Original Cyn

by Sue Margolis

  “But even if I did understand, which I’m not sure I do, it’s still no excuse.”

  “Tell me—after the way you impersonated this Chelsea woman—doesn’t some of what I’ve told you ring bells for you?”

  “Joe,” she said, her tone positively polar, “don’t even begin to compare the two. I didn’t set out to deceive anybody. I arrived at Droolin’ Dream fully intending to tell my contact there who I was. Things just got complicated and I was forced to lie. I’m not happy about it. I’m not happy about it one bit, but I had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” he said. “We both chose to be dishonest.”

  “But you used people. You used me. You used the group.”

  “And you’re using Chelsea.”

  “She hurt me. I’m just getting my own back. You used the group, and what for? As comic material. As entertainment. That’s despicable. Utterly despicable.”

  He looked down at his hands. “I’ll tell the group the truth. I promise.”

  “I should bloody well hope so.” Something else occurred to her. “God, on top of everything else, you even let me find creative writing classes for you.” Her eyes were filling with tears. “Christ! You just stood there while I humiliated myself tonight. How could you do that?” It was then that she noticed the cart and the bowl full of red hair dye sitting on it. Without thinking she picked up the bowl and dumped it over his head. He didn’t move. Instead he just sat there in his plastic helmet, letting the gloopy mess trickle down his face.

  “OK, I deserved that,” he said. He pulled off the bowl. There was a towel lying on the cart. He picked it up and began wiping his head and face. She could see the dye had already stained his skin and was leaving red streaks on his face. Served him right.

  “Well, one good thing has come out of all this,” he said, managing a smile, “you’ve finally managed to get in touch with your assertive side.”

  “This isn’t funny,” she said.

  “I’m not laughing. And I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I fucked up.”

  “Yes, you did. Big-time.”

  “I have been trying to tell you. I tried while we were out walking. I tried later on at the hotel and like I said, I was planning to tell you tonight over dinner. You have my word.”

  “I’m not sure what that’s worth anymore.” Her voice was quiet and trembling. “I’m going home now.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “No, I’d rather be on my own.” She picked up her bag, walked over to the emergency exit—which was off—and pushed the bar. As she climbed the basement steps to the street, Joe grabbed her arm. “I really am sorry, you know. Please, just come and have dinner and let me explain everything.”

  “I think I’ve heard enough. Joe, I’m really not sure where this leaves us. Right now I feel like I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  “I can understand that.”

  She pulled her arm from his grasp. “Taxi!”

  Chapter 19

  She sat in the taxi staring out of the window, but seeing nothing. Despite his miserable upbringing—if that was even true—Joe had seemed so upright, so decent, so honest. The flaws in his character were all about emotional commitment. She would have been devastated—God knows—but she could have better understood it if he had taken her to one side tonight and dumped her. But this. A single tear trickled down her cheek.

  Of course, she’d half sensed something wasn’t right. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t wondered why he avoided talking about his job. Why hadn’t she pushed him on it, insisted on an explanation? How could she have been so naive? On top of the shock and hurt, she felt like such a fool.

  When she got home she took off her Carrie Bradshaw dress, left it on the floor with the rest of her clothes and fell into bed. She lay there replaying the tape of their relationship. There had been so much intimacy between them—not just sex, but emotional intimacy. She’d told him about her family, her childhood. She’d made herself vulnerable and she thought he had, too. She’d trusted him. She’d fallen in love with him. Now he was telling her that their relationship had been nothing more than a farce and a sham. She had no idea how much of what he’d told her about his life was true. Maybe none of it was.

  Chinks of daylight were beginning to appear through the curtains by the time she fell asleep. When her alarm woke her at seven, her head was pounding. She thought about taking the day off and working from home, but doubted whether she’d get anything done. Instead she took a couple of Tylenol, fed Morris and took a long hot shower.

  She was just pulling into the PCW car park when her mobile rang. The caller display told her it was Harmony. “What happened to you two last night?” she said, sounding more than a tad put out. “The pair of you buggered off without even saying good-bye.”

  “I’m sorry, Harms. I was so upset I wasn’t thinking.”

  “What were you upset about?”

  Cyn told her.

  “Bloody hell. I can’t believe it. How could he lie to you like that? Still, at least you know he isn’t mad. Not that it helps.”

  She told Harmony about the hair dye.

  “That showed him,” Harmony said. “Good for you.”

  “Do you know, it felt fantastic.”

  “God, to think I was about to eat humble pie and tell you how great I thought Joe was. So I take it you’ve finished with him?”

  “I didn’t come out and say it, exactly. I just ran off. But I don’t see how I can forgive him. The way he used me—not to mention the group—is inexcusable.”

  Harmony didn’t say anything for a moment. “Look, I don’t want it to sound like I’m backpedaling here and I’d be the first one to say his behavior was appalling, but something’s just occurred to me. Don’t you think it’s great the way Joe’s been helping ’Ewge? I mean, he’s a screenwriter and he’s going out of his way to help a potential rival. You have to admit that’s a pretty generous thing to do.”

  “Or he’s just feeling monumentally guilty,” Cyn said skeptically.

  “Maybe. I dunno. Look, how’s about me and ’Ewge come round tonight to help you drown your sorrows?”

  “I’d really like that,” Cyn said.

  They said good-bye and Cyn flipped her phone shut. So was Joe simply bad? (For bad, read damaged, emotionally scarred—whatever you wanted to call it.) Or was he a good man who had done a bad thing? If he was really sorry and if he was prepared to confess to the group and deal with their hurt and anger, didn’t he deserve a second chance?

  Joe was right, maybe she didn’t have the right to get all snotty and climb on her moral high horse, when here she was stealing somebody’s identity and lying to poor old Gazza. Trust was vital in a relationship, but so was forgiveness.

  She was still mulling all this over when Hugh and Harmony arrived around eight, bearing four bottles of Merlot and a mountain of Chinese. “You know,” Harmony said, spreading pieces of duck over her pancake, “years ago before my mum was born, my granddad cheated on my nan. I remember asking her once if it had been hard to forgive him.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was a tough old bird, my nan—from that generation of women that just got on with life, no matter what it threw at them. Anyway, she said she recognized my granddad wasn’t perfect, that no human being was, and she took a leap of faith. Turned out to be the right choice. As far as we know he never put a foot wrong again.”

  “But she never knew if she would be able to trust him again.”

  “That’s what I said. Her view was that no matter how close you are to a person and no matter how long you live with them, you can never really know them and you can never really trust them. Taking him back was a risk, but Gran always said, ‘If you don’t risk, you don’t live.’ ” Harmony started to smile. “And judging by your recent performance, it’s not like you’re scared of taking the occasional risk.”

  It was ironic. Cyn remembered Joe saying exactly the same thing to her soon after he joined the
group. She looked at Harmony. “I don’t get it. You seem to be telling me I should forgive Joe. Why the change of heart? You hinted at it on the phone this morning. Until today you’ve done nothing but warn me against him.”

  Harmony shrugged. “ ’Ewge and me have been doing some talking. We both feel that Joe really did put himself out over the screenplay. Maybe he’s not all bad. Perhaps he does deserve a second chance.”

  Cyn turned to Hugh, who nodded his agreement. “Having said that,” Hugh went on, “it’s not me who he lied to.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I need some time to think this through.” She pincered a piece of sweet-and-sour pork with her chopsticks. “Why don’t we let it drop for a bit? So,” she said to Hugh, “how did it go with you and Atahualpa?”

  “Great. We’re meeting up for a drink next week. I couldn’t believe it. Turns out that he’s doing a part-time film studies degree. We spent ages chatting about movies. He really knows his stuff.”

  “You know what, Huge, your luck is definitely starting to change. I can feel it.”

  He smiled at her. “I think you might be right.” A pause. Then, “Look, if you want me to, I can always tell this Ted Wiener bloke to get stuffed. I don’t want you to feel as if I’m being disloyal by carrying on with this. I’ll find a home for that screenplay on my own.”

  “Hugh,” Cyn said, “I may be feeling a bit fragile at the moment, but not that fragile. Anybody trying to sell a screenplay to Hollywood needs all the help they can get. So, have you heard from Ted yet?”

  “Yeah. He rang me today to say he was sitting down to read the screenplay and would get back to me. Whatever you say about Joe, he isn’t without influence. I mean, when he told you his name was Joseph Dillon—didn’t that ring any bells?”

  She thought back to their first date at the cinema when he told her his name. “Very vaguely. I suppose I should have Googled him, but I just didn’t think.”

  “If you had, you would have discovered, as I did, that Joseph Dillon is the hottest new comedy screenwriter around.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do. Shame he’s such an unprincipled git.” She could feel herself getting angry and decided to change the subject again. She turned to Harmony. “So, has Laurent moved in with you at the hotel?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “God, it’s really serious between you two.”

  Harmony flipped open the lid on a packet of Marlboro Lights and pulled out a cigarette. “I told ’Ewge on the way over. Last night Laurent told me he loved me.”

  Cyn loved Harmony and of course she was overjoyed and delighted for her, but she couldn’t help feeling more than a pang of jealousy—not that she was about to let it show. “Omigod, that’s wonderful,” she cried. “And do you feel the same?”

  “There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

  “But you’ve only known each other three minutes.”

  “I know, but I’m certain. He’s certain. I’ve never felt like this about anybody before. I’ve asked him to move in with me when the house is finished. He said yes.”

  “Well, I hope for your sake,” Hugh said, adjusting the crease in his trousers, “that he isn’t just out for your money.”

  “ ’Ewge, we’ve been through this,” Harmony said, lighting up. “You saw what he wore at the party last night. He’s so proud he wouldn’t even let me take him out and buy him a new shirt. We don’t go to restaurants because he can’t pay. All he wants to do is get his asylum application approved and find a teaching job.”

  “But you’ll always be earning shed loads more than him,” Cyn said. “How’s he going to cope with that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not denying it might be a problem, but we are just going to have to find a way through. And if we don’t . . .”

  “You will,” Cyn said. “If you love each other, you’ll work it out.” The moment she said the words, it occurred to Cyn that maybe they should apply to her and Joe as well. “I’m really happy for you. Honest.” She reached out, took Harmony’s hand and squeezed it.

  “I am, too,” Hugh said. “I’m sorry if I sounded negative. I just don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.”

  “Look, it’s a risk, but like Gran said: if you don’t risk, you don’t live. And you know me—tough as old boots.”

  But they all knew that she wasn’t really.

  After Hugh and Harmony had gone, she went into the kitchen, found a music station on the radio and began scraping plates and stacking the dishwasher. The loud music stopped her hearing the phone. She was on her way to bed when she noticed the message light flashing.

  “Cyn, hi, it’s Joe. Pick up if you’re there . . . OK, you’re not. Look, we really need to talk and sort this thing out. What I did was wrong and I’m not proud of it. I’ll try you again tomorrow.” She thought he sounded so sad, so genuinely regretful. A large part of her ached for him and wanted to forgive him, but not enough to pick up the phone.

  The next morning, just after ten, Cyn pulled up outside My Daughter’s Wedding. As she clicked the car lock, she saw Barbara, Grandma Faye, Flick and Hugh walking toward her. This was the beginning of some kind of omnibus episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Bride, Bridesmaid, Mother of the Bride and Grandmother of the Bride.

  “Isn’t this exciting,” Flick trilled breathlessly to Cyn. “I just can’t wait.”

  Decorwise, My Daughter’s Wedding was a suburban take on Louis XIV’s Versailles salon. The signature color was cerise. The walls, the carpet, the silk curtains, the velvet seats on the little gilt chairs, were all cerise. The only relief came from three white fiberglass Doric columns, two full-length mirrors in heavy gold frames and several cherubim and seraphim ascending to a badly stenciled, puffy cloud heaven.

  Barbara walked in and said it looked just like her cousin Estelle’s living room. “Apart from all the dresses, that is.” The rack of wedding dresses ran the entire length of the shop. There seemed to be hundreds of them, their fat skirts billowing under clear plastic. They were arranged in a rainbow that went from pure white to latte. The bridesmaids’ dresses, equally fat and billowy, occupied two slightly shorter racks. Beyond them were the mother-of-the-bride outfits. Inside the glass counter at the far end of the shop was a display of veils, sparkly paste tiaras and blue satin garters.

  Bernice Greenspan, who had run My Daughter’s Wedding for the best part of forty years, hugged Barbara and Cyn hello. The last time Cyn had been here was about ten years ago when she and Barbara and her cousin Rochelle had come to buy dresses for Rochelle’s wedding. Being here yet again was giving Cyn a particularly poignant—especially given the state of her love life—sense of déjà vu: “Bridesmaid revisited,” she said to herself grimly. She tried not to let it get to her, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Barbara,” Bernice gushed, standing back to look at her, “I swear you’ve lost weight!”

  “You think so? I have been trying. But look at you. You look sensational.”

  “Believe me, I don’t feel it. Let me introduce you to my thighs, Oreo and Hershey.”

  It was true Bernice could have done with losing a few pounds. An uncharitable person might have decided she could have shed three of them simply by taking off her earrings and bracelets. Bernice’s “less cannot possibly ever under any circumstances be more” interior design philosophy definitely extended to her appearance. As usual she was wearing too much: too much yellow, too much lip liner, too much Diorella, too much fake tan.

  Grandma Faye took one look at Bernice’s taut, plastic face and whispered to Cyn, “Well, I’ll give her one thing, she looks remarkably lifelike.”

  Barbara introduced Grandma Faye and then Flick, who was looking as excited as a five-year-old on her first visit to the pick ’n’ mix counter at the candy store.

  “So, this is the bride! Now, then, I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I am going to find you something absolutely stunning.”

  Hugh, who hadn’t said much so far—although his face had spoken v
olumes from the moment he set foot inside the shop—ostentatiously cleared his throat. Bernice’s remark had apparently put his nose severely out of joint.

  “Oh, and this is Hugh,” Barbara said. Pause for dramatic effect. “Hugh is our wedding planner and stylist.”

  “Ree-ally?” Bernice was clearly impressed. Barbara’s satisfaction was causing her to glow so much, Cyn felt like asking for a protective lead sheet. Bernice shook Hugh’s hand and said she was certain they would be able to work together.

  “I’m sure we will,” Hugh said.

  “So, what thoughts have you had about a wedding dress?”

  Flick opened her mouth to speak, but Hugh raised his hand. “Perhaps it might be better if I explain,” he said. Flick looked disappointed for a second. Then she managed a smile. “Yes, of course. You’ve got far more ideas than me. I’m bound to get it all wrong.” Cyn was starting to feel really sorry for Flick. Hugh meant well and his sense of style was impeccable, but this was about Flick’s wedding, not his. On the other hand, without him, Flick did risk turning up to her wedding looking like a human Pavlova.

  Hugh launched into his discourse on classic simplicity. Bernice looked Flick up and down and said she couldn’t agree more. Hugh seemed surprised, as if he’d been expecting a battle with Bernice. She led Hugh over to the wedding dress rack.

  Flick was practically jumping up and down with glee. “Oooh, I wonder what they’re going to choose,” she squealed. Over at the rack, Bernice and Hugh were busy pulling out dresses. Cyn could just about make out what they were saying.