Build a Man by Talli Roland Page A

Not
that I don’t want to see your bedroom. I mean, as a life advisor,
it offers many key signals to your aspirations.” Oh, Jesus. What
the hell am I saying? My cheeks are flaming now and I duck
into the lounge to grab the shopping bags, praying my face returns
to normal.
    When I no
longer resemble an overripe strawberry, I head back to the kitchen.
“Lead the way.”
    I follow Jeremy
up a narrow staircase – trying not to focus on the nicely shaped
bottom in front of me – and into a spacious room. A puffy,
comfy-looking duvet covers a massive bed. The cream walls are bare,
and even though the room feels lived in and warm, there’s nothing
to give any hint about Jeremy’s personal life. Guess he really does
want to start over fresh.
    Settling onto
the soft bed (there’s nowhere else to sit!), I hit the record
button and position my notepad on my lap.
    “Session two,
wardrobe therapy,” I say gravely into the recorder, like I’ve seen
all good TV therapists do. “Okay, well, the first thing we’ll do is
examine your wardrobe in its present condition.”
    “Sure.” Jeremy
squeezes past me to a small wardrobe in the corner, then slides
open its door. “There’s not really that much to see, though.” He
indicates the rows of T-shirts and jeans, which I’m pleased to note
are every bit as jumbled as my own back at Peter’s.
    I glance down
at my pad, thankful I’d written a few questions. For some reason,
my head feels a bit fuzzy. “And what do you think your clothing
says about you, Jeremy?”
    He thumbs
through a few T-shirts and shrugs. “Um . . . I like to be
comfortable?”
    Nothing wrong
with that, I almost respond before remembering I’m supposed to be
making him over. What is it that Peter always says?
    “You need to
dress how you want others to perceive you,” I state
authoritatively, echoes of Peter’s voice when he coerced me into
wearing high heels at the clinic ringing through my head. I’m not
quite sure what impact wearing high heels has on people’s
perception of me, but at least they can see me over the desk
now.
    Jeremy raises
his eyebrows, shooting my grubby trainers a look. “Okay. So what do
those shoes say about you, then?”
    I’ve got
bunions from wearing stupid high heels? I respond inside my
head.
    “We’re not here
to discuss me,” I say primly, tucking my feet under the bed. I
glance down at my notepad again. “Has your wardrobe ever
contributed to a relationship breakdown?” Trying not to appear too
eager for dirt, I stroke my chin to channel my inner Dr Phil.
    Jeremy
grimaces. “Well, I can’t say Julia was too keen on my
T-shirts.”
    “Julia?” I
motion for him to keep talking.
    “Yeah. I was
with her for almost two years. We met at the property development
company I was working in at the time. Straight away, I fell for
her.” A distant look comes into his eyes. “I know that sounds
wanky, but it’s true. She was gorgeous – tall and blonde, the kind
of woman other men stare at on the street. I was so proud to be
with her.”
    Bitch, I think
automatically. Tall blonde women just bring out that response.
    “She was smart,
too. Just . . . together.”
    Now I really
hate her. Smart and beautiful. “So what happened?” I
ask.
    Jeremy shuts
the wardrobe door with force. “About six months ago, we decided it
wasn’t working any longer. She’d moved on to other interests.” His
face twists.
    There’s
definitely something he isn’t telling me. “Other interests?”
    “She wanted to
go into a new side of property development. We drifted apart. You
know how it is.” His face is shuttered and closed now.
    I don’t know
how it is, actually. I’ve never had a relationship longer than six
months (Peter) and you can’t really drift apart in six months, can
you?
    “And has there
been anyone since Julia?” Hideous name. Jeremy and Julia – the
cutesiness of it makes me want to spew my soup.
    “A few here and
there.” He waves a hand dismissively.