Original Cyn (28 page)

“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.”

She continued watching, mouthing the actors’ words, concentrating on every expression and movement they made. She was so carried away that she barely heard the shouting and commotion coming from behind her.

“Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?” a voice yelled. Cyn’s heart rate accelerated like a Harley on a speedway track. She knew that voice. It was Chelsea’s. Dan called “cut” and along with everybody else, turned toward the door. This wasn’t how it was meant to happen, Cyn thought. She hadn’t bargained for this. In her fantasy, she was the one who challenged Chelsea. She was the one to go on the attack. That way she claimed the advantage. Then she noticed Chelsea wasn’t alone. Graham was with her. She hadn’t expected that either. Still, maybe it was no bad thing. Now at least she wouldn’t have to tell her story twice.

“Who’s she?” Gazza said to Cyn.

“A woman I work with. The chap with her is Graham Chandler, one of our CEOs.”

Cyn was in the grip of a full-scale panic. She took a deep breath and waited. Chelsea got closer. The shouting and ranting got louder. The woman was doing her best to stride out, but she seemed to be hampered by a severely stiff back. She was leaning back, legs apart, hand in the small of her back. She looked like a heavily pregnant woman without the bump. The crew was standing around exchanging bemused looks. Nobody was saying a word. Cyn looked at Gazza, painfully aware that she was going to have to start explaining herself to him, sooner rather than later.

“Cyn,” Chelsea snarled, waving her walking stick in the air like some batty old trout in an Ealing comedy. “I think you have some explaining to do, don’t you?”

“How did you know I was here?” Cyn said.

Chelsea gave a smirk. “You’re not as clever as you think. I was looking for you in the office when I saw your Filofax lying open on your desk.”

Cyn flinched at her stupidity. “You know, Chelsea, I think it’s you who has the explaining to do, not me.”

“Me?” Chelsea came back with a snarl. Then she laughed. “Oh, that’s cute. That’s real cute. You steal my idea and now you’re demanding an explanation from me? What sort of kooky,
Alice in Wonderland
world do you inhabit?”

“Cyn,” Graham broke in icily, “I think Chelsea deserves an explanation.”

At this point Gazza got up. “Chel,” he said to Cyn, “why is your CEO calling that woman Chelsea when you’re Chelsea?”

“She’s not Chelsea,” Chelsea said. “I’m Chelsea. Her name is Cyn. She stole my identity.”

Gazza ran his hand across his forehead. “Sorry, I’m confused. So, Chel, when you told me your name was Chel, it wasn’t really Chel?”

Cyn was feeling so guilty she could barely look him in the eye. “That’s right,” she said. “I lied to you.”

He turned to Chelsea. “So, you’re the real Chel.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, bozo. My name is Chelsea. It is not, never has been and never will be, Chel.”

Gazza stood ruminating. “You know, now that I come to think of it, your voice does sound familiar.”

“Of course it’s friggin’ familiar,” Chelsea hissed. “Before I hurt my back and went into the hospital, we used to speak almost every day on the phone. In case it’s escaped your notice, I have an American accent. Cyn does not.”

Gazza turned to Cyn. “So your boss didn’t insist you lose your accent because of the Cool Britannia thing?” Cyn shook her head. Chelsea let out another burst of laughter. “That’s what she told you?”

“So could somebody please explain what is going on here?” Gazza said.

Dan said he wouldn’t mind finding out either.

“This woman,” Chelsea declared like some hard-nosed courtroom prosecutor, “stole my proposal and then tried to pass it off as her own. While her boss was away she took advantage of a weak, vulnerable colleague who was lying helpless in a hospital bed.”

“Cyn, what do you have to say for yourself?” Graham said, sounding like he was moments from kicking her out on her ear.

Cyn pulled herself up to her full five-foot-four-and-a-half and went over to Chelsea. She was about to call her a conniving, cold-blooded, cruel, ruthless, talentless bitch and say she didn’t know how she had the audacity to stand here lying, but she didn’t. This was no time to lose her temper. Graham would think she was bonkers and she would lose all her credibility.

“You stole my idea,” Cyn said calmly, “and you know it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I steal your idea? I’m the most talented creative at PCW. Everybody knows that. You, on the other hand, have been lurching from one blunder to the next. Actually I feel sorry for you. It’s obvious you’ve had some kind of a breakdown. Nobody in their right mind would steal the proposal after Graham had read it and already knew it was mine. You know what, sweetie, I really think you need to get yourself some help.”

Cyn didn’t say anything. Instead she bent down and picked up her handbag. From it she took a small cassette player. “The quality may not be very good, but I think it will explain everything. Yesterday I made a phone call to a man named Charlie Taylor. For those of you who haven’t heard of him, Charlie is president of the biggest advertising agency in L.A. A long time ago Chelsea’s father and his father were partners.”

For the first time, Chelsea was starting to look edgy. “Oh, come on, please. Do we really have to listen to this garbage?”

Cyn pressed the
play
button: “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Taylor, please?” Cyn paused the tape and explained that the voice was hers. She asked everybody to excuse her bad American accent. Then she pressed
play
again.

“May I ask what it’s concerning?”

“Just say it’s Chelsea Roggenfelder.” (Cyn had decided that pretense was the only way to get past Charlie’s assistant.)

“Oh, Ms. Roggenfelder, hi. Just putting you through . . . Mr. Taylor, I have Ms. Roggenfelder on the line.”

“Chelsea, what do you want now? How many more times do we have to go through this? I’ve told you, it’s over. I can’t keep doing this. I have a business to run. If you can’t come up with your own ideas for ad campaigns, then get the hell out of the business. It’s not right for you. Instead of trying to impress your father, find yourself a shrink. You have issues with your dad that you’re just not dealing with. I came up with the Skippy campaign and that’s it. No more. Finito. The end.”

Cyn switched off the machine, reliving the utter astonishment she had felt on the phone last night as Charlie spilled everything without her having to say a single word.

Cyn turned to Chelsea. “When Charlie refused to come up with a proposal for the Droolin’ Dream campaign, you decided to steal mine. For the record, I found out about Charlie Taylor from Luke, who overheard you on the phone to him.”

“Luke? Luke?” she spluttered. “What does he know? He’s nothing. He’s just the goddam gofer, for Chrissake. Why would anyone believe him? This is an outrage. I am going to sue your ass. Then I’ll sue Luke’s ass. This is slander. It’s a violation of my human rights. It’s, it’s . . .”

“It’s the truth,” Cyn said quietly. She glanced across at Graham, who looked completely stunned.

“The hell it is,” Chelsea roared. “You framed me. That guy on the tape is just some actor you found.” She turned to Graham. Her face was red. She was starting to look pathetic and desperate. “Graham, you have to believe me.” There was a nervous laugh. Her eyes were pleading. Cyn could tell that deep down she knew it was all over. “Can’t you see that this is just a cheap, squalid attempt to discredit me? You have to do something. Cyn is the one who needs help, not me.”

Graham let out a slow breath. “Come on, Chelsea,” he said gently. “I’m going to take you home.” He reached out to put an arm round her.

“Get away from me,” she hissed, slicing the air in front of her with her hand. “I don’t want any of you near me.” A moment later she had spun round and was marching toward the main door. Cyn and Graham looked at each other as if to say “So, do we go after her?” Meanwhile, embarrassed glances were exchanged between the other spectators as they shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

Cyn found herself chasing after Chelsea. As well as recognizing that the woman was bonkers and needed help, there was something else she needed to say to her.

She found Chelsea outside, leaning against the wall of the building. She was staring up at the gunmetal sky, her breathing heavy with rage, her arms folded in childlike defiance. Cyn stood beside her, but Chelsea didn’t acknowledge her presence. She simply carried on gazing skyward.

“I know I’m not blameless in all this,” Cyn said, suddenly aware of the cold and wishing she had a coat. “I did steal your identity. I was angry, but that was no excuse. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Chelsea didn’t say anything. Nor did she make any attempt to look at Cyn. They stood there in silence for maybe a minute. At one point Chelsea ripped a leaf from a low, overhanging tree branch and began shredding it.

“You have no idea what it was like when I was growing up,” Chelsea said eventually. Her voice was soft now but there was no mistaking the bitterness. She turned to look at Cyn. “To say my father had huge expectations of me is probably the understatement of the century. By the time I was seventeen I knew I didn’t want to go into advertising, but he wouldn’t listen. I even did my own thing for a few years, but he was devastated and we grew apart. Finally, to make him happy, I caved in and took the job at PCW. I knew straight-away I’d done the wrong thing. My dad thought up some of the most successful advertising campaigns in America. He was a genius and he expected me to live up to that. I knew I never could, but I also knew that just being me would never be enough for him. He always wanted more. The only way I was going to gain his respect was to surpass him.”

Cyn’s eyes were starting to fill up. “I’m sorry,” she said, placing her hand gently on Chelsea’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Chelsea ignored Cyn’s demonstration of sympathy, but she seemed happy to let her hand stay there, stroking her arm. “What are you sorry for?” Chelsea said. “I stole your proposal. That is unforgivable.” She released the handful of leaf shreds. The chilly breeze carried them off briefly before allowing them to float down onto the pavement.

“And stealing your identity wasn’t exactly an act of Christian charity. Having said that, I was pretty angry—not least of all about you making sure I got the Smart Car with the Anusol ad. Why did you do it? What had I ever done to you?”

“Nothing. You had done absolutely nothing to me.” By now Chelsea’s eyes were glassy with tears and she was swallowing hard. “It’s just that you are so talented and I was eaten up with jealousy. I hated seeing you succeed and I wanted to hurt you. It started with the car and then I stole your proposal. I have no defense other than to say I wanted success so much, it became an addiction. I couldn’t allow myself to fail. I just couldn’t.” Finally the tears started to tumble down her cheeks. “God, I’m such a mess.”

“You are now, but things can change. Charlie’s right. It’s important to get some help so that you can discover the real you. When you’ve done that, you need to introduce her to your dad.”

“Cyn, why the hell are you being so nice to me, after everything I’ve done to you?”

“First of all, I feel guilty because I’m not completely without blame in all this. Second, I know from my own upbringing how a troubled childhood can affect a person. It doesn’t excuse what you did and I’m still angry, but it does explain it.”

“So, what do I do if my father refuses to accept the real me?”

“Come on. It’s not like you’re a thief or a murderer. All you are is somebody who isn’t very good at the advertising business. If he can’t accept that, then he really isn’t worth the trouble. But my guess is he had no idea how much pressure he was putting on you, that he’ll be mortified to find out how it affected you and all he’ll want to do is make it up to you.”

Chelsea sniffed and wiped a tear with the heel of her palm. “I don’t know.”

“You have to give it a try.”

Chelsea shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

It was then that Cyn noticed Graham standing just a few feet away.

“I take it you heard all that?” Chelsea said to him.

He gave her a half-smile and nodded. “Most of it. Come on, let’s go,” he said. As he turned to Cyn his expression changed. Suddenly there was steel in his eyes. “I spoke to Gary Rossiter briefly and made my apologies,” he said briskly. “Luckily for you, he seems to be a remarkably generous chap. Nevertheless, you and I need to talk. Two o’clock—my office. I’m not remotely happy about the way you handled this situation.” She felt sick. There was no doubt in her mind that she would be clearing out her desk a few hours from now.