Read Build a Man for Free Online

I
amble over to the kitchen and grab a handful of Jaffa Cakes.
Hastily chomping through their orangey goodness, I clear my throat,
pick up my cheapo plastic mobile, and call Jeremy’s number. As an
official reporter now, I really should get one of those fancy
iPhones.
    “Hello?”
Jeremy’s voice interrupts all thoughts of a shiny new gadget.
    “Hi, Jeremy.
It’s Serenity Holland, from the clinic.” I try to make my voice
smooth and professional, but an errant Jaffa crumb makes me
sputter. I hold my hand over the phone and cough to dislodge
it.
    “Oh, yes. Is
something wrong? Do you need more information?”
    Suddenly I
don’t want to launch into my Transforma Life sales pitch over the
phone. It would be more convincing in person, right?
    “Um, yes,
actually,” I fib, guilt pinging my gut. “It would be better to meet
up. Are you free this evening?”
    “Yes, I’m
free.” Jeremy’s voice is glum. “What time should I come by the
clinic?”
    Oh, shit.
“We’re having some work done there tonight,” I say, wondering where
on earth that lie sprang from, “so we’ve closed early. Can you meet
me at Providores on Marylebone High Street?” Providores is my and
Kirsty’s favourite haunt. They’ve got great tapas and lots of good
wine. That should help Jeremy relax, settle into the idea. “Say,
around eight?”
    “Sure.” He
sounds a bit brighter. “See you there soon.”
    I hang up and
throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, exactly what Jeremy was
wearing yesterday. It’s a mirroring technique Kirsty taught me, way
back when I actually thought at least one tabloid would call
me for an interview. Dress how you think your interviewer will
dress; mimic their actions. If they touch their chin, you touch
yours. And so on. I draw the line if Jeremy scratches his groin,
though.
    After pouring
some organic food mixed with meds in a bowl for Smitty, I slip on
my favourite trainers. It’s seven-thirty, and I want to get to
Providores before Jeremy. Claim the space, assert my dominance –
another tip from Kirsty, that time in relation to blind dating. I
went through a blind-dating phase when I first moved to London, in
a desperate bid to widen my social circle beyond Kirsty and Tim.
After two weeks and five dates – one with a man who turned up
lugging an antique bow and a full set of arrows – I discovered the
London blind-dating scene is full of lunatics.
    Thank God for
Peter, I think, shaking my head. Who would have thought I’d end up
with a doctor? My last boyfriend worked in a corner store on Main
Street – not that there’s anything wrong with that, but when your
number one ambition is selling last Easter’s Cadbury Creme Eggs, it might be time to move on. Last I heard, he’d been promoted
to night manager.
    I race out of
the building and down to Marylebone High Street, past the Waitrose
where I once spotted Alan Rickman (so hot, even if he does play an
evil teacher) and open the door to the cosy confines of Providores.
To my surprise, Jeremy’s already there, hunched over a magazine,
with an almost-empty bottle of wine on the table. He doesn’t waste
time, does he?
    “Hello.” I
swing into the chair opposite him, knocking the table by accident.
The bottle of wine sways back and forth in slow motion before
tipping over and spilling its contents into Jeremy’s lap.
    “Oh my God! I’m
so sorry.” I stand and pull some tissue from my bag, pressing it
down hard on his thighs to try to absorb as much wine as possible
from his jeans.
    Well done, I
berate myself. Sneaking a look at Jeremy’s face, I almost do a
double-take when I realise he’s smiling. If it was Peter, he’d be
ready to kill me right about now.
    “It’s okay,
it’s okay.” Jeremy takes the tissue from my hand and gently pushes
me away from his crotch area. (That’s a first.) “Just relax. It’ll
dry.”
    “I’m so sorry,”
I babble. “Do you want me to grab a cloth for you? You should get
as much out as you