The Dr Pepper Prophecies (7 page)

'You don’t think she’s busy?' Will says.

'Maybe.  That’s what I need to ask,' I say.

I knock on her door. 'Beth?' I call.

No answer.

I push the door open a little and poke my head in.

Beth’s sitting at her desk, frowning over what looks like a letter she’s writing.  Her table light is on and she’s wearing her reading glasses.

'Beth?' I say again.

She jumps and immediately turns the paper over. 'Hi,' she says quickly.

'Are you busy?' I ask.

'No.  I was just…nothing.  Is something wrong?'

'Will and I were just talking about having another picnic,' I say, pushing the door open a little more.

'When were you thinking of having it?'

I think for a moment.  I have to go to my parents’ house on Saturday.  I’ll need something to cheer me up.

'How about Sunday?' I ask.

'That’s fine,' Beth says, nodding.  She’s got her elbow on the letter now.  Hmm, I wonder what she’s writing.

'Great,' I say.

We look at each other for a few seconds.

'Anything else?' Beth asks.

She’s trying to get rid of me.

'No, nothing,' I say. 'I’ll let you get back to…whatever you were doing.'

I duck out of the room again and shut the door.

'We’re on?' Will asks.

'We’re on,' I say.

'Great,' Will says. 'Now, back to your CV.'

**

Wednesday morning and the phone rings.  I glance at the display and come very close to not answering.  It’s Brittany, my sister.  My family’s answer to Nigella Lawson.

I close my eyes, pick up the phone and lift it slowly to my ear.  My other hand hovers over the hang-up button

'Good morning, Brittany,' I say, already bracing myself for the inevitable.

'Hello, Melanie,' comes the familiar syrupy voice.

'I take it you’re calling about Saturday?' I ask.

'Now, Melanie,' Brittany says, in the patronising tone that makes me want to stab her via telekinesis, 'what else would I be calling about?'

My nails are making dents in the desktop as I try not to throw something.

'Have the plans changed?' I ask, in the politest tone I can manage.

'I just wanted to confirm Martin’s preferences with you.  We can’t have one of our guests unhappy, can we?' A silly little laugh.

She knows, doesn’t she?  Her flying monkeys have been watching my house night and day, waiting to inform the Wicked West of the South-East that Dorothy has been dumped yet again and is ripe for attacking.

'Actually,' I say slowly, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible, 'Martin and I are no longer seeing each other.'

A slight pause.  Delight has overwhelmed her.

'Oh, that’s too bad,' she croons, with the sincerity of a Disney villain. 'How long was it this time?

'Three months,' I state flatly.

'That is a pity,' she says.  Even down the phone I can see her shaking her head sorrowfully and giving me her faux-sympathetic smile. 'But then, you have had plenty of experience in dealing with this.'

Rub it in, why doesn’t she?  Just because she got married practically as soon as she was out of nappies.  To a doctor.  To a rich, handsome doctor.

'Actually,' I say,
'
I
broke it off.'

So what if it’s not true?  It’s not like they know each other.  I have to at least attempt to retain some dignity.

There’s a tut-tut noise down the line.

'Melanie,' Brittany says sadly, as if I’m beyond help. 'What are we going to do with you?  Don’t you want to get married?'

Of course I want to get married! I want to be the centre of attention in my family for one day.  I want a cake with more calories than I can count.  I want to wear a dress that costs more than I earn in a year.  And most of all, I want you to stop asking me that question!

And I want to make a lasting commitment to another person as well, obviously.

'Maybe I don’t,' I say. 'Maybe I want to devote my life to my career.'

'And how is your career?' she asks.  When she says it, career is in quotes.

'Just now, my career manager and I are strategizing to obtain promotion,' I say.  God, that sounds good.

'And how
is
Will?' she asks sweetly, as if she’s delighted to hear from the guy she once said ‘Would never be terribly successful, but a good safety net for you, Melanie dear.’.

'He’s fine,' I say shortly.

'Isn’t it wonderful about him and Natalie?'

'What about him and Natalie?'

'Oh!' That little laugh again. 'I hear on the grapevine…'

By grapevine, she means Will’s parents, who don’t live next door anymore, but still
keep in touch.

'…that they’ll soon be announcing their engagement.'

What?!  I nearly drop the phone.  No!  No!  This cannot be happening!

Stop.  Calm down.  There’s no way Will wouldn’t have told me if he was going to propose.

Although he does know that I don’t like her.

And that I’d definitely try to talk him out of it.

Oh, God, no.

I have to phone him.

Which means I have to get rid of Brittany.

'I have another call waiting,' I say automatically. 'I have to go.'

'Who is it?' She just had to ask, didn’t she?

'Some guy.  You don’t know him.  He…works at the local paper.' Inspiration! 'I’m putting in a lonely hearts advert.  You know,
‘social leper with mother issues seeks similar’.  I’m considering writing a book on how not to find the man of your dreams.  Must go.  Bye.'

I cut her off.  I’ve never done that before.  It’s strangely liberating.

No time to appreciate it though.  Have to call Will.

I hit speed-dial.  It’s a great invention.

'Knightley.'

'Will?'

'This isn’t the greatest time, Mel.'

Oh no.  She’s there.  He’s doing it now.

Now I’ve lost it.  Who proposes in an office, for goodness sake?

'I just have one really quick question.'

'Okay?'

'Are you planning to propose to Natalie?'

Silence.  Then Will mutters something.  I can’t make it out properly, but it sounds like ‘Not you too.’.

'Who told you that?' he asks.

'Brittany,' I say.

'No doubt she heard it from my mother,' Will says.  He sounds irritated.

'Yes.'

Will sighs. 'Mel, my parents are just trying to dictate my life.  No need to panic.'

'I wasn’t panicking,' I say quickly. 'I just wanted to stay up to date with the situation.'

I can hear Will smiling.

'If it changes, you’ll be the first to know,' he says. 'After her, obviously.  Is that okay?  Because I’m swamped with work today.'

'That’s okay.  See you later.'

'Bye.'

I hang up.  Then I breathe a sigh of relief.  He’s safe.

Although, after her?  Is it incredibly selfish and unreasonable of me to want to be first?

Yes, it is.

Is being selfish and unreasonable such a bad thing?

'Melanie?' An only vaguely familiar voice breaks into my somewhat incoherent thought patterns.  I snap back to reality and look around.  There’s no one there.

'Melanie?'

The world goes cold.  It’s finally happened.  I’ve gone mad.

'Melanie?'

Oh no, I haven’t.  It’s Cynthia.

Hold on a minute, Cynthia never talks to me.

'What?' I ask.  What’s happened?  Has the building caught fire or something?

'I was wondering,' Cynthia says quietly.  Even her voice is beige-coloured, 'how you would feel about taking time off work tomorrow?'             

Strangely enough, I feel pretty good about it.

'For what?' I say, my attention now firmly caught.

'I’m afraid my mother passed away at the weekend,' she says, eyes down. 'The funeral is tomorrow and I was wondering if you would come with me?'

I don’t know what to say.  Random thoughts are floating in my brain.  Cynthia has a mother?  Cynthia’s mother died and she still came to work?  Cynthia’s asking me to be her support when we’ve barely exchanged two words in all the time I’ve been here?

Cynthia’s getting me out of half a day’s work?

'Okay,' I say, that last thought at the top of the pile. 'Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.'

I can’t believe she’s so calm.  If it was my mum…

I suddenly feel a little better about Saturday.

**

I almost regret agreeing to go when I realise that it means going to ask Martin for permission.  Time off versus avoid Martin.  It’s a very hard one to call.

I trail up to Martin’s office anyway.  I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t worn my knee-high boots.  I’ll probably have to sit – or, worse still, stand - through an hour-long lecture on the importance of practical footwear before I can even ask.
             

Outside the door I take a deep breath, steel myself and knock.

'Enter.'

I go in.  Then I stop and stare.  It’s straight out of
The Brittas Empire
.  I used to love that show.  He’s even got one of those name bars that are shaped like Toblerones. 'Martin Marcus Murchison: Manager’ it says.

It’s moments like this that make you really appreciate being dumped.

'Ah, Melanie,' he says, leaning forward and resting his clasped hands on the desk. 'What can I do you for?'

I mustn't laugh.  I must not laugh.

I force myself to look up and focus on the wall behind him. 'I just came to put in a request to have tomorrow afternoon off,' I say.

He frowns. 'For what purpose?' he asks.

'Cynthia’s mother’s funeral,' I say.

He looks taken aback.  I try to look as if everyone knows about it except him. 

'Were you close to her?' he asks.

Because I would actually say no.

'Cynthia asked me to go with her actually,' I say, trying to imply that we’re bosom buddies without actually lying outright. 'For support, you know.'

I cross my fingers behind my back.

'I suppose that is an acceptable reason,' he says, with effort.

I wonder anew how I could have dated a guy who seems to think my happiness must be prevented like a third world war.

I open my mouth to thank him and scarper.

'However,' he says, frowning more.  The lines on his forehead now resemble trenches. 'I don’t want you to think that this can happen with any regularity.'

I bite my lip to keep from saying that I’m fairly sure Cynthia’s mother won’t be dying again anytime soon.

'In this office,' he says, like I haven’t been here eighteen months longer than he has. 'We pride ourselves on commitment.  It is of grave importance that you attend everyday and work to your highest potential.'

He now appears to be impersonating Professor McGonagall.  He looks more like Dobby the house elf after having been concussed by a bludger.

I nod.  I can’t manage speech.

'And frankly,' he continues, 'I’m a little concerned that your attitude doesn’t meet our high standards.'

Oh please, half our office called in sick last FA Cup finals day and there is not one person in the entire place whose grandmother hasn’t
died at least once since they started working here.

I adopt what I hope is a meek expression.  It’s demeaning, but it might get me out of a lecture.

Hey, what do you know?  I
did
learn something at school.

'And if it doesn’t improve, drastic measures may have to be taken.'

Yada, yada, yada.  Can I go yet?

'You may go.'

Hallelujah!

I hurry out before he can change his mind, trot downstairs and bump into something hard at the bottom.

Oooo, it’s Matt.

And, as they say, a hard man is good to find.

'Hi,' I say, extracting myself from him.  More or less anyway.  I’m still the tiniest bit closer than is absolutely necessary.

'Hi,' he says, smiling down at me.  This is the great advantage of being short.

'Have you been summoned?' I say, smiling back.

Matt glances up the stairs. 'I think he’s seeing most people.  Easier to pick us off one by one.'

I pull a face. 'I can save you the trouble of going up there.  He’s going to talk about your attitude and how important it is that you bypass your personality and become a poorly-paid version of him.'