Original Cyn (12 page)

“OK, Luke, don’t worry. Just leave it with me. Chelsea’s in hospital now, so I’m sure she’s not taking anything she shouldn’t. Thank you for coming to me and I will talk to her.”

“You promise? Because my brother got really violent and everything. Crack nearly ruined his life.”

“Don’t worry, Luke. I really will deal with it.”

He seemed relieved. “Thanks, Cyn.”

The moment he disappeared Cyn turned back to her computer and went onto Google. She typed in
Charlie, Bust, Advertising, Los Angeles
. She scrolled down the page—past all the sites devoted to the legalizing of cocaine—until she came to something that caught her attention: www.bust-ads.com/charlie-taylor. The Taylor bit didn’t quite make sense, though, because she was expecting to find Chelsea’s brother, who would be called Roggenfelder. But she clicked on the link anyway.

From what she could tell, Charlie Taylor was the “T” bit of the BUST partnership. She looked at his CV. He was the son of Max Taylor senior. From 1962 to 1973 Max senior had been Sargent Roggenfelder’s partner. Cyn sat back. So, Charlie wasn’t her brother, he was the son of her father’s business partner. They were friends. He could even be an ex-boyfriend. Whatever his relationship with Chelsea, one thing was certain: Charlie Taylor was a shit-hot ad man. If Chelsea hadn’t been begging him for money—which had never made sense, bearing in mind her wealth—what had she wanted from him?

Was it possible that despite her brilliance, Chelsea didn’t have a creative bone in her body? Was it possible that she was getting this Charlie to help her? That would explain why she was always so quiet at those preliminary brainstorming meetings. She said nothing because she had nothing to say. But why go into advertising if she knew she was crap at it? It didn’t take Freud to work it out. She would put money on Chelsea being an only child. She must have done it to please her father.

Cyn spent the rest of the morning trying to navigate her way through her feelings. She still felt hurt and monumentally furious with Chelsea, but now—assuming her theory was correct—she also felt sorry for her. Hugh and Harmony would say she was being pathetic, but she couldn’t help it. She thought about phoning Chelsea and attempting some kind of heart-to-heart. Bit by bit, Cyn’s courage returned. Chelsea was the last person on earth to hold up her hands and beg forgiveness. Emotionally damaged she might be, but there was still no doubt in Cyn’s mind that Chelsea Roggenfelder needed to be taught a lesson. Carrying on with the impersonation plan was the only way to get through to her.

It was lunchtime before she got round to checking her e-mail. There was one from Gazza.

cyn please could you pass this message on to chel . . .

howzit going in rain forest? thanks for sending figures which will stick in executive microwave to see how they defrost with powers that be upstairs but sure there’ll be no problemo. big night out tonight with lads from accounts. promises to be wild with a capital mad. let’s make date as soon as you’re back.

xx gazza

Cyn groaned out loud at the mention of the date. Then she wondered what a load of accountants got up to on a wild night out. What did they do—find somebody to gang audit?

The intimidatingly grand house that Hugh was looking after for his parents’ friends was just a few paces from Harrods. It was a formal, echoing museum of a place, full of dark oil paintings and hefty, lumpen antiques. This was a house where pompous dinner guests had competitive conversations about Wagner and Schiller and an infinitive had never dared be split. Whenever she stepped inside, Cyn got the urge to play naked Twister with the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the stereo at full blast.

“You OK?” Cyn said to Hugh as he took her coat. She was aware that his face matched the gray of his suit.

“I’ve lost my job.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. They want me out at the end of the week.”

“But why would they want to get rid of you? I thought you had more customers than you could handle.”

“I do. Despite that, the Surrogate Boyfriend scheme isn’t making the profit the company had hoped for. So they’re winding it up and I’ve been given the boot. The rotten part about it is that my boss took me out for this expensive lunch. I thought he was going to offer me a pay raise. Then he tells me my job doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Oh, Huge.”

“It gets worse. Two minutes after sacking me he picks up his glass of wine and says, ‘You know, Hugh, this is great. We should do it more often.’ ”

She put her arms around him. “I am so sorry. Look, if there’s anything I can do. I mean, if you run short of money . . .”

“Thanks, gorgeous, I appreciate it, but don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Something will come up.” He led her across the chessboard entrance hall, toward the drawing room.

“I’ll phone Harvey Nicks—see if they need any personal shoppers.” He pulled off his tie, opened the top button of his shirt and draped himself languorously over a maroon chaise longue. He looked like Noël Coward in a decline.

Cyn sat opposite him on an upright mahogany chair with a tall carved back that dug into her spine. “Blimey, where did they find this, Anne Boleyn’s death cell?”

He didn’t react. “No news about the screenplay, I take it?” she said and immediately wished she hadn’t. If he’d heard anything he would have said. Now all she’d succeeded in doing was making him more miserable. She thought it best not to mention that with one thing and another she hadn’t gotten round to reading it yet.

“Rien, ma chérie,”
he said crossing his spider legs. “Harms offered me a job at the salon, at reception, which was awfully sweet of her.”

“She offered me a job, too, if this Chelsea thing goes tits up. We could work there together. It’d be fun.”

He managed a smile. “So, how are things with you?”

“Oh, you know . . . there’s a new bloke who’s joined my therapy group and I think I fancy him.”

“Not good. Steer clear of mad people, that’s my motto.”

“That’s what Harm said.”

“Goodness, me and McFarmsworth agreeing. That has to be a first.”

“But I’m in therapy and I’m not mad,” she said, repeating what she’d said to Harmony.

“Just because you’re not doesn’t mean to say he isn’t.”

“Anyway, nothing’s going to happen.” She explained about Veronica’s rule.

“Well, let’s all sing hallelujah and give thanks for Veronica,” he said. “Now, then, why don’t we order some food? These friends of my parents keep telling me to help myself to anything I fancy from the wine cellar, so I’ve chosen two bottles of a rather exceptional Château Lafitte. Of course, drinking vintage Lafitte with curry is a bit like mixing Armani with Gap, but I don’t care. I just want to get trolleyed.” He went off to the kitchen and came back with the takeaway menu, the wine and two glasses.

She watched him pour the wine. “I’m pretty sure I’ve worked out why Chelsea stole my Droolin’ Dream idea.”

“Go on.”

She explained about Luke overhearing Chelsea’s conversation with Charlie Taylor and how she was pretty certain it was Charlie who was coming up with Chelsea’s ideas. “It’s all about impressing her father.”

“And now you feel sorry for her and you’ve lost your nerve.”

“OK, I admit I had a bit of a wobble when I found out, but no, I haven’t lost my nerve.”

“Good girl. What she did to you was nothing short of evil. You have every right to get your own back. The woman has it coming.”

She sipped her wine. “You’re right.”

They were studying the takeaway menu and discussing various job options for Hugh when the idea hit her. “Omigod. I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“I think I may have a job for you. My mum is trying to organize Jonny and Flick’s wedding and everybody thinks it’s too much for her and that she’s losing the plot. Why don’t I try and persuade her to take you on as her wedding planner? It wouldn’t pay much, but it would tide you over.”

Hugh didn’t seem particularly thrilled by the prospect. The only thing that was going to cheer him up was a call from Warner Bros. to say his screenplay was the best thing they had seen in decades and could he fly out to L.A. immediately, first class, at their expense, for preliminary discussions about casting. She got up and went to sit next to him on the chaise longue. “Come on, Huge.” She took his hand. “You organize spectacular parties. Harmony’s fortieth for a start. She still hasn’t gotten over the way you turned her living room into an Arabian tent. And she wasn’t the only one. People did double takes when they came in and saw what you’d done. You found rugs, cushions, hookahs. It was like a film set. You organized musicians, dancers, the most wonderful caterers. Don’t you remember those waitresses in veils and Aladdin pants handing round dishes of pistachio Turkish Delight? It was a magical evening. Everybody said so. You’re really gifted, Huge, and this is an emergency.”

“In what way?”

“OK, I wanted to spare you this, but I can see now that I have no choice . . . Flick’s considering gospel singers or possibly a band of medieval minstrels.”

Hugh sat bolt upright and slapped his hand to his chest in a gesture of high-camp self-mockery. “For the love of God! Tell me it isn’t so.”

“Would I joke about something like this? And she also wants me to be maid of honor in a purple lace meringue.”

“Purple? Ouch.” He was himself again now. “That is bad.”

“Well, she hasn’t actually said purple, but I know that’s how it will end up. Huge, if nothing else, you have to rescue me.” She could tell he still wasn’t sure. “Please. If you do it, I promise you’ll get to wear one of those cute little headset things.”

“Really?” he said, camping it up again. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Huge, you’re my best mate. I’d do anything for you.”

He let out a long breath. “OK, this does seem like an emergency. I agree. It has to be stopped.”

“I’ll speak to Mum. Why don’t I do it now?”

“Oh . . . kay,” his voice had gone all flouncy again. “But whatever the deal, I’m holding out over the headset, right?”

“Right.” She got up and went over to the phone, which was sitting on a small but ugly Jacobean table with thick twisted legs. “Put it on speakerphone,” Hugh said.

Cyn dialed the number and let the phone ring a dozen or so times. She was just about to put the receiver down when Barbara picked up.

“Hi, Mum, it’s me. Why did you take so long to answer?”

“I was waiting for a call from Fein Platters.”

“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t that mean you’d pick up straightaway?”

“Absolutely not,” Barbara insisted. “I’m playing hard to get.”

Cyn wasn’t quite sure where the logic was in this, since it was Barbara trying to hire Fein Platters rather than the other way round, but she decided to let it go. “Look, Mum, I’ve been having some thoughts about the wedding. It’s going to involve you in so much hard work, so I was wondering how you’d feel about taking on a wedding planner.”

“A wedding planner?” She seemed intrigued. “Goodness, it never occurred to me. They’re all the go, aren’t they? Sylvia Gold from the synagogue Ladies’ Guild had one when their daughter got married. She didn’t stop showing off about it. I remember the planner would always ring during our fund-raising meetings. I’m sure Sylvia organized it. She would get all lah-di-dah and say, ‘Sorry, ladies, do excuse me. It’s Bianca, my wedding planner.’ But they cost a fortune. Your dad would really kick up.”

“Not necessarily. Hugh’s just lost his job and I told you what a wonderful fortieth birthday party he did for Harmony. I thought he’d be perfect to organize the wedding. It would take all the pressure off you. And he’d charge loads less than a real wedding planner.”

“Hang on a minute,” Hugh whispered. “A chap’s got to eat.” Cyn shushed him.

“Ooh, a
gay
wedding planner,” Barbara was saying. “Gay men have got so much style and flair . . . such panache. I’m sure Hugh has got loads more flair than Sylvia’s Bianca.”

Hugh was rolling his eyes. “Got a wedding to organize?” he trilled. “Feeling overwhelmed? Don’t know where to turn? Why not let Super Faggot come to your rescue? That’s Super Faggot—first for fabulous functions.” Cyn waved her hand in an attempt to shut him up.

“And isn’t Hugh the
Honorable
Hugh Thorpe Duff?”

“He most certainly is,” Cyn said. She turned to Hugh and gave him the thumbs-up. She knew precisely where this was going.

“I thought so,” Barbara came back. “Not that I’m a snob or anything. I mean, you know me. I don’t have a snobbish bone in my body.”

“Of course you don’t,” Cyn said, realizing that even an old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool leftie like her mum could be seduced by class—particularly if it meant getting one over on Sylvia Gold. Or, in this case, two, since Hugh was both gay and exceedingly posh.

“I don’t want to go too upmarket, though, particularly with the food. I don’t want people to feel intimidated. We must still have Grandma’s chocolate fountain and I thought deep-fried ice cream with black cherries might be fun.”

At the mention of deep-fried ice cream, Hugh put his head in his hands.

“And do you think Hugh would come with me to My Daughter’s Wedding and help me choose my outfit?”

“She has to be joking,” Hugh muttered. “There’s actually a shop called My Daughter’s Wedding? I can’t do it. I can’t. You’ll have to tell her. It’s all too much.”

“Mum, I know Hugh would absolutely love to help you choose an outfit.” She looked at Hugh, whose mouth was making a series of contorted expressions as if he were having a stroke in installments. “Actually, he’s right here and he’s desperate to talk to you. Why don’t you have a word?”

“You will pay for this, Fishbein,” Hugh hissed, making slitty eyes. “You will pay for this, big time.”

He snatched the phone. “Mrs. Fishbein! It’s so wonderful to speak to you. How
are
you?” He covered up the phone, turned to Cyn and pulled another face. “I hate you. I hate you.”

Cyn giggled and listened to her mother asking Hugh if he was sure he wouldn’t mind helping her choose a wedding outfit.

“Mind? Of course I wouldn’t mind. I would love nothing more.” Another murderous look at Cyn.