The Dr Pepper Prophecies (21 page)

They let us go, thank God.

We rush out before he can
return.  I almost collide with someone coming in.  Beth literally does.  She hurriedly pulls away, shoots him a smile and an apology and we carry on.

Except, I swear that I heard him call Beth’s name.

**
 

'Beth!'

Obviously I was right.

Beth stops, so Matt and I do too.  As one, we turn around.

Nice suit, I think, but well worn.  Public school boy accent even in that one word.  Friendly, open face.  Nice hair.

Beth doesn’t look as pleased to see him as I would be, though.

'Beth!' he says, reaching us. 'Beth Davidson, I haven’t seen you in years.  How are you?'

He immediately makes me smile.  He’s so…I have to say stereotypical.  He’s everything I thought ex-publics couldn’t really be.

'I’m well,' Beth says, shooting a glance back at the restaurant doors. 'You?'

'Can’t complain, can’t compl
ain.  What are you doing here?  Have you finished your dinner already?'

'Yes,' Bet
h says, already turning away, 'and we really need to be getting home.  It was very nice to see you again, Patrick.'

I can’t believe she’s just going to leave.  This is exactly the type of guy I was trying to find for her.

Well, maybe not exactly, but close enough.

'Actually, we never finished dinner,' I say, before Beth can escape. 'We ran out on the blind date from hell.'

I can’t tell whether he’s naturally friendly or is just quick to recognise a potential ally, but his face lights up like a lighthouse.

'I don’t think we’ve met,' he says, holding out his hand to me and Matt in turn. 'Patrick Carrington-Laine.  I knew Beth from school.'

'Mel Parker.'

'Matt March.'

He smiles broadly. 'Maybe you can convince Beth to let me take you all for some extra sustenance,' he says. 'I didn’t bring my car tonight, but I know a lovely place a few minutes down the road.'

'Great,' I say.

I admit I'm not acting only in Beth's interests.  Kevin aside, I didn’t really like my dinner and I'm hungry.

Beside me, Beth seems to stiffen slightly.  I don’t know why she’s nervous.  This guy is like a much-loved teddy bear.

'Beth?  Matt?' Patrick asks, looking from one to the other.

'Fine by me,' Matt says. 'I’m still hungry.'

Beth nods, just the tiniest bit reluctantly.

'Wonderful!' Patrick says. 'Let’s go!'

**
 

'What was Beth like at school?' I ask curiously, as we settle down to the feast of Italian pasta we’ve been presented with.

'Wonderfully fun,' Patrick says enthusiastically. 'Bit of a rebel, like the whole crowd.'

I stare at him and
then at Beth, who avoids my gaze.  Beth was a rebel?  How does a schoolgirl rebel become a librarian?  He’s got to be thinking of someone else.

'Beth?' I say. 'You can’t be serious.'

Patrick laughs. 'We had a great time, back in the old days.  We were all devastated when you left, old girl.'

Beth gives rather a weak smile. 'I needed a change of scenery,' she says. 'It just got a bit much, I didn’t want to board anymore.'

'And now you spend your life surrounded by books.' Patrick shakes his head in mock sadness. 'Terrible waste.  I’ll have to bring you to one of our parties, get you back in with the fast set.'

Beth’s gone pale.  What on Earth is she afraid of?

'I don’t have that much free time,' she says.

Beth volunteers to do other people’s work.  Need I say more?

'Sure you do,' I say.  Then, to Patrick, 'She’s just shy.'

'Goodness,' Patrick says, 's
he
has
changed.'

He produces a minute notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and scribbles on it.

'Here’s my number,' he says, handing a tiny page to Beth. 'Don’t be upset if the bloody thing cuts out on you.  Endless trouble it’s giving me.'

Beth takes it and
stuffs it into her handbag without even glancing at it. 'Thank you,' she says.  Politely, but not encouragingly. 

She’s so not going to call.

'Are you still in touch with any of the old crowd?' Patrick asks Beth.

'No,' she says. 'Not really.  We…grew apart.'

Patrick considers this. 'Well…truth be told I don’t see a lot of them either these days.  Still get together with Harry and Colin from time to time though.'

Beth doesn’t even say ‘Oh yes?’. She is just making no effort at all to keep the conversation going.

'So, Patrick,' Matt says from beside me. 'What exactly do you do?'

'Family business,' Patrick says, pouring himself more white wine. 'Art collections, terribly dull.  Gives me a chan
ce to get around, though.  Just came back from Italy last week.'

'I’ve never been to Italy,' I say. 'Is it nice?'

'Pleasant enough, pleasant enough.  If you know where to go.  Not the same as it was though.  Too many bloody tourists.'

'Aren’t you a tourist when you go?' Matt asks mildly.  I have a slight suspicion that he doesn’t like Patrick.

'Maybe, maybe,' Patrick says, not looking in the least offended. 'But we have a charming little villa a quick stroll from Rome, so I like to think of myself as a native.  Not that I’d want to live there permanently, that is.  Food’s good, but half the people don’t speak English.'

Hmm, I think.  Handsome, friendly and, by the sound of it, loaded.  Now this is what Beth needs.

Matt is now looking vaguely amused, but in a dangerous way.

'That might be because they’re Italian,' he says.

'Yes, but everyone speaks English now.  Most used language in the world.'

'Actually, that’s
Mandarin Chinese,' Beth says quietly.

Patrick pulls a face. 'Can’t believe that, who’d want to speak Mandarin Chinese?  Ridiculously complicated.  English is the only one that makes sense to have as an international language.'

'How is your sister?' Beth asks suddenly, years of practise in preventing fights between little boys coming in handy.

'Celia is very well,' Patrick says, with an air that suggests that the whole last part of the conversation has been wiped from his mind by the introduction of a new topic. 'Married now, to a delightful old fellow with an estate on the Somerset border.  And a couple of little horrors to go with it.'

Horrors?  Like a poltergeist in the cellar?

'Horrors?' I ask.  It’s going to bug me all night otherwise.

'Dear little Jemima and Jeremy – named after Beatrix Potter characters, would you believe it?'

Ah, children.  Obviously.

'How old are they?' I ask.

'Just a couple of months.'

'Oh, still in nappies.  What fun.'

Patrick blinks at me for a few seconds. 'Dogs,' he says, when light dawns. 'Jeremy and Jemima are the guard dogs.'

Okay, not children.

'Oh right,' I say. 'Sorry.'

'Easy mistake to make, easy mistake,' Patrick replies, waving off my last words. 'God forbid those two actually do breed.  Charming fellow, but not exactly well endowed in the looks department.  Not that Celia is a stunner herself, although she does have a very fine set of teeth on her.'

Celia was the sister, right?  Not another dog?

Patrick turns to Beth, obviously bored by this subject. 'So tell me,' he says cheerfully, 'what have a pile of books and a pack of screaming ankle-biters got that’s made you abandon your old set?'

**
 

We
get home later than I expected but earlier than I wanted, since I sensed Matt had had enough.  Personally, I could have sat and listened to Patrick for hours, but I have to get up in the morning too. 

I wish I was one of those people who can stay awake all night and still function in the morning, but I’m not.  I got no end of stick for it at university.  I once tried to stay up until three and then go to a 9a.m. lecture, but I fell asleep in the middle of it.  Which would have been fine if I hadn't then had an erotic dream about the lecturer and started moaning and calling his name.

I couldn't face him again after that.  Considering he was my supervisor, perhaps it's not surprising that I ended up with a third.

Beth goes right to her bedroom as soon as she gets her coat off.  She throws the piece of paper with Patrick’s phone number on it in the sitting room bin as she walks past it.

I go to my room, dump my stuff, yank on my pyjamas and wait.

As soon as I hear water running and know Beth’s safely in the shower, I sneak back out of my room and rescue the scrap of paper from the bin.  Then I sneak back into my room and hide it in my battered jewellery box.

Because, after all, you shouldn’t burn your bridges.

This is absolutely in her best interests.

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

I really have to stop saying that.

Making covert phone calls from the office isn’t something I’ve done that much of.  Just the odd call to Will – because I’m about to phone one of the new claimants, who wants £20 for an eyelash curler they left in a hotel three years ago, and scream at them to get a life – and to my mother, as it gives me built in excuses to get off the phone.  The filing cabinet’s come alive and started eating someone’s tie, that sort of thing.

But now I’m making a call so that I can’t be overheard.  It’s like Beth’s my wife and I’m having an affair.  I’m getting the same vaguely ridiculous feeling I get whenever she gets home before I do and I’m greeted with ‘How was work?  Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes
.'.

Cynthia is staring at her computer screen like one of those cartoon kids whose eyes have gone square from too much TV.  Ever since the transformation, she’s managed to generate the impression that her wonderfully creative soul is being tortured and imprisoned here.  I keep expecting her to start wearing a beret and a hang-dog expression.  Although hopefully she won't cut her ear off.

'For whom does this bell toll?' comes the cheery voice.

I sternly order back a laugh. 'Hi, Patrick,' I say. 'This is Mel, Beth’s flatmate.'

'Wonderful,' he says. 'How are you?'

'Fine,' I say. 'Listen, do you still want to get together with Beth?'

'Of course.'

'I can fix it up,' I tell him, looking around for eavesdroppers and then feeling ridiculous for doing it. 'I’ll talk her into it, no problem.  She’s just shy.  The blind dates rather put her off.'

'That would be excellent.'

'Call back in a couple of days,' I suggest. 'And I bet she’ll be thrilled to hear from you.'

'Is she there now?'

I look at the clock.  It’s 10 a.m.  Who’s home at that time on a Friday?

'No, we’re both at work,' I say.

'Ah yes, of course.  A few days you say?  That’s perfect.  Thank you
, Mel.'

'No problem,' I say, feeling a rush of kudos, and hang up.

'Who was that?'

I jump about a foot in the air and then feel guilty for no reason.  Fortunately, it’s Matt, not Martin.

'Just Patrick,' I say, trying to look unruffled. 'I’m helping him fix up a date with Beth.'

'Really?' Matt says doubtfully. 'Can’t say I thought much of him actually.  I don’t like that type, never have.'

'Oh,' I say.

I'm a little tired of all this pessimism. 
Patrick is friendly, polite and wealthy and well-connected to boot.  What is there to object to?  And he's known Beth for years.  Alright she doesn't seem to have wholly fond memories, but they were school kids for God's sake!  They probably fell out over a lost pencil case.

'Christ, I’m bored,' Cynthia announces suddenly, shoving herself back from her desk. 'This is positively inhuman.  Being shut up in a badly air-conditioned box, surrounded by a small rainforest of paper, doing a job that would’ve made Mother Theresa into an alcoholic.  When I think I could be here for the rest of my life…'

An appalled expression appears on her face.  I’m pretty sure there’s a matching one on my own.  The rest of my life in this place.  I may as well commit suicide.  Hell would be a step up.

'It’s not that bad,' Matt says, with the easy acceptance that comes from a) still having novelty on your side and b) knowing that your escape route is soon to be accessible.

'It is if you’ve already wasted the best years of your life in it,' Cynthia declares, with just a touch of melodrama. 'With your heart drying up a little more everyday.  Not to mention other very important body parts.'

Another image I could have done without.

Matt looks a little disturbed. 'You have a point,' he admits.