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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.

CHAPTER
FOUR

     
    It’s six
o’clock, and the clinic is empty and silent. Today has been the
longest ever, and when your typical workday feels like you’ve been
forced to endure Schindler's List a good twenty times,
that’s really saying something. I’m desperate for a bit of head
space to cook up a scheme to meet Jeremy. Every time a second of
quiet descended, though, a Botox Bitch walked in, poking at her
face like it was damaged goods and demanding to see the doctor.
    One woman even
had an anxiety attack as she explained how a freckle on her nose
caused her husband’s affair. As if. I almost told her it’s because
she’s psycho, but I held my tongue. I need this job now for my
column.
    I hug myself
and shiver with glee. My column. I’ve got a column! If I can
construct a plausible story to gain ‘intimate access’ to Jeremy,
that is. My cheeks heat up again at the words.
    “Ready to head
out?” Peter emerges from the consulting room carrying his suit
jacket and wearing a crisp white shirt, all ready to meet up with
the other cosmeticians. A cloud of Hugo Boss cologne surrounds
him.
    “You look
great,” I say. Between working with him and living together, it’s
easy to forget how handsome he is, in a dignified, ‘I’m-a-doctor’
sort of way. With his perfectly cut dark hair and strong, even
features, he could step right into one of those sitcoms featuring
the perfect husband. The thing is, he really is the perfect
husband – or partner, anyway. I’m the one who’s always messing up,
forgetting the milk and leaving things lying all over the place.
He’s so organised and controlled, whereas I, well, I’m a bit of a
walking tornado, no matter how hard I try to be otherwise. You’d
think after almost six months together, I’d have got more of a grip
on myself by now.
    I shake my
head. Sometimes, I can’t believe we’re actually together . My
mind flips back to our first kiss, right here behind the reception
desk. Peter had wanted to get a closer look at the skin by my eyes
to see how it was aging (yes, so romantic, I know. You don’t see
that in the movies). I remember the smoothness of his hand as he
cupped my chin; his lemony cologne filling my nostrils . . . the
warmth of his lips on mine. I’d almost pulled back in shock – this
was my boss, after all. I could hardly believe such an accomplished
man would be interested in me, Serenity Holland from Harris. But he
was, and our kisses progressed to ‘making sweet music with our
bodies’, as Mom would say. Even though our relationship rarely left
the confines of the clinic or Peter’s flat, I’d been heady with
excitement at a burgeoning romance with a posh, successful British
man.
    When Peter had
noticed me looking at flat listings on the internet a few weeks
later (I’d already crashed at Kirsty’s far longer than I should
have), he suggested I move in with him until I found something
suitable. I’d jumped at the chance, of course. Moving in seemed so
grown-up, and I couldn’t get my stuff there quickly enough. It was
a slight adjustment at first; I think Peter believed I was
the same relatively tidy, efficient person outside the clinic as I
was inside. Not wanting to burst his bubble, I tried very hard to
put everything in its place and contain my inner slob. Anyway, I
wanted to be as organised and controlled as Peter. That was what
being a real adult was all about, right? Several months later, and
I’m still there. Short-term