Build a Man (18 page)

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.

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 looked 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.”

“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.