Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts by Talli Roland Page B

sure where that strange noise is coming from.
    I’M OVER HERE! I want to yell.
    “ I trust you had a pleasant journey?” I say instead, like she’s come from Siberia not Mayfair.
    No response. God, I do wish I’d tracked down that dust bunny.
    “ Oh, bonjour , Doctor,” Madame Lucien says as Peter comes into the reception area. She raises her sunglasses and stands, kissing Peter on both cheeks.
    I shake my head at the transformation in her behaviour. Of course she’s nice to him . Who wouldn’t be? He’s about to inject acids and paralytic bacteria into her face. I’d be nice to Hannibal Lecter if he was going to do that to me.
    “ Come, Madame Lucien.” Peter takes her arm, escorting her into his room as if she’s the Queen. I snort. The Queen of the Botox Bitches, more like.
    As I plonk back down on the stool, my eyes flick to my email and I nearly fall over. There’s a response. From Leza Larke! My heart almost pounds itself right out of my chest, and the Jaffa Cakes I’ve eaten for breakfast shift uncomfortably. Part of me wants to let the email sit there, bolded black, and hang on to the possibility that it could be a yes . The beginning of my tabloid career, right there in my inbox.
    When I can bear it no more, I take a breath and double-click the email.
     
    Interesting. Call me.
     
    I stare at the words, grinning like an idiot. Leza Larke thinks my pitch is interesting. Leza Larke wants me to call her!
    I breathe in a few more times to steady myself then creep down the corridor. Peter’s door is closed and I can hear him telling Madame Lucien not to worry if she can still move her forehead; the Botox may take a while to set. Based on my experience, it’ll be a good ten minutes or so before she’s convinced, so I’m safe to make my call.
    Settling back on the stool, I get out my mobile and punch in the number in Leza’s email signature.
    “ Leza,” a voice barks after one ring.
    “ Hi, Leza? It’s Serenity Holland?” God, I sound like I’m ten.
    “ Who?”
    “ Um, I just sent you a pitch? About the man and cosmetic surgery . . .” My voice trails off.
    “ Oh yes. Sounds interesting. Here’s what I’m thinking.”
    My heart is beating so fast I can barely take in her bullet-like phrases.
    “ We’re launching a health and beauty website called Beauty Bits on Friday, and we still need content. I’d like you to write a column on this man; follow his progress. A blow-by-blow account of the whole thing.”
    “ Okay!” I squeak. Breathe. Breathe .
    “ I want you to write about more than the surgery stuff. This man will undergo an all-round transformation, courtesy of our readers.”
    “ Courtesy of our readers?” I echo, wondering what she means.
    “ Yeah. We’ll use polls to have them choose what this bloke does to himself. Dress him up in a tux, design his stubble, cut his hair, whatever. They’ll select his new body parts, too. We’ll let them think that, anyway – don’t worry too much about what he actually does; that doesn’t matter. It’s all about having the readers feel like they’re in control. We’ll call the column Build a Man .”
    “ Wow. Great idea.” Now I sound like a bleating goat.
    “ We don’t have a budget for freelancers. So you won’t be paid. But if your columns get a lot of hits and you can keep up the pace, we may consider you for a junior position on staff.”
    “ That’s fine. That’s awesome! Thank you.” I’m practically panting down the phone as visions of my byline float through my head.
    “ I’ll send you the details; have our online editor get in touch to talk about word count and technical specs. We’ll see how the first column goes and take it from there. Get this man to talk about why he wants a makeover, his background and history. Oh, and make sure to get his measurements, too, so we can do a before and after graph. Can you get me the text by Thursday?”
    I gulp. It’s Tuesday now, and Jeremy won’t be in again until next