Build a Man Page 5

  I type ‘undercover reporting equipment’ into Google then lose myself in the pages and pages of options. Who knew it was such a big industry? There’s a beautiful silk scarf wired for digital sound, and just look at the gorgeous stilettos with recorders in the heels. I squint at the number onscreen. For . . . £1,895. Yeah, right. Not with the state of my bank account.

  Guess I’ll have to settle for a good old regular voice recorder. That makes sense, anyway – as a life advisor, I’d have to tape each session to make notes for my files. I’ll nip over to Oxford Street, buy the cheapest one possible, then head to Providores to meet with Jeremy. Done.

  My eyes nearly fall out of my head when I realise it’s quarter to nine and I haven’t even started on my interview questions. I click open a Word document and stare at the empty page. If I was a reader, what would I want to know about Jeremy? I’ll definitely need to get the dirt on his past; any gory story of despair. Makes sense to ask, too, given this is our initial life advisory session.

  First things first – I’ll have to get his measurements. I’ll say it’s for my records, for comparative purposes. Sounds reasonable. Should I bring a measuring tape? My cheeks flush as I imagine Jeremy facing me while I stretch my arms around his chest . . . no. No way am I getting that up close and personal. If he doesn’t know his dimensions off by heart, he can always email them to me later.

  Okay. Question one.

  Why do you want to be a new man?

  Boring, yes, but it’s a start. A chance to get him warmed up, drink some wine, and maybe gather some background info.

  2. Why do you think you haven’t found the right woman?

  Hopefully there’s a terrible tale of heartache in there. And you never know; he could have a hidden deformity, like that three-nipple man The Daily Planet featured last month. I live in hope.

  3.

  Hmm. I’ve really got to get in there, get the dirt.

  3. Will being a new man make you better in bed?

  Throwing in a bit of sex always captures people’s attention, right? But can I really ask Jeremy that? Yes. I can. I’m a reporter now. I need to dig.

  4. Why aren’t you getting everything done?

  I’ll have to cast a meaningful glance down below to make sure he gets my drift.

  There’s a banging at the front of the clinic and I realise I’ve forgotten to unlock the door. Still five to nine, though, so it’s not like I’m remiss in my duties. I stare as the door shakes under the force of whoever’s outside pulling it back and forth.

  Bang. BANG! The whole wall shudders.

  “Jeez, take a chill pill,” I mutter, sliding off the stool and walking – slowly – over to the entrance. Fitting the key in the lock, I turn it as quietly as possible, then tiptoe back behind the desk, awaiting the next round of bangs.

  I’ve just settled onto the stool when Mrs Lipenstein throws herself against the door and comes crashing into the reception area, almost landing on the desk.

  Ha! That should teach her. She tugs down her cardigan and straightens her scarf, throwing me a look like it’s my fault she tried to bust inside before nine.

  “Good morning,” I say pleasantly. “How can I help you?” I almost smirk as I notice one of her varnish-lacquered curls has dislodged itself and is now sticking out over her ear like a wilted antenna.

  “Is Dr Lycett free?” she asks, scanning the room as if he’s hiding in the corner just waiting for her to find him.

  I glance at his appointment schedule. “No, he’s booked up until one. He can see you then.”

  “But I’m here now!” Mrs Lipenstein cries. “Can’t I just duck in? I have this terribly itchy . . .”

  She starts unbuttoning her cardigan and I jerk my head away before she can pop her crusty nipple out of her sweater. Honestly, I should get trauma pay working here. When it seems safe to look, I turn toward her. Thankfully her breast is still covered, but she’s patting it like it’s Smitty.

  “Um, well, let me just see.” I scurry down the corridor to find Peter, happy to get away from the boob stroking. Peter always squeezes in extra patients when he can – it’s money and he keeps everyone content. But that means the reception area gets clogged with crazed women demanding they’re next in line, and I’m the one who has to referee. Let me tell you, they don’t take kindly to being bossed around by some ‘youngster from the Colonies’.

  One time a fight broke out, plastic nails went flying everywhere, and someone even lost a hairpiece (we found it a month later, under the sofa, when Madame Lucien was having one of her dust bunny fits).

  “Peter?” I call softly into the consulting room. He spins around, wearing those horn-rimmed glasses that make him look so smart. “Mrs Lipenstein wants to know if you can see her now.”

  “Sure, sure,” he says. “Send her in.”

  “You have Mrs Clarke at nine.” Mrs Clarke hates waiting and pretends to faint if it’s longer than five minutes.

  Peter makes an impatient noise. “That’s fine, just send her in.”

  I head back to reception. “He says to go on through.” Sheesh, she’s still touching her breast.

  Mrs Lipenstein shoots me a look. “Of course he does,” she says as she glides by me, like I’m an idiot for having to check first.

  I shouldn’t let the Botox Bitches get to me, I remind myself, straightening my spine. I’m a reporter now. This clinic – and Jeremy – is my ticket to a better life.

  The day passes in its usual trance-like state, with women traipsing in and out like a Botox beauty parade. The only bit of fun was when Madame Lucien threw a tantrum after spotting a lump of cotton wool I’d done up to look like a dust bunny underneath the water cooler. Might seem like a lot of trouble to go through for ten seconds of entertainment, but when you’ve got nothing better to do and you’re faced with hours of uppity women, fashioning a dust bunny from cotton wool isn’t so crazy. Plus, it’s a welcome distraction from the ‘will he, won’t he’ stalking my mind whenever I think of Jeremy.

  Finally, at six o’clock, Peter emerges from the consulting room. His face is pale and his eyes are red. It’s been a crazy day – I’ve barely seen him.

  “You off, then?” he asks, loosening his tie.

  “Yup.” I pat my bag, making sure I’ve got the interview questions I printed out earlier. I’ve even put them on a clipboard so I’ll look all official and life-advisor-like.

  “Have fun.” Peter pecks me distractedly on the cheek before wandering off down the hall to his office.

  “I will,” I mumble to his retreating back. I know I’ve lied about where I’m really going tonight, but maybe he could show a little interest in my lie? He hasn’t even asked where the session is, or what time I’ll be back.

  I should be thankful he’s not too bothered with my movements, I tell myself as I push out the clinic door and hurry toward Oxford Street. It will make working undercover much easier. Still, I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment that my boyfriend doesn’t care more about my out-of-office activities.

  After spending twenty pounds I can’t afford on the dinkiest digital voice recorder known to man (or woman), I rush back over to Providores. No chance of asserting my dominance this time, either; I can see Jeremy through the window.

  “Hello there.” My heart starts beating fast as I approach his table and slide into a chair.

  “Hi, Serenity.” Jeremy smiles at me and I relax a bit. He wouldn’t smile so nicely if he was about to say no, right?

  There’s a moment of awkward silence. “Would you like some wine?” we both ask at the same time, then laugh.

  “I’ve got this,” Jeremy says easily, signalling to the waiter. “Red okay?”

  I nod as he orders a bottle. “Thanks. So.” I almost don’t want to ask him, but I’ve got to get this over with before my head explodes. “Have you given any more thought to the life advisory service?” I hold my breath.

  Jeremy looks straight at me. “Yes. I had a think about what you said l
ast night, Serenity. You’re right. The whole point of doing the surgery is to increase my chances of meeting the right woman. If you have other tips to point me in that direction, then . . .”

  “You’ll do it?” I’m almost afraid to look at him.

  Jeremy nods. “I’ll do it.”

  I let out my breath, a smile spreading across my face. Oh, thank God. I mean, I knew I’d get him on-board somehow. But now that he’s official, I can finally let myself believe I’m a real live undercover reporter.

  “That’s awesome,” I say loudly, pumping my fist in the air before remembering I’m supposed to be a professional. I lower my voice and clasp my hands in front of me. “On behalf of Transforma, I’d like to thank you for your participation.”

  Jeremy shoots me a grin. “My pleasure, I’m sure. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for me. So how does this work, anyway?”

  “Well, I thought today I’d ask a few background questions. You know, try to understand your motivation for the upcoming surgeries.” I lean down and rummage around in my bag for the voice recorder, then try to free it from the packaging.

  “Is this a wine therapy session?” Jeremy’s voice drifts under the table where I’m still fumbling with the plastic, and I can’t help noticing it sounds like he’s smiling. That’s not good – I need him to take me seriously, to really trust and invest in my role as an advisor. Arranging my face in a solemn expression, I sit up quickly, banging my head on the table.

  “Ouch!” Rubbing my head, I stare disapprovingly at Jeremy’s twitching mouth. “Wine therapy is recognised by the Institute of Life Advisory Services,” I say primly. “Of which I am an accredited member.”

  Jeremy shrugs. “Okay. Well, I’m all for anything involving wine.” He pours us both a large glass. “So how do you and Dr Lycett work together on this? Does what I tell you have any bearing on his decision to operate?”

  I gulp – I hadn’t even thought of Jeremy talking to Peter about these sessions. “Oh, goodness, no,” I say smoothly, toying with the stem of the wine glass. “Peter – er, Dr Lycett – and I have found that our patients respond best when we keep their medical treatment separate from the advisory service. That way, they can be as open as they like without fearing any repercussions.” My heart is pounding. If Jeremy utters one word to Peter about our meeting, my tabloid career will be over before it’s even begun.

  “That’s all right, then.” Jeremy’s face sags in relief, and for a second, I wonder what exactly he might say that could affect a doctor’s decision to operate. I’ve never seen Peter turn down a patient for surgery, but Jeremy’s worry means he’ll keep his mouth shut about our sessions, thank goodness.

  “So!” I finally free the recorder from its packaging and place it on the table. “Hope you don’t mind if I record our meetings? I’ll need the sound files for future reference.”

  “No, that’s fine.” Jeremy sips his wine.

  “Great, great.” I nod approvingly as he swallows. “That’s perfect. You should take another wine injection in” – I glance at my watch – “five minutes.”

  Jeremy raises his eyebrows but he doesn’t question my methods.

  “Let’s get started.” Poising the pen over my clipboard, I cross my legs and lean back. “First of all, I need your measurements for my records.”

  “Sure, no problem. Which measurements?”

  Oh, Lord. I don’t know what men like to measure. Well, besides the obvious. I cringe, remembering one of the questions on my clipboard about getting everything done. “Um, just the usual, I guess.”

  Jeremy rattles off a string of numbers that mean nothing to me and I jot them down quickly, nodding like I appreciate their significance. Right, that part’s over and done with. On to the good stuff.

  “So, Jeremy. Why do you want to be a new man?” I tilt my head to the side and take a sip of wine as I await his answer, grimacing as liquid dribbles out of the corner of my mouth. Note to self: do not imbibe with tilted head.

  “Aren’t you going to press record?” Jeremy asks, pointing to the recorder.

  “What?” I wipe my mouth quickly. “Oh, yes. Of course.” I squint at the metal contraption on the table. How do you record on this thing? Pressing a few buttons, I pray it’s working. God, maybe I should have bought that stiletto-recorder, after all. I gulp more wine to calm my nerves, noticing with surprise that my glass is empty.

  “Wine therapy dictates the advisor drinks, too,” I say, before Jeremy can comment. “To create a relationship of trust. So, why do you want to be a new man?”

  “Well . . .” Jeremy gazes out the window, a faraway look coming into his eyes. “Have you ever dreamed of being someone who just snaps their fingers and they get what they want, straight away?”

  I think of Kirsty. Um, yeah. “Go on,” I say, nodding.

  “Women respect those kinds of men. Men who have it all together, with their appearance and life. Who make things happen and don’t just sit back and go with the flow.”

  I nod again, thinking that’s exactly what drew me to Peter. I love that he’s so in control. Granted, he might be a bit too controlled sometimes, but still. “Right, right. And you suspect that’s why you haven’t found your ideal woman yet?”

  Jeremy’s face twists. “Is five minutes up? I could really use some more wine.”

  I look at my watch. “Sure, go ahead.” He fills his glass – and mine – and raises it in the air. “Cheers! Aren’t you going to join me? Building a relationship of trust and all that.”

  My head already feels a bit fuzzy, but I lift the glass to my lips and sip. “So?” I prompt him.

  “Well, I thought I’d found my ideal woman,” he says, shaking his head. “Turns out I wasn’t her ideal man.”

  I make a mental note to probe into that later; I don’t want to push too much now. “And you think changing your appearance will help?” I smile quickly to cover the sceptical tone in my voice. His appearance is fine, really. And wouldn’t he want someone to love him for him? It’s not my place to judge, though. I’m here to listen.

  “Yes. That, and this whole advisory service.” Jeremy’s smile is hopeful and a pang of guilt shoots through me. Well, I could be a life advisor – based on my internet research, there doesn’t seem to be much to it. I can still be helpful, qualified or not.

  I glance down at my clipboard. The next question on the list is: Will being a new man make you better in bed?

  How on earth did I think I could ask that? It was different when I was back in the clinic, focused only on getting the dirt. Now I have an actual person in front of me.

  “Time for more wine therapy!” I chirp, taking another mouthful of liquid for Dutch courage. I squint at the label. Italian courage, in this case.

  I stare down at the question then up into Jeremy’s expectant eyes. Come on, Serenity. Come on! I need to do this. I’m a reporter now. I must have professional distance from my subject. Thank goodness that wine is making me feel like I’m floating above my body.

  “So, um, will being a new man make you better in bed?” My hand slides over my mouth as if of its own accord, and the latter half of the sentence comes out like I have a Jaffa Cake stuck in my cheek.

  “What? Sorry, I didn’t get that.” Jeremy raises his eyebrows in that cute way of his.

  Professional distance, I remind myself. I take my hand away and sit up straight in the chair.

  “Will being a new man make you better in bed?” I repeat, louder this time. The couple beside us glances over and starts giggling, and Jeremy’s cheeks colour up. For a second, I feel bad for embarrassing him, but I steel myself against it.

  “Well . . .” Jeremy looks down at the table, then up at me with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I can’t say anyone has ever complained.”

  I keep the smile off my face and move straight on to the next question before I lose my nerve.

  “Is that why you’re not getting everything done?” The words come out smoothly but when I atte
mpt to do the meaningful look at his crotch, I find I can only drop my eyes to belly level. “You’re confident with what you’ve got?”

  Jeremy follows my gaze to his midsection. “What? You know I’m getting my stomach done. What do you mean?”

  I force my eyes to crotch level. “No, there.” I point for extra emphasis, feeling ridiculous.

  “Oh!” He shoots me a look as if he can’t believe I’ve just asked him that. I can barely believe it either, but in a strange sort of way, I’m proud of myself. It doesn’t matter that I’ve sucked back half a bottle of wine in the process.

  “Well, yeah. I am pretty confident, I guess,” he says finally.

  “Great.” I glance down at my clipboard, full of scribbles I hope I can decipher later. Thank God for the recorder. “Those are all my questions. See, that was painless, right?”

  Jeremy laughs. “Relatively. I think I like wine therapy! Anyway, if you reckon this will help me find someone for real, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m so bloody tired of getting together with someone, thinking this is it, then having them take off.” He leans forward. “What do you think? How do you know if someone is ‘the one’?” His eyes meet mine and for a second – for just a split second – I feel like he can see inside me. Like he actually knows me. Sounds dumb, I know.

  I jerk my mind back to Peter, sipping the last bit of wine as the question echoes in my head. How did I know I wanted to be with Peter? Well, he does have everything I ever dreamed of: handsome, good job, stable – none of the hippie, live-and-let-live flakiness I grew up with. On paper, he’s ‘the one’ material, for sure. I’m about to answer when I remember my advisory role.