Build a Man (17 page)

I puff up my
hair, smooth down my dress, and adopt a confident stride over to
the door, where a man in black is guarding the entrance.

“Serenity
Holland for the
Beauty Bits
launch party,” I say to the
guard, cursing my quavery voice.

“Right.” He
scans the list in front of him, then puts a tick on the clipboard
and points to some stairs. “First floor.”

Nodding, I head
up the steps toward the noise, almost dizzy now with nerves.

At the top of
the staircase, I scan the room in front of me, looking for Leza . .
. or anyone I might be able to talk to. The small space is packed
with bodies, and the soft glow of pink lights makes everyone look
like featureless blobs. People cluster together in tight little
groups with their backs to me, and I can’t even begin to make out
where the bar might be. I’m dying for a drink to take the edge off
my nerves.

I push my way
through the braying crowd, grimacing as I bang my knees against a
glass bar. A couple bruises are a small sacrifice for alcohol, and
I practically collapse in relief as I order up a Cosmopolitan. Yes,
I
know
I’m not Sarah Jessica Parker – I’m practically
Celibate and the City
– but this doesn’t seem like a
rum-and-Coke kind of venue. Cold fingers grasp my arm and I spin
around.

“Aren’t you
that
Build a Bloke
writer?” A girl around my age and about a
foot taller – with long, sleek auburn hair and a pale complexion to
die for – is studying me through narrowed eyes.

“Hi. Yes, I am.
It’s
Build a Man
, actually.” It must be okay to ditch my
undercover persona if she already knows it’s me. I stretch out my
hand to shake hers, but I end up knocking her glass. A few drops
splash out onto her metallic shift dress. “Oh, sorry!”

The glamazon
laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s Teflon-coated, specially made by Kenzie
King. You know, the up-and-coming designer from Saint Martins.”

Kenzie who? “Oh
yes, of course.” I nod, making a mental note to look up Kenzie King
and Saint Martins (whatever the hell that is) as soon as I get
home.

Glamazon
smirks, arching her eyebrows like she can read my mind. “So . . .
what do you think?” She throws out her arms and looks around the
room with a smug expression.

“Um, yes, it’s
great. Great party,” I stammer. Who the hell is this person?

She nods, then
delicately sips her drink. “I know. I organised the whole thing. I
was worried you wouldn’t make it. For some reason, your email
invite kept bouncing back.”

Glamazon’s eyes
are wide and innocent, but I’m not sure I believe her. Leza’s
emails got through fine, along with several thousand spam. Why
wouldn’t this person want me here?

“So we haven’t
been introduced,” I say, trying to figure out who she is. Judging
by the way she’s acting, she must be some bigwig reporter.

Her thin lips
stretch in a smile and she holds out a skeletal hand. “Mia
Sutton.”

“What do you do
on the paper?” The barman finally passes me my drink, and I take a
giant slurp. If I was desperate for one before, now I’m practically
gagging.

Mia flips a
section of perfectly straight glossy hair over a bony shoulder.
“I’m an intern. For now. But I’m a dead cert for the junior
reporter position that’s opening up.”

“Junior
reporter position?” I croak, her words swirling around my head.
That can’t be the same one Leza’s promised me, can it? “That’s
great. Me too.”

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 and 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.