Build a Man (33 page)

“Finished?”
Ryan appears over the top of my cubicle.

I nod and
motion toward the screen, where my article is displayed in all its
glory. “Finished.” Ryan bends forward to read it, and my heart
starts beating fast as I recall the first time Leza saw my work.
What if I haven’t made this serious enough? What if it’s not what
he’s looking for?

“Good job.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows, looking impressed. “Solid, objective, and
you obviously know your stuff about fillers.” I grin as relief
whooshes through me. “Yeah. I do.” More than I want to,
actually.

“Well, look.
It’s been a long day. Why don’t you head home and we’ll go over
your employment package tomorrow. Nice to have you on the team.” He
scurries off before I can respond.

I stare at the
article again, proofing the text one final time. Peter would be
proud of my scientific accuracy, I think wryly – except for the
minor detail that the expert source has discredited all Dermisin's
claims.

But it’s Jeremy
I really want to see this. I don’t know how I’m going to hunt him
down. But I know one thing: I’m not going to stop until I find
him.

“Let’s think
about this, then.” Kirsty, Tim and I are sitting in the Prince
Regent later that night, celebrating my new job and holding a
pow-wow on how to locate Jeremy. After crowing for ages how she
knew
there was more to my feelings than guilt, Kirsty got
down to business to discuss a ‘Finding Jeremy’ strategy. Not even
my long day can put a damper on the nervous energy sweeping through
me whenever I think of seeing him again.

Kirsty pushes
back her hair and takes a sip of sparkling water. “Think hard. He
must have said something about where his family’s from.”

I press my
hands to my temples, forcing myself to concentrate. “He mentioned
his grandmother was from Wales. That doesn’t mean
he’s
from
there, though.” But something twigs in my mind when I think of
Wales. I’m sure Jeremy said something else about it. I strain my
brain, but whatever it is stays hidden, just out of reach. I take
another sip of wine to try to dislodge it.

“If his
grandmother’s from Wales, at least it gives us a place to start. We
can look for all the – what did you say his last name was?”

“Ritchie,” I
say absently, just as the bit of information I was looking for
floats into my head. “Wait. He talked about a place in Wales called
the Rye Valley. No, the Wye Valley. He owns a converted barn up
there. Said it’s like heaven or something.” I look at Kirsty and
Tim excitedly. “Do you think he could be there?”

Tim shrugs.
“Well, it’s possible. At least we have a region to start with.” He
glances over at the door and his expression changes. “Um, ladies .
. .”

My heart stops
as I follow his stare. Peter’s coming through the entrance of the
pub, and he’s not alone. Holding onto his arm and staring up at him
like he’s a demigod is a woman with long, glossy blonde hair and
the perfectly smooth skin of someone who’s been Botoxed to within
an inch of her life. As she shrugs off her coat, I notice she’s
wearing a beautifully cut dress that manages to be both sexy and
professional at the same time. Together, the two of them look like
they’ve stepped off the pages of a John Lewis catalogue. I try to
lower myself in my seat, but it’s too late – Peter’s eyes meet
mine. A look of unease flits across his face before his features
relax into their usual placid expression. I raise my hand in a limp
wave, and the couple starts to make their way toward our table.

“Hello,
Serenity,” Peter says stiffly when they’re beside us. He nods to
Kirsty and Tim, who bob their heads back.

“Hi, Peter.
Good to see you.” I smile, feeling surprisingly calm. Strangely,
despite our acrimonious parting, it
is
good to see him, in
the same bland way it’s good to see a former classmate from a
completely different phase of your life.

The woman by
his side taps Peter’s arm playfully. “Aren’t you going to introduce
us?”

The tips of
Peter’s ears go red, the only sign of his discomfort. “Oh yes.
Serenity, this is Christina. Christina, Serenity.”

“Pleasure,
Serenity.” Christina’s face strains to smile.

I nod,
struggling to find words.

“Christina is
the clinic’s new Botox sales rep,” Peter says, to fill the empty
air.

“Great.” I toy
with the stem of my wine glass, unsure what else to say. I feel so
distant from him, the clinic, and that whole crazy world. It’s
almost difficult to imagine the two of us . . . I shake my head to
dispel the image.

“Yes. Well.”
Peter glances at his watch, then slides an arm around Christina’s
non-existent waist. “We’d better sit down. Goodbye, Serenity.”

“Bye.” The
three of us watch in silence as the couple glides around the corner
out of sight.

“Well, that was
awkward.” Kirsty puts a hand on my arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I
am.” I don’t feel upset that Peter’s with someone else. And
Christina is exactly the kind of woman he should be with –
polished, groomed, and gorgeous. Together with a bit of Botox, they
can take over the world, one injection at a time.

“Good. Now all
we need to do is find
your
man.” With the look of
determination on Kirsty's face, I’m sure she could have uncovered
Osama Bin Laden in record time.

Two hours
later, though, we’re no closer. Despite poring over Google Earth
back at the house – and spotting plenty of sheep engaged in rather
risqué activities – we’ve yet to track down Jeremy.

“If he said
it’s within view of an abbey in the Wye Valley, he must mean
Tintern Abbey.” Tim points at a tiny dot on the computer screen.
“Right here.”

Kirsty chews
her lip. “But what if there’s more than one abbey in the Wye
Valley? By the looks of things, it’s a pretty big area.”

Tim shrugs.
“We’ve got nothing else to go by. Worth giving it a shot. Let’s
zoom in more. Maybe we’ll see some barns around there.” He clicks
the mouse, and green blobs give way to fields and trees.

“Go left a
bit.” I hold my breath, waiting for the satellite image to come
into focus as Tim moves across the land. I could be looking at
Jeremy’s house in a second!

“There it is.
That’s Tintern.” Tim squints at the screen. Stone columns and peaks
rise up from a grassy field. Nearby, we can make out a few houses
and settlements scattered here and there within view of the ruins.
Any one of them might be Jeremy’s. My heart drops. I don’t know
what I was expecting – a big sign with a flashing arrow saying
‘Jeremy’s house’?

“I’ll do a
search around the area to see if there are any hospitals or
rehabilitation centres nearby. Jeremy might still be there.” I
gulp, wondering what condition he’s in now.

“That’s
probably the most practical place to start,” Tim agrees.

“I’ll help you
when we’re home from work tomorrow.” Pushing back from the
computer, Kirsty lets out a giant yawn. “Right, I’m off to bed.
Coming, Tim?”

He nods.
“Night, Serenity.”

“Night.” I
watch them go up the stairs together, then turn back to the screen,
staring at the houses nestled against the countryside. In one of
them, Jeremy might be puttering around the kitchen, plating up that
yummy spaghetti . . . or kicking back in the living room, watching
TV. On a whim, I pick up my phone, find his name in my contacts,
and hit ‘Call’. But it disconnects again.

Maybe he’s
blocked my number. I just hope that when I finally reach him, he
won’t block me.

“Got something
to show you.” Ryan sticks his head over the top of my cubicle, and
I can’t help smiling at the alfalfa sprouts his hair has formed. If
possible, he looks even more like a hedgehog than, well, a
hedgehog.

I push my chair
back from the desk – quite a feat, really, since one of its wheels
is broken.

“What is it?
Not more wonderful photos of a digital rectal examination, I hope.”
I’ve recently undergone the office initiation of having to log the
most cringe-worthy set of photos known to humankind. I shudder
again, just thinking about the location of the doctor’s
fingers.

“Plenty more
where those came from,” Ryan jokes. “But no.” He scoots around the
side of the cubicle and hands me a shiny, glossy copy of the
February issue. “Here – your first issue. Well, the proof copy,
anyway. Your article is toward the front, if memory serves. Have a
look through and let me know if you spot any errors.”

I glance down
at the thick magazine in my hands, pride growing inside of me. It’s
only been a week, but I’m really liking it here and starting to
settle in, despite knowing
way
more now than I ever needed
to about rectal exams. This job isn’t where I want to be forever,
but it’s a start.

“Up for a
bevvy?” Ryan interrupts my thoughts. “It’s a tradition here. Every
Friday, we all head out for a drink down the pub across the street.
And it’s the last Friday night before Christmas, so even more
reason to join us.”

“Um, sure. You
guys go on, though. I want to do a bit more on this article.” I
gesture toward the screen.

Ryan nods and
disappears around the side of the cubicle. I type a few more words
into my feature on old-age dementia then rub my eyes, fatigue
weighing down every muscle. I’ve spent the past few nights on a
desperate mission to find Jeremy, but phone call after phone call
to almost every hospital and rehabilitation centre in Wales has
been fruitless. I’ve tried Jeremy’s mobile at least fifty times
each night, and I’ve walked by his house on Welbeck Street every
day on my way home from work. But . . . nothing.

I shut down the
computer as the office empties around me and silence descends.
Then, slowly, I open the cover of the magazine and flip through the
pages until my article appears.

Independent
Scientist Refutes Dermisin Claims
, the headline reads in stark
black and white. There aren’t any graphics, polls, or pretty
pictures. The words are written in small font, crammed in on
themselves so you almost need to squint. But they’re serious,
solid, and all mine. Ryan’s made a few minor punctuation changes
here and there, but the article is almost exactly as I’d written
it.

Reading through
the rest of my words, the feelings of pride and accomplishment grow
stronger. This is me –
this
is the kind of journalism I want
to be doing. It seems so clear now that I wonder how I ever desired
anything different.

If only . . .
if only I could find Jeremy and tell him I know what I want now.
Not tabloids. Not Peter, but something real, something solid.
Him.

Determination
floods through me and I get to my feet. I’m done trying to track
down Jeremy from afar. This mountain’s going to Mohammed – even if
the mountain doesn’t exactly know where Mohammed is. George Bush
isn’t the only one who can smoke people out. I’ll smoke out Jeremy
from the Welsh wilds if it’s the last thing I do.

I tear out of
the building and down the street past the pub, smiling to myself at
the group’s stunned faces as I fly by them.

“See you
Monday,” I shout, not even caring they won’t be able to hear me
through the glass. I’m going to that abbey and finding Jeremy’s
barn. Somehow. And hopefully he’ll be in it!

On the Tube
back to Kirsty’s, I formulate a plan: I’ll rent a car and drive to
Wales. My license from back home is still valid, and Kirsty might
be able to lend me some money until I get paid. I gulp just
thinking about navigating my way across England on the wrong side
of the road, but it’s the most practical thing. Now that I’ve made
up my mind, I want to get to Wales as quickly as possible. A smile
spreads across my face and my heart starts beating faster as I
picture Jeremy’s surprised expression when he sees me. I bite my
lip, remembering he still thinks I revealed his identity. Fingers
crossed he’s surprised in a
good
way.

Out of breath,
I burst into Kirsty’s house. Thankfully Kirsty and Tim are both
home, puttering around in the kitchen.

“Kirst! Need a
favour.” I collapse onto the kitchen chair, kicking off my
flats.

“Are you all
right?” Kirsty glances over at me, eyebrows raised. “What, have you
just run a marathon?”

“Pretty much.”
I peel the sweaty blouse from my skin, flapping the fabric to get
some air. “Can I borrow some cash? I’m going to rent a car and
drive to Wales.”

“What?
Tonight?”

“Yes. I can’t
wait any longer.” I try to make my breathing even and regular. “I’m
tired of sitting around, waiting for Jeremy to get in touch.”

“So you managed
to find out where he is?” Kirsty asks.

“Um . . . well,
that’s the thing. I haven’t exactly found him yet. I figure I’ll go
up, drive around, and get the lay of the land.”

Kirsty hands a
spoon to Tim and pulls out the chair beside me. “I know you want to
tell Jeremy how you feel and make sure he’s okay,” she says. “But
that sounds like a recipe for disaster. You could get all the way
up there and find nothing. Or” – she touches my arm – “he could
still be really sick. Remember my grandpa after his stroke? It took
him ages to get better again. And even when he was fully recovered,
he wasn’t the same.”

I shift in the
wooden chair. When we were growing up, Kirsty’s grandpa was the
neighbourhood kids’ favourite. He always had sweets, a big grin,
and a belting belly laugh – kind of like Santa. He’d take us on
treasure hunts through the fields, and he always listened. But
after his stroke, he seemed sad and distant. He never returned to
the man we loved.

A small flash
of fear goes through me. What if Jeremy’s not the same man? What if
he hasn’t recovered, if he’s distant and bitter now, too?