Build a Man (32 page)

Now, I cross my
fingers and send up a fervent plea for success. The damn universe
better have had an ear wash, because this job is perfect for
me.

“New Dick for
the Right Chick?” Simon asks as he examines my portfolio, peering
over the top of his glasses with a tiny smile.

My cheeks go
hot. “Well, yes. That was the editorial style of the paper . . .”
Not that I need to explain – everyone and their dog knows
The
Daily Planet
. “But whatever you may think of the content, my
posts received thousands and thousands of comments, and my column
quickly became one of the most popular on the site.” It’s all true,
but I just can’t be proud.

Simon raises
his eyebrows. “Well, it’s obvious you can write, and those numbers
are impressive.”

I nod, holding
my breath.

“But I’m not
sure this is the right position for you. Our articles are based on
fact, you understand.”

“I know. That’s
exactly what I’m looking for. I can be a serious writer.” I stare
hard at Simon, willing him to see how much I want this. “Please,
give me a chance. I’ve had experience working in a medical clinic”
– if you call Botox medical – “and I have vast expertise in
cosmetic surgery procedures.” That much is true, I think
grimly.

Simon studies
me for a few seconds. “Let me grab our managing editor, Ryan
Nicholls. I know he’ll want to meet you and have a quick word
before we make any final decisions.”

I nod, my heart
thudding in my chest. As Simon ducks out of the room, I wipe away
the sweat that’s gathered on my upper lip.

“Here he is.”
Simon returns with a small, wiry man almost vibrating with nervous
energy. “Serenity, this is Ryan, our managing editor. If you come
on-board, you’ll report directly to him.”

“Nice to meet
you,” I say, standing and holding out my hand.

“American?”
Ryan asks.

“Yes, I’m
from–”

“Great, great.
Look, I’m really sorry I can’t chat. Bit of a crisis right now –
we’ve had an advertiser pull out last minute and we need to fill
extra space.”

“Have you got
something you can use?” Simon’s calm voice is a direct contrast to
Ryan’s anxious one.

“Dermisin’s
holding a press conference on their new filler today, so we can do
a story on that,” Ryan responds. “I just need someone over there
ASAP.”

“Dermisin?” The
word pops out of my mouth. I know that company; I used to see their
logo on products back at the clinic.

Ryan glances
over at me. “Are you familiar with the cosmetic surgery
industry?”

I nod. “Yes,
it’s my speciality.” Unfortunately. “I’d be happy to cover the
conference for you, as a kind of trial run. Or a test of my skills.
Or whatever you want to call it,” I babble, desperate to show how
motivated and eager I am.

The two men
exchange a look, then Simon turns to me with a broad smile. “Well,
Serenity, you’ve convinced me. Welcome to the team. We’ll take you
on as a junior medical reporter, probationary for three months as
usual, then a permanent position after that – all things being
well, of course.”

“Thank you!”
Happiness gushes through me as I shake his hand.

Simon smiles.
“Welcome to the team.”

Before I can
respond, Ryan takes my arm and ushers me from the office. “Thanks
so much for mucking in with the Dermisin press conference. We’re
down a writer and we need to put the February issue to bed
tomorrow. It’s only the middle of December, I know, but we always
work at least two months ahead.”

I’m not
entirely sure what ‘mucking in’ means, but I’m thrilled to begin
today. I’ve already drained one vodka bottle back at Kirsty and
Tim’s, and I’m now making inroads on the gin. It’s either start now
or become an alcoholic. “No problem. I’m happy to help.”

“Brilliant.
Now, come meet the rest of the team quickly, then I’ll give you the
conference details.” Hurrying me around the cubicles, Ryan
introduces Phillipa, Henry, and Gareth. They all respond with
friendly waves, then turn back to their computers and clack
away.

“We’re on a
tight deadline,” Ryan calls over his shoulder. He scurries inside a
larger cubicle, grabs a glossy press pack with the elaborate
Dermisin logo on the front, and hands it over to me.

“Here you are.
The conference is at the Charlotte Street Hotel at eleven.” He
glances at his watch. “It’s half nine now. Should give you plenty
of time to get there. Come back afterwards and write up a few lines
on it, then we’ll go over your employment details.”

Ryan throws
himself into a swivel chair and swings away from me, hammering at
the keyboard.

God, nothing
like diving into the deep end. Still, I can do this. If anyone’s an
expert on cosmetic surgery, it’s me – especially after everything
I’ve witnessed. I just hope I can do the article justice.

I thread
through the cubicles and head out to the lift, relief flooding into
me. Finally, I have a job, a start at something solid. Maybe Mom’s
hippie quotes aren’t as bad as I thought.

The
coffin-sized lift deposits me back in the nineteen-seventies-style
foyer. I push out the frosted glass doors, then hurry down the busy
stretch of road toward Newbury Park Tube station.

Thank God the
Central Line train is pretty much deserted. I drop into a seat and
scan the Dermisin materials, pleased to see it’s all pretty
familiar stuff. At least the clinic came in handy for
something.

I sigh,
thinking about the months I spent there with Peter. We haven’t
talked since the day we broke up. It’s so funny – we lived
together, for goodness’ sake – but I don’t miss him. Guess it goes
to show it never was right for either of us, if we could let go so
easily.

I exit the Tube
at Tottenham Court Road and hustle through the crowds, ducking
behind Oxford Street and over to the Charlotte Street Hotel. Inside
the foyer, a discrete sign shows that the Dermisin press conference
is in Event Room 1, on the lower ground floor. I scurry into the
lift and press the button, trying my best to catch my breath and
tidy my hair. I look at my watch – ten to eleven.

The lift doors
slide open, revealing a scene straight from a film set. Giant palm
trees arch toward the ceiling, and bright orange flowers pop up
everywhere. Even the air feels hot and humid, as if I’ve been
transported to the tropics. I pause for a second, wondering if I’m
in the right place, before remembering that Dermisin’s claim to
fame is their use of ethically-sourced plants from the rainforest.
Yeah, right.

Rows of chairs
are scattered strategically about the room, but hardly anyone’s
sitting down. A tuxedo-clad waiter circulates with a tray full of
champagne flutes, and another waiter serves up strawberries and
something that’s wrapped in a leaf. Nausea rises as I watch
everyone around me gorge themselves, courtesy of a company that
makes its profits off people like Jeremy. I breathe in again to try
to stop the queasy feeling from spreading, then sink onto a chair.
Thank God I’m working for a credible magazine now. Maybe I can
finally write a balanced article; get an interview from a doctor
who’s objective about the whole thing.

“Fancy seeing
you here.” A familiar smug voice pierces my thoughts.

I turn in
horror. There, towering over me in stiletto knee-high boots and
another Teflon creation, is Mia. Or, at least, I
think
it’s
Mia – it’s hard to get past her lips to the features behind them. I
struggle to keep my expression neutral as I examine the two
over-inflated caterpillars on her face, jutting out almost as far
as her nose.

“Thought you’d
been banished for good from the journalistic world.” Mia laughs,
biting into a strawberry. The sight of her bulging lips manoeuvring
themselves around the small red sphere is oddly hypnotic.

“Hi, Mia,” I
say quietly, determined not to show her the emotion that’s
exploding inside.

“So who are you
working for now?” She tosses back her hair and sips her
champagne.

“
The British
Journal of Continuing Medical Education
,” I say, trying to get
it all out without stumbling.

“Sounds . . .
interesting.” Mia’s lips stretch into a grin, their surface smooth
and shiny. “I’m sure you heard I’m writing for the health and
beauty section of
The Daily Planet
. The hard copy,” she
sneers. “None of that rubbish online stuff. That’s not real
reporting, anyway.”

“That’s not
what you thought,” I say, standing to face her. “Back when you were
so desperate to steal
Build a Man
.”

“Oh,
Build a
Man
.” Mia waves a hand in the air. “How is your little friend,
anyway?” She raises her voice into a breathy falsetto. “Ooh,
Jeremy, I’m so sorry I wasn’t honest with you. I’ve stopped writing
that column now – I just couldn’t carry on. Please get in touch and
let me know where you are.” Mia smacks her oversized lips together
in a kissing noise, then snorts into her drink. “God, how
pathetic.”

My mouth drops
open as the familiar phrases swirl around me. Those words aren’t
just Mia making fun. They’re
exactly
the same words as in my
letter to Jeremy.“Wait a second. How did you get that letter?”

“Wasn’t exactly
rocket science,” Mia says, settling into her seat as the Dermisin
people file into the room. “After Jeremy disappeared from the
hospital, I popped by his house on the off chance he might be there
– or someone might know where he was. Instead, all I found was your
mushy letter. Straight to the bin.” Her lips twist in something
like a smile.

My eyes bulge
and my mind races. I can’t
believe
Jeremy never got my
letter. He’s lying somewhere thinking I’m still working for the
tabloid – and that I’m the one who revealed his identity! I’m so
furious even Mia’s mammoth lips slide out of focus.

“It doesn’t
matter now, anyway,” she says, removing her notebook from a Louis
Vuitton bag. “He’s probably still drooling and pissing into a
bedpan. Really, you should be thanking me for saving you from a
relationship with an invalid.”

“Hello, and
welcome to the Dermisin Revonuskin press conference.”

I try to
concentrate on the man at the front of the room, but Mia's words
keep circling around my mind. Jeremy might still be ‘drooling and
pissing into a bedpan’, as she so sympathetically put it. But I
don’t care, I really don’t. Because . . . I jerk upright as it hits
me. Because Kirsty was right.

What I’m
feeling is more than guilt –
much
more. It’s the intensity
of emotion that was lacking with Peter; the glow that makes my
internal organs feel like they’re immersed in a warm bath. And now
that I know Jeremy doesn’t have all the facts, a small ray of hope
is growing and growing, like a sun rising inside of me. He believes
I revealed his identity, yet he still hasn’t turned me in. Maybe,
possibly, he can forgive me? I have to get in touch with him
somehow.

“. . . and
that’s how our new filler, Revonuskin, works,” the Dermisin man
finishes a few minutes later. “Thank you all for coming.
Questions?” He scans the room, looking pleased with himself.

I grab the
literature they’ve handed us and stand. Even with half my brain
trying to figure out how I’m going to reach Jeremy, I’ve still got
more than enough BS here to fill Buckingham Palace ten times over.
I can’t wait to ask an objective industry expert how an all-natural
rainforest product could be manufactured in – I squint at the tiny
samples they’ve handed out – Slough. If writing this article
doesn’t convince Jeremy I’ve changed, nothing will.
If
I
manage to find him, that is.

“See you
later,” Mia sneers. “Oh wait, actually, I probably won’t. I’ll be
working in Paris for the next few months as the fashion
correspondent.” She smirks, tongue darting out to moisten her
lips.

I stare at the
two glistening orbs, then shake my head. At one time, working in
Paris as a fashion correspondent would have been the pinnacle of my
dreams. Now, I don’t even care.

“Goodbye, Mia.
I hope you and your lips have a very nice life together.” I turn on
my heel, then wend my way through the forest of palms toward the
lift.

On the Tube to
the office in Newbury Park, I browse through the Dermisin
literature, then start making notes for my article. When the train
pulls into the station, I have almost all of it written, the final
chunk waiting for an interview with an independent source. It’s
fantastic to be writing seriously – to be accurate, factual, and
provide both sides of the story – rather than wondering how to
twist the content for maximum impact. Why didn’t I think
this
could be exciting, too?

At the
journal’s headquarters, I jab the lift button impatiently, then
rush over to the managing editor’s desk. “I’m back. I’ve got the
piece almost done.”

Ryan looks up
from his computer. “What do you need to finish?”

“Do we have a
list of experts on cosmetic surgery?” I ask.

“Yes.” Ryan
waves a hand in the direction of an empty cubicle. “Take a seat
over there – your new home. There’s a file on your desktop called
‘Expert Sources’.” He glances at his watch. “You’ve got an
hour.”

I gulp. “No
problem.” I walk over to the cubicle and settle into the battered
chair. The desk in front of me is scarred and stained with ink
spots, and the stapler and light look like they’ve been rescued
from a dump. On the desktop, a grimy Mac hunches over like it’s
exhausted every last drop of energy. I switch on the computer, wait
as it rattles to life, then click on the document called
‘Experts’.

Thirty minutes
later, I’ve got everything I need. The clacking of my keyboard
joins the furious tapping coming from the cubicles around me, and I
can’t help feeling a sense of teamwork as we all strive to meet the
deadline.