The Dr Pepper Prophecies (19 page)

Beth picks up a towel and folds it neatly before adding it to her suitcase.

'I’m sure he will,' she says composedly. 'At most it’ll take a couple of days of reflection, so you can deal with this, and then you’ll get past it.'

'I don’t want to deal with this,' I say, throwing up my hands. 'I want to forget this.  I want the memory buried so deep that anyone attempting to retrieve it would be burned alive by the
Earth’s molten core.' I slump down on the bed, very nearly crushing Beth’s alarm clock. 'I wish this had never happened.'

Why did I have to go to see Will right then?  If I'd only gone a little later.  I should have had another chocolate sundae.  I was tempted, but no – I decided to be good.

Note to self: healthy eating is bad for mental health.

Beth rescues her alarm clock and sits down beside me, putting a comforting arm around me and squeezing my shoulder. 'I know you’ve had a terrible day,' she says sympathetically, 'but they happen.  You should try not to take it personally.'

'How can I not take it personally?' I say morosely. 'Everything I touch falls apart.  I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop.  I can’t do anything right.'

'Of course you can,' Beth says. 

'How can you say that?' I ask, turning dejected eyes to her. 'Look at what I did to you.  I fixed you up with the winner and runner up of ‘Man most likely to destroy our belief in a benevolent God’.'

Beth’s trying not to smile, which is interfering with my wallowing in self-pity.  I've had a lousy day, I don't think a brief wallow is too much to ask for.

'I’m sure there’s much worse out there, if you look for them,' she says. 'It was just bad luck.  It’s quite possible that there are nice men who answer personal advertisements, we just didn’t meet any.  Maybe we would if we tried again.'

'I thought you said you wouldn’t go on an
ymore blind dates, ever?' I say.

Beth smiles kindly. 'Perhaps I could try it once more,' she offers. 'As you said, third time lucky.  Maybe that will convince you that you’re not cursed.'

I perk up a little. 'Great,' I say. 'I’ll…fix one up.  When’s a good day?'

'Wednesday would be fine.'

I sit up straight, new purpose in my life.  Beth's right, it was just bad luck.  This time, it’ll go perfectly.  Anyway, it'll be something to help me keep my mind off Will.

'And now,' Beth says, letting me go, 'I have to finish packing.  My train will be long gone by the time I finish otherwise.'

'Have a nice weekend at your mother’s,' I say.

Which is where she told me she was going.  However, about three hours later, her mother called.  Just for a chat.

Which makes me wonder where she’s really gone.

Just healthy,
friendly concern, that’s all.

Honest.

'Are you still seeing Han Solo?' I ask, in a half-hearted attempt to contribute to the conversation I’m having in person at the same time as the one I’m having via computer.

'No,' Cynthia says airily, inspecting the nails that are fuchsia today to match her outfit.  It’s not so much clashing with her hair as trying to exterminate it. 'One date was enough.  I can’t imagine why his other half has put up with him for so long.  He’s all talk.  Parental issues, I should think.'

Less a case of the pot calling the kettle black than Hitler describing Mussolini as a fascist dictator.

I turn my attention back to the computer screen and Susan.

Traumatised!!! says:

‘That’s fantastic!!!’

NY Alien says:

‘I know.  He bought ‘NY by night’ and ‘Liberty X’, only I can’t call it that now because of the pop group.’

One day, someone will start patenting first names.  You won’t be able to just pick a name you like anymore, you’ll have to have one computer generated.  Totally at random.  Jqzkwrk – quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Traumatised!!! says:

‘So, how does it feel to be living the American Dream?'

NY Alien says:

‘This isn’t the American Dream.  That’s a seven-figure salary and a sofa too valuable to sit on.  With optional movie deal and affair with A-list celebrity.  This is…well, something else.’

Traumatised!!! says:

‘In a good way, right?’

NY Alien says:

‘Course.  Painting full-time, it’s what I always wished for.’

'Hey, Mel!' Cynthia says, turning
Cosmopolitan
sideways like she’s looking at a centrefold. ‘Take the Cosmo quiz.  Is your love life hot enough?'

I turn back to her and look her straight in the eye. 'Cynthia,' I say humourlessly, 'I do not have a love life, hot or otherwise.  And I don’t want to take a Cosmo quiz, because their sole effect on me is to convince me that I’m abnormal, because I agree with none of the above.'

Cynthia tosses the magazine onto my desk.

'Take the erotic fiction section to the toilet,' she advises. 'It’ll improve your mood.'

I can’t believe she just said that.

'I can manage,' I say.

Cynthia shrugs. 'Works for me,' she says casually.

On balance, it would have been nicer not to have that image planted in my mind.

Cynthia picks up the magazine again and flicks through it, a thoughtful expression on her face. 'You know,' she says, tapping a finger against her lips, 'I bet I could write something like this.  Maybe I could even get into erotic novels.' She gives a lewd grin. 'After I’ve done a bit more research, that is.'

This conversation is throwing up images from Friday’s accidental voyeuristic experience.  Like the ones I had all weekend.  The long, lonely weekend when Beth was away on some secret mission and I stayed out as long as possible in case Will came round.  The long, lonely weekend that culminated in two entire Vienettas inexplicably vanishing from the freezer.

I look at Cynthia.  Her make-up isn't hiding the dark circles under her eyes.  It looks like she’s applied eye-shadow to the wrong bit of them.  I’d love to know her hangover cure though.  Not that I’m much of a heavy drinker, but every now and again…

Like I would have been last night.  Except that the nearest off-license was closed and I was too depressed to go in search of alcohol.  Which is less serious than it sounds.  You’d only need to worry if I was too depressed to go in search of chocolate.

'With Underwear Guy?' I ask listlessly. 'Or has madam seen something else she prefers?'

Cynthia laughs like one of those irr
itating door chimes you get in new age shops. 'Oh, he’s still around,' she says coyly. 'But there are plenty more fish in the sea and I’ve only just discovered the joy of fishing.  Sweet though, I still mean to keep hold of him.  But look!' she digs into her bag and comes up with a little red and black notebook with a cartoon devil on the front, 'I have a little black book!'

The only thing I could do with a list of the names and phone numbers of my previous boyfriends is set up a loser
website, so others would know who to avoid.  Type in your new love’s name and get a profile compiled by his exes.  Picture, description, skill in bed, bad habits.  Phrase book – what he says and what he actually means.  Plus the vital statistics that actually count.  It would get more hits than a Las Vegas blackjack table.

Of course it might also spell the end for the human race.

Which is, in its way, a slight drawback.

'Wonderful,' I say, bemused. 'But is it really worth it?  It’s only been two weeks.  How many guys could you pick up in two weeks?'

Cynthia winks. 'It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you really set your mind to something,' she says.

Great, everyone's getting it except me. 

I go back to the computer.

Traumatised!!! says:

‘Susan, how about we talk when I’m home?  The serial dater requires my attention.’

NY Alien says:

‘Something always does.  Talk later xx.’

I shut down M
essenger just in time.

'It is now 11a.m.,' Martin says, brandishing his clipboard and pen like they’re a sword and shield. 'Have either of you accomplished anything at all this morning?'

Short answer: no.

Except I can’t really say that, can I?

We both stare at him silently, waiting for him to answer his own question.

'You’ve done nothing!' he says.

There you go.

He fixes us with what I think is supposed to be an intimidating glare.  He can't pull it off.  He just doesn't have an intimidating face.

'You have a choice,' he says, gesturing with his pen. 'Start doing the jobs you are paid to do, quit, or be fired.  Pick one, and quickly.'

And then he marches out again.

Cynthia and I exchange glances. 'Would it really be so bad to be sacked?' Cynthia poses.

I shrug.

'Frankly,' I say, 'we might even make more on the dole.'

**
 

'Afternoon,' Matt says to me lightly, as he comes into the staff room.

I pause, a can of cola halfway to my mouth.  Then I take a swig and put it down again. 'Afternoon,' I say back.

What with one thing and another, Matt and I have barely seen each other over the last week.  We’ve been doing the smiling thing.  You know, when you exchange smiles every time you see each other, but don’t actually talk.

'I dropped by your desk on Friday,' Matt says, going to the fridge and removing something in a paper bag. 'But Cynthia said you were off sick.' He smiles. 'Actually, she said you were off sick, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.  How did your interview go?'

I take another mouthful of
cola to fortify myself against the memory.  I wish I hadn’t bought diet.  Once again, healthy eating backfires.

'Don’t ask,' I say, shaking my head. 'It’s enough to say that ants will have taken over before I get that job.'

Matt gives me a level two sympathetic smile.  The kind reserved for not-quite-friends.

'Listen,' I say, on the spur of the moment. 'Beth and I are going on a third blind date on Wednesday.  Would you like to come?  If you’re not doing anything, that is.'

Matt avoids answering with a bite of ham sandwich.

'You’re…not going with Will?' he asks, when he’s finished.

'He’s already sat through two that didn’t go so well,' I say, shifting my weight a little. 'Plus…things are a little awkward right now.'

I can tell Matt really wants to know why, but doesn’t feel that he can ask.

'I went by his office after the infernal interview and walked in on him and Natalie having sex,' I say, matter-of-factly.

Matt’s eyes widen just a little.

'Which threw me a bit,' I add, tossing back more cola like it’s vodka.  I wish it was.  Or maybe liquid Cadbury's. 'I mean, your best friend having sex usually isn’t something you want to think about, let alone see.  Particularly when you’ve known that friend since his greatest ambition in life was to replace Scott Tracy as the pilot of Thunderbird 1.'

Matt takes another bite of his sandwich and chews thoughtfully.

'So, we haven’t actually talked since then,' I finish. 'And, since he won’t want to come anyway, I thought…well, it was an idea.'

'I’d love to come,' Matt says, as soon as his mouth is empty.

'Great,' I say.

So, Matt and I are going on a date.

Which is a good thing.

So why aren’t I feeling better?

Must be the diet cola.

**
 

The doorbell rings and I don’t have to answer it to know who it is.  I just have a sixth sense about these things.  Plus it’s now Monday evening and three days is our standard cooling off period for major upsets.  Although it’s usually me coming to find Will.

I open the door.  Will is wearing my favourite cream shirt and an embarrassed smile.  A part of me actually wants to laugh, but another part has the bizarre urge to cry.

'Hi,' Will says awkwardly.

'You stole my opening line,' I say, holding onto the door.

God, this is
weird.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this uncomfortable around Will before.

Will doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.  He puts them in his pockets and takes them out again, then tries holding them behind his back.  That’s a sure sign that he’s nervous.

'Just so you know,' he says, looking at his battered Nikes, 'that’s not what I usually do at work.'

He blushes bright pink.  It’s like sunset-on-face.

'It was a one-off.  She turned up, we had a disagreement and then we…' He coughs. '…we made up.  She had this fantasy…anyway.'

I can’t think of anything to say.  Quick, find something.