Original Cyn (17 page)

“You’re really funny, you know that?”

She grinned. “I do my best.”

“No, seriously. I was thinking that if the weather’s good on Saturday, I might drive up to the Peak District and do a bit of a hike—nothing too strenuous. I’d really love it if you came with me.” It suddenly occurred to her that despite all evidence to the contrary, Joe was going to turn out to be one of those wholesome woolly-hatted rambler types who carried beef paste sandwiches in his knapsack and collected recordings of British birdsong.

“It’s funny,” she said, “you don’t strike me as the hiking kind.”

“Oh, God, now you’re thinking I’m some earnest, knobbly-kneed twonk.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “God, no. The thought never occurred to me.” She paused and gave him a slightly coy look. “I bet there’s no way you’ve got knobbly knees.”

He thanked her for the vote of confidence. “I’m not into walking in a big way. It’s just that we used to do weekend hikes at boarding school and I sort of got into it. These days I find it more interesting than the gym.”

“I can see that,” Cyn said. She was trying to look enthusiastic about his proposal, but inside she was feeling less than eager. The Selfridges remark hadn’t been completely flippant. Although she liked the countryside, she preferred to appreciate it in her own way: lunch in a pretty oak-beamed pub, complete with log fire and stretched-out Labradors, followed by a gentle afternoon stroll through a picture-book village. This would be punctuated by prolonged walks around an artsy-crafty, knick-knacky shop full of homemade fudge, plasticized William Morris–design shopping bags and earthenware egg cups declaring they were a “Souvenir of Frisby-on-the-Wolde” or wherever. Cyn wasn’t what you might call a rambling person. She couldn’t help feeling that if God had wanted people to ramble, he wouldn’t have invented the four-wheel drive.

“Oh, I love hiking,” she gushed. “I adore it.”

“Really? So, you’ve got boots and all the gear?”

“Absolutely. Compass, waterproof jacket, map holder thingy, the lot.”

After dinner they swapped phone numbers, which Veronica-wise felt especially wicked. Then he walked her to her car. His was parked a few streets away. A bit of her didn’t want him to come with her because it meant he would see the Anusol ad again and she would have to put up with another load of bad jokes. She decided to tell him how she’d ended up with the Anusol car. Because he already knew about Chelsea stealing her Droolin’ Dream idea, he didn’t think it was remotely funny. “God, that woman deserves all she gets. I wish I could be there when she gets her comeuppance.” Finally they reached the car. She could see the corners of his mouth starting to quiver. “Still, you could have a brilliant bumper sticker.”

“What?”

“Something like—’If you’re not a hemorrhoid, get off my arse.’ ”

“Et tu, Joe?” she said feigning deep hurt. “Et tu?”

“Sorry,” he smiled. “I just couldn’t resist it.”

She reached inside her bag for her keys.

“Once again, I had a great time,” he said.

“Me, too,” she whispered, looking up at him. He moved closer. She hadn’t noticed until now that his nose was covered in tiny freckles. He cupped her face, making her stomach do a flip. His warm breath was on her face. She closed her eyes, felt her head starting to swim. It began with little kisses on her lips. Then he wrapped her in his arms so that her breasts were tight against him. Finally her mouth yielded and he was deep inside her, his tongue hard, probing and urgent against hers. If he hadn’t been holding her she would have fallen.

“Wow,” she said as they finally pulled away.

“Wow,” he repeated softly, trailing his finger along her nose and down to her chin.

Four times they tried to say good-bye and four times it ended with another glorious kiss. It was only when a gang of teenage boys went by making
wwrrooar
noises that they started to feel self-conscious and decided to really call it a night.

“So, I’ll pick you up on Saturday,” he said. “Say half past seven?”

“Half past seven? In the morning?” In her book, on a Saturday or Sunday anything before ten o’clock counted as the middle of the night.

“That was my initial thought,” he grinned, “unless, of course, you fancy making it evening and trekking in the dark.”

“No, no, seven-thirty’s fine. Perfect, in fact. I always say there’s nothing like getting off to an early start.”

“Fantastic. See you then, then.” He gave her a final quick kiss on the cheek.

“By the way,” she called after him. “I looked
caterwaulings
up in the dictionary and you were right, it does exist. Sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“That’s OK,” he said. He carried on walking. Just before he turned the corner, he turned round to wave.

Chapter 13

The following evening Cyn met Harmony for a drink. Harmony had phoned during the day to say she was going to a dinner party round the corner from Cyn’s flat and why didn’t they get together beforehand.

The White Horse, Cyn’s local, was heaving. In a couple of hours, England was due to play Brazil in some World Cup warm-up game and people were already piling in to watch on the pub’s three wide-screen TVs. There was barely any breathing space, let alone a table.

Cyn’s discomfort was made worse by her footwear. Underneath her suit trousers, she was wearing hiking boots. For the second lunchtime running, she’d dashed up to Oxford Street to go shopping. This time it was to buy walking gear. Contrary to what she had told Joe, she didn’t own so much as a PowerBar.

Hugh said he would come with her since he was going to be up in town anyway. He seemed to have bounced back from his disappointment over Laurent being straight, and in anticipation of a long-overdue tax rebate, he had decided to go window-shopping for cuff links. “You know, gorgeous, I wish you weren’t getting involved with this Joe,” he said as they walked arm in arm down Oxford Street. “I’m really worried for you.” Of course she did have reservations about Joe, but she assured him she was a big girl and could take care of herself. He shrugged and let it go.

Hugh wandered around Millets looking down his nose like Joan Collins in Wal-Mart. “Urrgh,” he shuddered at one point, tentatively prodding a fleece and instantly withdrawing as if it might bite, “this stuff is so synthetic you could wash it and it wouldn’t even get wet.” Meanwhile, a helpful but rather dorky lad painstakingly kitted Cyn out with everything she would need: socks, rucksack, waterproof jacket, fleece, bobble hat, gloves, flashlight, map cover on a string, hiking pole and things called gaiters. These turned out to be waterproof covers to protect her trouser bottoms.

She came out of the changing room and presented herself to Hugh. “Dah, dah! What do you think?” He took one look at the hiking pole, red-and-white fleece and matching bobble hat and declared: “My God, alert the jury, we’ve found Waldo.”

Cyn admitted she felt a bit ridiculous in the red fleece and hat. “But they’re low on stock and it’s all they’ve got left. Anyway, I’m going for a hike in the Dales, not a sashay down the runway.” Nevertheless Hugh insisted on going through all the shelves and eventually found a black fleece and matching ski hat without a pom-pom.

The lad in Millets insisted it was vital she break in the walking boots. Taking his advice to heart, she’d worn them all afternoon at the office. It was now after seven, which meant she’d had them on for nearly six hours. They were hard and unyielding and as she and Harmony stood by the pub door, contemplating fighting their way to the bar, Cyn started to fantasize about the rather naff foot spa her aunty Lilly had given her for her birthday a few years back, which she’d ended up taking to a charity shop.

Because the pub was so packed, Cyn suggested they find somewhere else, but Harmony said she didn’t have much time and that on a night like this, everywhere would be crowded. “Let’s get a couple of drinks and take them outside. It’s not cold.”

It took them a full five minutes to force themselves through the crowd of jostling, blaring young blokes and reach the bar. Most were still in their work suits with their shirts and ties undone. A few were wearing jeans and England shirts. One or two dorks were wrapped in red-and-white flags.

Cyn insisted the drinks were on her. She was just paying when Harmony spotted a couple of people getting up from a table. “Quick, see if you can grab it,” Cyn shouted over the din. “I’ll bring the drinks over.”

The table was near the door where the decibel level wasn’t quite so fierce. Cyn put the drinks down and started taking off her coat.

“Look, hon,” Harmony said, rooting round in her bag for her fags, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help noticing you’re wearing hiking boots with work trousers. Don’t you think pointy kitten heels would work better?”

“Ha, ha,” Cyn said, sitting down. She explained about Joe and the hiking trip. “I’m trying to break them in and they’re really rubbing my toes and the backs of my feet.” Harmony suggested that might be because she was wearing them over sheer knee-highs rather than thick woolly socks.

“So, did you remember to buy flares?” Harmony asked. She flicked her Bic and lit up.

“Flares? Don’t be daft. When did you last see a fashionable hiker?”

“No, you dope. I mean flares,” Harmony said letting out a trail of smoke. “You know—to send up, if you get stranded.”

“Harms, this is a walk in the English countryside, not the final scene in
Titanic
.”

“Well, you can’t be too careful.” Cyn told her she sounded like Grandma Faye.

“So, you’ve really fallen for this Joe, then?”

Cyn swirled the ice in her glass of Coke. “I think I have. He kissed me last night.”

Harmony gave a soft snort. “Oh, great,” she said, her voice full of sarcasm.

“It was actually. In fact it was mind-blowing . . . God, I wish you and Hugh would stop worrying. Joe is so normal. He’s the one pursuing me.”

“But don’t you see?” Harmony leaped in, flicking ash into an ashtray. “That’s classic. He loves the thrill of the chase. But when he’s hooked you, he loses interest. I bet you anything his problems have nothing to do with his inability to be emotionally intimate. This guy’s into power. The chase is all about power. It’s what feeds his self-esteem. Men like him don’t do relationships. They aren’t interested. There’s no buzz.”

“Blimey, when did you start subscribing to
Psychology Today
?”

“Very funny. It was a quiz in this month’s
Cosmo:
‘Can You Spot a Bastard?’ ”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Cyn said. “I just don’t see it. Joe is kind, funny, intelligent. He’s also not remotely into power. In fact he’s very modest. He hardly ever talks about his work. I mean, how often do you come across that in a man? Usually they have these giant testosterone-fueled egos and don’t stop going on about themselves.”

Harmony shrugged. “Maybe he’s hiding something.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. He could be some kind of con man.”

“OK, the moment he tries to sell me a time-share apartment in Florida, I’ll ditch him.”

“All I’m saying is be careful and don’t rush into anything.”

“I won’t and I am being careful. Promise.”

Harmony took her hand. “It’s just that I love you and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know. I love you, too.” She took a mouthful of Coke. “Hugh came with me to buy my hiking gear today. He seems to have gotten over Laurent not being gay.”

“Yeah, I phoned him this morning to check if he was OK about it. He seemed fine. Said he didn’t have time to talk because he was busy with wedding stuff and needed to keep the line free. Apparently he was waiting for some harpist woman to call him back.” While Cyn tried to imagine what “You’re the One That I Want” would sound like being played on the harp, Harmony sat staring into her vodka tonic. “I’m thinking of asking him out.”

“Who?”

“Laurent. Who else? I just think he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. The moment he walked in, I got goose pimples all over.”

Cyn made the point that the perimenopause didn’t seem to be affecting Harmony’s libido. “By the way, have you been to the doctor yet?”

“Yeah. He did a blood test to check my hormone levels. Said he’ll phone me with the result . . . The thing is, with Laurent, it’s more than just fancying him. I mean, this is a man who put his life at risk for something he believed in. When he started talking, I could see there was a real fire in his soul. D’you know what I mean?” Cyn said she did.

A load of blokes were chanting “Inger-l’nd, Inger-l’nd” and clapping. The match was due to start in a few minutes. Cyn suggested it might be time to leave. They were gathering up their coats when Cyn spotted him in the crowd. Even though his face was painted white, with a red St. George’s Cross along its entire length and breadth, he was still clearly recognizable.

“Omigod. It’s him.”

“Who?”

“Gazza.”

“Sorry, none the wiser.”

“He’s the bloke from Droolin’ Dream. The one who thinks I’m Chelsea.”

“Bloody hell.”

Cyn explained about him fancying her. As she looked up she realized he had seen her. “Bugger, he’s coming over. OK, you have to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“I am your girlfriend.”

“No, my lesbian girlfriend.” More rushed explanation.

“So, you be the butch one,” Cyn said, “and I’ll be the feminine one.”

“Er, hello, correct me if I’m wrong, but you are the one wearing hiking boots. I, on the other hand, have just had a French manicure and I’m wearing Voyage. I think it’s clear to the casual observer which one of us looks like the lesbianator.”

Cyn took in Harmony’s itsy-bitsy floaty dress, her hair in a pretty chignon, held in place with a diamanté comb. “I know, but you’ve got brothers who are car mechanics. You’ll be better at talking butch.”

“What do you want me to say?” Harmony was starting to panic.

“I dunno. You’ll think of something.”

They sat back down. A second later Gazza was standing in front of them. “Chel! This is amazing! Of all the bars in all the world, you had to walk into mine.” He was swaying slightly and his speech was a bit slurred. He’d clearly had a few.

“Gazza! I had no idea you lived round here.”

“Actually, I don’t. I’m just catching up with some mates who do.”

She hoped her relief wasn’t too obvious. “I tried to get you a few times today, but you weren’t answering.”

“Another team-building day,” he said, turning toward Harmony. Under the grease paint, his face was becoming one giant leer. “So, this is the little woman, eh? Chel, you are one lucky lady and I mean lucky with a capital Wrrruuurrrh.” He slurped some beer from the pint glass he was holding.

Cyn could tell Harmony was balking at being referred to as “the little woman.” Nevertheless, she stood up and shook his hand. “Watcha,” she said, in a voice that had dropped at least nineteen octaves. “I’m Harmony. How they hanging?”

Cyn was practically splitting her sides. “Harmony’s a car mechanic,” she said, praying he didn’t recognize her true identity from all her TV appearances.

Harmony, bless her, didn’t miss a beat. “That’s right.”

“Geddaway. A great-looking bird like you, I don’t believe it. You’re never a car mechanic.” Gazza was swaying so much he almost spilled his beer.

“I am, really.”

He wasn’t having it. “Yeah, right.” He stood there, trying to marshal his thoughts. “OK, I have an Audi that drifts to the left on a straight flat road, meaning I have to keep correcting the steering. What’s the cause?”

Harmony didn’t hesitate. “Most cars tend to drift to the left because of the natural camber of the road, but this sounds more serious. Worn out suspension bushes, I’d say.”

“Blimey, that’s exactly what the garage said. God, a beautiful sexy woman who knows about cars. What more could a fella want? You know, I’m wondering if maybe I’m a lesbian.” He came closer and looked round to check he couldn’t be overheard. “Don’t suppose, you know, you’d be interested in having a bit of a party—if you get my meaning? You know, the three of us—back at my pad in Winnersh?”

Cyn told him he’d had too much to drink. She and Harmony got up to leave.

“You see, I reckon you two would give up being lesbians once you’d experienced Gazza magic.”

“Bye, Gazza,” Cyn said. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow, when you’ve sobered up.”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t at least give it a try,” he called out after them. “I could make my ex-girlfriend come all night long. And I mean come with a capital O. Think about it.”

To give Gazza his due, he rang Cyn at work the next morning, to apologize. “Sorry, Chel, I was pissed with a capital Rat-arsed and totally out of order. Look, I hope this won’t affect our professional relationship.” When she assured him it wouldn’t, he seemed truly relieved. She was starting to feel really guilty about deceiving Gazza. He was a twonk, but an affable one, she decided. She told him that she had found a director and that she would let him know as soon as they’d set a date to start filming. “By the way,” he said, “I’ve worked out the main sell lines we need to get across in the script. I’ll e-mail them to you now.”

She decided to take the afternoon off and start work on the script at home. That way there would be nobody looking over her shoulder, asking awkward questions. Nobody would mind her leaving early. There were no meetings planned and since Brian-the-boozer Lockwood had taken over from Graham, everything had gotten rather lax.

Before she left, Luke came over and asked if she’d seen Chelsea yet and broached her drug habit. Cyn reassured him that she would speak to her soon. “At the moment, she’s still in a great deal of pain. I’m not sure she can cope with a full-scale intervention right now. But don’t worry. I will do what’s required. You can rely on it.” Luke seemed satisfied and ambled off. As she watched him go, Cyn smiled to herself. “Oh yes,” she said out loud, “you can absolutely rely on it.”

On the way home, she stopped off to pick up a Greek salad for lunch. Morris nattered away quietly in the background while she sat at the kitchen table stabbing bits of feta and reading Gazza’s e-mail on her laptop. He had listed more than a dozen selling points—essentially a load of adjectives like
fresh, light, fluffy, satisfying, inexpensive
and so on—which he wanted to be worked into a twenty-second script. Oh, and then there was the key point, that Low Nuts were low in fat. Gazza also wanted that mentioned at least six times.

She sat there reminding herself of the scenario: the sixties women sitting round a kitchen table complaining about their weight and how hard it is to diet. Then in comes the Audrey Hepburn look-alike with the box of Low Nuts.

Once she’d finished eating, Cyn took her laptop into the living room. She decided she would be more comfortable sitting on the sofa. She plumped up some cushions and took her time arranging them against the sofa arm. When she finally sank onto the sofa, feet up, she carried on fiddling and altering the position of the cushions until she was perfectly comfortable. Only then did she reach out onto the coffee table and pick up her computer.