by Sue Margolis
She’d been driving for about five minutes when her mobile rang. She reached inside her bag. The caller display said it was Joe. She flipped the lid.
“Cyn, you have to believe me. I did not have an affair with Clementine.” He sounded breathless and utterly distraught.
“Joe, save it. I’m fed up with the lies.” Then, having decided he wasn’t worth shedding any tears over, she found herself letting rip. Somehow, out of the numbness and shock, rage had surfaced. “Joe, you are pond life, that’s what you are. Actually, thinking about it, that’s an insult to pond life. What you are is the scum that lives on the top of ponds. Now just crawl back into your sewer and don’t try to contact me again.” She slammed the phone shut, aware that she had mixed her metaphors and that pond life lived in ponds, not sewers—hence the name pond life—but she didn’t care. She’d made her point.
She found herself wondering who the anonymous letter writer was. It could only be Jenny, Ken or Sandra. Despicable as the act was, she realized she didn’t have any bad feelings toward whoever had written the letter. The truth had come out and as far as Cyn was concerned that was the only thing that mattered.
She decided that whoever had done it must have seen Clementine slip Joe her phone number and then perhaps seen the two of them together. It was possible. She’d once bumped into Sandra Yo-yo in Accessorize.
It wasn’t until she went to bed that the tears came. They cascaded down her cheeks. She heard herself sobbing like a child. How could he tell her he wanted to marry her and make babies with her, when all the time he was seeing Clementine? It was so cruel, so wicked. What kind of a sick, warped individual was Joseph Dillon?
At some stage she dropped off. When her alarm woke her the next morning, her pillow was a sodden mess of foundation, mascara and tears.
Chapter 21
The frantic activity of the next few days came as a blessing. She had virtually no time to think about Joe.
First thing on Wednesday she was back in Dan’s office auditioning actresses. They were still looking for their Audrey. All morning, women came and went, one disappointment following another. Then, after lunch, a dark-haired, gamine-faced girl walked in. Cyn noticed her eyes straightaway. They were the color of chestnuts. She was wearing a twin set and high sling backs. When she spoke she revealed a patrician voice that could have cut crystal. Cyn and Dan knew she was the one.
From then on, when Cyn wasn’t in meetings with set designers or the people in charge of costume and makeup, she was in a huddle with Dan, going over the storyboard and making last-minute script changes.
She also found time to go to the Gadget Shop and buy the cassette recorder she needed before she could make that long-shot call to L.A.
Joe rang several times a day, but she wouldn’t take his calls. Each time he left a message, begging to talk to her. “Cyn, this isn’t what you think. I have not been seeing Clementine. You have to believe me. I can explain. I love you so much. Please phone me.” He sounded like he was starring in some tacky made-for-TV romance. He even came round to her flat. Mr. Levinson from downstairs told her that on two occasions he’d come home to find a man outside the building, ringing her bell. Both times she’d been with Harmony.
Whenever she felt the sadness and anger were overwhelming her, she would phone Harmony or Hugh or go and see one of them. Since they’d both decided they liked Joe and that he was essentially a decent bloke—albeit one who had made a serious mistake by lying to Cyn about why he had joined the therapy group—they’d been flabbergasted when she told them about his affair with Clementine. They both agreed he just didn’t seem the type. Cyn accused them of being naive and said there was no type. “OK, then,” Hugh said, “why did he decide to help me?” The first time Hugh had asked her that question, she had put Joe’s kindness down to his feelings of guilt about hurting her. Now she seriously doubted whether Joe possessed the capacity to feel guilt. She told Hugh she couldn’t answer his question.
Hugh suggested she come and stay with him until she was feeling a bit stronger. She thanked him, but said she would rather be on her own. She knew he would only try to jolly her up and make her go to parties. Harmony offered to come and stay with Cyn. “I’ll make you bacon butties,” she said. “All that fat’ll keep your strength up.” Cyn didn’t take her up on her offer either. She knew Harmony was worried sick about Laurent’s possible deportation and that she wanted to spend all her time with him. “We are totally refusing to give up hope,” Harmony said when Cyn asked her how things were going. “We just have to pray something will work out. Hugh’s dad has spoken to his mate at the Home Office, so we’re waiting to see if that has any effect.”
It wasn’t just Harmony and Hugh who were able to lift her spirits. Barbara kept phoning with various updates on Mal and the wedding, which also helped take her mind off Joe. Barbara was so excited about everything that for once she didn’t notice that Cyn seemed down. Cyn was grateful. Barbara had enough to worry about with the wedding. Finding out that Cyn had broken up with a boyfriend would only add to her stress.
Barbara’s most important news was that Mal had started eating and was putting on weight. Not only that, he had just bought an air-conditioned pith helmet on eBay, which meant he was definitely on the mend. Weddingwise, she was in a panic because the disposable cameras for the tables that had been promised a week ago hadn’t turned up. On the other hand the trial-run dinner Laurent had promised to cook had been an absolute triumph—even if his fish balls had been a bit big. Apparently, Grandma Faye had remarked that they’d been more like whale balls. On top of her panic about the cameras, she was also having problems with her thigh, bottom and midriff shaper, which Sandra had recommended she wear under her dress. “I’m wearing it around the house, but it’s so tight. I feel like an Egyptian mummy—sort of Tutankhamen-does-Lycra.”
The other thing keeping her distress at bay was her obsession with trying to get the commercial shot and in the can before Chelsea and Graham Chandler got back. Cyn was determined to see Chelsea knocked off her perch and it seemed to her that the only way to do that was to turn her own Droolin’ Dream proposal into a first-rate commercial. By doing that she would be proving to Graham—post the Pickersgill Double Glazing fiasco—that she wasn’t the hopeless flake he probably now thought she was and that she deserved to be promoted.
They started shooting the Droolin’ Dream commercial on Friday. Cyn had told Dan she would be late because she had a meeting with her nail polish remover client, which she couldn’t cancel at short notice as the chap was flying down from Glasgow.
After the meeting she came out of the large trailer and practically collided with Graham.
“Graham! It’s you,” she said, instantly realizing the crassness of her statement.
“Really?” he said brightly. “And there was me thinking I was Ivana Trump.” Despite his jokey manner, he looked tired and crumpled. He had obviously come to the office straight from the airport.
“So, did everything get sorted in New York?”
“Just about, but it was a close thing. At one point it looked like the U.S. operation wasn’t going to survive. But things are looking much better. Speaking of things looking better, how’s Chelsea? I heard what happened.”
“She’s fine. She said she would be popping into the office sometime this week.”
“Good.” He put his hands in his pockets and began turning over loose change. Cyn could see he was starting to feel awkward. “You know, at some stage we need to sit down and talk about how things are working out for you here. Your idea for the Droolin’ Dream advertisement was less than inspiring and then I heard how you lost us the Pickersgill Double Glazing account. I’ve just read Cyril Pickersgill’s letter, dropping the account. It’s absolutely venomous. I don’t even want to know how or why you got Keith’s bloody mynah bird to start imitating the old duffer. Having said the man is a nightmare, I’d love to have seen his face.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. I can
explain—”
Graham held up his hand to stop her. “You know, Cyn, we had such high hopes for you, but I’m worried that the job’s becoming too stressful for you.”
No! That simply wasn’t true! The job only got stressful when Chelsea Roggenfelder made it stressful by stealing her ideas. Cyn simply couldn’t listen to any more of this. She had to tell him what Chelsea had done. “Look, Graham, I need to talk to you about my Droolin’ Dream proposal . . .”
“I agree, but not now.” His tone was one that wasn’t about to countenance protest. “I’m jet-lagged, I’ve got a backlog of work a mile high. I’m afraid it will have to wait until the end of the week.”
“But it’s really important,” she persisted. “There are some things you really need to know.”
“I’m sure there are, but I’m sorry, they are simply going to have to keep.”
“OK, fine,” she said thinly. She realized that as an apparently underperforming junior copywriter, she wasn’t exactly at the top of Graham’s priorities.
She went to her desk, picked up her Filofax and flicked through until she found the address of the sound stage where the Droolin’ Dream commercial was being filmed. She headed for reception, giving Luke a hello wave as she went. He came running over.
“Cyn, have you managed to speak to Chelsea yet about this drug thing?”
“No, but she’s popping back briefly this week. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to talk.” An understatement if ever there was one.
Cyn was just pulling out of the PCW car park when her mobile rang.
“Gorgeous, it’s Hugh. Guess what?”
“What?”
“No, go on. You have to guess.”
“Omigod! You’ve heard from Ted Wiener.”
“He’s only gone and bought my screenplay. He’s crazy about it.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“OK, can we please stop this?” Hugh said, finally. “Ted Wiener really loves it. Of course it’s going to need some rewrites, but in the meantime he’s optioned it, which basically means he’s paying me shed-loads.”
“How many shed-loads?”
“Fifty thousand shed-loads.”
“Bloody hell. Dollars or pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“No!”
“Gorgeous, you’re doing it again.”
“Sorry. Oh, Huge, this is fantastic. I don’t know what to say. Well done. You really deserve this.”
She wondered if Ted Wiener agreed with Joe that My Brother, My Blood, My Life was a comedy. She wasn’t sure how to broach it. Hugh was so obsessed with being seen as a “serious” writer that he was bound to take any suggestion that his screenplay was a comedy as a personal slight. In the end, he raised the issue himself.
“Of course it took someone as inspired as Ted to see the piece for what it is. He described it as, and I quote: ‘a dark, deeply disturbing, black comedy.’ I always knew a clown lurked somewhere inside me. Somehow I managed to harness it without realizing. Artistically speaking I think I have finally discovered where I need to be.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Look, I know how wretched you’re feeling just now. I’m sorry to keep banging on about myself . . .”
“Hey, you’ve just had some great news. You have every right to bang on.”
“OK, but I just want to say that I’m thinking about you and if you need me, I’m always here.”
“I know, Huge. I really appreciate that.”
The sound stage—on a small studio lot in Battersea—was like a scaled-down aircraft hangar. It was heaving with set builders, camera people and lighting men. Then there were the runners and production assistants: frantic girls with headsets and belly button rings running around waving clipboards.
Dressing rooms ran off to the sides, while at one end there was a massive trestle table loaded with rolls, croissants and miniboxes of cereal. Cyn made a beeline for the table and helped herself to a bacon, sausage and egg roll. As she bit into it she spotted Dan giving instructions to one of the cameramen and went over to say hi.
“Everything OK?” she said as the cameraman left. Egg yolk was running down the side of her mouth. She wiped it with the back of her hand.
“Fine,” Dan said. “We should be ready for a first run-through in a few minutes. By the way, have you any idea who that strange-looking bloke is over there?”
Dan jerked his head. It was Gazza. He was wearing a backward baseball cap and a black T-shirt with Film Crew written across it. He was sitting in a director’s chair, reading the Sun.
“That’s Gary Rossiter,” she said. “He’s the client. Prefers it if you call him Gazza.”
Dan rolled his eyes. It was then that it hit her. It was all this talk of names. Bloody hell, how could she have let this happen? What with all the upset and confusion in her life, it simply hadn’t occurred to her. Dan called her by her real name and Gazza thought her name was Chelsea. She had two choices: either she could keep the two men apart—not really doable without the day turning into one of those ridiculous farces where people keep getting shoved into cupboards. Or she could make up some story. “By the way,” she said, “Gazza’s got this thing about odd nicknames. He calls me Chel. Don’t know why. Best if you just go along with it.” Whoever invented that saying, Cyn thought, about weaving tangled webs when we practice to deceive, didn’t know the half of it.
“He calls you Chel?”
“Yes.”
“For no reason?”
“That’s right. He’s a bit eccentric, but he’s lovely when you get to know him. Why don’t you come over and meet him?”
Dan gave her a look as if to say “God, why do I always end up with the bloody weirdos?” and followed her to where Gazza was sitting.
“Great to meet you,” Gazza said, shaking Dan’s hand. He turned to Cyn. “Thought I’d get into the spirit of the occasion. What do you think of the outfit? I wore it when I videoed my school’s production of Hello, Dolly! Haven’t put it on since. Thought I’d get it out for an airing.”
Dan rolled his eyes while Cyn assured him it was most appropriate.
“Of course,” Gazza went on, “I know a thing or two about filmmaking . . . So, how about at the end, doing the doughnuts CGI? That means computer-generated image.”
“Yes,” Dan said thinly, “I know what it means, but why?”
“I just thought it would be great if the doughnuts could fly.”
“Fly?” Dan repeated flatly.
“Yeah, and morph. One of them could morph into like . . . an Orc or something.”
Cyn noticed a vein throbbing on the side of Dan’s forehead. “Great idea,” Dan said. “Perhaps we could also have the women morphing into hobbits?”
“I think what Dan is trying to say,” Cyn stepped in, “is that having doughnuts morphing into Orcs might possibly take the commercial a bit off message.”
“You’re right,” Gazza said. “Arty ads are OK for your Channel 4 audience, but it would go over the heads of most of the punters.” He turned back to Dan. “But if you need any advice, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Dan replied.
“Ooh, I nearly forgot,” Gazza said to Cyn. With that he unzipped his shoulder bag and pulled out the boxed set of k.d. Lang CDs. “Thought these might appeal to you—you know, what with you being that way inclined. Not that I see you as a misfit or anything. And even if you were—not that you are—you’re still entitled to be treated with respect. How does that old song go? All God’s critters got a place in the choir—some sing low and some sing higher.”
Cyn decided to rescue him before he dug himself in any deeper. “Thanks for the CDs. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Chel. Anyway, I think I’ll go and get a cup of coffee.” He got up and headed toward the trestle table.
/> Dan turned to Cyn. “You told me you had a boyfriend.”
“I did until recently, but we split up.”
“So why would Gazza think you’re gay?”
“It’s complicated. It happened a couple of weeks ago. We got our wires a bit crossed over something. I think we should let sleeping dogs lie and not get him any more confused.”
“Probably for the best,” Dan said, amused.
He went off to have another word with the cameraman, leaving her alone. She was aware that her neck felt knotted and tight. The pressure was getting to be too much. First there was Joe, then all the Chelsea stuff and now there was the guilt she was feeling about Gazza. No matter how much she tried to justify it, she had deceived him. Not long from now she was going to have a great deal of explaining and apologizing to do.
“So,” the Audrey character cooed, beaming into the camera, “with only sixty calories in each light, fluffy, scrumptious ball of deliciousness . . . do not doughnut, why not Low Nut?” She bit into a doughnut and made a face that was somewhere between discovering Dolce & Gabbana was being sold at garage sale prices and an orgasm.
“And cut,” Dan called out. “Excellent.” While the makeup girl went over to the actors and blotted their faces with powder, Dan got into a huddle with the cameraman. After a couple of minutes he announced they were going for a second take.
“OK, quiet, please, everybody . . .” A lad appeared with an electronic clapboard and numbers started flashing. Dan nodded at the actors. “In your own time . . .”
Cyn was sitting in a director’s chair next to Gazza. She could hardly believe it was finally happening. The three fat women were sitting in the sixties blue Formica kitchen exactly as she’d imagined, speaking the lines that she’d written. She’d conceived, designed and helped bring the commercial to life. It was the first time she’d seen a project through on her own and she had never felt more proud.
Gazza winked at her as if to let her know that he was “pleased with a capital Over the Moon.”