by Sue Margolis
Of course, his depression had come on because he’d lost his job and heard nothing from Warner Bros. about his screenplay. Cyn found herself feeling a mixture of sympathy and irritation. She was desperately sorry that Hugh had been sacked and that he was struggling to get recognition for his writing, but at the same time she wanted to tell him the only way to succeed was to keep going and develop a skin thick enough to cope with being ignored and rejected. If he couldn’t do that, then he might as well give up. She supposed it was easy for her to talk. She loved her job and earned a decent salary—although for how much longer she didn’t know.
As well as being upset for Hugh, she was also concerned for Barbara. Not only had her mother gone to all the trouble of cooking dinner and now he was about to let her down at the last minute, but more important, he might decide the wedding planner job was too much for him as well.
“So, how bad is it?” Cyn said later to Harmony, who was looking stunning in a pale pink pleated miniskirt and a black and pink Chanel cardigan.
“Pretty bad.” She drew heavily on her cigarette. “He’s reading Angela’s Ashes.”
“Well, at least it’s an improvement on Final Exit, which is what he read after his last novel was rejected. Has he started putting vicious reviews on Amazon yet?” Harmony said not as far as she knew. Cyn threw her coat over a chair and the two of them headed upstairs.
The bed was a dark oak antique four-poster. Hugh, pale and unshaven and wearing black silk pajamas, was propped up on a mountain of expensive-looking pillows doing his best to look feeble. An open copy of Angela’s Ashes was lying facedown across his knees. Cyn stood there taking in the maroon silk bed canopy, the matching curtains and wallpaper, the portraits of stern-looking sixteenth-century aristocrats with no eyebrows. “Blimey, it’s Henry the Eighth’s bedchamber,” she said. Hugh let out a tiny moan, but otherwise didn’t respond. Cyn and Harmony looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Cyn went over and sat on the bed. “Come on, Huge,” she said, taking his hand, “please don’t get down. Warner Bros. will get back to you eventually, but meanwhile you have to carry on writing.” He refused to make eye contact with her. Instead he stared off into the distance.
“You know, I met this really great guy last night,” he said. “Turned out we had loads in common. He shares my love of theater, music, cinema.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, he and his wife even have a son called Hugh.”
“Ah.”
He turned to look at her, all puppy dog eyes. “Where did it all go wrong?” he said weakly. “Why am I such a failure?”
“Listen to me,” Cyn retorted. “You are not a failure, OK? You’re just struggling and that’s hard. And as far as a relationship’s concerned, there’s somebody out there for you, I just know it. As for the writing, getting established takes time. You have to be patient and hang in there.”
Harmony stubbed out her cigarette, climbed up onto the bed and lay next to Hugh, head on his shoulder. “Cyn’s right, and meanwhile here you are living free in this great big gaff, helping yourself from the wine cellar. I mean, have you thought for one moment how the rest of the world lives? For example, did you know that seventy-five percent of the mentally ill live below the poverty line?”
“Christ,” Hugh said, “that means twenty-five percent are doing OK. See, even drooling, matted-haired loons are more successful than me.” He closed Angela’s Ashes and put it on the bedside table. “Do either of you ever think about your funeral?”
“Sometimes I think about me gran’s funeral,” Harmony said. “Me dad turned up pissed, broke a flower off one of the wreaths and put it in his buttonhole.”
Hugh said his grandfather had died in the garden digging up a cabbage for dinner.
“Ah, how did your grandma cope?” Harmony asked.
“She got the cook to open a tin of peas.”
“No, I didn’t mean . . .” Harmony stopped herself—partly because she had suddenly gotten the joke and partly because, like Cyn, she’d noticed that the vague twitching at the corners of Hugh’s mouth was turning into a smile.
“Come on, Huge,” Cyn said, nudging him with her elbow, “you’re not doing yourself any good lying here moping.”
“Do you really think I’ll make it one day?”
“Without a doubt. You just have to keep the faith.”
“It’s like me and the salon,” Harmony added. “There were times at the beginning when I was in serious debt. I had creditors hassling me day and night. For two years I barely slept with the worry. All I could think about was giving up, but somehow I found the strength to carry on.”
“Yeah,” Hugh said, “and then Justin came along with his magic wallet.”
“OK, so my luck changed. Yours will, too. Me mam always says that the devil doesn’t crap in the same place forever.”
He seemed to perk up a bit more. They were making headway. Harmony got up and went over to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of jeans and a white Paul Smith shirt with tiny roses up the front panel. “Bet this looks great on you,” she said about the shirt.
“Yes, well, I have been meaning to debut it.”
“Come on, then,” Cyn said, urging him on. “How’s about I run you a shower? It’ll make you feel better.”
His face suddenly slumped again. “Thanks, gorgeous, but I just don’t think I’m up to it.”
Cyn asked him whether it was just the shower he wasn’t up to—or was he also not up to going to her mum’s for dinner and being her wedding planner.
“All three,” he said, sounding more feeble than ever.
“OK, fine, but you have to phone Mum and explain.”
“Can’t you do it?”
“No,” she said indignantly, “you’re the one letting her down. Of course, she will burst into tears and develop sudden shooting pains in her chest because she’s already told two hundred of her closest friends that the Honorable Hugh Thorpe Duff, fiftieth in line to the throne, is organizing her son’s wedding.”
“But I’m not fiftieth in line to the throne. I’m not anything in line to the throne.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, she’s told everybody you’re doing the wedding and now she’ll have to suffer the humiliation of un-telling everybody. If the blubbing and chest pains don’t make you feel sufficiently guilty and have you caving in, she will bring out the big guns and bore you into submission. You might even get her lecture on the 1926 General Strike, in which she’ll make a cogent and eloquent case for renationalizing the railways and argue that if her grandfather didn’t get depressed with no money coming in and nine children to support, then what right have you. “
“OK, I’ll get up.”
“Sound choice,” Cyn said with a smile.
Chapter 11
In the end, they all went to Edgware in Harmony’s car. Cyn phoned Barbara along the way and made up a story about the traffic being bad, to explain why they would be a bit late. “Thanks for not squealing on me to your mum,” Hugh said.
“Come on, Huge, as if.”
Hugh, who was sitting in the front next to Harmony, began drawing a cuff out from under his jacket sleeve. “You two are right,” he said. “Once I have a new writing project on the go, I’ll be fine. Sorry for being such a pain in the arse.” They assured him that was OK.
For a few minutes nobody spoke. Cyn sat trying to pluck up the courage to tell them about her date with Joe. Finally she decided it would be wrong to hold out on them.
“Look, I know you’re both going to think I’m mad,” she said, “but Joe—the guy from therapy—asked me to go out with him and I said yes.”
“You’re mad,” Hugh and Harmony said in unison. Then Harmony went on about how she’d promised faithfully this wasn’t going to happen.
“I know, I know.” She told them about him picking her up in the rain, going to the pub and her credit card falling out of her pocket. “We had a real laugh last night. He seems so normal.”
&nb
sp; Hugh made the point that being in therapy, Cyn should know enough about mental health “to understand that your average nutter doesn’t sit in the corner rocking obsessively and ranting about the laser beams in their heads. They suppress their lunacy. I suppose we all do it to some degree.”
“Right,” Cyn leaped in. “Maybe it is just a question of degree. Perhaps he does have a few problems, but when we were in the pub he really opened up about his childhood. I’m convinced he’s not as badly damaged as you think.”
“Cyn,” Harmony said, looking at her in her rearview mirror, “has anybody ever told you denial ain’t just a river in Egypt?” She rolled down her window and flicked cigarette ash onto the road.
Barbara answered the door. Her hair had been freshly set and she was in a jazzy red blouse and navy trousers. She was also in a tizz. Her potatoes had turned to water in the pan and she was on the phone to the plumber who had rung to make an appointment to come and fix some guttering. She did a quick round of hello kisses and told them to make themselves comfortable in the living room. “Mal’s in there. He’ll make you all a drink.” Cyn asked if there was anything she could do.
“Actually, there is. You could come into the kitchen and fetch the peanuts and olives.”
A minute later, Cyn was standing in the living room holding two of her mother’s cut-glass (in Hugh’s honor) nibbles dishes. Mal was sitting on the sofa, wired up to the oxygen machine he’d bought on eBay. He had a plastic tube coming out of each nostril. These joined up and formed one tube at about chin level—exactly like a stethoscope. The single tube connected with a device the size of a shopping cart on wheels, which sat on the floor beside him, making a gentle, rhythmic pumping sound. Harmony was sitting next to him, her face etched with concern. “So, ’ow are you doing, Mr. Fishbein?” As she put her arm round him, Mal looked both flattered and bemused.
“Oh, you know, the odd ache and pain, but I can’t grumble.”
“Good for you, Mr. Fishbein, that’s the spirit. Never say die, eh? Cyn never said a word . . . you know”—Harmony nodded toward the oxygen machine—“about any of this.”
Cyn tried to interrupt and put Harmony straight, but Mal got in first. “Great, isn’t it? Cost me seven hundred and fifty quid on eBay.”
“Oh, my God. You mean not only did you have to pay for it, but you were forced to buy it secondhand? What sort of a heartless, cruel world do we live in? The National Health Service used to be the jewel in this country’s crown, now look at it, a complete shambles.”
Cyn tried to break in again, but this time Hugh, who seemed to know what the machine was, pulled on her arm and gave a mischievous wink.
“I wouldn’t expect to get something like this on the NHS,” Mal said. “I mean, after all, it is a bit of a luxury.”
“A luxury? I can’t believe the bravery of the man.”
Mal was looking confused, or at least pretending to. Cyn was certain he knew precisely what was going on. He wasn’t setting Harmony straight because he was enjoying having a young, beautiful woman put her arm around him. He asked her if she fancied a go. Harmony looked taken aback. Hugh was stifling giggles and giving Cyn a look that said “Please, please don’t spoil the fun.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fishbein, but I think your need is greater than mine.”
“Madonna’s got one, you know,” Mal said.
“Geddaway. But she’s such a health fanatic. I would never have taken her for a smoker. Is it terminal? How long have they given her?”
“About fifty years,” Cyn broke in, putting the nuts and olives down on the coffee table. “Dad’s not ill, the oxygen is meant to increase brain power. Half of Hollywood owns one.”
“What?” Mal said, starting to laugh. “You thought I was dying?” He slapped his thigh—rather theatrically, Cyn thought—and roared. Harmony stood up, red faced. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she hissed at Cyn. “You just let me carry on and embarrass myself.”
“She tried,” Hugh said, “but I wouldn’t let her. I was just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Sorry. Forgive me? Please?” He gave Harmony a squeeze. She tried to fight him off, but it was pretty halfhearted. “Well, at least you’ve cheered up,” she said, starting to see the funny side. “I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies, but I’ll get you for this, Thorpe Duff. Just you see if I don’t.” She smacked his arm, but not so that it hurt.
Still chuckling, Mal took the tubes out of his nose and got up from the sofa.
“Thanks for coming to the rescue over the wedding,” he said to Hugh. “I love Barbara, but I’ve spent the last few days in the shed keeping out of her way. She’s been getting herself so worked up over caterers and whatnot she was beginning to sound like Nigella on helium.”
Hugh smiled and promised Mal that there would be no more panics and Jonny and Flick would have the most perfect wedding. At this, Mal got hold of Hugh’s arm and took him to one side. “Just one thing,” he lowered his voice. “If you could take it easy, you know, on the money side of things.”
“Point taken, Mr. Fishbein.”
“And here’s another point,” Barbara said, bustling into the room with a bowl of Kettle Chips. “Misers don’t make great husbands.”
“You’re absolutely right, my sweet,” Mal said to her. At the same time he was winking at Cyn. “But misers make brilliant ancestors . . . So . . .” He started rubbing his hands. “What’s everybody having to drink?”
Mal was handing round drinks when Grandma Faye, who had never met Hugh or Harmony, appeared. She was particularly taken with Harmony, whom she described as the spit of the young Elizabeth Taylor. Mal said he hoped she meant the film star rather than the tortoise.
She practically curtsied when Cyn introduced her to Hugh. He seemed to think she was tremendous fun and was happy to sit on the sofa with her while she listed all the side effects she was getting from her new blood pressure pills. “You know,” she said in a voice that everybody could hear, “it’s such a shame you bat for the other side. I mean, a good-looking boy like you—it’s such a waste.”
Before Cyn had a chance to tell Barbara that Hugh had a brilliant sense of humor and wouldn’t be remotely offended, she had shot across the room. “Mum, try these olives,” she said, practically thrusting the bowl in her mother’s face.
Faye helped herself, turned back to Hugh and carried on: “Are you absolutely sure you’re that way inclined? I mean, there must be drugs they can give you—hormones or something.” By now Barbara was in a full-scale panic. Faye refused to let her get a word in, so all Barbara could do was stand there and watch, popping olives like Valium. But it got worse. “I had twin cousins who were gay,” Faye continued. “Both became rabbis. My father always called them the fruit Jews.”
Hugh cracked up. “This woman is priceless. Mrs. Fishbein, you are so lucky to have a mother as gloriously witty and entertaining as Faye.” Faye was positively glowing.
“Yes, well, she certainly keeps us all amused,” Barbara said chirpily, wiping her palms down the sides of her trousers and glaring at Faye.
Because Jonny had to pick Flick up from the hospital and then they got caught up in roadworks, they didn’t arrive until everybody was about to sit down to dinner. Having drooled over Harmony’s outfit, figure, makeup and hair, Flick must have spent a full five minutes apologizing for her appearance. “I didn’t have time to get changed and I look like such an old frump-bag in my nurse’s uniform.” Harmony shot Cyn a look of mild desperation. She’d only met Flick a couple of times, but she’d immediately picked up on how insecure she was about her figure and her constant need for reassurance.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Hugh said, brightly. “I bet you have all the male patients begging you to give them bed baths.” Flick gave a self-conscious giggle. “You have a wonderfully voluptuous hourglass figure.” He stood behind her and placed his hands either side of her waist. “Look how perfectly you go in here. Your bust and hips are in perfect proportion.” Flick had now turn
ed crimson and was fiddling with her hair. “You are going to look fabulous on your wedding day,” he insisted. “Simply fabulous.”
“Gosh, don’t know about that,” Flick said with a horsey snort.
As they all sat down, Cyn shot Hugh a look that said “you are a genius.”
Tonight they were eating in the dining room. Barbara had clearly made the decision that her alpine breakfast nook did not befit an honorable. She had also gotten out the best cutlery and the Portmeirion Botanic Garden dinner service.
“Please start, everybody,” she said. Then she turned to Hugh, whom she had insisted sit next to her. “I hope you like melon. I wasn’t sure whether to get honeydew or cantaloupe. In the end I decided on honeydew. Much better flavor. And the ginger sprinkled on top just gives it a lift, I always think.”
“I agree. This looks absolutely delicious, Mrs. Fishbein.”
“Please. Call me Barbara.”
“You know, Barbara, I was just admiring your curtains. Wonderful color.”
“How clever of you to notice. They’re new. I thought avocado with a salmon thread worked really well.”
“Doesn’t it?” Cyn watched him looking around, taking in Barbara’s filigree photo-trees and Canaletto prints. Four or five hung round the room in heavy gilt frames with gold viewing lights above them. Whatever he was thinking—and she could guess—he wasn’t letting it show for a second. Quite the reverse, in fact. “You know, Barbara, you have a truly original eye.”
“Goodness? You really think so?”
“Sans doute. Sans doute.”
“Flatterer,” she giggled, practically batting her eyelashes. Hugh had worked his magic. From here on in, any suggestion he made about the wedding would be met with her unquestioning, wholehearted and overwhelming approval. She was his—wedding cake marzipan in his hands. “I get my eye for interior design from my father,” she said, patting her hair. “He was in soft furnishings.”
“What are you talking about?” Faye butted in. “Your father sold brushed nylon sheets and pillowcases off a stall in Ridley Road market.”
