There is never a doubt in any sane person's mind about who really has the power in the television business. It is and always has been the networks. But when an issue begins as a creative one, moves on to become a racist one, and finally ends up as a conflict of interest, it does not bode well for a star/producer or her show. I knew my days were numbered at CBS. I absolutely believe that if I had simply cut the thirty-five seconds that the studio and network representatives originally had requested, the issue of conflict of interest would never have come up and the lovely, moving footage of my character taking her granddaughter to the beautiful landmarks of her youth would have been included in the episode. When I asked Bob if he thought that was the case, he said most likely it was.

"Never ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee." I began to hear a death knell in my heart for this show to which I had given so much. I knew starting in November 1997 (less than six months before cancellation) that it was only a matter of time. Two things came of this--a constant sense of dread and a constant sense of grat.i.tude that I was getting to do the show at all.

When I returned from the Christmas break, my line producer, Henry Lange, told me he had gone into his office over the holidays to pick up messages and been surprised to see Bob Myer's car on the lot. He was even more surprised when he went in to say h.e.l.lo and was told that Bob wasn't in his Cybill Cybill office, that he was working on a new Ca.r.s.ey-Werner production starring Damon Wyans. office, that he was working on a new Ca.r.s.ey-Werner production starring Damon Wyans.

I was stunned. So much for my getting sick of all his information. "I heard there was a memo about it right before the hiatus," Henry told me.

"Have you seen this memo?" I asked him.

"No," he said, "but I'll see if I can get a copy." Until Henry showed me the memo, dated the week before Christmas, I had no idea my head writer was undertaking a new a.s.signment that would mean being gone more than half the time (while continuing to draw 100 percent of his salary). It was unsigned, and no one would ever admit having been the author. With tears streaming down my face, I confronted him, asking if he was deserting a sinking ship. He didn't dispute the time allocation but pledged his continuing commitment to my show. The only difference, he said, was that he would take my notes from the Monday table reading of the script and give them to the writers, then go to the Wayans show leaving the writers to work out the material.

This was not a good idea. The people who created my dialogue, essentially translated my voice, needed to be hearing my notes directly from me. So I asked for several writers with whom I could communicate personally in Bob's absence. He seemed to be okay with this and asked "Who would you like?" I chose Linda Wallem and Alan Ball, both of whom had been on the show the longest. Bob added two new writers, Kim Frieze and Alan Pourious, and the four choices felt like a good balance. The first story line they pitched involved having the gay waiter at the trattoria come out. I had pitched this story line months before to Bob and he had rejected it because he felt that gay characters coming out was happening so often on television that it was becoming a cliche. What I didn't know was that Alan and Linda had pitched the same thing to Bob and had also been turned down. Bob bowed to the pressure of being outnumbered on this issue and we got our waiter coming-out episode after all. But when it came time to a.s.semble the episode, it didn't seem as good as the others. Editing had always been one of the things Bob did best. We had worked happily side by side for most of our collaboration. Perhaps in this instance he was biased by his original rejection of the material. I felt we needed the input of Alan and Linda who had actually written the episode, but Bob declared that it was unnecessary. I insisted.

I called Marcy Ca.r.s.ey and proposed that she keep Bob Myer on the new show full-time. We didn't seem to need him anymore, and there was hostility all around for deserting us in the first place. I could justifiably never trust him again because he had broken a solemn promise that he would inform me about everything by not telling me he had begun working on another show.

For the past year or so Alicia Witt had been acting like a spoiled brat, so pouty and truculent that when she wanted time off to have a b.u.mp removed from her nose, Bob Myer said, "Get rid of her," and some writers asked if they couldn't write her out of the show. When Peter Krause was hired to play Rachel's husband, he and Alicia became romantically involved and they barely spoke to me.

In April Ca.r.s.ey-Werner received a letter from Alicia's representatives, detailing her "creative concerns" about "character development and partic.i.p.ation" and calling me tyrannical, abusive and demeaning. But her fit of pique turned out to be fair warning for her demand that she have time off to make a film. When we granted her permission and worked around her absence, she wrote me a note, this time detailing my "generosity." I found out later that she got a raise after complaining about me. I also found out, by reading it in the press, that Christine had asked for a secret meeting with The Suit and subsequently got a raise too.

Chapter Eleven.

"TO BE CONTINUED"

THERE ARE TWO OR THREE DAYS OF MY LIFE I'D LIKE to rewind and say "I need another take." One was the day that Christine Baranski walked off the set during the rehearsal for what would be the final episode of to rewind and say "I need another take." One was the day that Christine Baranski walked off the set during the rehearsal for what would be the final episode of Cybill. Cybill.

I recognized the first real death rattle of the show quite circuitously when I asked CBS for a raise. Word came back from the network: "We're already paying through the nose for that show. She doesn't get another penny." The rumor was that C-W had made an extraordinary deal in which they didn't pay any money on my show until it went into syndication, making Cybill Cybill disproportionately expensive for CBS. Two things are curious about this deal: it was made while Peter Torrici was president of CBS Television; he later left to join Ca.r.s.ey-Werner. And it was made at a time when C-W had enormous leverage, having developed a new show for Bill Cosby that had to have been a useful negotiating chip with any network and, in fact, landed on CBS. Toward the end of the 1998 season, Marcy Ca.r.s.ey had a.s.sured me that Cybill would be picked up. "CBS doesn't have anything else this good," she said, "but Ca.r.s.ey-Werner will have to eat dirt," meaning the company would finally have to pay its share of the bills. disproportionately expensive for CBS. Two things are curious about this deal: it was made while Peter Torrici was president of CBS Television; he later left to join Ca.r.s.ey-Werner. And it was made at a time when C-W had enormous leverage, having developed a new show for Bill Cosby that had to have been a useful negotiating chip with any network and, in fact, landed on CBS. Toward the end of the 1998 season, Marcy Ca.r.s.ey had a.s.sured me that Cybill would be picked up. "CBS doesn't have anything else this good," she said, "but Ca.r.s.ey-Werner will have to eat dirt," meaning the company would finally have to pay its share of the bills.

Marcy suggested that the CBS bra.s.s wasn't really watching my show, and that the two of us might take some tapes to The Suit to show him how good it was. That never came to pa.s.s, although now I'm not sure it would have made much difference.

The Emmy Awards were on CBS that year, and the second highest rated Emmy broadcast of all time had been emceed by Jason Alexander and me three years before. My manager called The Suit and said, "Cybill would love to host again."

"Bryant Gumbel is doing it," he said.

Okay. Bryant Gumbel had a highly promoted magazine-format show premiering on CBS. But this was the first time since my show was on the air that my own network was airing the Emmys, and I wasn't even asked to be a presenter.

"We're not having stars from old CBS shows, only new CBS shows," said The Network Representative.

The network had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with our time slot almost from the start, as networks are wont to do. Twice episodes of Cybill were pulled off the air to be supplanted by a new series starring Jean Smart of Designing Women Designing Women, but both High Society High Society and and Style and Substance Style and Substance were dropped after one season. There followed pilots for Faith Ford (of were dropped after one season. There followed pilots for Faith Ford (of Murphy Brown Murphy Brown) and Judith Light (of Who's the Boss Who's the Boss?), neither of which captured the public imagination. But in 1998 there had been relentless preempting: In February Cybill was replaced by both the Nagano Olympics and a new Tom Selleck show called The Closer The Closer. (I read about this change in the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times and a few days later on a talk show, I "accidentally" misspoke and called it and a few days later on a talk show, I "accidentally" misspoke and called it The Loser The Loser.) Three times my show was pulled during "sweeps," those weeks in November, February, and May when the networks schedule their most aggressive programming in an attempt to generate high Nielsen ratings and demand the best rates from advertisers. It was hardly a demonstration of support.

When it seemed manifest destiny that the series was on its way out, Bob Myer came to me and said, "Could you ask Bruce Willis to come on? It might help." I didn't want to leave any stone unturned, but Willis' answer came back: too busy.

During the last hiatus week before the filming of what would be the final two episodes, Christine Baranski's forty-eight-year-old brother dropped dead of a heart attack. She was on the East Coast when it happened, and we didn't know if or when she was returning.

I had no intention of shutting down production. As John Wayne says in The Searchers The Searchers, I knew as sure as the turning of the earth that this would be my last season, and for the sake of the fans I wanted to get in as many episodes as possible. It was not about money--I would have gotten paid anyway. Despite the stress and infighting, Cybill Cybill provided the best part, the most fun, and the biggest creative opportunity I'd ever had. provided the best part, the most fun, and the biggest creative opportunity I'd ever had.

I called Marcy and I said. "I've got the best writing staff in the business. Let's put them to work. They can have Maryann on the phone from out-of-town, and her part can be edited in later. We've done this many times before."

''Do you think you can get a good show?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"Okay," she said.

I wanted to do a story line where my character was a talk-show host with a venomous cohost; a role I thought would be perfectly cast with Linda Wallem, not only a writer but a side-st.i.tchingly funny comedienne. Cybill Sheridan was to lose her job when the talk show is canceled. Joking around with Bob Myer, I said, "Wouldn't it be funny to have a network executive make a pa.s.s at me and cancel the talk show after I reject him?" Bob gave a cynical little laugh and said, "Yeah, right." A few days later he relayed a message from CBS that they would never air such a show, and from now on, all plot outlines were to be submitted in advance.

"How did they find out?" I asked.

"I felt that I had to tell the network rep," said Bob. Good ol' "trust me" Bob.

The week before Easter, in order to avoid working on Good Friday (which would have been prohibitively expensive), we were planning to condense the usual five-day workload into four days. That Sunday I was awake all night with stomach pains, but I went to work on Monday morning and later phoned my doctor, who told me to come in right away for some tests. "You don't understand," I said, "this is probably the last episode I'll ever do. I have to finish." Then I took some Maalox. Every single person on the set was fried--the actors, the crew, the writing staff, all in the final stage of burnout--and I was pretty sure my symptoms were stress related.

The final episode called for the talk-show host to break down on camera and walk off the set, leaving my character alone to fill time. My idea was to have Maryann make a grand exit by calling her onstage, from where she was watching in the wings, and have her perform one of her ranting, raving monologues. I also thought that if my character needed to fill another five minutes, we could give Cybill and Maryann an opportunity to sing together one last time. Ever conscious of budget restrictions, I looked on my list of public domain songs and came up with "Rockabye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody." During rehearsal I asked Christine to sing it with me. She said, "No, you do it." When I finished the song, I turned around to get Maryann's reaction but Christine was gone. Everyone on the set was acting unnaturally calm, as if the elephant in the middle of the room had laid a giant t.u.r.d. When we got ready to do a second run-through, Christine's stand-in had taken her place.

"My, you look different today, Christine," I said, trying to leaven the moment. n.o.body laughed.

The stand-in was looking at her feet. (Clearly abashed, she said, "Christine just left.") I was later told that she went to the warbe department with The Executioner, who told her, "Just pick out anything you want--it will make you feel better."

Early in my career, I learned that an actor had better be able to stand and deliver when the director says, "Action." The audience doesn't know that you're inhaling the rancid fumes from frying potatoes in a scorchingly hot Times Square coffee shop, or your leading man is p.i.s.sed because you rejected his affections, or your costar has walked out in the middle of your song. Before I chose Christine to play Maryann Thorpe, I'd been warned: watch your back. And now there could be no lingering doubt about her feelings toward me.

The night of the final show I greeted the audience during the warm-up with palms upturned, as if I were holding my grandmother's silver tea set, and offering them a gift. I knew it was good-bye. "This is a season of miracles," I said to them, "whether it's Jesus Christ dying on the cross and rising from the dead, or somebody pa.s.sing over your house and not taking your firstborn. I've been in the business thirty years. When you get a pilot okayed to go on the air, it's a miracle. When you get picked up for a season, it's a miracle.

I really consider eighty-seven episodes a mighty miracle. So like the Lone Ranger said: 'Hi ho, Silver, and away."

That weekend was Good Friday, Pa.s.sover, and Easter. On Monday my manager let me know about a call from The Executioner. "Ca.r.s.ey-Werner is exercising its right to final cut," he informed her.

"Ca.r.s.ey-Werner has always had that right," I said to Judy Hofflund, my manager, when she relayed this conversation. "Why is it being specified now?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Please find out," I asked.

She reported back to me that The Executioner had initially replied, "We want to increase the odds that the show will be picked up for another season." But when Judy persisted, he opened a window into the collective thinking: "In order to protect the rights and interests of Ca.r.s.ey-Werner, and those of Bob Myer and Christine Baranski, Cybill will no longer be involved in the final cut."

Calls to The Executioner and Bob Myer went unreturned for twenty-four hours. When Bob finally called me back, he said angrily, "We have not collaborated in weeks."

"I had no idea you felt this way," I said. "I wish you had said something."

"Oh, come on, Cybill," he said, "you haven't even made eye contact with me all week."

He was right about that. I hadn't trusted him for quite some time. "Is this about money?" I asked. "I'm willing to come down to the editing room right now."

"No, it's nothing to do with that," he said. "I don't want to work with you. I didn't want to come in and do any more work on your show, I wanted to stay home with my kids for Pa.s.sover, but they made me come in and do the final cut. So I told them, "The only way I will do this is if Cybill isn't involved."

So. Those were Bob Myer's interests. Christine Baranski's interests seemed to involve the increasingly plausible rumors that a series would be developed for her at CBS. Ca.r.s.ey-Werner's interest was making sure the company did not have to "eat dirt" if the show was picked up.

The following Sunday morning I'd planned to hike up in the Santa Monica Mountains with a girlfriend. I put on shorts and a T-shirt, my hair was in a ponytail pulled through a cap, and I was just applying sunblock when I started to feel pain in my abdomen. I crawled into bed wearing everything but my shoes and told my friend I needed to rest. As the morning wore on, the pain intensified. Roark piled me into the car and drove at illegal speed to the emerge room. A battery of tests revealed a spiking white blood count and an obstruction in my small intestine. As I was prepped for surgery, the doctor said, "I'm afraid it's not going to be a pretty scar," and Roark started sobbing.

The doctor made a five-inch vertical incision below my belly b.u.t.ton for exploratory surgery. As he pa.s.sed the length of my intestines through his hands like a garden hose (a procedure called the delivery of the bowel), what turned out to be two twists, untwisted, but the tissue was swollen and bruised--as if I had been kicked in the gut by a horse. I knew the name of that horse. The crisis over, I was sewn back up and awakened woozy, with Demerol dripping into my veins, but otherwise remarkably among the quick.

Once the Demerol stopped dripping, I was dealing with the kind of pain and enervation familiar to anyone who has gone through major surgery. Riding home from the hospital, I was thinking: I know I can make it, but is it twenty I know I can make it, but is it twenty or or twenty-five steps twenty-five steps up up to to my my bedroom? bedroom? When Ariel and Zack got back from their dad's house, I heard Ariel squealing from the kitchen, "Mommy, Mommy, where did you get this adorable puppy!" I didn't know what she was talking about. We didn't have a puppy. I realized how wrong I was when a minute later Ariel came pounding up the steps hugging what looked like a fur covered black slug. Later I learned that Clementine's crisis mode involved purchasing (for $1,200 on my credit card) a female pug dog so pitifully ugly that Clem figured no one else would buy her. Petunia, as she was christened, didn't look like she could possibly survive a week, her legs seemingly too small and skinny to support her weight. "I can't take care of a puppy," I yelled. "I just got out of the hospital." I refused to hold her and insisted Clementine return Petunia immediately. My initial a.s.sessment of Petunia turned out to be correct: she had less than one functioning kidney, and the store offered us a $400 credit if we brought her back. But by then, all of us had fallen in love and wouldn't allow her return, envisioning a pug-size version of the glue factory. When Ariel and Zack got back from their dad's house, I heard Ariel squealing from the kitchen, "Mommy, Mommy, where did you get this adorable puppy!" I didn't know what she was talking about. We didn't have a puppy. I realized how wrong I was when a minute later Ariel came pounding up the steps hugging what looked like a fur covered black slug. Later I learned that Clementine's crisis mode involved purchasing (for $1,200 on my credit card) a female pug dog so pitifully ugly that Clem figured no one else would buy her. Petunia, as she was christened, didn't look like she could possibly survive a week, her legs seemingly too small and skinny to support her weight. "I can't take care of a puppy," I yelled. "I just got out of the hospital." I refused to hold her and insisted Clementine return Petunia immediately. My initial a.s.sessment of Petunia turned out to be correct: she had less than one functioning kidney, and the store offered us a $400 credit if we brought her back. But by then, all of us had fallen in love and wouldn't allow her return, envisioning a pug-size version of the glue factory.

About a week after I got home from the hospital, Roark called from the studio where he was working on the music for the last episode. "The show looks great," he said, "but 'Rockabye Your Baby' was cut. And there's a card at the end that says, "To be continued...."

By mid-May, I was officially notified that Cybill Cybill was not on the fall schedule. For months I had the feeling that somebody was stalking me from behind with a plastic bag that would be placed over my head. I finally felt the moment of suffocation. was not on the fall schedule. For months I had the feeling that somebody was stalking me from behind with a plastic bag that would be placed over my head. I finally felt the moment of suffocation.

The next day I called Marcy Ca.r.s.ey. "Now that the show isn't picked up and n.o.body could possibly care one way or the other," I said, "it would mean a lot to me if we could put my musical number back in the last episode."

"I thought it was in," she said. "We talked about doing it as a tag. But it doesn't make sense because of the 'To be continued' card."

"Can't we take that off?" I asked. "There is no 'To be continued....'"

"Let me look into it," she said. A few days later she called back. "It doesn't work," she said. "Christine is just sitting there in the background."

For eighty-seven episodes I always made sure that we had good "coverage" shots, so if an actor (including me) did something distracting or unhelpful to the scene, we could cut it out. I took particular care to do that on the last episode, since Christine had walked out during the rehearsal of my musical number. Out of four camera angles, there were two where she wasn't seen. I'd like to think that if Marcy had actually seen the scene without Christine&rsuo;s scowling, she would have stood up for it. But she said, "No, I like it the way it is."

And that's how the series ended: "To be continued." Maryann Thorpe had her last rant, but Cybill Sheridan did not have her last song. When I was feeling well enough, I called Marcy and asked to recut the film with the song for my own personal archives.

"I don't see a problem with that," she said agreeably, "especially if you're paying for it." And she suggested that she'd have The Executioner call me back.

"I don't trust him," I told her.

"What are you talking about?" she said. "He's crazy about you."

The Executioner's voice was saccharine sweet. "Cybill darling," he said, "I think I can do it for you cheap."

"How cheap?" I asked.

"Not a penny more than twelve thousand dollars," he said, "but it's going to take a little while. The footage is buried in the salt mines of Utah." Along with say, my career?

Paul Anderson, the show's editor, had a different idea when he returned my call. "Is this piece of film for broadcasting?" he asked.

"No," I said, "it's just for me."

"Then it won't cost you anything," he said. "I have the whole thing on computer disk." On a Sat.u.r.day morning, I pulled into the front gate of the studio. I could see a maintenance man on scaffolding near the roof of Stage 19, spray painting over my name. But the twenty-foot-high CYBILL was such an intense bright blue that it was impossible to completely eradicate it. It will be a ghostly presence until the building is restuccoed.

At its demise, Cybill Cybill was CBS's highest-rated sitcom for women, number two for young adults, and we finished under budget. The people responsible for the death of a series doing that well should have their heads examined. After the show was canceled, Roseanne called me at home to commiserate. "I knew your days were numbered by the people they kept throwing at you," she said. Roseanne had done a voice-over on my show, and I had always admired her strength. was CBS's highest-rated sitcom for women, number two for young adults, and we finished under budget. The people responsible for the death of a series doing that well should have their heads examined. After the show was canceled, Roseanne called me at home to commiserate. "I knew your days were numbered by the people they kept throwing at you," she said. Roseanne had done a voice-over on my show, and I had always admired her strength.

"Everybody's treating me like a monster," I said, "but I didn't do anything monstrous."

"Well, I did," Roseanne said. "I did everything they said I did, and I don't regret any of it. I just wish I'd done more."

Maybe I should have. If so, my show might still be on the air. Orson Welles once told me a story about William Randolph Hearst. One day when Hearst was getting on an elevator an a.s.sociate rushed in to join him. "Bill," he said, "so-and-so is saying terrible things about you."

"That's strange," said Hearst, "I never did him a favor."

All through these difficult times, I was writing grateful notes in my journal about the support of "Howard Roark." We'd never taken vows about "in sickness and in health," but the way he rallied his support when I ended up in the hospital actually made me feel more sure of him. We had separate bedrooms in my home, an arrangement that has worked for me ever since I lived with Peter Bogdanovich, but we could hardly have felt more of an erotic connection. Looking back, I see how desperately I was trying to prove my lifelong theory that justified being s.e.xual: if someone makes me feel this good, it must be love. Only in my forties did I begin to see that s.e.x was scariest when I was vulnerable, when I admitted loving someone and waited to see if he would stay and love me back.

When Roark and I went to therapy, I sometimes took a list of petty grievances, and he'd say, "Why do you have to bring up all these little things?" I thought that's what therapy was for--to deal with ed.ttle things before they become big things. Five months after my health crisis, Howard said he had issues of his own and wanted to meet with the therapist in private. I paid for that too. Perhaps therapy taught him how to act loving when it wasn't in his heart. His act ended on October 24, 1998. That Sat.u.r.day, in the middle of our joint session, he said, "I can't do this anymore."

"Do what?" I asked. I thought by "this," he meant therapy.

"Go ahead and tell her, Howard, said the therapist knowingly.

"My feelings have changed," he said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. "What has happened?"

"It's over between us," he said. "You wouldn't even read that book on objectivism that's been sitting on your coffee table for months. I don't want to be with you anymore."

I felt as if the familiar figure sitting across from me had suddenly sprouted fangs and turned into a werewolf. "All those declarations of love-- were they all lies?" I asked.

"No," he said glumly.

"What did you ever love about me?" I asked.

There was a long pause, way too long. "Well, you're a good person," he said.

"Who's going to tell my kids?" I asked.

"I will," he said.

"When?" I asked.

"Now," he said.

The therapist spoke up. "Cybill, I don't want the kids blaming you for this. Would you like me to come home with you?" she asked.

"Yes." I said.

We gathered around the dining room table with my three children. "This relationship between your mom and me isn't going to work," Roark said and started to sob. Whenever he cried in the past, I had thought: Great, he's more open to his emotions than most men. Great, he's more open to his emotions than most men. But this time he just seemed to feel sorry for himself. We sat in stunned silence watching him. Clementine started to cry and said, "Except for my father, you're the man I've known the longest." Then she turned to me and said, "Men always leave." Roark grabbed his jacket and ran out of the room. Crying myself, I apologized to my children for introducing this man into their life. Ten-year-old Zack asked the therapist, "Does this happen often in your work?" But this time he just seemed to feel sorry for himself. We sat in stunned silence watching him. Clementine started to cry and said, "Except for my father, you're the man I've known the longest." Then she turned to me and said, "Men always leave." Roark grabbed his jacket and ran out of the room. Crying myself, I apologized to my children for introducing this man into their life. Ten-year-old Zack asked the therapist, "Does this happen often in your work?"

Somehow the family migrated together outside into the sunshine. When I looked down at my feet, I was wearing socks but no shoes, something I had constantly chided my kids about. We forgot about Zack's tennis lesson, scheduled on the court in our backyard, until we heard the bell at the gate. Zack let him in.

"How are you?" the pro asked.

"Fair to middling'," I said cheerlessly. You can't tell someone who's come to give your child a tennis lesson that your life has fallen apart.

Afterward somebody said, "Let's go see Howard's room," and we all crept down the hallway, opening the door as if peering over a precipice and looking at the chasm left by an explosion. There at the end of the bed, he had left behind a purple plastic yo-yo Ariel had given him for Christmas. And then I remembered that several days earlier, he had called my business manager and asked to be paid in full for his partic.i.p.ation on the Cybill show CD, even though his work was not completed. I had sensed that he was low on funds and okayed the entire payment. I hadn't sensed the real reason.

My mother had always defended her marriage to my father as perfect. I didn't find out the truth about his infidelities until I went through the deepest kind of betrayal myself. And I began to wonder: was my life with Roark a model my parents had shown me, presenting to the children and to myself a fantasy good man? That's what wives were supposed to do. Was I a care taking facitator, as my mother had been, or just simply fooled? I had told my children: he can't show the affection he feels for you, can't hug you or buy you presents, but he's a good man. He'll always be there. He's solid as a rock. We'd been living with the delusion that this man was honest and loving and committed. Once the impostor left, we all seemed to relax, and my own mother-daughter war had ended. I no longer felt that I had to defend my self in her presence or dodge her zingers. What finally brought us together was that she had been left flat, and so had I.