Original Cyn (14 page)

“See, you do feel something,” she said gently, realizing his eyes were filling up. She reached out and placed her hand on top of his.

“Sorry, I don’t usually get like this. Now I’ve embarrassed you.”

“Hey, no, you haven’t. Not remotely.”

When they got outside, the rain had stopped and Cyn said she could quite easily catch the bus from there. He wouldn’t hear of it and insisted on taking her the rest of the way.

On the way home, he seemed much more cheerful and they started telling each other daft jokes. “I’ve got a good one,” he said. “What’s the difference between ordinary therapy and group therapy?”

Cyn shook her head.

“They supply bunk beds instead of couches.”

“That is dreadful,” she said, but it made her laugh. Soon the conversation got round to comedy in general. She told him that Woody Allen was her all-time top stand-up.

“Mine, too.” She shot him a doubtful look. “No, this time I’m not kidding.” He explained that he had spent a year working in New York after he graduated from the London College of Printing and started buying old records of Woody Allen doing stand-up. “Have you heard the moose routine?”

“Heard it?” She laughed. “I practically know it by heart.” She told him that her father was a huge Woody Allen fan. “If he wasn’t listening to John Lennon or the cricket, it was Woody. He used to joke that since he didn’t know the man, it was overly familiar to shorten his name and refer to him as Woody. He always insisted on calling him Wooden.”

Joe laughed. “So he loved the moose routine?”

“It was his favorite.”

“The moose mingled!” they shouted out simultaneously, then cracked up. Joe was wiping his eyes.

“The Berkovitzes,” he continued, “who were wearing a moose suit, win and the moose . . .” He could barely contain himself, “. . . the moose comes second.” They were both roaring now.

By the time they reached Cyn’s flat they were had moved on to British comedy. They agreed that
The Office
was cringe-makingly hysterical, that
Fawlty Towers
was the funniest British sitcom ever and that a special Nobel Prize category should be invented for Eddie Izzard. They couldn’t agree on the funniest film ever. Cyn said it was
Some Like It Hot,
Joe insisted it was
Life of Brian
.

“You know,” he said as they pulled up outside her flat, “I’ve really enjoyed this evening.”

“Me, too. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.”

“Me neither.” His soft brown eyes were locked on hers. She wondered if he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss him.

“So,” Cyn said, “I guess I’ll see you in therapy next week.”

“I guess.”

He looked like he was psyching himself up to say something. Maybe he was about to suggest they went out again. What would she say? Would she just sod Veronica’s rule and say yes?

He interrupted her thoughts. “Right, well, bye, then,” he said.

She felt a wave of disappointment. “OK, see ya.” She opened the car door and slid out. He leaned across and wound down the passenger window. “By the way,” he grinned, “don’t forget to look up
caterwaulings
in the dictionary.”

“You bet I won’t,” she said.

He gave a final wave and drove off.

As soon as she got in, she went hunting for her Scrabble dictionary. Naturally,
caterwaulings
was listed. She felt irritated at being proven wrong, but at the same time, curiously turned on.

Chapter 10

No sooner had Cyn arrived at the office than her phone started ringing. It was Chelsea to say that despite Cyn’s reassurances that everybody at Droolin’ Dream knew she was in hospital, she couldn’t bear being out of contact. Since Gary Rossiter was away she had just phoned his boss at Droolin’ Dream to promise him she would be back on the case the moment she was better. Cyn nearly choked on her chococcino muffin. She felt the color drain from her face. The game was up. “I see,” Cyn said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “So now you know, I suppose the two of us have some talking to do.”

“Now I know what?” Chelsea said briskly. “What talking do we have to do?”

“Sorry, I thought you said you’d spoken to Gary Rossiter’s boss.”

“No, I said I’d called him. He wasn’t there and this ditz brain woman on the switchboard had no idea where he was.”

“He wasn’t? She didn’t? God, that’s fantastic.”

“What? How is it fantastic?”

“Sorry, no, sorry, I didn’t mean that. It isn’t at all fantastic. It’s appalling. Bloody useless switchboard operators—complete pains in the arse.”

“Cyn, you seem a bit wired. Are you OK?”

“Time of the month,” Cyn blurted. “Brain meltdown. Be fine when I’ve had some chocolate.”

“You know I have this wonderful herbalist.” (She pronounced it ’erbalist in the faux French way Americans prefer and which drives British people insane.) “I’m sure she could help you. I could give her a call if you want. It’s no problem, I have her on speed dial. And since you mention it, I couldn’t help noticing once or twice that you seem to suffer from premenstrual bloating. Maybe she could give you something for that, too.”

Waddabitch. Apart from the occasional postcurry distension, Cyn’s stomach was always flat and firm—even though she did say so herself. Teeth, buttocks and hair clenched, Cyn told Chelsea that she was touched by her concern, but she would rather soldier on.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

Cyn said she was. “Look, don’t worry, I know where Gary Rossiter’s boss is.” Know
where
he was? Bloody hell, she didn’t even know
who
he was.

“Great, I was hoping you might. That’s why I’m calling.”

Cyn needed to think fast. She had to get Chelsea off the scent. She couldn’t let her make contact with anybody at Droolin’ Dream. OK, so where was Gazza’s boss. Where? Think?

“He’s er . . . he’s in the States.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Droolin’ Dream is trying to take over Krispy Kreme. It’s all incredibly hush-hush. Nobody is meant to know. Apparently he and the Krispy Kreme people are holed up at some hotel out in the wilds. The negotiations are so delicate that he’s instructed people not to contact him.”

“That’s totally absurd. First you tell me Gary Rossiter is walking in the Himalayas and now his boss has disappeared, too, and can’t be reached. What about his PA?”

“I think she’s on leave until he gets back.”

“This is total BS. How can these people go out of contact like this and still call themselves businessmen? You know what? I’m going to speak to their chairman.”

Please. God. No. Cyn swallowed hard.

“Look, Chelsea, you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing. Everybody at Droolin’ Dream knows you’re out of action and, like I told you on the phone the other day, Gary doesn’t want to put any pressure on you.”

“Really?” She was starting to calm down. “He said that?”

“Absolutely. They are all concerned about you and just want you to get better.”

“Well, I have to admit that’s very sweet.” As Chelsea relaxed, Cyn’s heart rate started to come down. Then Chelsea sent it straight back up again. “You know, maybe I should e-mail them all, just to say how much I appreciate their concern.”

“No! Don’t do that! You mustn’t. I mean, you can’t. Your laptop’s still here in the office.”

“Cyn, are you sure you’re OK? I can phone the herbalist in a second.” Cyn managed to compose herself again, said she was fine and that she would e-mail Droolin’ Dream on Chelsea’s behalf.

“OK, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” Cyn said, raking her hair with her fingers. “So anyway, how are you?”

“Well, I’m still in pretty bad shape. My back’s painful and I’m still having to lie flat. I’m not even allowed up to pee. Right now, the doctors have no plans to let me go home.”

“Well, you just rest,” Cyn said. “And I’m always here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Cyn. I really appreciate all you’re doing. I’ll just hold on and wait for Gary to get back.”

“Probably best,” Cyn said. She put down the phone and sat rubbing her temples. The situation was not looking good. Despite her saying she would wait for Gary to get back, Chelsea wasn’t going to give up trying to make contact with Droolin’ Dream. Sooner or later—and most likely sooner—she was going to find out what was going on. Of course, Cyn wanted Chelsea to find out, but not before she had the commercial—her commercial, the one she had thought up—in the can and ready to be broadcast. She had to move fast.

She e-mailed Gary Rossiter from Chelsea’s laptop to say she was back from the Brazilian rain forest and was busy working on a script for the Droolin’ Dream commercial, as well as looking for a director.

By the way,
she wrote,
am v busy at the moment, could you please carry on e-mailing my assistant, Cyn, who will check my mail regularly and pass on messages.
Then something else occurred to her. Gazza probably had Chelsea’s mobile number.
Also my mobile number has changed.
She gave him her own number, signed off and pressed
send.
There was a desperate, heart-stopping few moments when she realized she had signed off as Cyn rather than Chelsea, but somehow she remembered how to retrieve recently sent e-mail, change the signature and send it again.

Of course Gazza would e-mail straight back, pressuring her to go out with him. She would just have to think up another excuse. This time it would have to be one that would put him off for good.

She spent the rest of the morning phoning commercial directors. PCW had a pool of four or five they used regularly. Most of them were booked up until the summer. Two said they might be available this month to do the Droolin’ Dream commercial. Both agreed to meet her for a drink to chat about it. After lunch she finally got down to writing her proposal for Sainsbury’s. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with brainstorming meetings in the large trailer. Her mind was so taken up with Droolin’ Dream that she found it hard to focus on radial tires, Ketchips or what women “really” wanted from nail polish remover beyond the blindingly obvious.

More than once she found herself thinking about Joe. In fact she’d hardly stopped thinking about him since they’d said good-bye the night before. What had happened last night? Had they made a connection? She thought they had, but maybe for him it had been nothing more than a pleasant but fairly insignificant couple of hours. She knew that she should see it that way, too. It had been fun to break the rules, but they were both in therapy. Veronica was right. If they got together it would change the dynamic of the group. They would both have to leave. Last night was as far as it could go.

When she got back to her desk, the phone was ringing.

“Cyn, it’s Joe.”

She gave a start. “Joe?” she said frowning with confusion. “Therapy Joe? But how did you get this number?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I know how this must look, but I promise I’m not stalking you.” He sounded tense, as if he’d spent hours psyching himself up to making the call. “It’s just that this morning when I got into my car I found your Barclaycard on the floor. It must have fallen out of your pocket. When we were in the pub you happened to let slip where you worked, so I thought I should ring you before you panicked and canceled the card.”

“That’s really kind of you, but I hadn’t even missed it.” She thought back to the previous evening. On her way to therapy she’d stopped at a cash machine to get fifty quid. The machine had been a few yards from the bus stop. The bus had come along just as she was collecting her money. She’d shoved the cash and her card into her coat pocket. On the bus she’d transferred the money to her wallet. Somehow she’d managed to forget about the card and left it in her pocket. “I thought it wouldn’t be a good idea returning it to you at therapy next week, because then everybody would know we’d met up.” She took the point.

“How’s about I put it in the post?” he said.

“No. Best not. It might get lost or stolen.” He suggested sending it by courier, but they both agreed that wasn’t the safest option either.

She thought about what to do. “Look, could we meet somewhere and then you could give it to me?”

“Sure. When?”

“Tonight’s no good because I’m having dinner at my parents’. What about tomorrow after work?”

“OK.” He paused. Then he cleared his throat. “Listen, you’re probably going to think I’m way out of line, here, but I really enjoyed your company last night.”

“I really enjoyed yours, too.”

“And I know this is breaking every rule in the group therapy book and Veronica would probably say it’s going to harm our emotional development no end, but would you like to do something tomorrow night? Perhaps we could see a film?”

“Joe, that’s really nice of you . . .” OK, Cyn, be strong. This man may be devastatingly cute, not to mention intelligent, kind and funny, but he was also emotionally damaged. She would develop real feelings for him, only to have him panic and walk away. She would be left fractured and in pieces. And yet, and yet . . . She’d had so much fun last night and he had really opened up to her about his childhood. Apart from him not wanting to talk about his work—which might be put down to nothing more than modesty—she’d gotten no sense of him keeping her at arm’s length. He’d come across as such a normal, regular sort of a guy.

Joe took her hesitation as a no. “Look, I understand if you don’t want to. It was wrong of me to ask. I think I should hang up now. I’ll drop the card at PCW reception and that way we won’t have to meet. Let’s just pretend this conversation never happened.”

“No, Joe. Wait,” she heard herself say. “I’d love to go to a film.”

“You would? That’s great. But what about Veronica?”

“Oh, bugger Veronica.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure she’s the type who takes kindly to being buggered.”

This made her laugh.

“I noticed that Screen on the Green is showing
Some Like It Hot
tomorrow—for one night only.”

Cyn hadn’t seen it for ages. “Sounds great.” As she had meetings with her two prospective directors starting late the following afternoon and didn’t think she would be able to get away before seven, they agreed to meet at the cinema.

It wasn’t just Cyn who was having dinner with her parents that night. Hugh and Harmony were coming, too. Barbara had arranged the dinner so that they could discuss the wedding. Naturally, Jonny and Flick would be there, which meant Cyn could get her car back. Barbara had also insisted on inviting Harmony on the grounds that “the poor girl is living in a hotel and can’t possibly be eating properly.”

The plan was that Cyn would take the tube to her mum’s and meet Hugh and Harmony there. Then, just as she was leaving work, she discovered a message from Harmony on her voice mail. “Cyn, I’m at ’Ewge’s. You’d better get over here. He’s having a major attack of the miseries and has taken to his bed. I’ve done all I can, but he’s absolutely refusing to get up.”

Of course, his depression had come on because he’d lost his job and heard nothing from Warner Bros. about his screenplay. Cyn found herself feeling a mixture of sympathy and irritation. She was desperately sorry that Hugh had been sacked and that he was struggling to get recognition for his writing, but at the same time she wanted to tell him the only way to succeed was to keep going and develop a skin thick enough to cope with being ignored and rejected. If he couldn’t do that, then he might as well give up. She supposed it was easy for her to talk. She loved her job and earned a decent salary—although for how much longer she didn’t know.

As well as being upset for Hugh, she was also concerned for Barbara. Not only had her mother gone to all the trouble of cooking dinner and now he was about to let her down at the last minute, but more important, he might decide the wedding planner job was too much for him as well.

“So, how bad is it?” Cyn said later to Harmony, who was looking stunning in a pale pink pleated miniskirt and a black and pink Chanel cardigan.

“Pretty bad.” She drew heavily on her cigarette. “He’s reading
Angela’s Ashes
.”

“Well, at least it’s an improvement on
Final Exit,
which is what he read after his last novel was rejected. Has he started putting vicious reviews on Amazon yet?” Harmony said not as far as she knew. Cyn threw her coat over a chair and the two of them headed upstairs.

The bed was a dark oak antique four-poster. Hugh, pale and unshaven and wearing black silk pajamas, was propped up on a mountain of expensive-looking pillows doing his best to look feeble. An open copy of
Angela’s Ashes
was lying facedown across his knees. Cyn stood there taking in the maroon silk bed canopy, the matching curtains and wallpaper, the portraits of stern-looking sixteenth-century aristocrats with no eyebrows. “Blimey, it’s Henry the Eighth’s bedchamber,” she said. Hugh let out a tiny moan, but otherwise didn’t respond. Cyn and Harmony looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Cyn went over and sat on the bed. “Come on, Huge,” she said, taking his hand, “please don’t get down. Warner Bros. will get back to you eventually, but meanwhile you have to carry on writing.” He refused to make eye contact with her. Instead he stared off into the distance.

“You know, I met this really great guy last night,” he said. “Turned out we had loads in common. He shares my love of theater, music, cinema.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“Yeah, he and his wife even have a son called Hugh.”

“Ah.”

He turned to look at her, all puppy dog eyes. “Where did it all go wrong?” he said weakly. “Why am I such a failure?”

“Listen to me,” Cyn retorted. “You are not a failure, OK? You’re just struggling and that’s hard. And as far as a relationship’s concerned, there’s somebody out there for you, I just know it. As for the writing, getting established takes time. You have to be patient and hang in there.”