Build a Man (26 page)

I turn her
words over in my head. Get used to screwing people over – people
like Jeremy, who’s lying there defenceless? “I can’t, Leza.”

She makes a
disgusted noise. “I thought you had what it takes to be in the
business, but clearly you don’t. Well, I’m not going to waste my
time with you. Hand your notes and sound files over to Mia. I’ll
have her meet you outside the hospital. Thank God we got her in on
the act earlier.”

Yeah, right.
I’m not going to let Jeremy be torn to bits by the two of them. Any
information I have is staying with me. “No. Sorry, but no.” My
voice is firm, but inside I’m terrified. You don’t tell Leza
no.

She laughs
incredulously. “You think you can stop us by holding back the
pitiful info you have? We can find out anything, Serenity.
Anything. And we will, don’t you worry. We’ll have that column
front and centre tomorrow,
without
your help.” She pauses.
“Oh, and good luck finding another tabloid job. Once I tell
everyone what an absolute waste of space you turned out to be, they
won’t let you anywhere near their offices.” The line goes dead.

I stare at a
painting in front of me, the blobby red bit in the centre changing
shape as tears fill my eyes. My dream is over – everything I’ve
worked for in the past few weeks, all the excitement of thinking
I’ve finally made it . . . finished.

But if I’m
honest, the reality of it wasn’t
really
my dream. Sure, I
enjoyed having tons of people reading my column and being invited
to a swanky launch party. But my dream didn’t include the lying bit
– and certainly not the part where I’d have to betray friendships.
I wanted the gloss, not the accompanying dirty deeds.

Trudging back
into the room, I reach out and take Jeremy’s right hand. Something
inside me gives way when his fingers slowly close around mine.
Tears fill my eyes, but they have nothing to do with losing
Build a Man
– it’s not my driving force any longer. I just
want the man in front of me to be well again.

I picture
Jeremy splashed all over the
Beauty Bits
homepage, and a
sick feeling washes over me. I’ve no doubt Leza’s right. With or
without my help, a
Daily Planet
reporter will worm their way
in here. And I can’t let that happen. Somehow, I need to protect
Jeremy. I grasp his hand harder as the tears drip down my cheeks,
falling onto the crisp white sheets below.

Jeremy’s
eyelids flutter.

“Jeremy?” I
whisper. But he just turns his head a fraction of an inch, and the
room stays silent.

A couple hours
later, Jeremy still hasn’t awakened. Thankfully, no
Daily
Planet
reporter has shown up – yet, anyway. I’m sitting beside
him, staring down and willing him to get well, while fending off
the attentions of the hospital’s grooming staff. One stylist who
came to do Jeremy’s hair had the nerve to tell me I need to get my
eyebrows threaded. Exactly what I want to hear in the Critical Care
unit.

Finally a
doctor enters the room, checks Jeremy’s machines, and scribbles
something on his chart. “You have to go now,” he says to me. “The
wards are closed to visitors during the night.”

There’s no way
I’m leaving Jeremy unprotected – I wouldn’t be surprised if Mia and
Leza were shimmying up the wall James-Bond-style right this second.
Jeremy is
Beauty Bits’
lead story, and they’re not going to
let him go without a fight.

“I’m staying,”
I say to the doctor, in what I hope is a firm voice.

He shakes his
head, dismissing me like a school kid. “You’re not. Visiting hours
are over. In fact, they ended long ago. Now, do I need to ask
security to remove you from the premises?”

Oh, God. “No,
no, that’s fine.” I squeeze Jeremy’s hand a final time, then ease
myself past the doctor and out into the corridor. I’ll think of
something. I have to. I may have left Jeremy’s side, but I’m not
going home until I’m sure Leza won’t get her claws into him. Maybe
I can tip off the hospital that Jeremy’s being targeted by the
paparazzi?

I push into the
private pod outside the room, a plan forming in my mind. Talking to
hospital personnel face-to-face is too risky. They’ll probably ask
uncomfortable questions I don’t want to answer. But there’s a
twenty-four-hour patient hotline – I can call from a pay phone (no
chance of tracing my number), and warn the hospital their solid
reputation when it comes to patient privacy is about to be
compromised. A lot of celebs come here for surgery, so they should
take the threat seriously. But what if they don’t? Or, even more
likely, what if they ask for more details before taking action?
After all, they wouldn’t want to disturb a patient by implementing
protective measures without evidence. It’s almost guaranteed I’ll
need to spill the specifics on
Beauty Bits
to be taken
seriously.

If I do,
though, the hospital is bound to tell Jeremy about the column when
he wakes up, to justify the additional security. And when he reads
the posts . . . well, it will be pretty obvious I’m the one behind
it. There are things in there only I could have known.

My heart
clutches as I picture his reaction to the fact that I’m not what he
thought I was; that I tricked him into telling me personal details,
and that those personal details were splattered across the internet
for everyone to see – even if I
did
protect his identity.
And what if Jeremy tells the hospital I was the one behind the
column?

A jab of fear
hits me as I hurry through the corridors, down the lift, and out to
the payphone I’d spotted right outside the hospital entrance. I’ll
come to the hospital early tomorrow morning, before anyone has a
chance to fill him in, and explain everything. Hopefully, somehow,
he’ll see how sorry I am and how much I do care. So much that I
couldn’t carry on writing about him.

No more deals
with the devil. I’m done.

I pull open the
smeared glass door of the telephone booth. Heart thumping, I dial
the patient hotline, then stay on the line as they transfer me to
their emergency communications department for ‘further
investigation’. Just as I suspected, they demand to know more
before agreeing to provide extra security, so I give them the
Beauty Bits
website address and explain that ‘James’ is
really Jeremy. Tapping my fingers against the metal of the phone, I
wait while they check out the site. Finally, they agreed to station
a guard outside Jeremy’s room as soon as possible, and I hang up
before they can ask more questions.

As I push out
of the booth, I still can’t believe what’s happened. Jeremy’s brain
damaged. I’ve quit the column. And tomorrow, I’ll have to face the
man I’ve betrayed and tell him what I’ve done. Moving like a robot,
I somehow manage the short walk back to the flat.

It’s almost
twelve-thirty when I crawl into bed beside Peter, wondering how on
earth I’m ever going to sleep. Every muscle in my body aches with
exhaustion and my head throbs, but whenever I even
think
of
closing my eyes, all I can hear are the awful noises that came from
Jeremy’s mouth when he tried to say his name. I turn over on my
side and the bed jiggles in response.

“Serenity?”

“Sorry,” I
whisper, trying to lie still.

Peter flips on
the light. “Where the hell have you been?”

Uh-oh. I
probably should have called, but it was the last thing on my mind.
“I was at the hospital.”

Sitting up,
Peter rubs a hand over his face. “Until now? Doing what,
exactly?”

What does he
think I’ve been doing, getting my nails done (although I’m sure
they have a manicurist there)?

“Checking on
Jeremy. Did you know he can’t even speak properly? Or move his left
side?”

Peter shakes
his head. “No. I didn’t. But I’ll look at his chart tomorrow.” He
flops down on the pillow and closes his eyes. “Let’s go to sleep.
I’ve another early start in the morning.” He turns off the
light.

I lie there for
a second with my eyes wide open, exhaustion giving way to anger.
I’ve just told Peter that Jeremy’s brain damaged from an operation
he
performed, and he wants to sleep? I flick the light back
on and sit up.

“Don’t you care
at all about Jeremy? He’s your patient.”

Peter makes an
impatient noise. “Actually, Serenity, he’s not. He’s out of my care
now – he’s the responsibility of the neurologist.”

“What, so
you’re washing your hands of him completely?” My words are loud and
angry in the hushed silence of the room.

“No, I’m not
washing my hands of him completely. Jesus, you really don’t know
how these things work, do you? I’m not an expert in neurology. Why
would I even begin to try to treat him? I’ll see how Jeremy’s doing
from time to time, but that’s it. I’ve other surgeries and new
patients to focus on.”

Peter’s
practical tone infuriates me. “So job done, even though you messed
up?” It’s a bit over the top, I know, but I want to prod my
boyfriend into some kind of emotion.

Looks like I’ve
succeeded. When he swings toward me, his face is angrier than I’ve
ever seen it. I jerk away, worried I’ve gone too far.

“I didn’t ‘mess
up’.” Peter jabs his fingers in the air as he says the words. “And
I really resent the implication that I did.”

I stare at him,
feeling strangely detached from the man in front of me. I’ve always
admired the calm, unruffled way he goes through life. But now –
when it comes to people I care about – it doesn’t seem so
admirable.

There’s nothing
I can possibly say, so I lower my head onto the pillow and turn
away.

Light filtering
through the window wakes me from my shallow sleep the next morning.
I stretch out my arms, grateful the torturous night is finally
over. Peering at Peter, I can see his chest rise and fall with soft
snores, and an image of Jeremy’s chest moving up and down in the
confines of his hospital room flashes through my mind.

I slide out of
the covers as quietly as possible, then pull on the heap of clothes
I discarded by the bed last night. It’s still early, but I’ve got
to talk to Jeremy.

Running a brush
through my hair, I jam on my trainers and head out into the street.
The closer I get to the hospital, the more desperate I am to see
him. Guilt and regret mixed with something like hope – hope that we
can begin again, hope that he
will
get better – churn
inside, and I urge my legs to move faster and faster until I’m
practically running.

Finally, I
cross the hospital’s marble foyer and head straight to Jeremy’s
suite on the eighth floor. Funny, there’s no guard. Maybe he’s
inside? I heave open the heavy wooden door, anxious to see if
Jeremy’s awake and if he’s doing better today.

“Jeremy?” My
smile freezes as I take in the empty space with the bed neatly
made. I search for any trace of him, but there’s nothing – it looks
like a hotel room, awaiting the next guest. I glance at my watch:
eight o’clock. Could he be getting the CT scan the doctor told me
about?

Heart beating
fast, I head back into the corridor and race over to the desk.

“Excuse me,” I
say to the nurse, a dead ringer for Cindy Crawford. “I’m looking
for Jeremy Ritchie. Can you tell me where he is?” Maybe he’s been
moved or downgraded to a regular ward.

“One moment,
please.” She smiles coolly at me and taps on the keyboard – I can
hear her fingernails clicking from where I’m standing. Come on, I
say inside my head.
Come on!
With every passing second, I
want to see Jeremy more and more.

“Mr Ritchie
requested a transfer earlier this morning,” she says.

“Requested a
transfer?” I repeat lamely, unable to get my mind around exactly
what that might mean. “Transferred where? Is he all right?”

“He is no
longer in care of this hospital,” the nurse responds, sounding
almost robotic.

“Okay. If you
could give me the address of where he’s been transferred, that
would be great.” I dig out my pen and notepad. Jeremy is stable
enough to be moved, thank goodness. But why would he request a
transfer? Unless . . . I gulp as the answer seeps into my mind.
Unless the communications department has already talked to him
about my column.

Cindy shakes
her head, her long ponytail swooshing back and forth. “I’m sorry.
Communications has left strict instructions not to disclose this
information.”

Oh God. They
have. They’ve talked to him.

“I’m his
sister.” I force a smile as sweat prickles on my forehead. “And I
never heard anything about a transfer. Please, can you just
double-check?”

She gives me a
big fake smile and pretend-clacks a few keys (I know she’s not
typing, because I don’t hear her fingernails clicking). “His file
says absolutely no information is to be released to anyone except
his immediate-care doctors.”

My heart picks
up pace. Maybe Peter can find out where he is. “Is Dr Lycett on
that list?” I hold my breath.

Cindy rolls her
eyes but taps the keyboard. “No. Just Mr Ritchie’s neurologist.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Anything else I can help you with
today?”

Unable to force
a word past the lump in my throat, I shake my head, backing away
from the desk and into the lift. Jeremy’s gone. He’s gone, and he
knows I’ve lied to him; that I’ve betrayed his trust. As the lift
judders downwards, my heart drops along with it, and I grip onto a
steel railing, lightheaded with dismay.

At least . . .
at least if I can’t locate Jeremy, Mia and Leza might not be able
to, either. But I can’t muster up any triumphant feelings. Every
inch – every last fibre of my being – is focused on Jeremy. I’ve
got
to find him to tell him how sorry I am, and that I’m
through with the tabloid.