The Dr Pepper Prophecies (22 page)

'Of course I have a point,' Cynthia says, with more passion than she’s shown all day.  Possibly all her life. 'A steady, secure job – that’s what
we’re told real life is.  Well if this is real life then I can’t see that it’s worth our while keeping the human species going.  Another day, another tree’s worth of pointless forms.  What, precisely, are we contributing?'

I’m sure Martin has an answer to that one, but I’m damned if I do.

'Cynthia,' I ask, feeling more depressed by the second, 'do you have anymore chocolate?'

Cynthia digs in her side drawer and produces a virtual selection box, which she lays out on her desk.  I grab a Boost.  I figure I could use one.

Cynthia sighs, contemplating a fruit and nut bar. 'Chocolate,' she says despairingly. 'Safer than cocaine, easier to get hold of than Prozac.  The government’s most effective way to prevent revolution.'

'You don’t think you’re exaggerating slightly?' Matt asks in amusement.

'No,' Cynthia and I say in unison.

'If free supplies of chocolate were in any political party’s platform,' Cynthia continues, 'they’d win by a landslide.  There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t vote for them.  But it doesn’t matter anyhow,' she says despondently. 'It will never happen.  All the politicians are either men who don’t have a clue what women are about, or women who’ve forgotten where their loyalties lie.  No wonder the country’s so screwed up.'

Matt is staring at her in fascination.

'Have you
ever considered applying to be on
Big Brother
?' he asks. 'I bet you wouldn’t get voted out.'

Cynthia seems to consider this a compliment.  That is worrying.

I've watched some pretty crap TV, but I will go on record that I have never seen a single episode of
Big Brother
.  Hard as it is sometimes, I try to maintain some faith in human nature and I've always suspected that that show would destroy it forever.

'You
know,' she says thoughtfully, 'that’s not such a bad idea.  Maybe I'll look into it.'

Now I’m definitely having second thoughts about what I’ve created.

'At the very least, it would be better than being here.'

Debatable.

'Anyway,' she says, cheering up. 'Tonight I have the greatest night planned.  I’m going to this great new club and, come alcohol poisoning or foot cramps, I’m not sleeping at home tonight.'

I guess since Matt’s standing right beside me, it would be a bit insensitive to ask if I can go with her.

'Have fun,' I say lamely.

Cynthia grins. 'Oh, don’t worry,' she says, winking at me. 'I will.'

**
 

Beth and I are having a quiet, girly night in tonight.  Which is to say that we’re watching
Notting Hill
and pretending that the mountain of Chinese takeaway, pizza and chocolate we’ve got spread out is really a perfectly reasonable amount of food for two people.

'Would you ever want to go out with a celebrity?' I ask lazily, debating with myself over whether I can find space for the last slice of pizza.  I don't think I can.  Not unless I cut out a vital organ.

'No,' Beth says, equally lazily, from her chair. 'The film makes it look very romantic, but it would be terribly difficult in real life.  Imagine having photographers follow you everywhere you went.'

The closest I ever got to fame was having my photo taken at a school f
ête when I was seven, with my face made up like a butterfly.  Sometimes I think it would be nice.  You know, being recognised and signing autographs and doing interviews.  But then, doing it when you feel great is one thing.  Doing it when you feel like something from the bottom of a cesspit is something else.

'Mmmm,' I say nodding slowly. 'Plus, in that movie it’s a guy going out with a famous girl.  I think it would be way harder for a girl to go out with a famous guy.'

There’s a comfortable silence.

'Can you pass the lemonade?' Beth asks, not moving.

'No,' I say, not moving either. 'I’m too full to move.  You get it.'

Beth groans. 'My stomach doesn’t bend anymore,' she says.

We lie there, doing nothing, moving nothing except our necks.  Post-Christmas dinner paralysis, only in spring.

The doorbell rings.

Why is it that people never come round when you want them to and do when you don’t?  How do they know?  It’s like their brains are remote-controlled and someone’s triggered an alarm.  Mel is comatose, must go see her.

Beth and I meet each other’s eyes.  It’s a silent battle of wills.  One of us must get up and answer the door.

Neither of us moves.

The doorbell goes again.  And again.  This better not be that encyclopaedia salesman again.

'Mel!' I hear.  Sounds like Cynthia.  Crap, that means I have to get up.

I
heave myself out of my chair like I’m eight months pregnant and pad over to the door in my thick, comfy bed socks.

It is Cynthia.  She looks terrible.  Her face is pale and mascara is water-skiing down her cheeks.

I’m guessing that her big night out didn’t go quite as she’d planned.

'Hi,' she says uncertainly. 'I'm sorry to barge in on you.  Things didn't go so well.'

Don’t tell me, all the men there were gay.

'What happened?' I ask, in my best ‘crisis management’ tone of voice.  The best I can manage in my current stuffed and sleepy state anyway.

Cynthia kind of crumples right in front of my eyes. 'I was attacked,' she sobs. 'He tried to rape me.'

**

Ten minutes later and we have Cynthia on the sofa, drinking a huge mug of hot chocolate.  The door is locked and Hugh Grant’s voice no longer forms the soundtrack to our lives.

She's huddled into a ball and keeps trying to pull her skirt further down her legs.  It's leather, so it doesn't really stretch.  Her skimpy top does nothing to hide the bruises that are coming up on her shoulders.

'The place was really great and I was having such a good time,' Cynthia says, her voice all shaky. 'I met this really attractive guy.  He bought me a drink, we danced and then he suggested going to another place he knew that was quieter, so we could talk.  So we went and then we took this shortcut he knew down an alley...'

'You went into an alley with a total stranger?' I exclaim, before I can stop myself. 'Are you nuts?'

Cynthia starts to sob again and Beth comforts her, glaring at me.

'That won’t help her just now,' she says firmly.

'Sorry,' I say.  I hardly know what I’m saying anymore.  I’m in shock.  I can’t believe this happened.  I can’t believe I was so cynical when she showed up.

'I’d done it before,' Cynthia tries to explain. 'And he didn’t look dangerous to me.  He was polite and well-dressed and kind and he'd been the perfect gentleman.  It was only a five minute walk, it seemed silly not to agree.  But then he pushed me up against a wall and he…'

She chokes back more tears.

'I got away,' she gulps. 'I bit and I kicked and I punched him as hard as I could, wherever I could.'

The tiniest smile creeps out from behind the general cloud.

'I think I broke his tooth,' she says, proud in a small way. 'And possibly his nose.  Plus I don’t think he’ll feel up to it for a few days.  I kicked him pretty hard in the crotch.'

Will swears being kicked in the balls is more painful than childbirth.  I suppose that's one debate that will never be resolved.

'Good for you,' I say, for want of something better.

'Are you hurt?' Beth asks, concerned.

Cynthia shakes her head.

'No,' she says, her voice steadying out now. 'I’m fine.  I managed to get away and run – and then I realised how close I was to your place so I just came here.  I don’t think he tried to follow me.  It was just the shock.'

'Would you like to stay here?' Beth asks. 'I could make up the sofa.'

'No, I'll be fine at home,' Cynthia say
s positively, wiping her eyes with a tissue.  'I just don't want to walk back, that’s all.'

'I’ll call you a cab,' Beth says, heading into her bedroom for her address book.

'The guy at the cab company has a crush on Beth,' I tell Cynthia once Beth’s bedroom door is closed. 'She can get a cab anytime.  I think he’d actually hire a car from somewhere else if they didn’t have one free.'

Cynthia smiles weakly.  She’s calmed down, which I take to be a good sign.

'Listen,' I say, 'take some time off.  You must have stacks of holiday saved up still.  I’ll tell Martin for you.  You need to recuperate.'

'I think I will,' Cynthia says slowly. 'More holiday is always good.  And I need to think about things.'

I don’t even have time to answer before a fresh wave of shock rises up out of nowhere.

'I don’t know what I’ve been doing these last few weeks,' she says despairingly. 'I don’t know who I’ve been.  I’ve been so insane and careless and insensitive.  And look at what I’m wearing.'

She looks down at her anorexic skirt and tube-top.

'I don’t wear this sort of thing.  I would never wear this sort of thing,' she says, half amazed. 'I feel cheap and exposed and…cold.'

I almost want to laugh at that, but I don’t.

'I don’t want to go back to bein
g what I was,' she continues, 'but I don’t want to be this person either.  I need to…figure out some sort of balance.'

Beth comes back in.

'He’ll be here a.s.a.p.,' she reports.

Which is good because, selfish as it may be, I can’t wait for her to leave.

**
 

'It’s all my fault,' I sob as soon as the door closes behind her.

Beth turns from the door and comes back to me. 'It’s
not
your fault,' she says firmly. 'It isn’t anyone’s fault except that bastard’s.'

A small part of my brain registers that Beth’s never used that word before, but the rest of it has more important things to think about.

'I’m the one who told her to go out and be wild,' I say in despair. 'I’m the one who didn’t tell her to slow down when I should’ve done.  I’m the one who laughed at Will for being cautious.  If I hadn’t encouraged her in the first place, this would never have happened.'

I knew she was going too far.  I thought it and I could have said it so many times.

I could have gone with her tonight.  I shouldn't have let her go alone.

I should have…

Beth crouches down beside me.

'Mel, she had a classic reaction,' she says gently. 'Her world was suddenly turned upside down and she responded by going off the rails.  It happens and she would have done it with or without you.  Blaming yourself will change nothing.'

What if she hadn't been able to get away?  What if she'd drunk more, or he'd put something in her drink?  What if he'd knocked her out, or tied her up?  What if he'd chased after her?

What if he'd had a knife, or a gun?  What if she was lying in that alley right now, bleeding?

What if she was dead?

'I should still do it,' I sob. 'I should have kept out of it, but instead I interfered.  The way I always do.  Why do I do that?'

'I don’t know,' Beth says, patting my shoulder. 'You need to figure that out for yourself.'

Since when am I any good at figuring out what I should do.

'It doesn’t matter,' I say, suddenly resolute. 'As of this moment, I am never interfering again.  No matter what.  It’s over.'

And I absolutely definitely mean that.

God only knows why I agreed to visit my parents this weekend.  In fact, I don’t even know why I was invited.  I can only assume that they get some weird, perverse pleasure out of reminding themselves what a failure their elder daughter is.

On the way, I nearly turned back each time I changed buses.  In fact, I nearly got off one and went home.  My mind, needless to say, is fixed on Cynthia.  I called her this morning and she sounded perfectly fine.  More like the old Cynthia than the new.  But still, all I can think about is what might have happened.  Because of me.

Mother Nature has decided to mock me by making this day entirely devoid of all things one naturally associates with England.  Rain.  Mud.  Clouds.  Sheep – although admittedly they’re fairly rare in the back gardens of Greater London.  Umbrellas then.  Wellington boots.  I’m in a crappy mood and I expect weather to match it, not this sunshine extravaganza.

As a result of this I’m e
xpected to sit on damp blankets in the garden, eating off a flimsy paper plate that’s determined to tip all my food onto the floor, and feel fat, ugly and clumsy next to Brittany – who looks like a sodding Flower Fairy.  Even James is quiet and clean for once.

I’ve been here one hour.  That’s one.  And already we’ve touched on my non-existent career, my foolishness in going to university and my apparently permanent place on the highest, most dusty shelf in the warehouse where men choose wives.  Still, I suppose it could be worse.