Original Cyn

by Sue Margolis

  “Well, it certainly worked,” Gazza said. “You sound like a native. And I mean native with a capital Brit.”

  “Yep, well, I do have a bit of a gift for these things. Apparently my mum’s distantly related to Renée Zellweger.” She could not believe she had just said that. Like he was going to believe her. She glanced over at the fire exit and thought about making a run for it. “She says the talent for impersonating accents runs in the family. I learned to speak like this in two days.”

  “Whoa. Gifted and beautiful,” Gazza said, winking at her. What? He had actually bought her daft story? Poor, gullible Gazza really was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

  As they walked along the corridor, he seemed to sense her tension. “No need to be nervous, Chel. You’ll find all the guys here at DD are really easygoing.”

  He ushered her into a conference room. A dozen or so people—a few women, but mainly men in suits—were sitting at a large oval table. In the center were two white plastic insulated coffeepots, a tray of cups and saucers, and a plate piled with doughnuts.

  “OK, chaps and chap-esses,” Gazza began with a single clap and rubbing of his chubby hands, “it gives me great pleasure, and I mean great with a capital Vast, to introduce the little lady who came up with the idea for the Low Nut ad. Without further ado, I’ll hand the floor over to her.”

  “Thank you, Gazza.” Cyn surveyed the chaps and chap-esses and swallowed hard. She looked at the door. She didn’t have to go through with this. There was still time to make a run for it. “Right, well, er . . . Hello, everybody. My name is Chelsea Roggenfelder.” Christ. Now there was absolutely no going back. “And I would like to talk to you about my vision for the Droolin’ Dream Low Nut campaign.” On the drive over she’d defined the target market, how long it would be before she could organize a shoot, various actresses who might play the Audrey Hepburn character, whether or not there should be a poster and magazine campaign to accompany the TV ad.

  “With Do not doughnut, why not Low Nut? I would like to think I have achieved a clear, objective, one-sentence focus statement . . .”

  “I’ll certainly second that,” Gazza piped up.

  She held everybody’s attention for a good ten minutes. It was all going even more smoothly than she could have hoped. Then the chap sitting next to her started to ask her about cost. Of course the money was the only thing she hadn’t had time to work on. “Right. Well, of course, over the last week or so, I have been working on a detailed strategic financial analysis . . .” To buy herself time to think about what she would say next, she stretched across to the plate of doughnuts, picked one up and bit into it.

  “Excellent,” said the suit. “Admittedly, you’ve given us a ballpark figure, but we really need to know the bottom line.” Of course, as a “creative” it wasn’t strictly her job to work out the bottom line. That was left to their financial people to work out. No doubt Chelsea had already discussed it with them by e-mail and probably had a printout of all the costs. Of course Cyn hadn’t thought to look for it in Chelsea’s files. There was nothing for it but to bluff. “The bottom line. Yes. Well . . . sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t throw it,” the chap said smugly, causing a ripple of male laughter. “But it’s Dave.”

  “Well, Dave. Let me put it this way. I’m thinking that what with one thing and another and factoring in this and that based on our qualitative research methodology and bearing in mind that we need a greater synergy between product summarization and functional goal, I would say we are talking somewhere in the region . . . ooh, I’d say . . .” She took a second bite of her doughnut. The next thing she knew, jam had spurted out onto Dave’s trousers. His knee was covered in a patch of bright pink gloop the size of a ten-pence piece. He jumped up, muttered something about this being a brand-new suit and disappeared to the loo. Meanwhile Gazza said that he was sorry to cut things short, but he was overseeing a team-building exercise in a few minutes and that he was sure everybody had enough information to be getting on with. Cyn said she was disappointed they hadn’t gotten round to discussing costs, but she would be sure to e-mail a detailed breakdown ASAP.

  “Nice one.” Gazza smiled.

  He walked her back to the lift. “You were brilliant in there, Chel,” he said. “You know, I have to confess that I find a woman talking about the synergy between product summarization and functional goal rather attractive.”

  “You do?” She was feeling distinctly uncomfortable now.

  “Look, tell me to sling my hook, but I was wondering if you fancied going out sometime?”

  Bloody hell. “That’s very sweet of you, Gazza, but—” Just then Gazza sneezed. As he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, his keys fell out and onto the floor. Cyn bent down and picked them up. Hanging off the key ring was a large red plastic nose with the words Fart Detector written across it. Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she handed him the key ring.

  “Really works, you know,” he said, taking hold of the nose. “Made in Korea. Here, listen.” He pressed a tiny button on the side. “Fart detected. Fart detected.” The mechanical voice sounded like an Amerasian Dalek.

  “Brilliant,” Gazza snorted. “Cracks me up every time. Do you want a go?”

  “Not just now.” Cyn smiled. “So, Gazza, about us going out . . .”

  “You know, over the last week or so, I feel I’ve gotten to know you and I think there’s a real chemistry between us. I’d like to get to know you better. So, I was thinking we could kick off with a couple of pints. I know this great sports bar. Then we could go for a curry and take in a late movie. Don’t worry, I enjoy a good chick flick. I’m not one of those blokes who pretend we’re going to see a film about orphans and it turns out to be ninety minutes of blowing stuff up. So, what do you reckon?”

  There was no way she was going out with a man called Gazza. Particularly not one who said things like “amazing with a capital Wow,” owned a fart detector and whose idea of a date involved beer, curry and a sports bar.

  On the other hand she didn’t dare jeopardize this deal. It wasn’t just that it was worth a fortune to PCW. To Cyn it was far more important that she got even with Chelsea. That meant seeing the project through and making a colossal success of it—colossal with a capital Gigantic. By refusing Gazza she was risking him turning against her and recommending to Droolin’ Dream’s chairman—with whom he clearly had influence—that the company take its business elsewhere. She decided to try and play for time.

  “The thing is, Gazza,” she said, “I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “Come on, you have to eat. I promise there’ll be no strings. No pressure.” She racked her brain, desperately trying to invent an excuse. “Actually, I’m off to the Brazilian rain forest the day after tomorrow to film a . . . a muesli commercial.” Bugger, bugger, bugger. What on earth had possessed her to say muesli? “Won’t be back for a week,” she added.

  “A commercial for muesli? In the Brazilian rain forest? Funny, I’d associate muesli with a more alpine setting.”

  “Yes, most people do, but I see this commercial as a deconstruction of neo-Bergmanesque, postexistential ennui.” She hadn’t the foggiest what that all meant—if anything—but it was the kind of intellectually impenetrable guff she’d heard Hugh spout when he was banging on about art-house films.

  “Wow! I’m impressed. I just know we’re not going to regret hiring you, Chel. OK, let’s put our date on hold until you get back.”

  “Great,” she said, massively relieved that she had been able to negotiate some breathing space.

  “In the meantime, I’ll e-mail you.”

  What? No. On no account could he be allowed to e-mail Chelsea. Posh private hospitals like the one Chelsea was in were bound to have Internet access. She could be checking her e-mail within hours. “Er, getting e-mails in the middle of the rain forest might be a problem. It’ll be easier if you e-mail my assistant. Her name’s Cyn. She’s a l
ovely girl. She’ll phone our hotel and pass on any messages.” She gave him her e-mail address, which he wrote down on an immaculately folded Kleenex Man Size tissue. “Wicked. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she said.

  As she headed out toward the M4, Cyn felt positively euphoric. It was partly the adrenaline still pumping through her, but it was primarily the realization that she was fulfilling her desire to do something bad and brave for the most honorable and noble of reasons. She pulled up at traffic lights, opened the window and started singing at the top of her lungs: “You know I’m Bad, I’m Bad, I’m Really, Really Bad . . .” A prim-looking woman in a red Metro alongside her gave a disgusted look. Whether this was in response to what Cyn was singing, the Anusol ad on the side of the car or both, Cyn had no idea. What was more, she didn’t remotely care.

  As she as she came onto the M4 slip road, she put her foot down and forced the Smart Car up to 70. Since the vehicle was so tiny, this felt more like 170. For a few minutes she flew along, the icy wind gusting through her hair, feeling as if she could take on the world.

  She was still singing when her phone, which was lying on the passenger seat, started ringing. She wound up the window and picked up.

  “Hey, Cyn, it’s me, Chelsea.” The shock of hearing Chelsea’s voice instantly segued into fury. Bad back or no bad back, her instinct was to blast Chelsea with a character reading that would have her cowering under her hospital bed, begging for police protection. Almost at once her rage turned to panic. For some stupid reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that Chelsea would phone to check up on the situation at Droolin’ Dream. She wasn’t even remotely prepared. Did she have the wit and the nerve to fool Chelsea like she’d managed to fool Gazza? Heart thumping, she fought through her emotions, desperate to keep cool head.

  “Chelsea, how are you?” She prayed she didn’t sound suspiciously caring and upbeat.

  “Pretty spacey from all the medication, but at least the pain’s gone. The doctors say I’ll be in the hospital for a few weeks. Apparently I’ve slipped three discs. Pretty major. Listen, Brian Lockwood told me you were off for the rest of the day. I just wanted to check that everything’s OK with the guys at Droolin’ Dream.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Cyn soothed, wondering how she was managing to sound so calm. “I’ve had a conversation with Gary Rossiter and he said he’s happy to put everything on hold until you’re back on your feet. He told me to tell you’re not to worry about a thing and just concentrate on getting better.”

  “That is so darling, but I’ll give him a call, just to reassure him.”

  What? No. She couldn’t do that. It would blow the whole thing. Think, Cyn, think. “You can try calling him, but I don’t think there’s much point. He’s on holiday for the next few weeks. I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. Your meeting was going to be his last appointment. Since you couldn’t make it, he said it gave him the chance to leave early.”

  “That’s strange. He never mentioned a vacation.”

  “Um. Hill walking in the Himalayas, apparently. Can’t be reached.”

  “Funny, he didn’t strike me as the hill-walking type. But you’ve definitely sorted everything out with him?”

  “Definitely. It’s all under control. You just take it easy.”

  “OK, I will. And thanks for calling him. It’s really put my mind at ease.”

  “My pleasure,” Cyn said, with a smile that would have done Snow White’s stepmother proud.

  Gradually, the traffic began to slow down. After a few minutes all three eastbound lanes were bumper-to-bumper. At the same time, Cyn’s high gradually morphed into a not quite so high. Not only was she starting to think that impersonating Chelsea was immoral, she was imagining what might happen if she got found out. And she was bound to get found out. Did she really think she was going to pull this thing off? This wasn’t a movie, it was real life. She saw herself in a few weeks having been sacked without a reference and effectively unemployable. Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing again.

  “Cyn, it’s me, Harms. ’Ewge just told me what happened.” Harmony was so outraged she was barely pausing for breath. “I-tell-you-if-I-got-hold-of-this-Chelsea-cow-I’d-bloody-swing-for-her.” Cyn said that was a very sweet thought.

  “Look,” Harmony said, lowering her voice, “I know this bloke back in Liverpool. Petal, he’s called—only don’t be fooled, he’s built like a brick shithouse. Ex-boxer. He does freelance jobs . . . on a contract basis, if you get my drift.”

  “Bloody hell! I’m not going to kill her!”

  “No, I wasn’t suggesting killing her. But maybe Petal could put the frighteners on her. You know, gently persuade her that it would be in her best interests to own up.”

  “Put the frighteners on her? Sorry, have we just stepped into a Philip Marlowe novel?”

  “OK, it was just a thought.”

  “Look, Harms, I love it that you care, but I’m not sure violent intimidation is quite the way to go. Tell you what, let’s agree to put it on the back burner and look at it again if my plan doesn’t work out.”

  “Oh, right. I didn’t know you had a plan.”

  Cyn explained.

  “Omigod, just like in Working Girl. That’s amazing. But do you think you can pull it off?”

  “Dunno. That’s the scary bit.”

  “You will. You will. I just know it. You just have to keep your nerve, that’s all.”

  Harmony’s encouragement boosted Cyn’s mood, but not for long. As she hit the North Circular, she realized it was past six. Buggeration. She was desperate not be late for her therapy session two weeks running. Repeated lateness was something the group always seized on. They would question her commitment to the group, suggest she was late because subconsciously she had issues she didn’t want to confront or that being late made her feel powerful and gave her a hold over the group. It would go on for hours.

  In the end the traffic eased up just past Brent Cross and she arrived at Veronica’s a few minutes early. The only person there was Joe, the exceedingly good-looking new chap in front of whom she had humiliated herself so thoroughly the previous week. He was looking slightly nervous and uneasy, she thought, but ever, ever so sexy.

  “Bitter night,” she said, taking in the gray V-neck sweater that he was wearing over a white T-shirt. Her eyes moved down. Same battered Levi’s. Ah, but trendy new trainers—the Puma ones—which did up with those wrap-over strips. Umm. She really approved. “Sensible chap taking the seat near the fire.”

  The deal was that when the group wasn’t in session, like now, conversation between members should be kept to the superficial and mundane. It tended to feel a bit false and awkward, but it made sense. Everybody agreed that the important stuff should be discussed in front of the whole group, when Veronica was present. On top of this, surnames were not revealed and Veronica asked them not to meet socially outside the group. The theory was that alliances would be formed that “might threaten the therapeutic process,” in Veronica’s words.

  “If you’re cold,” Joe said, “please sit here. I’m fine.” She hadn’t noticed last week—probably because she was too taken up with her own embarrassment—but he spoke with a distinct Irish accent. He started to get up.

  “Goodness, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She took a chair opposite him. OK, why opposite? Why not sit next to him? That would be the friendly, welcoming thing to do. But she knew why. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable sitting next to him because she found him attractive. So, in order not to give him the wrong idea, she was sitting as far away from him as she could.

  “So, you’re Irish,” she said, stating the stark staringly obvious.

  “Yes. I’m from Dublin, but I’ve lived in London for the last five years.”

  “I’ve never been to Dublin. It’s meant to be beautiful.”

  “It is,” he said. His voice reminded her of Liam Neeson. He had the same inflection, the same deep but gentle ton
e. He asked her where she lived.

  “Crouch End. Except tonight I drove from Slough. Work thing.” She nodded because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. He nodded, too, and they fell into silence for a few seconds. Then he said, “There’s that famous John Betjeman poem about Slough, isn’t there?”

  “That’s right,” she smiled. “ ‘Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough’ . . .”

  “ ‘It isn’t fit for humans now.’ ” They laughed softly. Another silence followed. She sat there thinking how sexy she found his Liam Neeson voice and wondering if his sweater was cashmere.

  “I love that painting,” he said, nodding toward the abstract print over the fireplace.

  “Umm. Cashmere.”

  “Actually, I think you’ll find it’s Mondrian.”

  “Oh, God, sorry. The print. Of course it’s Mondrian. Sorry, I was just admiring your sweater. Must keep you very warm.”

  “Yes, it does.” His rather bemused smile began at his lips and moved to his eyes.

  Just then, the rest of the group, including Veronica, began to trickle in. As everybody sat down and got comfortable, Cyn’s mind went back to the Chelsea affair. She was just about to tell her story, when Sandra, the yo-yo dieter, announced: “I called in fat to work today.”

  Cyn burst out laughing. “That’s really funny,” she said. It was only when she saw Sandra’s despondent expression that Cyn realized she hadn’t been joking.

  “Sorry,” Cyn said, cringing inside.

  Ken, the earnest ex-priest with the Amish beard and no mustache, shot Cyn a pitying look, which made her feel worse. Then he suggested to Sandra she must be in great pain and that maybe she would like to share with the group. Sandra shrugged.