To Sydney - Have A Great Life

TO SYDNEY – HAVE A GREAT LIFE!

Chrissie opened the book on the first page and read the inscription:

“To Sydney, Have a Great Life!” Who was Sydney and why wasn’t he in possession of what was so obviously his very own signed copy of the latest bestseller?

The visiting author, a world-famous motivational speaker, had autographed one hundred copies of his latest bestseller at a rather quiet book signing.

“Far too early,” Fran was heard to remark, for the upper middle-class housewives of the surrounding suburb.

Chrissie, who had stumbled upon the book, the second last copy, sitting on a shelf right at the back, couldn’t have agreed more. The women, who haunted the adjacent coffee shop quaffing Greek chocolate cake and drinking Earl Grey tea, were the same women who rushed into the bookshop for the latest miracle diet books when the weather started to warm up and the thought of all those calories on their thighs suddenly seemed a distinctly unpalatable thought.

“I wonder where Sydney is now?” mused Fran, idly flicking sandwich crumbs off her lap.

“And what he is doing with his life!” chimed Chrissie, “I mean, I wonder if he’s having a great life, wherever he is?”

“Maybe he is the man of your dreams, Chrissie,” teased Fran.

“With a name like Sydney, I don’t think so!” she snorted.

Chrissie lived with an assortment of cats on the top floor of an old apartment building, the kind you were never sure if the lift was working that day. She was 36 years old and had ended a particularly dodgy affair with a man much older than herself. Since then, she had given up on men. He had had a wife and two children in the countryside, a small matter that he had omitted to mention in their two-year relationship.

She laughed cynically at herself. I am officially finished with the other half of the human population. She pulled her knitted cardigan around her defensively. It was a lovely shade of mauve which she thought went really well with her L’Oreal No. 79 blonde hair color.

Her dear Mom had always taught her to take care of her appearance. You never know when you may meet ‘Mr. Right’, on a bus or over the counter, when you least expect it, she used to say. Those words rang true in her ears.

“Well, I guess we could look up our members on the computer....”, she mused, “there can’t be too many ‘Sydneys’. Nearer to closing time they finally got a chance to check the computer records and found three members with the first name of ‘Sydney’.

“That’s going to make it a bit trickier”, snorted Marian, a younger colleague, following their progress with interest.

They excluded the first Sydney, he lived in a rather seedy part of town and had only ever bought: “The Idiots Guide To Women” in the five years that they had been online. He wouldn’t have read the highbrow book that the visiting author had autographed.

“That’s a bit of an assumption!” Fran said.

“The second one looks more promising,” Marian was warming to the theme, “he lives in Summerland, an upmarket suburb at the sea.”

“Uh huh!” And his birth date is 14th December 1953, which makes him about the correct age for a motivational book, about 49 years old,” laughed Chrissie.

“Just when the wheels fall off and most guys have a midlife crisis,” giggled Fran.

“What do you know of such things?” asked David, a lanky boy of indeterminate age who couldn’t help noticing the three girls craning their necks over the computer conspiratorially.

“A lot more than you, David!” sparred Fran playfully, “I’m always getting ‘the eye’ from older men.” She was reed thin and rather pretty in a pert sort of way.

“If I smile at them, they smile back and preen like cats who have got the cream.”

She coquettishly tossed her mane of blonde hair.

David rather fancied her, spunky girl! But he was much too shy to act on his whim.

He spent his days staring dreamingly across the counter or engaging her in inane conversation in the tearoom on break.

“Okay, so we have a ‘Sydney Bloom’ and a ‘Sydney Cohen’ so far, which one is it going to be Fran? Ring any bells?” asked Chrissie.

“Not with me, oh wait, Sidney Cohen is that bald, chunky chap who pitched up here wearing a kaftan one day. I remember him well, he looked so ridiculous. Like something from ‘Out of Africa’ only more ‘Out of his Depth’ ”, she trailed off thoughtfully.

“Okay, so there’s a strong possibility it’s his book then,” David declared triumphantly, “problem over, we just tell him next time he’s in.”

If only it had been so easy, Chrissie reflected with hindsight. He’d been so delighted that she had found his book that he had invited her to dinner.

The dinner was at ‘Mirabell’s’, the plush uptown restaurant that she had read reviews of in “Dining Out’ magazine which came around every Friday. She’d worn her blue number, demure yet sexy, a wrap dress. She had tried on her entire wardrobe before deciding on it.

“Don’t overdo it”, Fran had advised. “You are just going out for dinner, not a lifetime commitment!” Her newfound resolution of leaving the half of humanity alone had suddenly gone out of the window. But it was just a thank you dinner she reminded herself.

When he collected her Chrissie’s first impression was that he wasn’t a spring chicken. But there was something so appealing and fun about him that proved irresistible. Her work colleagues were very intrigued at this turn of events, and she was the topic of all the shoptalk.

He picked her up at 7 o’ clock in a red BMW convertible. She felt like Cinderella going to the ball. Except, wasn’t that supposed to be a very unfashionable way to feel these days......?

They made small talk until the hors d’oeuvres arrived. He was so obviously used to this routine the seating, the ordering, the whole wine thing. Chrissie felt like a small-town girl, out on her first date, clumsy and all of a sudden, a bit nervous.

“I have to travel a lot,” Sydney was saying conversationally, “it goes with the territory. But I don’t mind. I enjoy the cutting-edge of the business.”

“That must be marvelous,” she replied, “I have always wanted to travel but never quite managed to get anywhere terribly exciting. I spend most of my time at work and when I’m not working, I’m attempting to write the bestseller of the century.”

“Do you enjoy your job?” he asked, “I mean, it looks like a great job, you get to meet all sorts of interesting people, I think a lot of people would be envious of you.”

Chrissie chewed thoughtfully, considering her reply.

“I really want to write in the end,” she confessed. (what was she doing confessing this to a total stranger) “But I have to bring in the bacon.”.

This was the first time she had verbalized the dream that she had cherished for years. She was surprised at herself. But Sydney had a way of putting you at ease. His twinkly brown eyes looked at her over his glass of wine. He seemed amused.

“Well, isn’t that just dandy!” he chortled, “I work for Penrose Book Publishers in Summerland.”

“You do?” her eyes lit up, “well maybe sometime you could have a look at my scribbles and tell me what you think?”

Subsequently, she had dropped off her manuscript one evening at Penrose Books and the receptionist had promised that she would see Mr. Sydney Cohen got them.

The next time she saw Sydney he was pushing a pram through the shopping mall! Reality check! Chrissie almost stopped dead in her tracks. She turned to stare meaningfully in a nearby shop window.

She could see Sydney reflected back at her. He was wearing shorts and a golf shirt and looked like any off-duty businessman having quality time with his family. The baby was maybe two years old, a girl, by the pink, frilly outfit.

She felt cheated. Just when she thought she had a really interesting older man who could advise her on her embryonic writing career she had to find out he came with a whole entourage. Fran’s warning rang in her ears.

“Heard any more from our Sydney?” Fran inquired the following Monday morning.

“No,” she lied, “we had a nice dinner, he was very helpful with my book, that’s all.”

The next sighting was made by Marian who arrived all breathless one Monday with the news that she had seen Sydney on the arm of some blonde bimbo at an art gallery opening she had been to over the weekend.

“Canoodling all evening, they were,” she elaborated, “he seemed quite taken with her. Wearing one of his caftans, he was and one of those silly little earrings in one ear.”

“Don’t worry, love,” Fran had consoled her, “there’s plenty more men out there.”

“It’s not just that, Fran”, she looked downcast, “I need my manuscript back. I also thought we had something special, something in common, a love of books......”

“Well, maybe it’s for the best,” was the most Fran could come up with,

She carried on at work, socialized with friends and every now and again, caught herself looking into the crowded shopping mall for a pair of twinkly brown eyes dancing with amusement. God forbid, she didn’t want to end up like her aunt Betty. Classic old maid scenario. I mean, she was fond of dear old Aunt Betty but she just didn’t want to end up like her. Knitting away furiously surrounded by a horde of cats.

“Just got in from L.A.!” the voice boomed down the line. “Been gone for weeks on end and when I got back I found that the work had piled up. Haven’t had a chance to read your manuscripts yet, but I have a free evening and over a glass of red wine I will take a look.”

Chrissie was speechless. What a nerve. Running around town with every bimbo and acting like a middle-aged idiot that he was, and then having the nerve to phone her and act as if nothing had happened. She didn’t want to end up like her aunt Betty but she sure as hell didn’t want to be some rich, middle-aged man’s playmate. She’d hate the sneaking around, the lies and trying not to be jealous of the real Mrs. Cohen. the one who would have all the legal and conjugal rights she didn’t.

“I need the manuscript back sometime please,” her voice sounded tight and false, not like her own.

“How about we meet for that glass of red wine at my place?” he offered.

She couldn’t believe her ears. Was the real Mrs. Cohen out of town too?

“Where’s your wife?” she heard herself say.

“Wife?” he repeated stupidly.

Ah ha! I’ve got him fair and square, she thought triumphantly. But a pang of regret stabbed at her heart. I did like him so much and we had fun, he made me laugh, a rare talent in any man.

“Yes, your wife!” she insisted, almost viciously.

He caught his breath on the other end of the line, and then, quite unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. A great, big sound that rolled around and around the room. If only it would stop, Chrissie thought to herself. It was a full five minutes before he collected himself.

“Dear Chrissie, meet me for that drink and I will explain,” he offered. He was still chuckling into the telephone.

“I’m not sure about that,” she countered, feeling like a fool. Someone was playing a joke on her and she couldn’t quite put the pieces of the jigsaw together.

They met at a quiet pub down road. He gave her a chaste peck on the cheek. He looked well, tanned and relaxed.

“Now, let’s have that drink,” he offered.

“Tell me, Sydney,” she plucked up all her courage, “not that’s it’s any of my business, but do you have a family?”

“A family? No! I’m the eternal playboy!” He leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“No, seriously, I’ve never married, just didn’t find the right person I guess.”

She frowned and took another sip of her wine. Something was amiss, gosh it wasn’t in her nature to feel so suspicious.

“Well, I saw you pushing a pram the other day in the mall, were you babysitting for a friend?”

“No way,” he came back, “I haven’t even been in the city, but I think it’s all beginning to make sense now.”

There’s my twin brother, Jason, we’re identical twins and he is often mistaken for me and vice-versa. It’s caused us a lot of trouble in the past and I guess it has again.”

Chrissie could have curled up and died right there and then. The possibility of a double had never entered her head. why hadn’t she thought of it.

“I owe you a big apology, Sydney, I’m so terribly sorry,” she trailed off.

They laughed about it later and she got to meet Jason his twin. He was quite the ladies' man, as charming as Sydney. Chrissie felt sorry for his wife who had no idea, or if she did, pretended not to suspect anything. Sydney’s publishing house published her first book that spring. It was a moderate success, and her colleagues were chuffed to have a real live author in their midst. Just seeing her work in print gave Chrissie a satisfying thrill.

“Never judge a book by its cover.” her grandmother used to say. The words came back to her these days as she wrote and loved and laughed in the apartment that she shared with Sydney and two cats.