Original Cyn

by Sue Margolis

  She didn’t sleep well that night, but her wakefulness had little to do with Joe. There was something more immediate and urgent playing on her mind. Sometime during the next week Chelsea was coming into the office. When she did, Cyn would confront her about stealing her proposal. The problem was that she still had no irrefutable proof that the idea hadn’t been Chelsea’s idea all along.

  She lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling. “Hi, God, it’s me, Cynthia Fishbein. Look, I appreciate how busy you are, what with all the violence and famine in the world, and I know we haven’t been in touch since Brad married Jennifer, but I was wondering if you could see your way clear to helping me prove that Chelsea really did steal my proposal.”

  She tossed and turned for twenty minutes. When sleep refused to come, she turned on the bedside light. She reached down onto the floor and picked up one of the Sunday newspaper magazines that had lain there for a week, unread. As she opened it, two or three bits of junk advertising fell out onto the duvet. She began picking them up. One of the leaflets was a Gadget Shop promotion, advertising digital recorders that could be used to tape phone conversations. As she sat looking at it, an idea started to form in her mind. Suppose she phoned Charlie Taylor in L.A. Was there even the faintest chance that she could get him to admit he was responsible for coming up with Chelsea’s advertising campaigns? She knew it was a long shot. Charlie had close links to the Roggenfelder family and whatever his true feelings toward Chelsea were, he was bound to remain loyal. He would also want to protect his own reputation. If the advertising world found out how he had been helping Chelsea deceive PCW it wouldn’t do his career much good. It might even destroy it.

  Of course, an admission from Charlie wouldn’t actually prove Chelsea stole the Droolin’ Dream proposal. On the other hand it would prove she was a cheat and a liar.

  She carried on staring at the picture of the tape recorder. The longest of all possible shots it might be, but phoning Charlie had to be worth a try. She tore out the newspaper ad and slipped it under her bedside light.

  The Droolin’ Dream auditions were due to start at ten on Monday morning. Dan, the chap she had chosen to direct the commercial, had offered to hold them at his office in Soho. This suited Cyn since holding them at PCW would have meant people asking awkward questions. The downside was she had to drive all the way to PCW to drop Morris off and then head back into town.

  In the end she got to PCW just after nine. Keith’s face lit up the moment he saw Morris.

  “Morris. Me old mucker,” he said, taking the cage from Cyn. “So, how you diddling, then? Have you missed me?” Keith put his face up to the cage and began making little kissing noises.

  “Miss gorgeous Joe,” Morris squawked.

  “Who’s he when he’s away from home?” Keith said, grinning. “Look, Morris, if you’ve been having doubts about your sexuality, you know you can always talk to me about it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cyn said, “it’s my problem, not his.”

  Keith looked up at Cyn. “What? You’re having doubts about your sexuality?”

  She set Keith straight. Then she said her good-byes to Morris and turned to go.

  “Oh, by the way,” Keith called out after her, “I got you this to say thank you for having Morris.” He put the cage down on his desk and picked up a large glass jar. “It’s called kimchee,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s a bit of a delicacy in Korea.”

  “Sounds exotic. What’s it made of?”

  “Basically it’s cabbage that’s been pickled in a jar, buried in the earth and left to rot. It smells a bit odd, but believe it or not, it’s delicious.”

  “Putrefying smelly cabbage? Wow, thanks, Keith. You shouldn’t have. You really shouldn’t.”

  She stashed the kimchee in the tiny luggage compartment at the back of the Smart Car. Eventually, of course, it would end up in the bin, but since it was a present she didn’t have the heart to dispose of it immediately. It seemed more respectful somehow to store it somewhere that could be regarded as halfway between her flat and the bin. The car was perfect. Her thinking was that it would stay there for a month or two. During that time she would forget about it. When she came across it again she would decide that by now it had to be off (not that kimchee probably went off, since it was off to start with) and feel guilt free about chucking it.

  She arrived in Soho just before ten and only had to drive round for fifteen minutes to find a meter, which wasn’t bad going.

  Dan’s office consisted of three rooms above a French patisserie on Greek Street. In Cyn’s experience most commercial directors were flash types who drove Porsches with personalized license plates. Dan wasn’t like that. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen him. He was in his midforties, bookish, with wispy hair and weird wire-framed German glasses. Although he was a talented director of commercials, his real passion was directing TV documentaries. Because the TV work tended to come in fits and starts and he and his wife had four kids to support, the ads helped pay the bills.

  Cyn and Dan were due to see more than forty actors. The upshot was that they’d decided to hold the auditions over three days. Cyn had told everybody at PCW who mattered that she wouldn’t be back in the office until Thursday. Since people were always disappearing to visit clients in various parts of the country, nobody seemed particularly bothered.

  Cyn had never seen so many Audrey Hepburn wannabes. Two or three actresses actually turned up wearing little black dresses, pearls and long black gloves. One—a pinched-faced woman with thinning shoulder-length gray hair, who couldn’t have looked less Audrey-like if she’d tried—even produced a cigarette holder “in order to find my motivation.” When Cyn explained that her “motivation” was being provided by a box of low-fat doughnuts, she got all sniffy and “I’ve-actually-appeared-with-Branagh-at-the-Royal-Shakespeare-you-know” about it and left. Cyn had been tempted to ask: “What as? Third crone?”

  By the end of Monday they had seen so many oddballs and no-hopers that they were beginning to think they wouldn’t find anybody. Then on Tuesday at half past five, just as they were on the point of adjourning to the Red Cow across the road to drown their sorrows in double vodkas, they found the three fat women all at once. They were sisters from Bexley Heath who had absolutely no acting experience. The only reason they knew about the audition was that one of them cleaned the office of the theatrical agent Cyn had taken on to find actors. But they were outspoken, funny and totally fearless. In other words, perfect.

  Finding the women cheered her up no end. The only thing bringing her down was the Joe situation. Even after what he’d told her about panicking, the other therapy groups refusing to let him join and having the director and producer breathing down his neck, she still couldn’t work out what to do. Her heart wanted to forgive him, but her head was telling her to beware. On the drive over to Veronica’s she thought about discussing her dilemma with the group. In one sense talking about it would be easy because Joe wasn’t going to be there. On the other hand she didn’t want to be put in the position where she was forced to identify him. That would mean admitting their affair. Of course she was all in favor of confessing, but she believed it wasn’t her responsibility alone and that it should be done when they were both there. Nor was she about to tell the group that he had deceived them as well as her. He needed to do that. In the end she decided that raising the issue was going to be too complicated and that she should just let it go.

  The session began and immediately lapsed into one of those silences Cyn hated. She sat examining her nails, feeling her usual urge to say something, anything to fill the void. She looked at Clementine, who was sitting on the other side of the circle. “So, are you feeling better after your flu?”

  “I’m fine. It never really developed.”

  “That’s good,” Cyn said.

  Empty seconds ticked by. Jenny sneezed. Ken handed her the box of tissues. Still nobody spoke. Cyn cleared her throat. “I, er . . . I’ve got this problem.” She was a
ware of everybody’s eyes—particularly Veronica’s—suddenly focusing on her. “I’ve been seeing this bloke. I really care about him. The problem is he’s deceived me.”

  “In what way?” Veronica asked gently.

  Oh, great. It had happened exactly the way she’d predicted. Veronica had put her on the spot and she would end up identifying Joe. She wished she hadn’t started this. “In what way?” Veronica prompted.

  “He told me he did one thing for a living and it turned out he did something else.”

  Clementine burst out laughing. “Oh, come on. Get over yourself. He said it to impress you. If I had a quid for every guy who told me he was a roadie for Coldplay, I’d be a very rich woman.”

  “Well, I can really feel Cyn’s suffering,” Jenny piped up. “I think what this man has done is very hurtful.”

  “You know something, Jenny,” Clementine shot back, “I reckon you were the kind of kid who stayed awake at night worrying about the way the ranger treated Yogi and Boo Boo.”

  Jenny sat there, utterly mortified, but saying nothing. Cyn was about to say something cutting to Clementine, but she didn’t get a chance. The door opened and Joe came in. He took a seat between Ken and Clementine. Cyn found herself blinking with shock. First, she hadn’t been expect-ing him. Second, he’d had his hair cut. Short. Really short. He’d practically been scalped. On the whole, that Justin-Timberlake-goes-to-Auschwitz look didn’t appeal to her, but Joe had a great-shaped head and on him it looked sexy. At the same time as finding him sexy, she also felt guilty. He’d obviously had to cut his hair to get rid of the red hair dye she’d poured over his head.

  He and Cyn exchanged uneasy glances. “Didn’t you tell the group you were going to be away this week?” Cyn said.

  “Yes, but my meeting in Glasgow finished early and I managed to catch an earlier flight.”

  Judging by the way everybody was looking at him, the rest of the group was more interested in his unexpected haircut than in his unexpected arrival.

  “Blimey,” Ken said matily, “if you were in the Marines they’d send you home to grow your hair.” Joe reddened and said he was experimenting with a new look.

  “Well, I think it looks fantastic,” Clementine simpered. “I adore that strong, tough-guy look on a man. I bet you have muscles to match.”

  Veronica shot Clementine an arctic look that wiped the flirty smirk off her face. Then she turned to Cyn. “So you were saying that this man let you down by lying about his job.”

  Cyn felt like making a bolt for the door. She didn’t want to discuss this with Joe in the room. It would embarrass her and hurt him. Instead of saying anything she looked at Veronica and gave a reluctant half-nod in answer to her question.

  “Maybe you would like to say a bit more about how he hurt you?” Veronica said.

  Cyn’s eyes darted round the room. She was looking in every direction except Joe’s.

  She didn’t say anything because she had no idea what to say to get herself out of this mess.

  “Is it very painful?” Jenny asked, her concern bordering on the melodramatic.

  “A bit,” Cyn said meekly, by way of understatement.

  “Remember, we’re all here for you,” Jenny added. Cyn looked at her and smiled her thanks. The seconds passed. Cyn kept shifting in her chair, trying to come up with a convincing story.

  “Come on,” Sandra Yo-yo said. “You know what they say. Better out than in.”

  More silence.

  “You know,” Joe said, finally, “this bloke might be really sorry for what he did and be desperate to make it up to you.”

  Ken asked him what made him think that and Joe said it was just a feeling.

  Cyn finally turned to look at Joe. “OK, suppose he is sorry. What difference does that make? It doesn’t mean I can trust him.”

  “So, you don’t think he deserves a second chance?” Joe went on. “Surely you’ve done things in your life that you’re not particularly proud of.”

  “Of course I have, but . . .”

  “And isn’t love about forgiveness as well as trust?”

  “Ah, Joe’s right there,” Ken said. “As it says in the book of Matthew: For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”

  “Hang on,” Cyn said to Joe, “what makes you think I love this man?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe . . . a little bird told him.” He said the little-bird bit as if it were in quotation marks. Hang on . . . Morris? Morris told Joe she loved him? It must have been when he came to pick her up that day they went walking. God, she’d Super Glue Morris’s beak if she ever got hold of him. By now she was turning crimson with embarrassment. Veronica looked confused and said she didn’t understand where the bird fitted into all this. Joe said it was just a thought, and Veronica knitted her eyebrows as if to say it was a rather strange one.

  “And I suspect this guy loves you, too,” Joe said. “Of course I don’t know him, but has it occurred to you that maybe he sits at home at night thinking about little else other than getting married and making babies with you?” Bloody hell, Joe was telling her he loved her. Suddenly every inch of her skin was tingling. Until now she hadn’t realized how much she had wanted to hear him say it.

  “And men do spend time thinking about these things, just like women,” Ken broke in, looking in Clementine’s direction, with what Cyn took to be a longing expression.

  Cyn was staring at Joe, still processing the “he loves you, too” bit. “He does?” she said in the faintest whisper.

  “I’m positive he does,” Joe replied. “Isn’t it possible that this chap is a good bloke who just made a mistake? Maybe he was under pressure of some kind and couldn’t help it.”

  “Joe’s right,” Sandra Yo-yo said. “I think you owe him a second chance.”

  “I think maybe I do,” Cyn said. She watched Joe’s face light up.

  “Wow, that’s fantastic,” he said. Then, clearly realizing it might look as if he was referring to himself, he quickly added, “I mean, that’s fantastic for your bloke—whoever he is.”

  Nobody seemed to know what to say next and another of those familiar therapy silences fell. As Cyn carried on looking at Joe, she couldn’t help noticing his expression gradually change. He seemed to be growing uneasy. He started to bite his bottom lip. He raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say “Well, here goes.” He was going to do it. He was going to tell the group about their affair and how he’d lied about his identity. She gave him an encouraging nod. She desperately wanted to tell him that when he got to the subject of their affair, she would be there taking her share of the responsibility. Then, as he opened his mouth to speak, Veronica raised a hand to stop him.

  “I’m glad you made it to the group this week, Joe, because I have something very important to say that concerns you.”

  Jeeeeezusss. Cyn knew precisely what was coming. Veronica was going to expose their affair before Joe could. Joe threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling as if he was waiting for it to fall on him. Cyn wanted to take his hand, tell him she was with him and that it would be OK.

  “Yesterday,” Veronica continued, “I received a note. It was an anonymous note, which I’m pretty sure was sent by a member of this group. I would like to say that I find the idea of anybody sending anonymous letters quite despicable, and I sincerely hope that the person who sent it will have the courage to own up. Having said that, I felt that there was probably some truth in the letter’s contents.”

  Bloody hell. Who turned them in? Who? They’d been so careful. How could anybody have found out?

  “It would seem that two members of this group have been seen out together and it would seem that they are conducting an inappropriate relationship. One is Joe. The other is . . .”

  Cyn’s head was in her hands.

  “The other is Clementine.”

  For a second Cyn thought she’d
heard wrong, but she knew she hadn’t. She was starting to shake and feel sick, as if she was about to keel over. She sat with her eyes closed, pressing her eyelids. It all made sense. She understood why he hadn’t thrown away Clementine’s list of phone numbers. What was more, he hadn’t been in Dublin last week, seeing his mother, and Clementine hadn’t been ill. The two of them had been together. She would stake her life on it.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Clementine snapped, “this is ridiculous and utterly laughable.” But Cyn could see from the smirk on her face that she was looking decidedly pleased with herself.

  Cyn found herself standing up. “Would you all excuse me?” she said. “I don’t feel very well all of a sudden. I . . . er . . . I think I might be coming down with something.” Without looking back, she gathered up her coat and bag and headed for the door.

  Had she turned round she would have seen Joe sitting gobsmacked and paralyzed with shock.

  She supposed she should be more angry with Joe than she’d been the other night at the salon when she found out about the screenplay, but she wasn’t. She was completely numb. Discovering that Joe had done something else to hurt her was a bit like somebody hitting her over and over again, and finally she shut off and stopped feeling anything.

  If she was angry with anyone, it was herself. How could she not have realized what was going on? Of course he was seeing Clementine. She found herself thinking again about the list of phone numbers. She couldn’t believe she had convinced herself that he had simply forgotten to throw it away. This was a man who admitted to being scared of emotional commitment. The moment things started to get heavy, he’d moved on, just as he always did. Clementine was his new conquest. Not only that, but she would be able to provide him with more fodder for his screenplay. Part of her wanted to feel sorry for Clementine, but she couldn’t. At the same time as being used, Clementine had taken Joe from her. It was then that the pain kicked in. Even though she knew Joe wasn’t worth shedding any tears over, she couldn’t forgive Clementine for stealing him.