by Sue Margolis
“Chel, it’s me, Gazza. Got your e-mail. So, how was the rain forest? Wet with a capital pissed-it-down, I bet.”
“God! Gazza.” She put her hand over the phone. “It’s my contact at Droolin’ Dream,” she whispered to Joe.
“Sorry,” Gazza said, “have I caught you at a bad time?”
“Actually, this isn’t such a great time. I’m in the cinema and the film’s about to start. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“Sure,” he said, “but it was just a quickie. I wanted to check if we were still on for that curry.”
What? Bloody hell. She hadn’t had a chance to think up another excuse to get rid of him and now he had caught her completely off guard. She was racking her brain for something to say when she noticed the cinema charity bucket being passed along the row in front. People were being asked to give money to the Gay and Lesbian Alliance. In an instant she had her excuse.
“Gazza,” she said softly, “I haven’t been completely honest with you. There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What?”
“Well, you see, the thing is . . .”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m in the car. You’re cracking up.”
She got up from her seat. “That any better?”
“Chel, I can barely hear you.”
Cyn was completely unaware that by now the cinema had filled up. She was too busy angling her phone so that Gazza could hear. “How’s that?”
“A bit better, but you’ll have to speak up.”
“OK. The thing is,” she said, raising her voice. “I don’t go out with men.”
“You don’t? Why? . . . You need to shout.”
“I’m a lesbian,” she bellowed.
“How do you mean, a thespian? . . . Oh, I get it, amateur dramatics, that sort of thing?”
“No, I’m not a thespian, I’m a les-bi-an. I don’t go out with men because I’m a lesbian.”
The whole place erupted with laughter. A few women were whistling and applauding. One of them shouted, “What are you doing Saturday night?”
Her entire body prickling with embarrassment, Cyn fell back onto her seat. To say she wanted to be swallowed up by the ground and pile driven to the earth’s core was an understatement. Her instinct was to run, but since she and Joe—who was looking highly amused—were in the middle of the row, it would have meant pushing past all these tittering people, which would have been even more embarrassing.
“Look, Gazza,” Cyn said, sliding down on her seat in an attempt to disappear. “I’ll phone you tomorrow and we’ll have a proper chat, I promise. Now really isn’t a good time.” Without giving him a chance to protest she hit end.
“Gazza at Droolin’ Dream was trying to get me to go out with him,” Cyn whispered to Joe. “I can’t stand him and it was the only excuse I could think of. I’m not a lesbian. I’m really not.”
“I think I’d already worked that out.” It was his laugh, the soft, sexy way he said it, that made her heart take a tiny leap. “But if you don’t mind my saying, wouldn’t it have been simpler to have told him you had a boyfriend?”
“Believe me, a bloke like Gazza wouldn’t have been put off by me having a boyfriend. He’d have just seen it as a challenge.”
Cyn assumed that by boyfriend Joe was referring to a mythical boyfriend rather than himself, but as she looked at him looking at her with those brown eyes of his, she rather wished he had been talking about himself.
Some Like It Hot was as hysterical as she remembered and more. Her favorite scene, the one with Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis on the yacht, made her think of the time she tried to seduce Hugh when they were at university.
It was a mild night and as they strolled along Upper Street trying to decide where to eat, they made each other laugh rattling off lines from the film. Eventually they got on to Monty Python. He knew the Cheese Shop and Parrot sketches by heart, as well as a couple she barely remembered featuring Jean-Paul Sartre and a couple of old bags called Mrs. Premise and Mrs. Conclusion. “Oh yes, I remember,” Cyn said, going into a perfect Python old-bag squawk. “ ‘You don’t want to come home from Sorrento to a dead cat.’ ” As they fell about, yet again, Cyn got the same feeling she’d experienced the other night when they were together—that she had known him for years.
Eventually they went to a Lebanese place Joe knew and said was pretty good. Over meze and beers they started talking about the film again.
“That script just sparkled, don’t you think? Some of those comic lines were pure genius. I’d have given anything to have written it.” Cyn was about to pop a piece of pita bread into her mouth, but she stopped. She was looking at him. He seemed thoughtful, far away. She got the impression he wasn’t just saying that he would have given anything to have written it. He really meant it.
“Does that mean you don’t like being a film editor?” she inquired.
“No. I love what I do. I wouldn’t want to change.” She thought he was protesting too much. She wasn’t sure if she entirely bought the denial. He picked up his glass of beer. “So, tell me some more about this Laurent Cinnamon.”
She carried on looking at him for a few moments. “You don’t like talking about your work much, do you?” she said gently.
“It’s not that.” There was the familiar uneasiness. He couldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s just that the actual process of film editing isn’t that fascinating to people outside the business and I worry that I’m being boring, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t think I could find you or it remotely boring.” He seemed flattered by this. “So, come on,” she continued, “have you had thoughts about writing?”
“Maybe,” he said, looking at her now.
“Screenplays?”
“Possibly.”
“It’s never too late, you know.” She told him about Hugh and the struggle he was having. “The rejections get him down, but he keeps going. I should get the two of you together.”
“That would be great,” Joe said. “And you’re right—I should give it a go.”
“Remember, it was you who told me how important it is to take risks.”
He dipped a piece of pita bread in the baba ghanouj. “I know. I guess I find it easier to counsel other people than take my own advice.”
“Don’t we all,” Cyn said. “But if you don’t make it . . . well, at least you tried. And you’ve still got your job, so nothing has been lost. My gran’s always telling me how life’s too short not to try and make your dreams come true.”
“Your gran’s right,” he said softly, holding her gaze in his. “You do have to try and make your dreams come true.” He carried on looking at her. It felt like one of those moments where, if they hadn’t been sitting at opposite sides of a table, he might have kissed her.
“Cyn, I was wondering,” he said, breaking the silence. “Are you into walking?”
“Well, if you mean around Selfridges, I love it. It’s as good as going to the gym. I’ve calculated that five laps of the lingerie department burns off over three hundred calories.”
“You’re really funny, you know that?”
She grinned. “I do my best.”
“No, seriously. I was thinking that if the weather’s good on Saturday, I might drive up to the Peak District and do a bit of a hike—nothing too strenuous. I’d really love it if you came with me.” It suddenly occurred to her that despite all evidence to the contrary, Joe was going to turn out to be one of those wholesome woolly-hatted rambler types who carried beef paste sandwiches in his knapsack and collected recordings of British birdsong.
“It’s funny,” she said, “you don’t strike me as the hiking kind.”
“Oh, God, now you’re thinking I’m some earnest, knobbly-kneed twonk.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “God, no. The thought never occurred to me.” She paused and gave him a slightly coy look. “I bet there’s no way you’ve got knobbly knees.”
He thanked her for the vote of confidence
. “I’m not into walking in a big way. It’s just that we used to do weekend hikes at boarding school and I sort of got into it. These days I find it more interesting than the gym.”
“I can see that,” Cyn said. She was trying to look enthusiastic about his proposal, but inside she was feeling less than eager. The Selfridges remark hadn’t been completely flippant. Although she liked the countryside, she preferred to appreciate it in her own way: lunch in a pretty oak-beamed pub, complete with log fire and stretched-out Labradors, followed by a gentle afternoon stroll through a picture-book village. This would be punctuated by prolonged walks around an artsy-crafty, knick-knacky shop full of homemade fudge, plasticized William Morris–design shopping bags and earthenware egg cups declaring they were a “Souvenir of Frisby-on-the-Wolde” or wherever. Cyn wasn’t what you might call a rambling person. She couldn’t help feeling that if God had wanted people to ramble, he wouldn’t have invented the four-wheel drive.
“Oh, I love hiking,” she gushed. “I adore it.”
“Really? So, you’ve got boots and all the gear?”
“Absolutely. Compass, waterproof jacket, map holder thingy, the lot.”
After dinner they swapped phone numbers, which Veronica-wise felt especially wicked. Then he walked her to her car. His was parked a few streets away. A bit of her didn’t want him to come with her because it meant he would see the Anusol ad again and she would have to put up with another load of bad jokes. She decided to tell him how she’d ended up with the Anusol car. Because he already knew about Chelsea stealing her Droolin’ Dream idea, he didn’t think it was remotely funny. “God, that woman deserves all she gets. I wish I could be there when she gets her comeuppance.” Finally they reached the car. She could see the corners of his mouth starting to quiver. “Still, you could have a brilliant bumper sticker.”
“What?”
“Something like—’If you’re not a hemorrhoid, get off my arse.’ ”
“Et tu, Joe?” she said feigning deep hurt. “Et tu?”
“Sorry,” he smiled. “I just couldn’t resist it.”
She reached inside her bag for her keys.
“Once again, I had a great time,” he said.
“Me, too,” she whispered, looking up at him. He moved closer. She hadn’t noticed until now that his nose was covered in tiny freckles. He cupped her face, making her stomach do a flip. His warm breath was on her face. She closed her eyes, felt her head starting to swim. It began with little kisses on her lips. Then he wrapped her in his arms so that her breasts were tight against him. Finally her mouth yielded and he was deep inside her, his tongue hard, probing and urgent against hers. If he hadn’t been holding her she would have fallen.
“Wow,” she said as they finally pulled away.
“Wow,” he repeated softly, trailing his finger along her nose and down to her chin.
Four times they tried to say good-bye and four times it ended with another glorious kiss. It was only when a gang of teenage boys went by making wwrrooar noises that they started to feel self-conscious and decided to really call it a night.
“So, I’ll pick you up on Saturday,” he said. “Say half past seven?”
“Half past seven? In the morning?” In her book, on a Saturday or Sunday anything before ten o’clock counted as the middle of the night.
“That was my initial thought,” he grinned, “unless, of course, you fancy making it evening and trekking in the dark.”
“No, no, seven-thirty’s fine. Perfect, in fact. I always say there’s nothing like getting off to an early start.”
“Fantastic. See you then, then.” He gave her a final quick kiss on the cheek.
“By the way,” she called after him. “I looked caterwaulings up in the dictionary and you were right, it does exist. Sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“That’s OK,” he said. He carried on walking. Just before he turned the corner, he turned round to wave.
Chapter 13
The following evening Cyn met Harmony for a drink. Harmony had phoned during the day to say she was going to a dinner party round the corner from Cyn’s flat and why didn’t they get together beforehand.
The White Horse, Cyn’s local, was heaving. In a couple of hours, England was due to play Brazil in some World Cup warm-up game and people were already piling in to watch on the pub’s three wide-screen TVs. There was barely any breathing space, let alone a table.
Cyn’s discomfort was made worse by her footwear. Underneath her suit trousers, she was wearing hiking boots. For the second lunchtime running, she’d dashed up to Oxford Street to go shopping. This time it was to buy walking gear. Contrary to what she had told Joe, she didn’t own so much as a PowerBar.
Hugh said he would come with her since he was going to be up in town anyway. He seemed to have bounced back from his disappointment over Laurent being straight, and in anticipation of a long-overdue tax rebate, he had decided to go window-shopping for cuff links. “You know, gorgeous, I wish you weren’t getting involved with this Joe,” he said as they walked arm in arm down Oxford Street. “I’m really worried for you.” Of course she did have reservations about Joe, but she assured him she was a big girl and could take care of herself. He shrugged and let it go.
Hugh wandered around Millets looking down his nose like Joan Collins in Wal-Mart. “Urrgh,” he shuddered at one point, tentatively prodding a fleece and instantly withdrawing as if it might bite, “this stuff is so synthetic you could wash it and it wouldn’t even get wet.” Meanwhile, a helpful but rather dorky lad painstakingly kitted Cyn out with everything she would need: socks, rucksack, waterproof jacket, fleece, bobble hat, gloves, flashlight, map cover on a string, hiking pole and things called gaiters. These turned out to be waterproof covers to protect her trouser bottoms.
She came out of the changing room and presented herself to Hugh. “Dah, dah! What do you think?” He took one look at the hiking pole, red-and-white fleece and matching bobble hat and declared: “My God, alert the jury, we’ve found Waldo.”
Cyn admitted she felt a bit ridiculous in the red fleece and hat. “But they’re low on stock and it’s all they’ve got left. Anyway, I’m going for a hike in the Dales, not a sashay down the runway.” Nevertheless Hugh insisted on going through all the shelves and eventually found a black fleece and matching ski hat without a pom-pom.
The lad in Millets insisted it was vital she break in the walking boots. Taking his advice to heart, she’d worn them all afternoon at the office. It was now after seven, which meant she’d had them on for nearly six hours. They were hard and unyielding and as she and Harmony stood by the pub door, contemplating fighting their way to the bar, Cyn started to fantasize about the rather naff foot spa her aunty Lilly had given her for her birthday a few years back, which she’d ended up taking to a charity shop.
Because the pub was so packed, Cyn suggested they find somewhere else, but Harmony said she didn’t have much time and that on a night like this, everywhere would be crowded. “Let’s get a couple of drinks and take them outside. It’s not cold.”
It took them a full five minutes to force themselves through the crowd of jostling, blaring young blokes and reach the bar. Most were still in their work suits with their shirts and ties undone. A few were wearing jeans and England shirts. One or two dorks were wrapped in red-and-white flags.
Cyn insisted the drinks were on her. She was just paying when Harmony spotted a couple of people getting up from a table. “Quick, see if you can grab it,” Cyn shouted over the din. “I’ll bring the drinks over.”
The table was near the door where the decibel level wasn’t quite so fierce. Cyn put the drinks down and started taking off her coat.
“Look, hon,” Harmony said, rooting round in her bag for her fags, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help noticing you’re wearing hiking boots with work trousers. Don’t you think pointy kitten heels would work better?”
“Ha, ha,” Cyn said, sitting down. She explained about Joe and t
he hiking trip. “I’m trying to break them in and they’re really rubbing my toes and the backs of my feet.” Harmony suggested that might be because she was wearing them over sheer knee-highs rather than thick woolly socks.
“So, did you remember to buy flares?” Harmony asked. She flicked her Bic and lit up.
“Flares? Don’t be daft. When did you last see a fashionable hiker?”
“No, you dope. I mean flares,” Harmony said letting out a trail of smoke. “You know—to send up, if you get stranded.”
“Harms, this is a walk in the English countryside, not the final scene in Titanic.”
“Well, you can’t be too careful.” Cyn told her she sounded like Grandma Faye.
“So, you’ve really fallen for this Joe, then?”
Cyn swirled the ice in her glass of Coke. “I think I have. He kissed me last night.”
Harmony gave a soft snort. “Oh, great,” she said, her voice full of sarcasm.
“It was actually. In fact it was mind-blowing . . . God, I wish you and Hugh would stop worrying. Joe is so normal. He’s the one pursuing me.”
“But don’t you see?” Harmony leaped in, flicking ash into an ashtray. “That’s classic. He loves the thrill of the chase. But when he’s hooked you, he loses interest. I bet you anything his problems have nothing to do with his inability to be emotionally intimate. This guy’s into power. The chase is all about power. It’s what feeds his self-esteem. Men like him don’t do relationships. They aren’t interested. There’s no buzz.”
“Blimey, when did you start subscribing to Psychology Today?”
“Very funny. It was a quiz in this month’s Cosmo: ‘Can You Spot a Bastard?’ ”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Cyn said. “I just don’t see it. Joe is kind, funny, intelligent. He’s also not remotely into power. In fact he’s very modest. He hardly ever talks about his work. I mean, how often do you come across that in a man? Usually they have these giant testosterone-fueled egos and don’t stop going on about themselves.”
Harmony shrugged. “Maybe he’s hiding something.”
