Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts (12 page)

For once, though, I don’t mind being rushed – I’m dying to check my inbox. I flick on the computer, nervously tapping my nails on the desk as it boots up.
Please please please
, I chant, clicking on Outlook and holding my breath. This could be it. The pot of gold at the end of my pitch rainbow.

But . . . I let out my breath. There’s nothing.
Nothing
. Not even spam. Disappointment floods into me, and I slump onto the stool. I was so sure this was the pitch that would launch me straight to my dream job.

Maybe everyone’s right, I sigh, clicking open the patient schedule. Maybe I should give up, focus on a real career. Join the pasty-faced zombies I see every morning on the street lurching toward the Tube.

I give my head a little shake to clear the depressing thought.

“
Dream it, live it,”
I whisper,
repeating my mother’s favourite mantra. Whenever I was faced with anything I doubted, Mom would smile, throw back her braids, and repeat those words over and over.

Dream it, live it. I’m not going to give up. All I need is just one foot in the door. If Leza doesn’t respond by the end of the day, there’s always
Metro.
I try to push down the hard knot of disappointment, heart sinking even more as I spot that the first patient today is none other than the hideous Madame Lucien (or Madame Lucifer, as I like to call her). I’m
so
not in the mood for her antics. If there’s a speck of dust that dares settle on a nearby surface, she sputters like she’s going to throw up a lung, rolling her eyes back into her head in a most unattractive way. Peter had to tell her to stop hacking so much or her recent ear-pinning might come loose.

But the funniest thing is, she refuses to acknowledge my existence – even to pay!

She swans in, gets Botoxed to the eyeballs, then walks out without even looking at me. The first time it happened, I chased her into the street, banging on the dark windows of her car. She rolled down the window and – eyes firmly fixed on a spot over my shoulder – told me to take up ‘the matter’ with her assistant. My jaw nearly hit the ground. Back in Harris, we call that
stealing
.

Still, she can provide a bit of entertainment. I try my best sometimes to hunt down a mega dust-bunny, strategically place it just peeping out from under the sofa, then await the explosion. And I always ask her to pay – loudly, exaggerating my accent – even though she totally blanks me each time.

What can I say? It’s the little things that get me through the day.

After Madame Lucien, I’ll have a bit of a breather, perfect for reading my favourite websites:
Gawker
,
Heat
,
The Daily Planet
, and, of course,
Metro
. If I’m feeling more upmarket I might hit
Hello!
and maybe click onto the
Guardian
and
The New York Times
so I can feel my university degree wasn’t in vain.

The door opens and in sweeps Madame Lucien, wearing her ridiculously large dark glasses. She walks right by me and sinks into a chair at the far end of the waiting room. Of course she can’t breathe the same air as me.

“
Hello, Madame Lucien!” I say, smiling like I’ve just devoured a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes. The bigger the Botox Bitch, the sweeter I try to be. It’s my passive-aggressive way of showing they won’t break me.

Madame Lucien lifts her head a fraction of an inch and gives it a little shake, like she’s not quite sure where that strange noise is coming from.

I’M OVER HERE! I want to yell.

“
I trust you had a pleasant journey?” I say instead, like she’s come from Siberia not Mayfair.

No response. God, I do wish I’d tracked down that dust bunny.

“
Oh,
bonjour
, Doctor,” Madame Lucien says as Peter comes into the reception area. She raises her sunglasses and stands, kissing Peter on both cheeks.

I shake my head at the transformation in her behaviour. Of course she’s nice to
him
. Who wouldn’t be? He’s about to inject acids and paralytic bacteria into her face. I’d be nice to Hannibal Lecter if he was going to do that to me.

“
Come, Madame Lucien.” Peter takes her arm, escorting her into his room as if she’s the Queen. I snort. The Queen of the Botox Bitches, more like.

As I plonk back down on the stool, my eyes flick to my email and I nearly fall over. There’s a response. From Leza Larke! My heart almost pounds itself right out of my chest, and the Jaffa Cakes I’ve eaten for breakfast shift uncomfortably. Part of me wants to let the email sit there, bolded black, and hang on to the possibility that it could be a
yes
. The beginning of my tabloid career, right there in my inbox.

When I can bear it no more, I take a breath and double-click the email.

Interesting. Call me.

I stare at the words, grinning like an idiot. Leza Larke thinks my pitch is interesting. Leza Larke wants me to call her!

I breathe in a few more times to steady myself then creep down the corridor. Peter’s door is closed and I can hear him telling Madame Lucien not to worry if she can still move her forehead; the Botox may take a while to set. Based on my experience, it’ll be a good ten minutes or so before she’s convinced, so I’m safe to make my call.

Settling back on the stool, I get out my mobile and punch in the number in Leza’s email signature.

“
Leza,” a voice barks after one ring.

“
Hi, Leza? It’s Serenity Holland?” God, I sound like I’m ten.

“
Who?”

“
Um, I just sent you a pitch? About the man and cosmetic surgery . . .” My voice trails off.

“
Oh yes. Sounds interesting. Here’s what I’m thinking.”

My heart is beating so fast I can barely take in her bullet-like phrases.

“
We’re launching a health and beauty website called
Beauty Bits
on Friday, and we still need content. I’d like you to write a column on this man; follow his progress. A blow-by-blow account of the whole thing.”

“
Okay!” I squeak. Breathe.
Breathe
.

“
I want you to write about more than the surgery stuff. This man will undergo an all-round transformation, courtesy of our readers.”

“
Courtesy of our readers?” I echo, wondering what she means.

“
Yeah. We’ll use polls to have them choose what this bloke does to himself. Dress him up in a tux, design his stubble, cut his hair, whatever. They’ll select his new body parts, too. We’ll let them think that, anyway – don’t worry too much about what he actually does; that doesn’t matter. It’s all about having the readers
feel
like they’re in control. We’ll call the column
Build a Man
.”

“
Wow. Great idea.” Now I sound like a bleating goat.

“
We don’t have a budget for freelancers. So you won’t be paid. But if your columns get a lot of hits and you can keep up the pace, we
may
consider you for a junior position on staff.”

“
That’s fine. That’s awesome! Thank you.” I’m practically panting down the phone as visions of my byline float through my head.

“
I’ll send you the details; have our online editor get in touch to talk about word count and technical specs. We’ll see how the first column goes and take it from there. Get this man to talk about why he wants a makeover, his background and history. Oh, and make sure to get his measurements, too, so we can do a before and after graph. Can you get me the text by Thursday?”

I gulp. It’s Tuesday now, and Jeremy won’t be in again until next week. Still, I’ve got his phone number on the client sheet. I’ll get him on-board somehow. I’ve got to. “Yes, that’s fine. No problem.”

“
Great. Oh, and I think it’s best if you don’t tell him you’ll be writing about him,” Leza says. ‘To let him fully engage with you.”

“
Um, what do you mean, don’t tell him?” I ask tentatively. How can I interview someone without them knowing?

Leza makes an impatient noise. “You know, go undercover. Just say – well, I don’t care what you say; that’s your problem. Look, for this column to work, you need him to let down his guard and give you intimate access.”

My cheeks flush at ‘intimate access’ and I nod before realising she can’t see me.

“
And sometimes, if people find out you’re writing about them, they get greedy and ask for cash. We don’t
have
cash. You’ll need to write under a different name, of course. Keep the clinic confidential, too. The last thing we want is another lawsuit.” She hangs up before I can say anything more.

Oh my God.
Oh my God!
I’m going to be a reporter for
The Daily Planet
. I’ll have my own column! Okay, it’s not print. It’s not paid. And since I’ll be undercover, I won’t have a byline in my own name. But I could eventually.

A thrill of excitement and nerves hits me as I think about going undercover, and an image of me in a cute fedora and trench coat goes through my mind. Serenity Holland, working incognito, to get the inside scoop on surgery . . . and stuff.
Awesome
.

Thank God I won’t need to get Jeremy – or Peter – to agree to this. I’m sure they both would have, of course, but I’ll keep everything anonymous. If I’m careful, there’s no way anyone will be able to identify Peter, Jeremy or the clinic. And ‘careful’ will be my new middle name. Anything’s better than Joy.

Determination floods through me, and I grip onto the desk to steady myself. This is it – the beginning of my dream.

Bring on
Build a Man
.

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