by Sue Margolis
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, coming back into the living room and opening her bag. “I printed this out for you from the Internet. It’s a list of creative writing courses in north London. A couple of them look really good.” As she handed him the piece of folded paper a look of what she could only describe as profound discomfort crossed his face.
“You OK?” she said.
“Yes. Fine.” Only she could see he wasn’t. Judging by the way his Adam’s apple was moving up and down his neck, he couldn’t stop swallowing. He opened the paper. “This is really kind of you,” he said, scanning the list. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. It only took five minutes. I hope they’re useful.”
“I’m sure they will be.”
“Joe, are you sure you’re all right?” He was quite pale all of a sudden.
“I’m fine. I think I’m just hungry.”
“Me, too. I haven’t eaten since lunch. Look, Harmony’s thing won’t go on more than a couple of hours. We’ll perk ourselves up with canapés and then go out to eat afterward.”
“Actually, I’ve already booked somewhere. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Great.”
As Cyn went to pick up her wrap off the back of the sofa, she noticed Joe’s jacket—the one he usually wore to therapy—lying next to it. The paper with Clementine’s contact numbers was poking out. She could just read the top one. For a split second her stomach lurched with suspicion. Why on earth would he hang on to it? She immediately felt guilty. He wasn’t hanging on to it. He had simply forgotten to throw it away. It was easily done. Nevertheless she couldn’t quite let it go.
“So, have you had any more thoughts about how to handle the Clementine situation?” she said.
He rolled his eyes as if to say “I’m trying not to think about it,” which she couldn’t help finding reassuring. “No. I keep putting it off. I really have to give it some thought.”
He opened the front door and stood back to let her go in front of him. “By the way, over dinner there’s something I really need to talk to you about.”
She turned to face him. “God, the other night at the hotel—you were trying to tell me something then. Now I feel awful. What with Dad and everything, I completely forgot. I am so sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“So, what is it you want to tell me? Is it something to do with your job?”
“Not really,” he said. “Look, let’s get going and talk later.”
Chapter 18
The salon was one giant air-kiss of A-list celebrities. Cyn turned to Joe and said the only person she didn’t recognize was herself. As they made their way past the row of basins to the bar, they overheard Jerry Hall and Trudie Styler gossiping about kids and schools. Kylie Minogue was having a mock fight with Sting, who seemed to have had a few and was pretending to try to feel her bum. George Michael and Boy George were in a huddle bitching about Graham Norton’s jungle-pattern shirt, which they decided had to have come from the Lion King gift shop.
Among the sartorial hits, there were the inevitable duds: Vivienne Westwood looked like she’d just been out riding with the prince regent, and Christina Aguilera gave every impression of having gotten her PVC hot pants off a stall at Shepherd’s Bush market. Laurent, in his tapered stone-washed jeans and Vive Tagine Libre! T-shirt, didn’t stand out for a second.
Harmony appeared out of the crowd, dragging a rather bemused and overwhelmed Laurent by the hand. Without doubt her dress belonged on the list of sartorial hits. She looked like Greta Garbo in her backless ivory satin halter neck. “God, you look amazing,” Cyn said.
“D’you like it? Laurent helped me choose it.” She was conspicuously unsteady on her feet. The salon had been closed all afternoon to get ready for the party; Cyn decided she must have been on the champagne since lunchtime. “Between you and me, I think the reason he likes the dress so much is because you can’t wear a bra with it and he enjoys watching my nipples jigging about.”
“What am I to do wiz her?” Laurent laughed with an open-palmed shrug. “She ees wicked, a vulgarian, non? Tell me, are all ze women in Liverpool so earthy?”
“Pretty much,” Cyn said. “Particularly when they’ve had a few.” She was just about to introduce Joe, but Harmony saved her the trouble.
“So, you must be Joe,” she gushed, kissing him on both cheeks. “Well, I have to say, you are severely cute. Are there any more like you at home?” She turned back to Cyn. “I tell you, this man is a serious hottie.”
Joe seemed to realize she was pissed and thanked her for the compliment.
“I just want you to know, though,” Harmony said, holding him in her steely, slit-eyed gaze, “that little Cyn here is my best friend. Anybody who hurts little Cyn hurts me. And I don’t take kindly to being hurt. Do we understand each other?”
“She’s had a skinful,” Cyn muttered to Joe. “Just ignore her.”
The next second, Harmony was all smiles and asked them to excuse her because she and Laurent needed to mingle. “Ooh, look, there’s Princess Michael of Kent.”
“But why ees a woman called Michael?” Laurent said as they disappeared back into the crowd. “I do not understand.”
A waitress appeared carrying a tray of champagne. Joe picked up two glasses and handed one to Cyn. “What was all that about?” He seemed amused more than anything. “I got the impression that if I put a foot wrong I could end up in a concrete pillar.”
“It’s my fault. I told her you were in therapy, that’s all, and she’s just a bit protective.”
“In other words, she thinks I’m a complete nut job. Great.”
Cyn smiled. “Don’t worry. As soon as she gets to know you, she’ll realize you’re perfectly sane.”
“OK, until then I’ll keep away from cement mixers.”
“Might be a good idea,” she giggled, squeezing his arm, “just for your own protection.”
Just then Cyn spied Hugh. “OK,” she whispered to Joe as they made their way over to him, “whatever you do, don’t tell Huge his screenplay was funny. He sees himself as a thinker and seeker after truth. Even suggesting that My Brother, My Blood, My Life is comedy would be tantamount to telling him he’s intellectual plankton. He’ll have a total hissy fit. Let’s leave it to the bloke at Paramount to break the news.”
“OK, fine.”
Cyn and Hugh exchanged kisses. “Huge,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Joe. Joe’s been reading your screenplay.”
Hugh took Joe’s hand in both of his. “This is so kind of you. I really don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything yet. I’ve passed it on to an old mate of mine who’s now this big hitter at Paramount and he’s promised to read it. His name’s Ted Wiener. He’s very young and always on the lookout for anything a bit avant-garde. I gave him your number and e-mail.”
“Bloody hell. I’m overwhelmed.”
“Not half as much as I think Ted will be when he’s read it. I think you are very talented.”
“So, Joe, tell me honestly, in your opinion was it my attempt at post-existential nihilism that sold it to you?”
“Funny you should say that. I think maybe it was.”
“And what about that scene in the condemned cell with the twins’ mother? I really tried to create a collision of spiritual ennui and torment. “
“And I think you did it brilliantly,”
“Well, I have to say it’s wonderful to find somebody who really understands what I’m trying to communicate.” He turned to Cyn. “I have to say, you made a brilliant choice when you decided to start seeing this man. And thank you for showing him the screenplay.”
“I didn’t really. He just picked it up—which means I still haven’t had a chance to read it. I feel really guilty.”
“Don’t. The important thing is that My Brother, My Blood, My Life is being read by people with true insight. What more could I want? Not that I don’t
value your opinion, of course . . .”
“It’s all right, Huge,” she said, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m not offended.”
The three of them stood chatting. After a few minutes Cyn spotted a chap she didn’t recognize. He was tiny and South American looking. He was wearing a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin with the zip open, revealing a tan that was impossibly ocher, even for somebody from South America. “Anybody know who that is?” she said.
“Ah, you clearly missed Harmony’s welcome-on-board speech. That is Atahualpa, the stylist she poached from John Frieda and our guest of honor. He’s from Peru and, looking at him, he has a butt like a perfectly ripe cantaloupe.” Hugh bit his bottom lip. “Sorry, chaps, you’re going to have to excuse me.” He turned to thank Joe again for all his efforts and the two men shook hands. As he walked away, Cyn stood smiling and shaking her head. First it was one of the Lima Dreamers, now this Atahualpa. What was it with Huge and blokes from Peru?
No sooner had Hugh disappeared than a short, bald, medicine ball of a man, a fat cigar in his hand, hovered into view, arms outstretched in greeting. “Son of a gun! I do not believe this.” An obviously American man in his sixties threw his arms around Joe. “Jo-seph! Bubbie! How are you?”
“Barney! What are you doing here? You don’t have a hair on your head.”
“I’m with my wife. Brandy comes here to have her hair done whenever we’re in London. She’s over there, talking to Jerry Hall. So, how long has it been? Let me look at you.” Now he was pinching Joe’s cheek as if he were a little boy. “You’ve filled out. Success must agree with you. You still keeping fit?”
“I try, but you know what with work, it isn’t always easy.”
“Tell me about it,” Barney laughed, slapping his paunch. He turned to Cyn and drew heavily on his cigar. “And precisely when,” he said to Joe, “were you planning to introduce me to this vision of feminine loveliness standing next to you?”
Cyn couldn’t help blushing.
“I’m sorry.” Joe turned to Cyn. “This is Cynthia Fishbein. Cyn, I’d like you to meet Barney Weintraub. Barney is . . .” Joe cleared his throat anxiously, “. . . a work colleague.”
“Hey, what’s with the colleague? That’s the extent of my intro? You’re not going to say anything about me being this hot-shot film producer, who only last month was placed at number three in Vanity Fair’s list of top-ten movers and shakers?”
By now Cyn had picked up on Joe’s awkwardness and hesitancy. She was in no doubt that he wasn’t quite as pleased to see this Barney chap as he made out. She could see why. Barney Weintraub made Liberace look like an ego-free zone.
She extended her hand and said how pleased she was to meet him. Barney took her hand in both of his and kissed it.
“Young lady, the pleasure is all mine.” Cyn couldn’t help being amused. Barney Weintraub was a caricature of a lecherous Hollywood huckster circa 1939. She had no idea men like him still existed.
“Well, it’s been wonderful seeing you again, Barney,” Joe said, “but if you’ll excuse us, Cyn and I were just leaving. We have a dinner reservation.” Cyn had a clear view of Joe’s watch. They weren’t due at the restaurant for another hour.
“You know, Cyn,” Barney carried on, completely ignoring Joe. “I gave this man his first big break. I was so impressed by his work in Britain that I hired him to come over to L.A. and write Help, I’m Turning into My Dad. And the rest, as they say, is history. It’s been a smash in the States. So, remind me, when’s it coming out in London?”
“I’m not sure. Christmas, I think.” Joe’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“Christmas—he thinks.” Barney looked at Cyn. “Can you believe the man? He makes out he doesn’t even know when his own film is coming out. You know the trouble with you Brits? You’re all too modest.”
Joe gave a halfhearted smile. “Anyway, Cyn and I really should get going.”
“It’ll be a hit over here as well. I guarantee.” He puffed on the cigar. “So I hear you’re working on a Brit flick.”
Joe nodded. He put his hand on the small of Cyn’s back as if to say “Let’s get going.” But she didn’t want to leave just yet. She had taken rather a liking to Barney and wanted to stay and chat. “Joe, why didn’t you tell me you’ve worked on a Hollywood movie? I’m really impressed.” She looked at Barney. “He’s such a dark horse. He never talks about the films he’s edited.”
“Edited?” Barney looked mystified. Joe looked as if he wanted somebody to shoot him. “Where did you get the idea that Joe edited it? He wrote the screenplay.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, frowning. “I don’t understand.” She looked at Joe, expecting him to step in and clear up the confusion. He didn’t. Instead he stood there looking as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to kill Barney or make a bolt for it.
“And how’s your new project going? I hear it’s taking a long time to research. Something to do with shrinks—am I right?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Again Joe’s voice was barely audible.
At this point Brandy appeared: thirty, tops, blonde, Pammie bust, not a single working muscle in her face. She was also six feet tall: the Empire State to his Guggenheim. “Barney, ho-nee, I’ve just been speaking to this totally awesome man. He comes from that funny little island in Africa where there’s been all the violence. It sounds totally un-believable. I suggested to him we hold a black-tie fund-raiser—get lots of actors of color to support it. Whoopi could be guest of honor, we’d get Denzel and Eddie and Morgan and I’m sure People magazine would make it a cover . . .”
“Folks,” Barney interrupted, his face beaming with I-am-the-luckiest-son-of-a-bitch-on-the-planet pride, “may I introduce Brandy.” She just about managed to maneuver her face into an indifferent smile and offer Joe and then Cyn a limp but perfectly manicured hand.
“Bar-nee. Please.” She tugged at his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a shrug. “I gotta go. What the little lady wants, the little lady gets. Great to catch up, Joe. And Cyn, it was truly a delight and a pleasure.” Once again he took Cyn’s hand and kissed it.
The Weintraubs turned to go. “Hey, Barney, do you mind?” Brandy hissed. “I’ve told you my head isn’t in a good place right now. If you have to come on to women, does it have to be right under my nose? It’s so totally humiliating.”
“Oh, Daddy’s sorry, baby. So who is this guy you want me to meet?”
Joe turned to Cyn and made a comment about Brandy and Barney deserving each other, which would have been what Cyn was thinking if she hadn’t been preoccupied with something infinitely more important.
“So, you’re a screenwriter?” she said. At this stage she was more confused than anything else.
“Yes.”
“Just a screenwriter?”
“Yes.”
“Not a screenwriter who occasionally moonlights as an editor?”
He was looking at the floor and rocking back and forth on his feet. “No.”
“I don’t get it. Why did you lie?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m listening.”
“OK, but let’s go and get something to eat. We can talk over dinner.”
“No. I want you to tell me now. I need to know what’s been going on.”
“All right,” he said, “but it’s so noisy up here. We need to find somewhere quiet to talk.”
She led him downstairs to the basement. It was the same minimalist deal as upstairs. Limestone floor, a line of sparkling white basins against one wall, mirrors and adjustable black leather chairs along the other. She leaned against one of the basins. “Joe, what on earth is all this about?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit. I really didn’t mean for you to find out like this. First I want you to know how sorry I am. I’ve been trying to tell you the truth for ages. I was finally going to break it to you tonight. I am a screenwriter. After I wrote Help, I’m Turning into My Dad,
I was approached by Rowan Atkinson’s company to write another comedy, this time about group therapy.”
She stood there letting the information sink in. “So you write comedies? That explains the whole Woody Allen and Billy Wilder thing.” It also explained the BMW and the fabulous flat.
He nodded.
“Anyway, I knew nothing about therapy, so it was suggested that I get some firsthand experience . . .”
Cyn’s heart lurched. “Hang on! Are you saying you infiltrated my group? That you’re there under false pretences?”
“No. Yes. Not exactly. I was at first. Then it all changed.”
“Omigod. So what are we to you? Sophisticated lab rats? You watch how we behave, hear about our struggles and experiences, and then you turn it into comedy?” She was starting to feel dizzy with shock and anger. She walked across the room and sat down in front of one of the mirrors. Her face looked white. Joe followed her and stood behind her so that they were both looking at each other in the mirror.
“Please hear me out. I was never ever going to use specific details. I just wanted to get some sense of what group therapy was like—the atmosphere, the way people speak, the body language, the way people behave toward each other. Veronica wouldn’t let me join until I’d had a few one-on-one sessions with her and the irony was that after I’d seen her, I realized that I needed help—that I needed to be in the group.”
“Oh, please. You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true. Everything I’ve told you about my family is the God’s honest truth.”
“Well, you know what, Joe, I don’t bloody believe you.” Another thought struck her. “Christ, what was I in all this? The neurotic Jewish love interest?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. From where I’m sitting it looks like you used me. Have you the remotest idea how that feels?”
“I can guess.” He pulled up another chair and swiveled hers around so that she was facing him. “Cyn, I’m sorry. I couldn’t be more sorry. If it makes a difference, yours wasn’t the first group I tried to join. I tried three others and from the outset I was honest and up-front with each of them about the film. The therapists leading those groups didn’t want to know. When the last group told me to sling my hook, I panicked. There’s millions riding on the Analyze Them project. I’ve got the director and producer phoning me, nagging me day and night, wanting to know how soon they can see a rough draft of the screenplay. I knew the only way I was going to be able to join a group was to lie. I shouldn’t have done what I did—it was appalling—but I want you to understand the reason.”