The Dr Pepper Prophecies (14 page)

My heart’s jumping up and down like it’s trying to see through a high window, as every new possible comes through the door.  I nearly have a crisis when I think a guy who looks old enough to be Beth’s grandfather is coming to join us, but his table is actually right behind ours.

He’s not going to stand her up, is he?  Of all the worst things he could do!  Just casually abandon a sensitive, sweet young woman, perhaps permanently damaging her sense of self-worth?  Men!

I’ve been stood up precisely three times in my life.  The first at the cinema, so I didn’t have to sit through the latest blood and guts film but saw a romantic comedy instead, so that worked out well.  The second at a party, the result of which was that I snogged his best friend.  And the third at a restaurant not unlike this, where the staff were incredibly sympathetic and I was given three free drinks and the waiter's phone number.  I’d be fine.  Beth’s a different saucepan of molluscs.

Yes, I made that up.  It makes every bit as much sense as kettle of fish.  If not more.

Oh my God, I think that’s him.  Looks like Adam Sandler, dresses like Ricky Martin and is headed our way.  There’s a camera case over his shoulder.

'Hello,' he says, reaching our table.  He’s looking right at me. 'You must be Beth.'

Some sixth sense tells me this is not going to go as well as I'd hoped.

'No, I’m Mel,' I say, not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 'This is Will and this is Beth.'

Beth comes out from behind the drinks list like a mouse out of its nest.

'Hello,' she says bravely, holding out her hand. 'It’s nice to meet you.'

He low-fives her.  No, I’m not kidding.  I wish I were.

'Pleased to meet you, Beth,' he says, plonking himself down in his seat. 'And you two as well, of course.  Now, why don’t we make a start on the alcohol poisoning while we chat?'

My mother always taught me to reserve judgement.  I was never very good at it.  First impressions stick and my first impression of this guy is that we may as well buy a new date, because this one’s a write off.

Nevertheless, we order drinks.

'So,' Little Ricky says, beaming round the table. 'What do you guys do for a living?'

'Well,' Will says, when it’s clear that Beth and I are finding it difficult to answer. 'I’m an accountant, Mel is in insurance and Beth works in the children’s library in town.'

'Right, right,' Little Ricky says, nodding like the bones in his neck have been replaced by Slinkies. 'I remember that from your advert.  Not much of a life, is it?  Cleaning up after a load of grubby youngsters with ADHD.'

I don’t think Beth’s brain can actually process that.

'I like children very much,' she says, once it’s thrown out his comment, 'and I love books.  I enjoy helping them find books they’d like to read.'

'Um, yeah,' Little Ricky says, still nodding enough to make me wish I had some travel sickness pills in my purse. 'Can’t make a lot of money though.'

'Not a great deal,' Beth replies, remarkably composed. 'It’s more of a vocation.'

A pause.

'What do you do?' Will asks.  His right eyebrow appears to be being held up by invisible thread and, knowing him as I do, I have a shrewd suspicion that he’s trying not to laugh.

'I’m a photographer,' Little Ricky says, dumping his camera case on the table. 'Just stopped off to take some new snaps on the way here actually.  The way the light was hitting the road was perfectly beautiful.'

I don’t dare look at Beth.

'Road?' I ask.  What kind of photographer takes pictures of roads?

Do I want to know the answer to that?

'Here,' Little Ricky says, getting his camera out of the case and passing it across the table to me. 'You can flick through the photos I’ve taken.'

I’m sure I could, if I actually had a clue how it worked.

Will leans over. 'Press that button,' he says, pointing to it.

So, I do.  Needless to say, I regret it.

'They’re…graphic,' I say, as I pass it back to him.  Little Ricky hands it to Beth.  She looks too and her skin takes on a distinctly green tinge, rather like she’s been smeared in pistachio
ice cream.  She then hands it to Will.  He looks at two photos, looks at Little Ricky and says, 'You take photos of road kill?'

'It’s art,' Little Ricky informs us.

Will blinks. 'If you say so,' he says. 'Do these…sell well?'

'Art always finds a market,' Little Ricky says sagely. 'One day I will be known throughout the world and revered as a God in the world of multimedia.  It is my dream.  A dream that will eventually become a reality.'

All three of us stare at him.  Then we stare some more.  Fortunately, he appears to regard this as his first step to become the Road-Kill King.

'I know,' he nods, as if he’s just imparted some fundamental truth to us, his chosen few. 'Quite something, aren't they?'

Beth’s eyes meet mine and I realise a fundamental truth of my own.  I’m on laundry duty forever.

**

'Overall,' Will says, when we’ve managed to escape, 'that was an experience I could’ve done without.'

Little Ricky has gone to take night-time shots.  The full moon illuminates
dead animals nicely apparently.

'I don’t know,' I say, trying to sound upbeat. 'His Ace Ventura impression was really rather good.'

Will’s eyes meet mine. 'Yes, it was,' he agrees. 'The first time.'

'Fine,' I admit, 'i
t was a disaster.  Are you okay, Beth?'

Beth is walking beside us back to the car, looking like there should be cartoon bluebirds flying around her head.

'It was most…educational,' she says weakly.

'In short, Mel,' Will says, searching through his jacket pockets for his
car keys. 'I don’t think matchmaking is your true calling in life.'

'I’m sure the next one will be better,' I say defensively.

'Next one!' Will exclaims.

'Of course, next one,' I reply. 'You can’t just give up after one bad date.  If I’d done that, I’d still be a virgin.'

Will sighs. 'Mel, I say this because I love you.  Give up.  Your little lamb for the slaughter is already traumatised and you want to put her through this again?'

'We don’t have to decide now,' I say calmly. 'We’ll discuss it in the morning.'

Will sighs as he opens the car door to let Beth in. 'Will I ever persuade you to take my advice?' he says.

'Only when you start taking mine,' I say, sliding into the passenger seat. 'Come on, there’s a post-date tub of Ben and Jerry’s waiting at home.'

'One day,' Will says ominously, as he settles himself into the driver’s seat, 'this could go very, very wrong for you.'

'Don’t be such a pessimist,' I say, fastening my seatbelt. 'Everything will be just fine.'

'You will never believe this,' Cynthia says, speed-walking back to her desk in a pencil skirt and a Wonderbra that makes it seem as if gravity is just something that happens to other people. 'You are going to be so completely jealous you’ll just curl up in the corner and die!'

Is this a good thing?

I abandon the claim I'm inputting and lean forward, happily forgetting about Mrs. M.M.Watson and the pin scratch she found on her Louis Vuitton bag. 'What happened?' I ask.

'Okay,' Cynthia says, settling herself back into her chair and crossing her legs like she’s practising to appear in
Basic Instinct 2
. 'You know the sex-on-legs guy who works upstairs?'

I gasp. 'The one who looks like Han Solo?'

'Who?'

'A young Harrison Ford.'

Cynthia grins like a tabloid journalist with an exclusive about Brad Pitt’s secret love affair with the entire Swedish volleyball team. 'Then yes, I mean the one who looks like Han Solo,' she says. 'Guess who has a date with him on Friday?'

I stare at her. 'You do?  I thought he had a girlfriend.'

One who looks like the TK Maxx Victoria Beckham, no less.

'Oh, he does,' Cynthia says breezily.

I pause. 'Isn’t that, in a way, something of an impediment?'

Cynthia looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Klingon and she’
s lost her universal translator. 'Why?  She’s shop-lifting designer gear in Monaco for another two weeks, she’ll never know.'

'Doesn’t it bother you?' I ask curiously.

I did once date a guy with a girlfriend, but only because he conveniently forgot to mention to me that she existed.  I've been on the other side.

'It’s just a casual dinner,' Cynthia says lightly, idly examining her sapphire-blue nails.  We’re just going to…' she giggles, '…do a little dance, make a little love and get down on Friday night.  No harm done.'

'What about Underwear Guy?' I ask.

Cynthia showed me a picture of him.  Ten minutes later I looked up, remembered I was at work and seriously
considered going to the stationery cupboard on my own.

Cynthia looks at me in surprise. 'Oh, we’re still seeing each other,' she says.  She winks at me. 'He has a lot to recommend him, if you know what I mean.'

Honey, the filing cabinets know what you mean.

'A little quiet though,' Cynthia says pensively, like we’re discussing a potential pet. 'I like a man with a little more of a dark side.  I’ll hold onto him though, for now.' She gives a distinctly dirty chuckle. 'Until I wear him out.'

Just like Dr. Frankenstein, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about what I’ve created.

'What about you and Matt?' Cynthia says, still ignoring her work and popping Maltesers into her mouth. 'What’s going on there?'

Good question.  To which there is only one possible answer.

'Not a lot,' I say listlessly.

'Why?' Cynthia says, leaning forward on her desk. 'What’s the problem?'

The problem, as far as I can make out, is that Matt can’t articulate the sentence ‘Will you go out with me?'
.  To which I have every intention of saying yes.  We bump into each other, we chat, we flirt a little and I feel certain that he’s going to ask me out.  And then, every time, he’ll suddenly cool off for absolutely no reason.  I can’t understand it.  What on Earth could I be talking about often enough for it to be responsible for this?

'Nothing,' I say, tracing letters on my keyboard with my finger. 'We just never seem to get around to making a date.'

'Why don’t you just ask him out?'

Another good question.  To which I have no answer.

'I don’t know,' I say. 'It just never seems like the right moment.'

Which is an excuse I’ve never heard myself use before.  I once asked a guy out when he was halfway through getting his braces tightened.

Cynthia nods slowly. 'You could just e-mail him,' she suggests.

I could.  And I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. 

'I’ll probably do that,' I agree.

Just not right this min
ute.  When I'm in a more asking-out kind of mood.

Cynthia glances at the stack of new claims on her desk as if she’s vaguely considering doing some work.  Then she rejects the idea and turns back to me.  Her gaze sweeps over my desk, searching for something to comment on.

'What’s that?' she asks, nodding to the letter I’ve propped up in front of my computer.

I pretend not to know what she’s referring to. 'What?' I ask, eyes on my screen.

'That envelope right in front of you.'

I look down at it.

'It’s a response to one of my applications,' I say, nerves beginning to gnaw at my insides like hungry rats. 'The only one I’ve had.'

'What’s it say?'

'I haven’t read it,' I say, feeling my body tense up. 'I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind to face rejection yet.'

'Might as well find out the worst,' Cynthia says, encouragingly.

Now I feel very supported.

Okay, the truth is that I don’t want to open this letter.  While it’s there, looking all official, I can pretend to myself that it might just be an interview.  The moment I read ‘Dear Ms Parker, although we have cruelly raised your hopes by sending an official rejection instead of ignoring your letter like every other firm in the county, we will not have need of your services unless the five billion more qualified candidates in the world all die in mysterious circumstances.  Yours etc’ I will just be the serial reject once again.

But, since Cynthia is determined to avoid work by any means possible, it looks like my time is up.  I have to read it, otherwise I definitely won’t be getting any more boxes of Milk Tray.

I slice open the letter, silently praying that I’ll somehow forget how to read English, thus preserving hope a little longer.

Unfortunately, God appears to have reached his quota of miracles today.

I scan it.  Then I read it.  Then I read it again.