Build a Man (16 page)

An image of the
lead singer from DoMe flashes into my brain, and I swallow hard. No
way do I want to look like I’ve had half my head shaved. “Um, I
don’t think I’m ready for that.”

I grab a
magazine and flip through it, looking for something close to what I
want. A photo of a model, standing on top of a globe as if she owns
it, catches my eye. I stare at her hair, cut in a blunt line just
grazing her cheekbones. Power oozes from her and I gaze at the
image, entranced. I’d kill to be like that. Confident. Taking over
the world.

“How about
this?” I shove the picture toward Zach, who raises his over-plucked
eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, hell,
yeah!” He moves my hair around this way and that, lifting it up and
yanking it back. “You have the face to pull it off. It’ll be a big
change, though.”

I think of
Jeremy and his determination, and my lips lift in a smile. “That’s
exactly what I want.”

After paging
through the magazine for a few hours (yes,
hours
) as Zach
works his magic, he finally stops toying with my locks and swivels
me toward the mirror. “Ta da!” he says with a flourish, fluffing my
hair a final time.

My eyes pop as
I stare at a woman with a short blonde bob. Is that
me
? I
lift my hands to touch the now-golden hair. “Wow.”

“I know,” Zach
crows. “What a difference. You look brill.”

My stylish new
cut actually gives me cheekbones, and my eyes seem even bigger.
Somehow, Zach’s managed to make my hair shinier and full of light,
like I’ve been sitting outside in the sun. It’s blonde, but it’s
not the Leza white-blonde I was dreading. I look trendy and
cool.

I look like a
real, live tabloid reporter.

C
HAPTER THIRTEEN

Big Pricks
First Step to Meeting Dream Woman
, the headline on my
Build
a Man
column says the next day, and I can’t help giggling even
though I’ve read it a million times already. I was sure Leza would
like that one. Jeremy probably would, too, if he knew the column
featured him.

James says the
painful pricks of the Botox needle are nothing if it gets him
closer to his ideal woman. Yesterday, our Build a Man endured
multiple shots of Botox to the forehead and eye areas in the first
step of his transformation.

“
It hurt
like hell, but it’ll be worth it if I meet the woman of my dreams,”
he said, once the treatment was completed.

The woman of
his dreams. Is it possible? Does the perfect partner
really
exist? I let out a puff of air, thinking of Peter’s reaction to my
brand new image. When I got home from the salon last night, he
barely looked up from his brushing session with Smitty. It was only
when I climbed into bed that he noticed my hair, saying it was
‘very nice; more clinic appropriate . . . but a touch too blonde’,
before flipping over and snoring within five seconds.

It’s funny, but
I never noticed how everything in our life revolves around him. His
job, his eating habits,
his
needs. I guess it’s because I
didn’t have anything of my own. Now that I do – even though I can’t
share it with him – it’s becoming more and more obvious how
lopsided our relationship is.

Just wait until
I get that job, I tell myself. Then I’ll quit the clinic and we’ll
be on equal footing. I’ll be a strong career woman, Peter will
respect my ambition and drive (if not my place of employment; I
can’t expect miracles), and things will be fine. Serenity v2 will
be that perfectly pulled together person I’ve been striving
for.

I glance at the
screen again, grimacing at the cut-out paper doll with Sean Penn’s
nose, now dressed in the skinny trousers and pink shirt combo. I
can’t believe
Fashion Passion
won! Who on earth is voting in
this thing?

Today’s poll
focuses on eyes, asking readers to choose from Tom Cruise (not
bad); Justin Bieber (seriously?); or Simon Cowell (what? Can anyone
really get past the high-waisted jeans and gleaming teeth to
notice
his eyes?). I shake my head, thinking Jeremy’s eyes
are a million times better than any of these celebs. Tom Cruise
comes the closest, so I click on him and blink as the screen
refreshes. Almost eight thousand readers have voted. A grin spreads
across my face and my heart starts beating fast.
Eight
thousand!
That’s more people than live in Harris.

The phone rings
and I glance at the clock. It’s almost six, and I should be racing
out the door to Kirsty’s for my pre-party hair and make-up.

‘Hello,
Transforma Harley Street,’ I say in a tired voice, hoping whoever’s
on the other end will take the hint. Instead, a woman unleashes a
torrent of angst about her droopy eyelid, a possible side effect of
her recent Botox injection.

“I must see the
doctor,” she demands. “I look like a retard.”

A
retard?
I shake my head as she continues her tirade. Peter
always mocks my over-the-top penchant for political correctness,
but I’m pretty sure even in Britain it’s considered offensive to
call someone a retard.

“I can’t go to
this charity benefit looking like a one-eyed wonder,” she
screeches. I hold the phone away from my ear, thinking how ironic
it would be if the charity was something to do with helping the
developmentally delayed or the blind.

“Just let me
talk to the doctor,” I interrupt, jabbing a finger at the ‘hold’
button.

“Peter!” I
shout. “I need to leave, but there’s a woman on the phone who wants
to come in and see you. Droopy eyelid or something.” I’m desperate
to get out of here now.

“Put her
through. You can go if you want.”

I quickly
transfer the call and hear it ringing in his office.

“I’ll be home
in a few hours,” Peter yells before picking it up. “Hello, Doctor
Lycett here. What can I do for you?” he says in smooth tones before
his door swings closed.

I haven’t had
the chance to fabricate an excuse for tonight, so I quickly
scribble down a note that I’m over at Kirsty’s – not exactly a lie,
since I
will
be there (for about thirty minutes, anyway).
Then I grab my bag, dash home for my dress and shoes, and rush over
to her house. By the time I get there, I’m dripping with sweat and
more in need of a makeover than ever.

“Sorry, Kirst,”
I pant when she answers the door. “I got caught up with a crazy
woman at the clinic.”

She shakes her
head, but she’s too busy staring at me to launch into her usual
speech about the importance of timekeeping. “Wow. You look amazing,
Ser. Great haircut!” There’s an admiring look in her eyes that I’ve
never seen before. Not that I blame her – it’s hard to admire
mousy, flat hair.

“Oh, thanks.” I
reach up and stroke my locks tentatively. In my haste to get here,
I’d completely forgotten about my new look.

“When I told
you to get a trim, I didn’t expect you’d chop it all off.” She
ushers me up the stairs and into the bedroom.

I shrug and
collapse on the bed, trying to catch my breath. “I just felt it was
time, you know? Peter’s always saying ‘dress for the person you
want to be’ and all that . . . well, this” – I point to my hair –
“is who I want to be.”

Kirsty nods,
looking impressed. “It’s awesome.” She rubs her hands together,
then picks up her bulging cosmetics case. “And once you have your
make-up done and you’re in that dress, you’ll be fabulous. Now,
hurry up and change so we can get started. I’ll be back in a
second.”

I pull off my
usual clinic outfit of black trousers and blouse. Then I
reverentially lift the grey dress from its clinging cellophane
wrapper, admiring the sequins and floaty chiffon. I don’t think
I’ve ever owned anything quite so beautiful (or expensive, for that
matter). I carefully ease myself into the garment, holding my
breath as I zip up the side. It catches my soft skin and I yelp,
cursing the extra Jaffa I shoved down my throat this morning.

“Okay, I’m
ready.” I lower myself onto the bed. The dress barely covers the
tops of my thighs, and I tug at it nervously.

“Right, well,
your hair is fine,” Kirsty says after bursting back into the room.
“I’m just going to backcomb it a bit for some body.” I can feel her
moving my locks around, then the
whoosh
of the hairspray.
“And a little foundation, some powder and blusher . . .”

“So what are
you doing tonight?” I ask, expecting her to say that she and Tim
are off to the latest client dinner or the bank’s box at the opera,
as usual.

“Not much.” She
sweeps a soft brush over my cheek. “The firm’s really cutting back
on all the corporate entertainment stuff. And I’m so tired these
days. Now, press your lips together for a sec.”

As Kirsty works
her magic, I think about how strange this is. Usually, she’s the
one preparing to go out and schmooze at big client dinners, getting
all dressed up. Now, it’s me.

“Look my way,”
she commands, picking up a mascara wand.

I meet her
hazel eyes, noticing they’re still red with even bigger bags than
before. Snippets of our conversation at Selfridges yesterday drift
through my mind and I bite my lip, recalling her words about
feeling trapped.

“Kirsty, tell
me how I can help,” I say suddenly, dodging the wand nearing my
eye.

“You can stay
still and let me get on with it.” She comes at me with the wand
again.

I force myself
to relax as she glides mascara over my lashes. “Tell me how I can
help with what’s happening. You now, the baby and stuff.” The
gliding stops and I look up, my heart sinking when I notice her
eyes glinting with tears. God, I wish I knew what to say. But
Kirsty’s so strong and confident that I’ve never been in this
situation with her before.

She leans back
and heaves a sigh. “Just be there for me. Like you always are.” Her
voice is sad, and I reach out and touch her arm.

“Oh, before I
forget, Tim wants me to invite you and Peter over for dinner
tomorrow night. Six okay?” Kirsty grabs a pink lipstick, back to
her efficient self. “Sorry for the late notice. Tim’s had his head
buried in something the past few days and he only just told me
about his grand plans now.”

“Okay, sure. I
think we’re free tomorrow.” I
know
we’re free – we always
are. I’ll have to drag Peter from the clinic, but anything other
than chicken fillet is a welcome change.

I sit in
silence as Kirsty paints on a few coats of lip-gloss, then brushes
some loose power over my face.

“There,
finished. Have a look.”

I glance into
the compact, gasping at my reflection. Kirsty’s lined my eyes with
black kohl and piled on the blush. Along with my new haircut, I
could fit right into that super-stylish newsroom. I slip on my new
sandals and stalk over to the full-length mirror beside the
door.

“So? What do
you think, Madame Tabloid Star?”

“Thanks,
Kirsty. I love it!”

I look tall. I
look glamorous. I look nothing like the usual
me
. But that’s
the whole point. If I wanted to show everyone the usual me, I might
as well throw on my cat-hair-covered jogging bottoms and my old
Britney Spears T-shirt. This is the confident, eat-you-alive woman
I want to be – Serenity v2, with bells on – and I just might be
getting there.

What will
Jeremy think when he sees me? I’m certainly different to the
receptionist he met just a week or so ago. My cheeks heat up as I
picture his eyes raking over me, his face full of awe and
admiration (as much as the Botox will allow) as he takes in my
makeover . . .

“Ready to go,
then?” Kirsty’s voice cuts into my daydream and my cheeks flush
even more.

I turn away to
hide my glowing face, grabbing my belted red H&M trench
coat.

“Um, no.”
Kirsty wags her finger at me as I shrug it on. “You’re not wearing
that over your dress.”

I grimace at
myself in the mirror. She’s right – the casual red jacket really
doesn’t go with the urban-cool dress, not to mention my make-up and
hair. I look like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to a street
corner. “I didn’t bring anything else.”

Kirsty shakes
her head. “I’m not letting you ruin my handiwork by wearing that.
You don’t need a coat, anyway. Just grab a cab.”

I nod, not
wanting to tell her that I don’t have cash for a cab right now. The
last time I mentioned not having money, Kirsty launched into a
tirade that Peter really should be paying me more, so at least I
could live each month without relying on my overdraft. It’s hard to
ask for a raise from your boyfriend, though – especially when
you’re living rent free. “Yeah, okay.”

Swinging open
the door, Kirsty gives me a quick hug. “Good luck!”

Wrapping my
arms around my chest to try to keep warm, I watch the door close
behind her. God, I wish she could come, too – break the ice with
everyone for me, the way it’s always been. Now, I’m on my own.

Taking a deep
breath, I let my arms drop to my sides and stride along, the sharp
staccato of my high heels echoing down the street. The old me might
have been a little shy, but this is the new, upgraded me. And
Serenity v2 can face a room full of strangers, no problem.

Clattering down
the stairs into the Tube, I ignore the looks of interest from the
stodgy, tired men bundled into ill-fitting polyester business
suits, and race toward the platform where a wonderfully warm (if
smelly) train awaits.

Thirty minutes
later, I’m standing in front of the brick exterior of the Hospital
Club. It’s just after seven-thirty, and judging from the shouts of
laughter and music I hear from the open windows, the launch party
is in full swing. There aren’t any paps and there’s no red carpet,
but this is it – my debut into the tabloid world.