Build a Man (12 page)

“Okay, onto the
next one. Why don’t you try the tux?” I open the Cancer Research
bag, wrinkling my nose at the faint mothball odour rising from the
fabric.

“You brought me
a tux to try?” Jeremy asks incredulously.

“This is a
regular part of our therapy, you know,” I blag. “We’ve got it in
several sizes back at the clinic. I’ll just step outside again
while you get it on, okay?”

I slip into the
hallway, eyeing a few open doors down the corridor. My eyes pop as
I poke my head into one. It’s my dream bathroom come to life, all
gleaming white, with a large claw-footed bath and a separate
Rainshower installed in the corner. The floor tiles are warm under
my feet and even the toilet looks inviting. A giant mirrored
medicine cabinet shines above a polished white ceramic sink. Hmm.
As an undercover reporter, maybe I should check to see if there’s
anything interesting in there.

I close the
bathroom door then open the cabinet slowly, feeling a bit odd. I
mean, I wouldn’t like people rooting through my medicine cabinet –
not that there’s anything of mine in there, anyway. It looked so
nice and neat with Peter’s toiletries that I couldn’t bear putting
my plastic BIC razors and drugstore perfume next to his superior
stuff.

Jeremy’s is
cluttered with shampoo bottles, vitamins, and the odd empty package
here and there. I’m just about to head back to the bedroom when my
eye spots a glimmer of silver. I push aside some hair gel and
there, hidden in the corner, is the most beautiful watch I’ve ever
seen. Diamonds almost drip off the face, but there’s nothing garish
about it. Peering closely, I can make out ‘Bvlgari’. It’s the kind
of watch a woman in
Vogue
would wear; a watch that wouldn’t
look out of place amidst the twenty thousand pounders that almost
made me hyperventilate in Harrods last month – I never dreamed such
expensive things existed.

I flip it over.
To Jules, I’ve had the time of my life. Happy Two Years! Much
love, Jer.
Wow. He really must have loved her to write
something like that. To
buy
something like that. But what is
her super-expensive anniversary gift doing shoved in the corner of
his cabinet?

He did say they
were together for almost two years. Maybe they split before he
could give her the gift. My heart fills with sympathy as I picture
him hanging on to her present; unable to bring himself to return it
. . .

“I’m
ready!”

Jeremy’s shout
makes me jump and even though I know he’s nowhere near me, I shove
the watch back in the cabinet and slam the door closed.
“Coming!”

I hurry down
the corridor and into his room, stopping at the sight of his broad
shoulders in the tux. Even from the back, I can tell he’s standing
straighter, and there’s a hint of confidence about him that wasn’t
there before.

He turns to me
and smiles. “Well?”

“You look
fantastic.” Too late, I remember I’m supposed to be impartial. But
he does look great – the tuxedo’s classic cut fits like it was made
for him. Despite the extra weight, Jeremy has perfect proportions
and I can’t help admiring how nice he looks all dressed up.

“Can you fix
this bowtie?” Jeremy tweaks the strip of fabric around his neck. “I
can never get it right.”

“Sure, I can
try.” I move toward him, conscious of his eyes focused on my face.
The air between us suddenly feels like it’s snapping with energy,
and my heart starts thumping. I create a bow as quickly as I can
and step back again.

“I must get a
photo,” I say, eager for something to focus my attention on. What
is it about this man that makes me feel so unsettled? It’s probably
normal for an undercover reporter to feel a connection with their
subject, right? That’s a good thing, I’m sure – it shows I’m
gaining his trust.

Jeremy strikes
a Zoolander-style pose and I laugh. “Be serious,” I say through my
giggles, clicking the photo from the neck down. Thankfully the
Beauty Bits
readers will be saved from his Blue Steel
impression.

“If I’d worn
something like this more often, maybe Julia would have stayed with
me.” Jeremy shrugs off the jacket.

“What really
happened between you two?” I ask tentatively, sinking onto the bed.
Now might be the moment to get him talking.

Jeremy sighs
and sits down beside me. “Whatever I tell you is completely
confidential, right? I know you told me before that it stays
between us, but . . . I just want to make sure.”

“Of course!” I
say quickly, pushing away the pangs of guilt. It’s not like I’m
lying: whatever he says
will
stay private. I’m certainly not
going to reveal his identity. And I was right – I am gaining his
trust.

“Well, a friend
and I started up a company together. It grew to be pretty big and
quite successful. And then I met Julia. We had a couple good years
together – or at least I thought they were good.”

“What
happened?” I ask.

“Turns out for
the last few months before we split, she and my business partner
David had started seeing each other behind my back. I walked in on
them one day in our offices.”

“Oh my God.” I
reach out and touch Jeremy’s leg lightly, but he doesn’t even move.
He’s staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a memory I can’t
even begin to imagine.

“When she
noticed me, Julia just laughed and said I’d let myself go – and
that she preferred her men more fit than fat.”

“Bitch,” I
breathe, then curse myself for being so unprofessional. But at
least I was right in my initial assessment.

Jeremy shoots
me a half-grin. “I know. Anyway, that’s what happened. And that’s
why I need your – and Dr Lycett’s – help.”

No wonder the
poor man wants to remake himself from the ground up. I’d want to
jump off a bridge. “We’re here for you, Jeremy,” I say, then glance
at my watch. Christ, it’s almost eight-thirty. Kirsty’s going to
kill me. Funny that she hasn’t texted back to bawl me out – usually
she does that when I’m going to be even five minutes late.

“Why don’t you
put on your normal clothes, I’ll get a quick photo of you in your
usual outfit for comparative purposes, and we’ll call it a night? I
think you’ve made real progress today,” I say gravely.

Jeremy tilts
his head to the side. “I think so, too. It’s really good to have
someone like you to talk to.”

His eyes meet
mine and that funny feeling sweeps over me again. “I’ll wait
outside,” I say, standing quickly and moving toward the door to put
a bit of distance between us.

A couple
minutes later, Jeremy’s back in his T-shirt and jeans. As handsome
as he looked in the formal wear, this is more natural; more
him
. I snap a photo, then gather up the discarded outfits
and shove them in the shopping bags to return later.

“So where are
you going tonight?” I ask in a chipper voice as we head down the
stairs toward the front door.

“Just off to
visit my parents,” he says.

So he’s not
from London, then. I forgot he hadn’t actually answered my
question. I open my mouth to ask where his parents are from, but he
lunges back up the stairs.

“Here, you
forgot this,” Jeremy puffs once he’s returned, handing me the foul
salmon shirt. “Please take it with you.”

I laugh at his
grimace, then put the shirt in a bag and stick out my hand before
he can swoop in for the traditional kiss on the cheek. My face
heats up as I picture his soft lips – well, they look soft, anyway
– against my face, and I clasp his warm hand in mine.

“Bye!” Yanking
away my hand, I wave like a maniac as I back out the door. On the
dark street, I pick up pace as I move away from his house. I’m
practically running by the time I get to Kirsty and Tim’s, and I
have to bend over to catch my breath after ringing the buzzer.

“Hi, Serenity,”
Tim whispers, cracking open the door a few inches. “I didn’t know
you were coming over. Kirsty’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping? It’s
not even nine.” Kirsty’s a night owl if I ever met one.

Tim shrugs.
“This pregnancy has really wiped her out. I’ll tell her you came
by.” He looks at me closely, opens his mouth as if he wants to ask
me something, then shakes his head. “Night.”

“Night,” I say,
as the door swings closed. I peer up at the darkened bedroom
window, hoping my friend is okay. This pregnancy thing might have
thrown her for a loop, but Kirsty is the most unflappable person I
know. I’m sure she’ll be playing Mozart to her belly and teaching
the embryo Latin verbs in no time.

I’ll come by
bright and early tomorrow with Kirsty’s favourite
pain au
chocolat
and that caramel-toffee thing from Starbucks she
loves, and explain to her what happened. If anyone understands work
commitments, it’s her.

I head for home
down the dark and quiet streets. Even Marylebone Road – usually
clogged and noisy – seems empty and deserted for a Friday night. I
quicken my steps, eager to hop on Google. If Jeremy and this David
guy started a company together, I might be able to find something
on them. Even if I can’t, at least I have a juicy titbit to work
with for the column, thank God.

Peter’s
sleeping on the sofa to the constipated tones of that BBC
announcer, so I open up his laptop as quietly as possible and click
on the browser. I’ve been so busy I never thought of Googling
Jeremy until now – shocking, really, since in the dead hours
between five and six in the evening, when all the women who’ve had
their fat sucked out are busy replacing it by chowing down at the
Ritz – I’m a Google fiend, searching everyone I can think of.

I type in
Jeremy’s name plus David plus property and hit ‘Search’. Hundreds
of results filter onto the screen and I scroll down until . . .
bingo.

Earlham Property Founder Sells Shares for £20 million.
Earlham Property founding partner Jeremy Ritchie today sold his
shares to former partner David Chase for £20 million, giving up his
stake in one of Britain’s most successful and rapidly growing
property enterprises . . .

Twenty million!
I blink. Jeremy has twenty million pounds? I knew he was rich, but
rich to me is a million or two, not twenty. I click the link to
read the rest of the article.

Earlham
Property was founded by Ritchie and Chase, who set up the business
in a converted petrol station in King’s Cross and laboured around
the clock to ensure the company’s success. Chase interfaced with
clients while Ritchie oversaw the renovation of the company’s
portfolio. From its humble beginnings, Earlham Property has now
grown to over two hundred employees in fifty branches across
Greater London.

While Ritchie
cites his decision to sell as simply ‘time to move on’, inside
sources claim the breakdown of the founders’ friendship is the real
reason.

Earlham
Properties has since been renamed Chase Estates and has continued
its exponential growth despite the recent market meltdown.

There’s a photo
of Jeremy and David standing proudly with their arms around each
other’s shoulders, the Earlham logo shining out from a building
behind them. I squint at the screen. Jeremy’s so young – and about
fifty pounds lighter. He looks handsome, fit and happy, and my
heart squeezes as I think about the sad man I’ve just met.

I type in David
Chase plus Julia, just on the off chance I can find something.

Chase
Estates Owner Weds Girlfriend Julia Adams
comes up straight
away. Oh God, I think as I look at the date: October fifth, just a
day before Jeremy turned up at the clinic.

In a lavish
ceremony in front of three hundred family and friends, millionaire
and Chase Estates owner David Chase wed girlfriend Julia Adams at
their country manor in the Cotswolds. Celebrity guests arrived by
helicopter while the bride made her entrance in a horse-drawn
Bugatti.

Horse-drawn
Bugatti? For real? I can’t help snickering at that one. A large
colour photo to the side of the article shows David and Julia
smiling smugly at the camera in front of a massive house set in
groomed gardens. Julia
is
beautiful, with a perfectly
proportioned face that looks like it belongs in a painting, and a
model-thin body. But there’s something about her, even in the
photo, that just feels cold.

He might be a
millionaire, but David is every inch the typical estate agent: hair
gelled to within an inch of its life, smarmy expression, and natty
suit. Together, the two of them make me feel nauseous, and even
more so when I think of what they did to Jeremy.

Is all this
really
a valid reason for Jeremy to have such drastic
cosmetic surgery? Would he feel differently if he had a bit more
time to get over the shock of the wedding? Maybe I should show
Peter my discovery; get his professional opinion.

I shake my head
to dispel the thoughts – I’m probably being silly. As ambitious as
Peter is to build his clinic, he wouldn’t agree to perform
procedures on someone who wasn’t psychologically fit. And Peter
is
a doctor. He knows the right questions to ask to uncover
such patients. Jeremy must be fine or Peter wouldn’t have agreed to
operate, I’m certain of it.

Jeremy’s
surgery is just what he needs to move his life forward. And with me
as his life advisor, he can meet the future head on, new nose and
all.

It’s a win-win
situation for everyone.

I open my eyes
the next morning to the sound of Peter clanking dishes in the
kitchen, the BBC at an ungodly volume. I jerk upright, my heart
beating fast, before remembering it’s Saturday.

Thank goodness,
I think, slowly lowering myself back onto the rock-hard mattress.
Last night was a late one and my head still feels fuzzy. I stayed
up until three working on my column, trying to strike the right
balance between drama and sympathy – and making sure not to give
away too many details to maintain anonymity. The words filter into
my mind and I smile proudly.