Free Build a Man by Talli Roland Page A

chatting
and working. Chocolate-coloured bamboo work-pods dot the floor.
Inside each, Macs glisten and comfy-looking chairs nestle against
steel desks. Off in the corner there’s a full-on bar, with hundreds
of bottles shining behind backlit glass. Chattering plasma-screen
TVs – tuned into the all-news networks, including my favourite from
back home, E! – fill the space with sound.
    I stand there
for a moment, watching people dash back and forth between the pods.
A rail-thin woman with long red hair swoops by, wearing a leather
skirt and a futuristic top straight off the runway. A longing like
I’ve never known sweeps through me, almost taking away my breath
with its intensity. I’d give anything to work here. Anything.
    “Serenity?” A
loud voice breaks into my thoughts, and I turn.
    “Hi, Leza.” I
recognise her from Botox or Bust , even though she looks like
she’s sloughed off ten years since then. Instantly I know she’s had
the new cosmetic procedure Peter’s been talking about, using
hyaluronic acid to plump up the cheeks. Her blonde hair is even
blonder – almost white – and the make-up plastered over her broad
features is so heavy it would give Katie Price a run for her
money.
    I stick out my
hand, but Leza turns away before she sees it. I let it drop to my
side, feeling my face flame up again. Maybe I should have gone for
the cheek, after all.
    “Come with me.”
Leza beckons me to follow as she weaves between the pods. God, I
had no idea she was so . . . big. They always had her sitting down
on Botox or Bust . I’m small, yes, but she’d tower over even
Peter, and with her heavy-set frame I’m sure she could take him
down, no problem.
    We enter a
narrow conference room with leopard-print seats and Leza closes the
door, fixing me with eyes so blue it can only be down to contacts.
She slides into a chair across from me, retrieves a piece of paper
from the folder she’s carrying, and thumps it on the table.
    “What the fuck
is this?”
    I stare, my
mouth dropping open. Is this some kind of tabloid test? Guess the
size of the paper? Looks like A4 to me . . . I stretch out my hand
and turn it over. Oh.
    “It’s my
column,” I say slowly, the words on the page swimming before my
eyes. I look up at her thunderous expression. Shit.
    “Yeah.” Leza
fishes inside her shirt like she’s searching for buried treasure,
then hauls up a thick black bra-strap. It snaps against her
shoulder but she doesn’t even flinch. “It’s your column. And most
of it is fucking useless. If I wanted a feelgood feature, I’d have
hired a fucking Buddhist to write the story!”
    Her strident
words echo around the small room.
    “I want to know
the pain this man’s feeling. The agony that’s driving him to
get all these operations. You’ve made him look like a little fluffy
bunny all hippity-hoppy happy, off to get surgery for a brand new
life.” Her mouth twists in disgust.
    “Have you ever
heard ‘if it bleeds, it leads’?” she asks me.
    I shake my
head.
    “It’s what we
live by here. Put the suffering, the blood and the guts right up
front. It’s what people really want to see.” She stares at me with
her flinty eyes. “Now, do I need to get an intern to rewrite this,
or can you do it?”
    An intern! “No,
no, I’ll do it,” I babble. “If it bleeds, it leads. Got it.” I’ll
bang it into my head if I need to.
    “Good. Have it
to me in an hour.” She pushes back her chair and strides out.
    I stare at the
paper in front of me. Oh, Jesus. For a second, I feel paralysed.
Can I do this? Can I be a tabloid journalist?
    I take a deep
breath. I can. Of course I can. Remember, if it bleeds, it leads.
The juicier, the better. I knew that, of course I did. It’s just, I
thought what I’d written was juicy. But I’m in the big
leagues now. And if I want to stay here . . .
    I take out a
pen and make a big red slash across my article. Then I start the
task of transforming Jeremy – or James, as I’ve