Cyn She's lounging on the oversized sofa, her long tanned legs tucked underneath her equally long, equally tanned body. She's smiling. Smugly. From that smile, he can tell that she is up to something. That something is going on. He doesn't ask her - that would be fatal. He's accused her of cheating on him in the past and sometimes he's even been right. But she always acts so self-righteous about it, like he has no right to suspect her of anything. And she swore the last time, over a year ago now, that she would never cheat on him again. Since then, he has accused her twice of two-timing him, which she has vigorously denied. And later, he has found out she was telling the truth. The fact he accused her of something she hadn't done put a strain on their relationship for a while, and things finally seemed to be going back to normal between the two of them. He loves her. Very much. Until he met her he was a ladies man, never with the same girl more than once. "Love-em-and-leave-em Jerry", that's what the guys called him. The girls he traded in more often than a car dealership - they just called him a philanderer. Or, if their vocabulary wasn't that varied, a "bastard". Simple as that. Cynthia changed that. Somehow, she tricked him into taking her out twice. Then three times. Then four. Suddenly, they were living together, in her beautiful flat, with the gorgeously furnished rooms, and the riverside view. And he was the paranoid one. No longer the "Don Juan", more the "Don Wimp". "I'm going out," she says, unfolding herself, and standing up. He lets his eyes travel over the length of the her body - the tight curves, the golden satin skin, the tawny hair tumbling over her shoulders in loose ringlets, that exactly match the colour of her eyes. The white vest top and ultra short skirt she's wearing just emphasise all her good points, and remind him of what he'll be losing if he questions her again. "Where are you going?" he asks, trying to sound casual. "Just out with the girls," she replies airily, tossing her curls. "We're not sure where we'll go yet. Maybe the Garage. Or Archaos. Why?" Her already full lips suddenly push out in a pout, her voice takes on a note of petulance. "Don't you trust me, Jer? Do you think I'm lying to you?" His face must have given him away, he realises in a panic. He quickly composes it into a cool, yet loving, mask. "No, Cynthia, I don't. I was just curious, that's all." "That's okay, then. I'll see you later." Leaning down, she brushes her lips against his, and then is gone in a wjirl of movement. Rather like the Roadrunner. She always meets her friends in the local pub, down at the end of their street. He goes to the window, and as he watches, she heads left, in the opposite direction. After walking about a hundred yards up the street, she stops and stands there, waiting, a white beacon in the twilight. What seems like mere seconds later, a car drives up, and she jumps inside it. Revving up the engine again, the car whizzes past the window, heading straight past the pub, turning at the end of the street and heading back the way it came. A black Mazda. It looks familiar, Jerry thinks, forcing himself to try to remember. Who does it belong to? None of her friends even own a car, do they? And, even if they did, why would they be heading away from the city centre? It doesn't make any sense. Unless . . . unless his suspicions are right. "No, he doesn't suspect a thing." When he wakes up the next morning the first thing he hears is Cynthia's soft voice. He can see her through the open door, pacing up and down the living room, speaking furtively into the phone. "God, if he knew . . . well, to be quite honest, I don't know what he'll do." She listens for a long time, her head nodding up and down. "Yeah, okay, I'd better get off the phone before he wakes up. Bye, darling." He was right, he knew it. She's up to her old tricks again. All he needs to do now is find out who the other guy is. He takes a sickie from work and follows her. It's her day off, and she has told him she's meeting an old friend for a drink. She strolls into the city centre and he follows close behind, feeling rather like a spy. He might find this enjoyable, if the situation wasn't so serious. It's a beautiful day in late summer, all the cafes have put tables outside. Cynthia has reached Sauchiehall Street, she heads down it and at one of the many outdoor tables, a man rises from his chair and waves to her. She smiles and runs towards him, and they embrace, tightly. Then he gives her a kiss on the cheek and they sit down, huddling together over the menu. Jerry studies the man, praying that this is a joke. He is an older man, mid to late forties, dark hair, streaked with grey, tanned face, one of these men made in the George Clooney mould, who get sexier the older they get. Beautifully dressed, divorced . . . Well, you know these things when it comes to your own father. How can he do this to me? Jerry wonders, numb with the shock. He knows how much I love Cyn - what an apt name, he's always thought, I'm not so much living in sin, as living with Cyn - and yet he's having an affair with her. Ironic really. After all, Jerry learned everything he knows about how to treat women from his father, the original Casanova. Jerry's mother had divorced him ten years ago, when she finally could no longer put up with his "dalliances", as she liked to call them. And now Jerry's father is trying to steal his girlfriend. Well, he can get to hell, Jerry thinks angrily. Shooting the mismatched couple a final dirty look, he turns away and walks back to the flat like a zombie. Five hours later, he picks up the phone, his finger hesitating over each button before he presses down hard on it. The phone rings on the other end. Once. Twice. And then . . . "Hello, Jack Bennett speaking." "Dad, it's me." He can barely bring himself to speak to the man, he can barely believe that this is the man that brought him up. The thought of ever having to see him again makes Jerry feel physically sick, but he's got to do this. He has to go and see him, to tell him to stay away from Cynthia. "Can I come over?" There is a long silence on the other end, as if his father is desperately trying to think of an excuse, any excuse. Well, Jerry knows his dad's tricks. "Um - how about we make it tomorrow instead?" the villain suggests. "Your mum's been complaining again - I need to go and see her tonight, she wants more money or something." His lies are so bad, so obvious. Jerry knows his father would never give his mother more money and, even if he did, he'd be seeing about it through a lawyer. He hates the woman, can't stand to be in the same room as her. There's no chance he would go to see her out of choice. But he pretends to take him at his word. "Sure, what time?" he asks coldly. At least now he can plan exactly what he's going to say to Jack, his so-called dad. "How about seven tomorrow night?" "Fine." Jerry rings off abruptly, without so much as a goodbye. Like his father deserves one! The following night, he jumps in his car and drives to his father's house in the suburbs. He wonders where Cynthia is, he hasn't seen her since the morning before. Probably stayed overnight at Jack's, knowing his luck. She may even be hiding in the living room while he confronts his dad, for all he knows. Well, he'll make sure he checks in there for her. He goes over the carefully rehearsed speech in his mind. Of course, he knows it won't come out the way he planned, nothing ever does. But he's hoping his father will understand what he is trying to say, and will steer clear of Cyn in the future. "Jerry, how are you?" His father opens the door and tries to hug him. Jerry shrugs him off. "Let me take your jacket." "I won't be staying long," he says, voice as cold as an artic winter. "I just came here to warn you." "Warn me?" "That's right. I know about you and Cynthia. I saw you together. I know you're trying to steal her away from me, and I want to tell you to stay away from her. She's mine, I saw her first and you'd think you would have the courtesy to stay away from your own son's girlfriend." "What?" Jack looks stunned. He shoots a surreptitious, embarrassed look at the living room door, slightly ajar, and Jerry catches it. A-ha! So he was right, Cynthia is hiding in there, listening to him. Well, maybe he should make her aware that he knows of her presence. "I can't believe the two of you. I bet you were laughing behind my back, weren't you? Silly little Jerry, can't see what's going on right under his nose. I bet . . ." He pushed past his father and through the living room door, and then froze, stiff with the shock of it all. He's right, Cyn is hiding in there. Along with a birthday cake, a banner strung up along the wall that proclaims "Happy Birthday, Jerry" in loud, brightly coloured letters, and more than twenty other people, their faces painted with identical expressions of horror. "Surprise, Jerry," Cynthia says softly, her face pale. Her topaz eyes are bright with tears. "I guess this is a bigger surprise than I thought it would be." She drops the carefully wrapped present she'd been holding and turns away, her shoulders hunched dejectedly. God, he's forgotten it was his birthday today, that's how preoccupied he's been with all his suspicions and doubts about Cynthia. He's been so stupid, so untrusting, he realises with a sudden rush of clarity. "Cynthia came to me last week, and asked me if I'd help her organise a party for you. She really wanted it to be special." Jack appears beside Jerry and meets his gaze, his eyes honest and sincere. "I'm sorry you got the wrong impression." Jerry has never been more mortified in his life. He looks around the room again, in disbelief, at all the people who are studiously avoiding his eyes. He glances back to Cynthia, who is leaving the room, and he follows her, desperate to make things right between them. No wonder she'd been so smug the last couple of days, she'd thought her surprise would make him really happy. And now he'd ruined everything, just because of his suspicious mind, and petty jealousy. "Cynthia," he begs, his voice hoarse with emotion. He can't lose her now, he just can't. He needs her more than he ever thought he did - she's right under his skin now. For want of a more romantic way to put it, she's a itch that's impossible to scratch. "Please - give me a chance to . . ." Cynthia sighs heavily as her eyes meet his. "You know I love you, Jerry," she says heavily, sounding as if each word tears at her heart a little more. "And you know I'm going to end up forgiving you because of the love I feel for you. But I need time - you didn't trust me, Jerry." She stares at the floor, and a freshly squeezed tear plops down beside her tanned foot. "Do you know how hard that is for me to deal with?" "I understand. And, as I said Cynthia, I'm really sorry." Jerry is desperate to win her back, no matter what measures he has to take. But what else can he do, other than apologise for the rest of his life? His mind works feverishly - I'll take her out to countless fancy dinners, book the holiday to Hawaii she suggested earlier that week, take her on a massive shopping spree. It may cost him his entire savings, but it will be worth it. "I don't know what else I can say, but I can start to make up for it. Why don't we go out for dinner tomorrow night. I'll find out what the most expensive restaurant in Glasgow is, and I'll book us a table." "No, Jerry. As I said, I need time. Anyway, the most expensive restaurant in Glasgow at the moment has a six month waiting list. Even if you're famous, you have to book a month in advance." Cynthia shoots him a sad smile and he sees a glimmer of the old Cyn. the Cyn she was until he burst in here with his horrific accusations. To think he's accused her of having a romantic liaison with his very own father. Was he mad? "Listen, you go back in there, enjoy your party," she says softly. "I'm going to go and fix my face upstairs and then I'll be back. I'm not going to let our argument ruin your birthday, so don't worry about that." "Are you sure?" God, she's a saint, he thinks in wonder. How can she be so forgiving? "Positive. I don't want anything to spoil this day." Cynthia reaches up and hugs him briefly, before gently pushing him back into the living room. How could he think that about her? she wonders, rushing up the stairs, as fast and light on her feet as a gazelle and twice as graceful. Did he really think she was so unfaithful, so twisted . . .? "Jack?" she asks in surprise, from the doorway. "What are you doing up here?" "Waiting for you," he replies. "Thought you might need some comfort." "I'm surprised at you," Cynthia murmurs, looking at him from under her long sooty lashes. "Anyway, I think congratulations, not comfort, is in order." "Yes, you were right about him being on to us." Jack stands up and pulls her over to the bed. "Your surprise party idea was the perfect smokescreen." "I know. I'm good, aren't I?" And then Cynthia sinks into Jerry's father's arms, planning to give him the most Cyn-ful experience of his life.
Copyright © 2000 Paula M Shackleford |