The Dr Pepper Prophecies (18 page)

Did I have a blackout?  Was my mind taken over by aliens?  How, in God’s name, could I have managed this?

Interviewer Guy’s eyes slowly travel up my bare legs, past my suit, up to my face.  I give an embarrassed smile. 'I’ve…had sort of a bad day,' I say, in a small voice. 

He looks at me. 'It’s not over yet,' his expression says. 

I know.  Believe me, I know.

'Come and sit down,' he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his.  His whole manner screams ‘Don’t get comfortable’.

I sit obediently.  Actually, I’ve started to feel pretty good.  I’ve quietly accepted that I won’t get this job, so this can just be practise.  In case I actually get another interview ever.

'I assume your manager doesn’t object to you missing work,' Interviewer Guy says, running a finger down my CV.

'I called in sick,' I say automatically.

Ooops.  Number three on Will’s list of things not to say.

'I see,' he says slowly. 'There were a few things I wanted to clear up about your CV, as a starting point.'

'Fire away,' I say.

That probably wasn’t quite what I should have said either.  He gives me another look over the top of the paper.

'Indeed,' he says. 'Your CV.  You don’t appear to have listed your degree class?'

If it wasn’t hopeless before, it is now.

'I got a third,' I say honestly. 'I picked the wrong subject.  But I did get through all three years, so that must count for something.'

He grunts.  He doesn’t sound convinced.

'I did well at A-level,' I offer.

I was rather proud of my grades actually.  Even Dad pronounced them 'quite respectable'.  Although he did rather ruin the effect by bemoaning the lack of courses in husband-catching, which apparently was what I needed.

'Indeed you did,' he says, tapping his finger against my results. 'Which leads me to conclude that you are capable of a high level of achievement
...'

I smile.  Finally something positive.

'…but you require constant help and supervision to reach it.'

Okay, I was wrong.

'I need people who can work to the high standards I set without being constantly supervised,' he continues, starting to sound horribly like my adviser at university. 'And, quite honestly, your record doesn’t encourage me to believe that of you.'

In other words, I’m not good enough for a job that pays in raisins and could be done by a lobotomised squirrel.

'Can you tell me anything that might convince me otherwise?'

Great technique.  Tell an already emotionally vulnerable person with a small but persistent inferiority complex that they’re useless and ask them to defend themselves.  What chance have I got?  Besides, he’s right, my record is crap from start to finish.  Martin will be my boss for the rest of my life.

'Nothing really springs to mind,' I say quietly.

He studies me for a few seconds.

'Well then,' he says, laying my CV aside. 'If that's the case, I suppose we’re done.  Good day, Ms Parker.'

'Good day,' a subdued person says back.

I need chocolate.

And, more imp
ortant even than that, I need Will.

The only slight hitch in that plan is that Will is, of course, at work.  Busy doing whatever it is that accountants do.  Which is why I’m in search of chocolate instead.

'What are you having, love?' the café woman says, smoothing down her apron which is covered in little embroidered rainbows.  Stupid rainbows.

I meet her eyes. 'Whatever has the largest amount of chocolate in it,' I say miserably.

She clucks sympathetically. 'Had a bad day, love?' she asks. 'Not much can of gone wrong yet, surely?'

'You’d think that,' I say dolefully. 'But more has gone wrong in the last hour and a half than in the last year.  And that’s including being dumped by my boyfriend cum boss.'

'One extra special chocolate explosion coming up,' she says comfortingly. 'Don’t worry, love, it can only get better.'

I dredge up a smile from my puddle of untapped acting talent and trudge over to a suitably good table for moping at.  In the corner, where no one will notice me.

Of course, it being 10:30a.m. on a Friday morning, business is not exactly booming.

I open one of the packets of sugar sitting in a bowl on the table and pour the contents straight into my mouth.  Adding it to a drink would lessen the effect of the medication.  It doesn’t work fast enough, so I have another.  Then I sit, slowly shredding my napkin, while I contemplate the broken mirror that is my life.

What have I done to deserve this?  I may not be winning employee of the year awards, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m not even worth the admin equivalent of a paper round.  I am a good person.  I deserve good luck.  Or, at least, break-even luck.

'Here you are, love.'

Rainbow Lady places a masterpiece of all that is chocolate on the tablecloth of shredded napkin I’ve created.  It makes death by chocolate cake look like it was made by Slimfast.  I have a new guardian angel, which is just as well since the Tooth Fairy disowned me.

'That is beautiful,' I say reverently, as I pick up my spoon and lovingly caress a mound of triple-choc ice-cream topped with chocolate sauce, sprinkles, flake pieces, dairy milk chunks and matchmaker sticks.  Anticipation of pure ecstasy.

I don’t think I realised, until this moment, quite how much I need to get laid.

Rainbow Lady laughs. 'Enjoy it.  Chocolate is God’s way of saying sorry to women for giving them men.'

I grin.  Obviously sexism against men is every bit as unacceptable as sexism against women.  It's funnier, though.

As of the first mouthful, God is forgiven.  This is unquestionably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

But, even though the sugar high is helping, I still don’t feel good.  Not even when I’ve finished the whole delicious concoction.

Which is when it occurs to me that I could conceivably go to see Will at his work.

If I buy some more tights.  And perhaps another pair of shoes.

Ten minutes wouldn’t hurt anyone.  And there must be some perks involved in having a private office.

And Will gets so bored at work that I’d practically be doing him a favour by coming to visit.

I mean hey, what’s the worst that could happen?

Note to self: stop saying that.

**
 

I’ve never actually been to Will’s work before.  All the way here I had this nice idea that I’d just walk in and see him.  Another illusion shattered.  This place is absolutely massive!

And fancy.  There’s gold everywhere and I’m pretty sure the receptionist didn’t buy her suit in Primark.

'Can I help you?' she asks, a Lady Bracknell in training.  I’m beginning to think that being a smug, superior bitch is in receptionists’ job descriptions.

Her eyes find my shoes before I find my voice.  In the end, I decided against buying new ones, for the simple reasons that one, Will won’t care and two, I can’t afford any that would actually impress people.

She looks back up to my face and raises one perfectly waxed eyebrow.

'It’s very fashionable,' I tell her, attempting to imply that everyone knows that but her.  I don’t think it worked.

'Right,' she says, with distinct Dr. Evil overtones. 'Who
m are you here to see?'

'William Knightley,' I say.

'Is he expecting you?'

If I
say no, two burly bodyguards with arms like clubs are going to appear from behind a pot plant and throw me out.  I just know it.

'Yes,' I say, not quite making eye contact. 'We arranged a meeting.  Very last minute though, you wouldn’t have any record of it.'

That perfectly waxed eyebrow now appears to be feeling the moon’s gravitational pull.  She picks up her phone. 'I’ll just phone Mr. Knightley and see if he’s available.'

I can’t think of Will as Mr. Knightley.  To me, Mr. Knightley means Jeremy Northam in
Emma
, parading around in tight trousers and talking in that delicious voice.  Will is a whole new tennis game.

She hangs up. 'His line is engaged at present.'

'He won’t mind me going up.  We have very important business,' I say, trying to role-play an accountant.  Maybe I should have bought a briefcase.

'He may still be in conference,' she says. 'He had another visitor not long ago, also on
important business
.'

At first I don’t understand the look she has in her eyes as she italicises those words.  Then it hits me – she thinks I’m a hooker, doesn’t she?  She thinks I’m going to go up there and…and…

What does she think we’re going to do?  Have a threesome – me, Will and this other girl?  If it is a girl.  Oh God, I wish I hadn’t thought that.

Does this sort of thing happen a lot here?  Is that the real perk of having your own office?

Oh my God, what if the other girl really is a hooker?  What if Will has this whole other life that I know nothing about?  An alter ego?  Like
Superman
: the porno version?  I could walk up there and…

What am I talking about?  This is Will.  Wonderful, honest, morally upstanding Will.  That was just the sugar overload talking.

'Thank you for alerting me,' I say, a little stiffly.

'Fifth floor, along the left hand wall, third down,' she says, looking knowingly at me. 'His name is on the door.  It’s Knightley with a K.'

I blink at her. 'I know,' I say.  Then, probably because of the sugar demon again, 'he spelt it when he called the massage parlour.'

Then I stroll off to the lifts, trying to walk as a hooker might.

One thing's for sure, she’s never going to look at Will the same way again.

**
 

Even the lift is fancy.  Mirrors that you can’t avoid seeing yourself in, weird red wallpaper that looks like carved velvet.  It even has a carpet.  I can’t believe Will actually works here.  I can’t believe they hired Will to work here.  Mr
. ‘a couch is just a couch’ himself.

The colour of the office just emphasises the colourlessness of the employees.  There aren’t that many, granted, but they all look like someone took their last Rolo.  I was right before, this is not a healthy place for Will to be.  This is not a healthy place for a cockroach to be.

I reach Will’s door and stare at the gold lettering on his frosted window.  Will’s name has been given to a hunk of wood with an unfriendly door handle.  The rewards of corporate culture.

I knock.  No answer.

Oh well, he’s probably stepped out for a few minutes.  The other girl must have left already.  I’ll just go inside and wait.

So I open the door and step in.

Have you ever seen a dead animal by the side of the road?  A rabbit perhaps.  Its guts are torn out, its eyes have been pecked out and flies are colonising its bloody remains. It’s horrible, it's disgusting and yet…you can’t seem to look away.

Picture that, only magnified by a lens the strength of 1000 proof vodka, and you will have some idea of what I am experiencing right now.

Will.  Natalie.  On his desk.  Very busy.

'Oh my God.'

I think that was my voice.  I choose to believe that was my voice.  And, given that they’ve both snapped their heads round to look at me, I think it was.

'Mel!' Will exclaims.

'You!' Natalie growls.

The trance is broken and I regain control over my limbs.

'I am just so incredibly sorry,' I say, backing out of the door.  I shut it on their frozen faces and scuttle out of there as fast as I can.

And I thought his animations were disturbing.  They were nothing compared to the reality.  The image of Will entwined with that snake will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Yes, I am sorry.  I’m sorry for me.

This is the worst moment of my entire life.

**

'I mean, I’m traumatised for life,' I say, pacing up and down, wearing a groove in Beth’s bedroom carpet. 'It’s like walking in on your parents having sex, only worse.  Like…'

I break off.  I can’t think of a comparison.

'Like walking in on one of your parents having sex with someone else?' Beth suggests in a weird voice.

'Worse even than that,' I say. 'It was just…I wanted to be blind.  I had a hard enough time dealing with the
idea
of them having sex, let alone having the reality right in front of me.  Audio and visual.  This is horrible, it’s unbearable, it’s…'

'None of your business?' Beth finishes.

'Exactly,' I say, looking dejectedly at her. 'That’s the worst bit.  And how am I going to look Will in the eye the next time I see him?  That’s assuming he isn’t traumatised too and still wants to see me.'