Free Build a Man by Talli Roland

pounding.
All this subterfuge is doing my head in – either that or it’s the
wine from last night.
    Sliding off the
stool, I walk down the corridor to Peter’s office. “Peter? Can I
talk to you?”
    “Sure.” He
points to the chair across from his desk. For a second I almost
feel like a patient.
    “I’m really
sorry. I just remembered I forgot to feed Smitty his
medication.”
    Peter’s head
snaps up from the computer screen. “You what ? Serenity, it’s
almost half past twelve now! You were supposed to give him the meds
hours ago. This could have a severe impact on his mental condition
and the dosage level in his system.”
    “I know,” I
respond gravely, but I can’t help wondering what planet Peter’s on.
Smitty is a cat , not a psychiatric patient. Back home, our
cats were lucky if they got de-wormed, let alone fed Prozac. “I
feel terrible.”
    “Well, you’d
better get back home. I can handle reception until you return.”
Peter turns to the computer, dismissing me.
    “There are only
a couple appointments anyway.” Relief at my easy getaway floods
through me as I back toward the open doorway. “Just check the
schedule, and go out to reception to collect the women when it’s
time.”
    “Fine, fine.”
Peter waves one hand in the air and clicks the mouse with the
other. “It’s hardly rocket science, is it?”
    Irritation
sweeps over me as I rush out front. I’d love to tell Peter I’m on
my way to bigger and better things, but I squash down the desire.
Peter wouldn’t think a tabloid is a ‘better thing’, anyway.
    I scribble down
the address of The Daily Planet , then push out of the clinic
without a backward glance. Time to meet the maker or breaker of my
dreams.
    One hot and
sweaty Tube ride later – I’m always amazed how many people are on
the Tube during the day; don’t they have jobs to go to? – I emerge,
blinking into the light of Notting Hill Gate. A chip wrapper swirls
into the air and smacks into my face. I push it away, hoping I
don’t have the remains of chips in my hair. I like salt ‘n’ vinegar
as much as the next girl (possibly more), but it’s not the kind of
look I want when I first meet Leza.
    All the way
down the Central Line, I rehearsed scenarios in my head. Now that
I’m here, though, my brain has gone into fuzzy-TV-screen mode. I
wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, praying the clamminess doesn’t
have time to seep back again before I shake hands. Or will I even
shake hands? Maybe I should kiss; that’s what all the media people
do, right? One cheek or two? My heart starts pounding again.
    Ah, here it is.
I stop in front of a modern glass and steel building, exactly what
I envisioned in my tabloid dreams. Tugging open the door, I walk
into the light and airy reception area. Modern art lines the walls
– the kind that makes me feel dumb because as hard as I try, I just
can’t see how it’s art – and water cascades silently behind the
reception desk.
    “Hi!” I say to
a perfectly groomed man, my voice echoing around the foyer. “I’m
here to see Leza Larke. I have an appointment at one.” Gosh, I
sound so official, don’t I? A real journalist, meeting with one of
London’s top editors.
    “Here.” The man
slaps a crimson ‘Visitor’ sticker on the counter. “Fill this out.
Leza’s on the fifth floor. I’ll tell her you’re on the way.”
    “Great,
thanks.” I scrawl my name then fix the badge on the waistband of my
skirt, attempting to minimise its impact. Striding over to the
lift, I do a few deep-breathing exercises to try to ‘feel my core’,
just like I saw on late-night TV. But my core feels kind of queasy
and the more in touch with it I am, the worse I feel.
    Fifth floor. I
wipe my hands on my skirt – again – as the lift doors open.
    My jaw drops.
In front of me is the office of my dreams, like something out of Ugly Betty , only better. In the middle of the floor,
lime-green couches form a cosy circle where people sit,