Build a Man by Talli Roland

hands.
    He shrugs.
“Yeah. I really enjoy renovating, making something new out of the
old. Kind of like me.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “How about a
bite first, and then we can get started?”
    “I thought you
had to be on the road by eight?” I sneak a peek at my watch. Not
that I want to cut our session short, but something in Kirsty’s
tone was unsettling and I need to be sure she’s okay. “Maybe we
should get started now.”
    Jeremy’s face
drops. “But I made us some bruschetta and tomato soup. I thought
you might be hungry after work.”
    How sweet! He
builds, he bakes – why on earth can’t he find someone? My tummy
moans loudly at the thought of food, and Jeremy laughs.
    “You might not
want to eat, but your stomach does. Come on.” He pads into the
kitchen. Telling myself it’ll be a good chance to get more
background info, I follow him and take a seat at an old wooden
table. It’s large, clunky and scarred, contrasting with the modern
surroundings.
    “Interesting
table,” I say to fill the silence that’s descended as Jeremy gets
the food ready.
    “Yeah, it was
my grandmother’s. She had a proper big kitchen, and it looked just
right there. Whenever I visited, I used to climb onto it and watch
her cook. She actually taught me how to bake. When she died, I
moved the table down here. Every time I sit there, it reminds me of
her.”
    My heart melts
and I run my hand along the grooved wood, imagining Jeremy with his
gran in an old country kitchen up in . . . where?
    “So where did
your grandmother live? Are you from London?” I really need to get
more detail on him.
    “Gran lived in
Wales all her life,” Jeremy says, placing a tray of bruschetta on
the table, then ladling thick tomato soup into a bowl in front of
me. God, it smells divine. Mom used to make it all the time, and
there’s something about the scent that reminds me of feeling all
warm and snug on a cold winter’s day.
    “So what do you
do?” I ask, before biting into the bruschetta. It’s blunt, I know,
but there aren’t many ways to frame that question. And I’m super
curious now. This house must have cost at least two million, if not
more. How does someone as young – and nice and normal – as
Jeremy come into that kind of money? Maybe he’s one of those exiled
princes from . . . Wales. Do the Welsh have royalty? Diana was
Princess of Wales, right? Prince Jeremy. Has a nice ring to it.
    Jeremy smiles.
“To be honest, I’m not doing much at the moment. Just puttering
around, working on a few property redevelopments, you know.”
    I nod like I do know, but he still hasn’t answered my question. Now’s not
the time to dig, though; I’ll get to that later once I’ve got my
hands on his wardrobe. We finish our soup and bread, Jeremy
chatting all the while about the house and how he saved it from
demolition. When the dishes are cleared, I get out my notepad and
pencil, along with the recorder.
    “So,” I say in
a business-like tone, signalling it’s time to get started. I look
at my watch. God, it’s already seven-fifteen and we haven’t even
begun. I fire off another quick text to Kirsty: On my way! Be
there in 45 . If I go fast, it’s possible. Maybe.
    “Ready to begin
wardrobe therapy?” I paste an I-know-what-I’m-doing look on my
face, even though quite honestly, Jeremy would be better off taking
fashion advice from Marilyn Manson. At least he has a definite
look.
    “Let’s get this
show on the road.” Jeremy wipes his hands on a tea towel. “I’m
ready for a whole new me.”
    “Great. To
start, I’ll need to assess your current wardrobe.” I stand and face
him, noticing how he’s the perfect height for me to stare into
those big green eyes without needing a neck brace afterwards.
    “Okay. We’ll
have to go upstairs, to the bedroom.” A hint of red tinges his
cheeks and I can feel mine colouring up, too.
    “Perfect. I
can’t wait to see it. Your wardrobe, I mean, not your bedroom.