Baby You're a Rich Man

Fifteen

Cynthia woke up early that morning, and sat at breakfast surrounded by strangers, as usual. She really missed John.

            She was beginning to doubt herself, to think it was her fault for confronting John, but in her defense it really was true. He took her for granted, and after all she had a right to tell her own husband what was bothering her. Didn’t she?

            Cynthia bit down on a nail, tasting bitter nail polish. Maybe John was angry with her because she’d done just that – expressed what she was thinking, she’d shown her weakness. Who wanted to be with a sniveling, crying, emotional person? She’d embarrassed herself outright when she’d told John that they weren’t really in love.

            Haven’t you learned your lesson? Cynthia chided herself. Never show weakness. It’s unbecoming for someone of our status. At the thought of “our,” something she’d shared with John, tears threatened to fall, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake.

            She gave herself a slow count backwards from five to be on the verge of tears, then started to take slow, deep breaths that chased away the blurry rim of tears that was marring her eyes.

            Someone near her at the breakfast table whose name Cynthia didn’t know asked if she was all right, and she said yes. Suddenly Cynthia felt so alone, surrounded by all these people she didn’t know, and threw an almost accusing glance towards the other end of the table, where John and Paul were laughing profusely over something – was that John’s arm around Paul’s shoulders?

            The arm disappeared quickly, but Cynthia was still watching, incredulous. She felt another wave of tears threaten and vaguely told someone next to her that she needed to use the loo.

            She didn’t know if the woman had heard because she received no reaction, but left the table anyway.

            Cynthia found herself leaning over the sink in the small bathroom with an almost dreamlike speed, and she panted slightly, leaning above the cool, white material. She vaguely wondered whether she was going to vomit, but looked up to see her eyes rimmed with red.

            Cynthia was alone, for the first time in a long time, and though she felt like a shameful five-year-old, let out a silent tear that smeared her makeup all the way down her face. Her roots were showing, little zigzags of brown at the crown of her puffy, messy hair. The tip of her nose was slightly red as always when she was crying, and at the moment terrible didn’t even begin to describe what she looked, Cynthia thought.

            She wiped away the tears, the makeup, almost furiously, and with shaking hands splashed some water back onto her face. She couldn’t live like this anymore. It was time to win John back, no matter what it cost her pride.

            Maybe John didn’t love her anymore because she was ugly. She wondered whether he’d ever really loved her, then pushed the thought out of her head. Sighing, she thought over a plan. Ugly could be fixed – she just needed to reapply some eyeliner, fix her mascara, dye the roots blond again, and Cynthia found herself babbling aloud: “Yes, I know they must have hair dye somewhere in this town, and, and I can go buy some more makeup, John will think I’m lovely, and I can paint my nails again where I bit them, and, and—“

            She paused in the middle of her increasingly hysterical monologue. She looked into the mirror seriously.

            “Cyn! Get a grip!”

            Her reflection looked almost surprised at her sternness. “But, but, John—“ her reflection protested.

            “No!” Cynthia admonished. “You can handle this.”

            “I can handle this,” the reflection answered.

            Cynthia nodded at the same time as the reflection did, and it seemed they’d reached an understanding.

            She left the bathroom significantly more composed, just in time to hear the Maharishi’s speech. “Today is a free day. A day to free your inner soul, that is. The deeper you go, the higher you fly.”

            Cynthia listened politely. Free day would mean finding out what it really was that John and Paul were doing.

            She stayed close to the wall pretending not to listen as John and Paul spoke, dismayed at how easily overlooked her presence was, but also desperately wanting to know where they were going.

            “Let’s go to the pubs.” Cynthia smiled sadly to herself at how typically John that was of him to say.

            “Oh, Ringo ‘n I were going to go to the record shop,” Paul answered. “But you can go if you want…”

            Cynthia knew what happened next; stubborn John refused, and found a way to convince Paul to agree to his plan.

            “S’fine.”

            Cynthia’s eyes widened in surprise as John and Paul left, and walked out after them before she let the hurt settle in too much.

*   *   *

            Finally, John left the record shop, after what seemed like ages to Cynthia. A head of ruffled auburn hair appeared and Cynthia moved forward, hoping to talk to John alone, apologize; turn pleading eyes on him.

            Then another person left, she recognized the too-neat near-black mop top immediately, and her need for peace with John morphed into white-hot jealousy and a need to show Paul that she was John’s wife, that John had chosen her a long time ago.

            “Bought nice things, darling?” she asked, addressing John.

            “Yes, we did actually,” John answered with a hint of defiance, and he nonverbally told her that he didn’t care what she thought.

            Cynthia scanned John’s face for a moment, then caught Paul’s efforts to escape into the record shop, and seized her chance to reaffirm her position.

            She crossed the short distance towards John and planted a kiss firmly on his lips, stepping away quickly before he could push her away, relishing the stricken look on Paul’s face.

            Cynthia was the wife.