Construct a Couple by Talli Roland Page A

slimy green drink Mom’s ‘natural remedy’ powder produced. Jeremy gamely forced it down, but he’s certainly not in a hurry for more. “Anyway! Guess what? I’m working on a story with Helen Goodall!”  Okay, so ‘working with’ is a bit of an exaggeration, given I haven’t actually met the woman. But we are collaborating, right?
    “Oooh!” Mom makes an impressed sound. “What’s she like?”
    “Well . . . yeah. She’s great. Exactly what I imagined.” God, how lame can I get? After all the fact-checking, my imagination has packed up and left.
    “That’s just groovy,” Dad says, and I grimace at his favourite word. “We knew you’d be alongside those big reporters one day. Wait until I put this in the alumni newsletter!” I envision him rubbing his hands with glee. “So when will the story be in print? I can’t wait to see your name up with Helen’s!”
    “Um, it’ll just be her name.” Even as I say the words, though, a bubble of hope is growing inside. With the quotes I’ve added, will my name be on there, too?
    “Well, that’s not fair,” Dad says in his let’s-start-a-revolution voice. “Serenity, you need to stand up for your rights! Tell them you’ve played a part in this article. You deserve a by-line.”
    My mouth twitches as I picture Dad holding a hand-painted sign and marching through the newsroom.
     “I’d better get going,” I say, before they ask about the story I’m working on – a huge corporation raking in money is hardly their idea of journalistic glory. Bet Dad wouldn’t protest on my behalf if he knew that.
    “Okay, dear, thanks for calling,” Mom says. “Before you go, we’re heading to a retreat in California for the next couple weeks, over the Easter weekend. We’re going to learn age-old fertility rituals.”
     “Not that we want a baby at this age,” Dad laughs. “But your mother and I can still practise.”
    Oh my God. “Great, great!” I say hastily, before they reveal more details. “Well, you two have fun!”
    “We will, dear.” Cringe. “We’ll call once we’re back home.”
    I hang up, shaking my head to banish all lingering thoughts of my parents engaged in fertility rituals. Ugh. I’ve just pushed through the tube station turnstile when my mobile pings.
    Home now. Can’t wait to see you. Xx
    Oh, yay! Jeremy’s back already – it’s been ages since he finished work this early. One blessedly quick tube ride later, I round the corner to his house. Lights blaze from behind the cheerful white facade and in the cool dampness of the London spring, it looks inviting and warm. A smile spreads on my face as I hurry down the street, fit my key in the door, and yank it open.
    “Jeremy?” I skid down the hallway and into the lounge, not even bothering to take off my shoes or coat.
     “Hey!” Jeremy smiles from where he’s relaxing on the sofa. He pulls me down for a kiss, and my heart lifts when I notice the anxious expression of the past couple weeks has vanished. But although his face is more animated, he still looks terrible: dark rings a Panda would envy circle his sockets, and underneath the naturally tan complexion, he’s pale and washed out.
    “Brilliant day, Ser. You’ll never guess what happened.” His eyes crinkle up at the corners as his smile widens.
    “Um . . . you met the Queen? And she granted your request for Welsh independence?” I joke. Jeremy grew up in Wales, and he’s always going on how it should be a separate country.
    He smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I wish. No, this is even better.” 
    “Okay. So tell me!”
    “I will.” Jeremy rests his head on top of mine, and we stay that way for a few seconds. “First, I want to take you out for dinner. I haven’t forgotten I owe you one.”
    “Are you sure? It’s pretty horrible outside. Maybe we should stay in.” As much as I’d love to eat something other than pasta balls, given how grey his complexion is, it might be better if he keeps