Read Online Build a Man by Talli Roland - Free Book Online Page B

is
shallow and vacant, and we should look inside ourselves for
validation. I had no idea what she was talking about then, and even
now I’m not sure.
    Mom and Dad
won’t know The Daily Planet is a tabloid, though. They
wouldn’t recognise one if it walked up to them and introduced
itself. Heck, until I saved enough for a TV in my room (no way
would anyone accuse me of being a freak ever again), the only bit
of pop culture in our house was an ancient, scratched record by
John Lennon.
    “It’s called The Daily Planet ,” I say finally, grateful for once for the
distance between us. They’ll never be able to find out what it
really is.
    “ The Daily
Planet ,” Mom repeats in a reverential tone.
    “What’s the
paper’s political leanings?” Dad asks.
    “Um . . .
socialist.” The Daily Planet is sort of socialist, isn’t it?
It’s about society and all. “But my column’s not going to be in the
paper itself,” I add, before they ask me to send a thousand copies.
“It’ll be on a website.” Thank goodness my parents don’t own a
computer.
    “That’s just
groovy,” Dad says. I cringe at his use of the word – no matter how
many times I tell him it’s a cliché, he won’t stop saying it. “Your
mother and I are so happy you’re doing your part for the
cause.”
    “Yeah,” I
respond weakly, hoping they don’t find out exactly what part I’m
playing.
    Peter walks by
the desk, grimacing when he spots me on the phone. My heart starts
thumping and I cast a sidelong glance to see if he’s overheard
anything. His nose is buried in a patient file, and he doesn’t even
turn my way. God, I’ve got to remember to be careful.
    “I should go,”
I say, using Peter as an excuse to hang up before my parents ask
for more details. I tell them I’ll call later, and say goodbye.
Somehow, all my excitement at sharing the big news has faded
away.
    Sighing, I turn
back to the computer. They will be proud of me, once I
really make it big. And maybe then, I can even write a few articles
on homeless people or . . . whatever the burning social issues of
the day are here in London. Strange – I can name almost all the
members of the British Royal Family and Elton John’s pet dogs, but
I have no idea what challenges face the nation’s citizens.
    At least Kirsty
knows what a massive break this is for me, landing a column on a
tabloid’s website – unpaid or not. She’ll understand I need to do
whatever it takes to make it happen. I’m dying to call her, but
this kind of thing demands a face-to-face, and I can’t risk Peter
walking by again. He wants to watch some TV programme tonight about
a king who had eight wives, so instead of hanging around feeling
bored and drinking too much wine, I’ll head over to her house.
    I’ve just
slurped down my tasty lunch of Pot Noodles when my email pings. My
heart jumps when I spot Leza Larke’s name in the inbox.
    I click on the
message.
     
    Come see me
this afternoon. I’m free at one.
     
    Shit. SHIT!
What does this mean? She hates my column? I’m through before I’ve
begun? Or she loves it and my dream is about to come true? My eyes
flick to the signature of her email. Her office is all the way over
in Notting Hill Gate. There’s no question – I need to get there.
But how can I leave here?
    I glance at the
appointment schedule. There’s a patient at one for Botox, and
another at one-thirty for hyaluronic acid injections, then no one
again until three. Peter can handle it, I’m sure. I just need to
come up with a plausible excuse. I could say . . . I have cramps?
But no, Peter knows I’m nowhere near my period. Stupid
BlackBerry.
    The only thing
I can think of is Smitty. If I say I forgot to feed him – or even
worse, I neglected to mix his anti-anxiety medication into his
stinky food – Peter might let me leave. Then, once I’m free,
I can make up something about why it took me so long to get back
here. I press my fingers to my temples to try to ease the