Jeremy shouldn’t be an issue. But why is Mia on the line?

  “And I want Mia to go with you when you meet Jeremy. I don’t care how you explain it – come up with something. The story’s getting too big now to have just one of you on it. If anything goes wrong between you and Jeremy, we need a backup.”

  My pulse pounds in my head. “But Jeremy’s my source.” I will the words to come out strongly and confidently, but instead my voice sounds shaky.

  Leza laughs. “Your source? You’re an unpaid contributor, Serenity, not fucking Lois Lane. And if you do ever want a position here, you’d better learn a bit of teamwork.”

  I swallow, feeling about as big as a squashed bug. “Fine.” Teamwork with Mia is the last thing I want – right down there after cleaning the loo, which Peter insists is part of my reception duties. But if I have to show Leza I can do it, then I don’t exactly have a choice. Anyway, Mia will see how good my relationship with Jeremy is, and how much we don’t need her around. Memories of my time with him last night flood into my head, and a warm feeling grows in my belly. And no, that’s not acid reflux.

  “Have the copy to me by Saturday at five,” Leza says. “Serenity, you’ll be writing the main feature. Mia, I want you to come up with a new poll. I’ll leave you girls to get on with it now. If you have any problems, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  There’s a silence, then Mia’s voice says: “She’s gone. I can’t wait to work with you.” Her tone is so syrupy I almost want to gag – no way am I buying that act. She weaselled her way into this, and I’m certainly not going to behave all buddy-buddy.

  “Yeah. Look, this is my feature. I’m working with you because I have to, that’s all.” I’m keen to set her straight right now, before we even get started.

  Her laugh tinkles through the phone. “For God’s sake, relax. I have no intention of taking over your precious column. It was Leza’s idea I provide backup, that’s all.”

  “Whatever.” My voice is tight. “I’ll need to talk to Jeremy first to set things up. I’ll call you once I have the time and place arranged.”

  She gives me her number and I hang up as fast as I can, not sure I can keep a lid on the emotions boiling inside me any longer. Anger, fear, and a fierce determination that Mia will not push me out are bubbling away to form a very unpleasant cocktail. I take a deep breath.

  Calm down, I tell myself. The column’s yours; everyone knows that. Jeremy trusts you. Leza’s impressed with what you’ve done. Mia’s just an intern. There’s no way she can compete.

  But . . . she does have direct access to Leza and she knows everyone in the office, whereas I left the launch party early and didn’t even manage to talk to my editor, let alone meet any other staff.

  Pressing my hands against my hot cheeks, I try to put everything back in perspective. So I have a little competition for the job I’m after. So what? That’s to be expected. With Build a Man, I’m head and shoulders above anyone in line, least of all Mia.

  The day passes in its usual Botoxy way, and finally Peter and I are locking up the clinic and heading over to Kirsty and Tim’s for dinner.

  “What’s all this about?” Peter asks, looking at his watch as we charge down the street toward their house. “Six o’clock is pretty early to start a dinner party.”

  Suddenly I realise I haven’t told him about Kirsty and Tim. God, we’ve barely had a chance to even say hello these past few days.

  “Peter, guess what?” I huff, trying to keep up with him. “Kirsty and Tim are engaged!”

  “Are they?” He doesn’t even look that interested. “Well, they’ve been a couple for quite a while. Not really surprising. Once you’ve lived together, it’s the next logical step.”

  Is it? I shoot Peter a look, but he’s staring intently at the lights up ahead on Baker Street. I guess it does make sense. An image of us married, with me cooking dinner in the dimly lit flat, goes through my mind and a vague feeling of unease slides over me.

  “That’s not everything,” I say as we wait to cross Marylebone. “Kirsty’s pregnant.”

  “Crikey.” Peter turns to face me, eyebrows raised. “Is she going through with it?”

  I nod, realising the thought of not going through with it never occurred to me – and Kirsty hasn’t mentioned it. With all her hesitation, I can’t help wondering if it ever crossed her mind, even briefly.

  “Hi, guys,” Tim says when he answers the door a few minutes later. He shoos Peter and I into the house. “Thanks for coming.”

  “What’s going on? Where’s Kirsty?” I peer over Tim’s shoulder as people pass by holding champagne flutes, and a waiter circulates with daintily wrapped hors d’oeuvres. Tim’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s still wearing his shirt and tie from work.

  He hurries us into the lounge, then plucks two glasses of champagne off a tray and hands them over. “This is a surprise engagement party for Kirsty. I made sure Kirsty got tied up with work so everyone could come by before her.” Tim glances at his watch. “She should be here any second.”

  “Cool,” I say, clutching my glass nervously. Kirsty didn’t want anyone from work to know about her engagement. How will she feel when she returns to see her house full of colleagues? And who ever heard of a surprise engagement party, anyway? Tim’s so excited he’s practically bouncing from one foot to the other.

  “Sorry I didn’t let you in on it.” He grins at me. “But you and Kirsty are so close, and I know you guys tell each other everything. I couldn’t take the chance.”

  Before I can respond, someone shouts “She’s coming!”, and the lounge plunges into darkness. The music switches off, and the muffled whispers and giggles of thirty people crouching on the floor float through the room. Peter swears softly when I tramp on his polished leather shoe, and I poke him in the side to be quiet.

  A sliver of light streams in as the front door opens, and the sound of footsteps echoes in the hallway.

  “Tim? Why is it so dark?” Kirsty’s voice calls as she switches on the light.

  “Surprise!” the room erupts. Kirsty’s eyes widen and she takes a step back.

  “Wow.” Her gaze flickers around the room then over to Tim. “Just . . . wow. Everyone’s here!”

  Smiling proudly, Tim pushes through the crowd toward her. “Yeah. You don’t know what a feat that was, coordinating everyone’s schedule. But now that we’re all here . . .” He fumbles in his pocket and draws out a tiny box, then sinks down on one knee and takes Kirsty’s hand in his. “I know you’ve already said yes. But I wanted to do this properly, in front of our friends. So, Kirsty Grainger: will you marry me?”

  A deadly silence falls over the room. Then Kirsty nods almost mechanically. “Of course I will.” A high-pitched laugh escapes from her, one I’ve never heard before. “Now come on, get up.”

  Rising to his feet with a smile so big even collagen couldn’t compete, Tim slides a large, glistening diamond onto Kirsty’s finger with a flourish. He slings an arm around her and pulls her up against him, turning toward the smiling faces. “And we have another announcement to make.”

  Oh no. I cringe, praying he’s not going to let the cat out of the bag about Kirsty’s pregnancy. Judging by Kirsty’s expression, she’s hoping the same thing.

  “Kirsty and I are having a baby!”

  Shit.

  The room erupts into applause and cheers, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Kirsty. A maniacal grin is nailed to her face, but her cheeks are ashen and her eyes have a hunted look in them. Colleagues swarm toward the happy couple, patting them on the back and offering up congratulations. Although Tim radiates happiness, to my practiced best-friend eye, I can tell Kirsty’s movements are forced.

  Someone switches on the music and Baby Be Mine blares through the speakers. God, Tim’s even created a party soundtrack. I look around for Peter so we can join the impromptu receiving line. Where on earth has he got to? Oh, ther
e he is, performing a mini-consultation on one of Kirsty’s colleagues, turning her head this way and that as he examines the wrinkles around her eyes.

  “So.” An elegant woman sporting a tailored grey suit appears at my side. “Romantic, eh?” She nods toward Kirsty and Tim, who are still shaking hands and accepting congratulations. “How do you know them?”

  “Oh, we go way back. Kirsty and I went to school together.”

  “American, huh?” The woman raises an eyebrow and I nod. “What are you doing over here?” She scans the room as she speaks, no doubt looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

  I almost say ‘I’m a reporter’ before remembering I’m undercover. “I’m a receptionist,” I answer glumly, staring down into my champagne.

  The woman nods, sipping her drink. Five seconds later, she’s off. God, I can’t wait until I really am a full-fledged tabloid reporter. Then everyone will want to chat to me; I’ll have to beat people off with a stick.

  Feeling slightly self-conscious standing here on my own like a party pariah, I make my way over to Peter’s consultation corner. He’s got another woman with him now. As she tilts her head, he traces lines by her lips so fine, you’d practically need a magnifying glass to see them.

  “. . . and a bit of filler should get rid of that, no problem,” he’s saying. “Pop by any time this week and we can take care of it for you.” He hands her a card and the woman – with beautiful long dark hair and features straight out of Vogue – stares at it like it’s a precious metal.

  “Thank you,” she says with a hint of a Spanish accent.

  It never ceases to amaze me how people with such perfect looks feel the need for cosmetic surgery, but I’ve long since learned not to try to figure it out. Quite honestly, you’d need someone along the lines of Freud to get to the bottom of it, and I’m sure Freud has better things to occupy his time. Isn’t he dead, anyway?

  “Ah, here she is,” Peter says as he spots me beside him. “This is Serenity. She’s the clinic’s receptionist and she’ll make you comfortable before you come in to see me.”

  I give him an incredulous look. Clinic receptionist?

  “Oh, and my girlfriend, of course,” Peter adds, catching my eye. He eases an arm around my shoulders.

  “Hello.” The woman shows off her blindingly white teeth and holds out a manicured hand for me to shake. “So both of you work in the cosmetic surgery industry? How fascinating.” She strokes her gleaming hair. “Have you been reading that column about the man who’s completely doing himself over through surgery?”

  Oh my God. She’s been reading Build a Man? I’m caught between pride and horror.

  “No, I haven’t heard of that.” Peter sips his champagne. “But I’ve long predicted male cosmetic surgery would become a trend. In fact, just the other day, a man came into our clinic seeking a comprehensive makeover.”

  “I think it’s fantastic men are taking the initiative now. This man in the column has just had Botox, and he’s doing a nose job” – she touches her nose – “and quite a few other procedures, too.”

  Peter stares. “What a coincidence. My patient just had Botox, and he’s doing a rhinoplasty, as well. I wonder if it will become a discernable pattern?”

  “Let’s go congratulate Kirsty.” Heart thumping, I grab Peter’s arm, and his drink splashes onto the floor.

  “Serenity!” Peter exclaims as I drag him across the room. “I wasn’t finished talking.” I don’t care how annoyed he is – I have to get him away before he twigs that Jeremy and Build a Man are actually one and the same. I risk a glance at his face. His forehead is scrunched up in irritation, but thankfully he doesn’t appear to have made any connections. I let out my breath and my heart rate slowly returns to normal.

  The party goes on, the crowd getting louder and the champagne supply lower. As people start trickling out the door, Kirsty comes over and touches my shoulder.

  “I need to see you upstairs for a second,” she says, in a low, urgent voice. Before I have time to open my mouth, she’s propelling me forward and up the narrow staircase. She leads me into the bedroom and closes the door, creating a cocoon from the noise below.

  “What’s up?” I ask, scanning her white face. Her normally confident features are pinched.

  She shakes her head. “I can’t do this.”

  “I know, I can imagine. The party must have been a bit of a shock. I’m sorry, Kirst. I didn’t know about it until I got here.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant.” Sinking onto the bed, she buries her face in her hands.

  “Kirsty?” I sit down beside her, alarmed at her strange wheezing and the way her shoulders are heaving.

  “I can’t breathe. I just can’t breathe!”

  Oh God; Kirsty’s having a panic attack. I’ve seen so many at the clinic – usually when I tell patients we’re closed on the weekends, so they’ll have to wait until Monday for their Botox – that I can diagnose it in a heartbeat. I scrabble around for a paper bag or something, but I can’t find anything. Unsure what else to do, I rub Kirsty’s back until she takes a shuddering breath, then straightens up.

  “I thought I just needed time to accept everything. But the truth is, I need to get away from it all. Away from Tim. Away from” – she touches her hand to her abdomen – “this. I need space to think.”

  She looks over at me, liquid pooling in her hazel eyes. “Can I crash with you and Peter tonight? And maybe for the next few days, until I clear my head?”

  Wow. I can just imagine Tim’s expression when Kirsty tells him she needs space. “Kirsty, are you sure you want to do that?” I ask gently.

  She nods, pushing a few curls back from her face. “Yes. I am.”

  “Well, of course it’s no problem. You can stay as long as you like.” It’s the least I can do – be there for her, like she asked. And Peter will understand. A friend in need and all that. “I’ll just go let Peter know.”

  I head back down the stairs, thoughts banging in my head. Kirsty’s uncertainty has thrown me completely. I knew she was overwhelmed with everything that happened. But I’d chalked that up to shock, and I was positive she’d come around in time. Never in a million years would I have suspected my confident friend, who always knows just what to do, was floundering over her future.

  Downstairs is deserted, with empty glasses and wine bottles littering every surface. Peter’s sitting on the sofa – ramrod straight with that perfect posture he’s been practising lately – watching the BBC News discuss something boring to do with the economic crisis. The humming of the dishwasher comes from the kitchen, where Tim’s whistling as he clears up.

  “Oh, good. There you are.” Peter practically leaps off the sofa when he spots me. “We should get going. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  “Um, Peter?” I lower my voice. “Kirsty’s going to stay with us for the next few days. She says she needs a bit of space.”

  Peter stops fiddling with the buttons on his blazer and glances up at me. “Did you already say she could?” he asks in a tight voice.

  “Well, yes. She won’t mind sleeping on the sofa.” Hell, back in our university days, Kirsty once slept in my bathtub.

  Peter’s shaking his head as if I’ve done something naughty. “I wish you’d asked me first, Serenity. You know Smitty doesn’t react well to strangers. And the flat isn’t set up for an extra person; it won’t be comfortable for her – or us, for that matter. Doesn’t she have other friends she can ask?” He pushes past me toward the door as if the case is closed. I stare at his rigid back, anger swirling through me.

  “Peter!” My low whisper sounds more like a hiss. “She does have other friends, but she asked me. I can’t say no. Please – it’s only for a few nights.”

  Peter’s shoulders heave in a sigh and he swings around, face set in that super-calm expression I recognise from the clinic when he’s dealing with a difficult patient. And, increasingly, when he’s talking to me. “I’d like to help, but
this is a very busy time for me, and we don’t need the stress of an extra guest. Now let’s head home, shall we?”

  My mouth drops open. I can’t believe he won’t interrupt his precious routine for someone so important in my life, someone who needs my help. I know he’s busy, and I understand he requires his eight point five hours of ‘brain regeneration time’, as he calls it, but still.

  “No, you go,” I say, my voice hard as my heart pounds with anger. “I’ll see you back home.”

  He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to understand what thought processes are running through my mind, then shrugs and hands me a five-pound note. “Make sure you call a cab. It’s late. And please be quiet when you come in.” Leaning down, he pecks my cheek then goes out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

  Irritation swirls through me as I stare at the closed door. Just now, it hits me that Peter probably doesn’t have any idea what I’m thinking, or how annoyed I am. I don’t tell him how his little jibes make me feel, probably because I’ve always wanted to be as ordered and pulled-together as he is. Serenity v2, and all. And I’ve never asked him for anything that would interfere with his daily life; there hasn’t been any reason to. But I always thought if I needed something – or someone close to me did – it would be a given. Guess not.

  An unsettled feeling washes over me as I drag myself back up the stairs. If my boyfriend won’t even bend a little to help me . . . what kind of relationship is this, really? I know in a heartbeat I’d do whatever I could to help a friend of his, if he asked. I shake my head and push away the thought. Right now, I need to face Kirsty and tell her that no, I can’t be there for her when she needs me. My jaw clenches as anger fills me again.

  When I open the door to the bedroom, Kirsty’s already packing.

  “Everything set?” she asks, jamming closed the heaving suitcase. God, it looks like she’s moving out, not just leaving for a few days.

  “Um . . .” Shoving aside a few empty hangers, I sit on the bed. “Peter didn’t tell me, but we’re having some painting done in the flat tomorrow. He’s worried it might make you feel ill.” I trace the stitching on the white duvet cover, feeling terrible. I hate lying to her, but there’s no way I can tell the truth. Kirsty’s never been a massive Peter fan to begin with, and this would put him even lower on her list than Justin Bieber (and believe me, that’s low).