The Dr Pepper Prophecies (24 page)

Plus, all this self-promotion ritual is crap.  You’re supposed to show them how devoted you are to their company and how obviously you’d continue to come bouncing into work like a cross between Tigger and a lobotomised cheerleader, even if your Great Aunt were to die and leave you a
hundred million.  What a load of crap!  I work because I have to, I don’t give a rat’s ass about their company and I only want to work there because it wouldn’t be quite as bad as working for Martin for the rest of my life.  Plain, unvarnished truth.  And there’s no way that I’m the only one.

But here I am,
printing out yet more copies of my CV to send in for jobs I won’t get, that pay nothing and that anyone who’s learned to breathe is overqualified for.

I loathe my life.

It’s times like this when you find yourself thinking, was women’s liberation such a good thing?

And then you think, for every Elizabeth Bennett who managed to get love and money, there were stacks of women who got neither.  And then you conclude that it was a good thing. 

Or you start fantasising about Colin Firth looking all damp and dishevelled and forget what the original question was.

Anyway, it’s Monday evening.  I’ve survived another day in the hamster cage and I think I may actually have done more work with Cynthia not there than we usually accomplish both together.  I really must have been bored.

'Anything interesting?' Beth asks, bringing over my third mug of hot chocolate.  Forget crystals or colours, I am a great believer in the healing power of chocolate.

I jab my finger at the paper on the computer desk and the advert I’ve circled messily in black biro.

'Admin job,' I say. 'Low salary, unexciting tasks, zero promotion prospects.  Only the desperate need apply.  So I am.'

Beth’s face takes on an expression that strongly reminds me of Piglet, as she struggles to find something encouraging to say.

'Isn’t there anything else you could do?' she asks finally.

Evidently, she failed.

I reach silently round the edge of the computer and hold up a handful of lottery tickets.  Then I hold up my other hand.  My fingers are crossed.

Beth does at least look suitably sympathetic.

'Anything else?' she asks wryly.

'My options,' I say, laying my six (no doubt useless) lottery tickets back down on the desk, 'as far as I can see, are as follows.  One, marry money – no chance.  Two, win money – slim chance.  Three, steal money – better chance, but don’t want to spend ten years wearing an outfit with little arrows on it.  Four…I’m told escort work pays very well.'

Beth stares at me.  I shrug. 'Well,' I say, 'I’ve already slept with more than a few men who no sane woman would touch with a cattle prod.  Might as well consider getting paid to date bastards.  Using your talents, as it were.'

'Yes…but…' Beth struggles for a response, obviously not quite certain if I’m serious or not, '…surely you have other talents.'

I consider this. 'Well,' I say, 'I can juggle, I can roll my tongue and I can tolerate stunningly high blood sugar levels.  That’s about it.  So I suppose I could try to get a job sampling chocolates at Cadbury’s, although it wouldn’t do my figure a lot of good.'

It's always amazed me that I'm not the size of a house, considering the amount of chocolate I eat.  One of these days I know it's going to catch up with me and I'll balloon overnight.  Then I might actually have to give up chocolate.

That thought is just too horrible to contemplate.

'Oh,' Beth says helplessly.

'I might as well give up on this,' I say, looking despondently at the stack of addressed envelopes on my desk. 'I’m not convinced half of them even get opened, let alone read.'

I turn to her.

'What’s your dream?' I ask suddenly. 'Are you going to stay in the library all your life?  And what about romance?  When you were young, before you actually started dating and shed the first layer of your fairy tale delusions, what was your vision of the future?'

'I like the library,' Beth says, without hesitation, a contented smile coming to her face. 'I work surrounded by children and books, my two favourite things.  I do hope to have children of my own one day, but I think I’ll be fine even if it doesn’t happen.  There are other goals I haven't achieved yet, but I'm working towards them slowly.  I may not be one hundred percent happy all the time, but I’m quite satisfied with my life.'

I wish I could hate her, I really do.  Or be her.  Either one would be good.

'I wish I was like you,' I say quietly. 'I wish I was satisfied with what I have, but I’m not.  Life is supposed to be more than paying the bills and buying tubs of ice cream for a treat.  What happened to beauty, what happened to wonder?  Surely there must be some purpose to my being here.  Something I'm meant to be doing.  Some special contribution only I can make.'

I slump down in my seat.

'I don’t know what I want,' I say despondently. 'I only know that I don’t have it.'

I look back to her.

'What about Patrick?' I ask. 'You don’t have to fall in love with him to take a quick mini-break from everyday life with him you know.'

'I just think it’s better this way,' Beth says, light in an almost deliberate-sounding way. 'Not to say that I don’t like him, but I prefer not to get into dating him.'

Beth smiles, almost shyly, as if she’s not sure whether or not she’s going to say the next thing.

'Although,' she says, still in that contrived tone. 'If Will ever breaks up with Natalie, I wouldn’t mind a date with him.'

**
 

It’s midnight.  In fact it’s now 00:01.  Beth's words have been playing through my head like a
‘learn while you sleep’ CD.  Which is probably why I haven’t gotten any sleep.

I’m sitting up in bed, eating mint matchmakers end-to-end, barely even
noticing the taste.

I am having a nervous breakdown.

I can’t honestly tell you why I’m having it, but I know that I am.  My worldview has been tossed into the air like a pancake and has stuck to the ceiling.  I don’t even want to know what it’ll look like when it unsticks itself and falls to the floor.  Holes, ridges, fluff.  My once smooth surface is deformed.  This is worse than the moment when I first realised that my parents must have had sex.

I know I'm an adult now, but that thought still really disturbs me.

There are two ideas competing for precedence in the game of ‘who can make Mel throw up her matchmakers first?’.

The first is the realisation that Will and Natalie might
not
break up.

I realise that this must sound completely insane, but I never truly grasped this concept before.
I mean, when Will was eighteen it didn’t matter how much I hated his girlfriends.  Who gets married at eighteen?  They were temporary and I was permanent.  Therefore, my position was unquestioned.  Now…he was only saying the other day how he’s thinking about a Mrs Will and lots of little Wills.  What if Natalie was Mrs Will?  Next to wife, old friend fades into insignificance.  Not to mention the fact that Natalie would probably get a restraining order put on me.

The second is the idea of Beth going out with him, assuming the first is just paranoia.  Beth simply cannot be Will’s g
irlfriend.  Ever.  No ifs, buts or maybes.

Will, leaving messages for Beth on our answer machine and reducing me to a ‘Hi, Mel’ afterthought.  Will, coming here to see her, not me.  Will, staying for breakfast and talking to her, not me.

It’s like having a montage of the worst, most disturbing moments from every horror movie ever made, playing on a continuous loop, and not being able to close my eyes.  It’s the only thing that would make life unbearable.

And there’s one more tiny thing.  Beth can’t go out with Will, because I don’t think I can hate the person who doesn’t even yell when I put empty milk cartons back in the fridge.

And I have to hate Will’s girlfriend.

I don’t know why, okay!

**
 

'He was just unbelievable,' Matt says, sitting down next to me in the staff room so we can rehash the third hellish blind date over lunch, although in all honesty it's faded into insignificance for me. 'I’m not surprised Beth wouldn’t stick it out until the end.'

Actually, I still am.  Her ability to tolerate irritation is phenomenal.  I’ve yet to hear her yell at anyone.  Ever.

'Melanie,' Matt
continues, imitating Mr Mom, 'are you sure your sandwich contains the right chicken to mayo ratio?  Too much mayonnaise is directly linked with death by car accident, you know.'

Normally
I’d have choked on my sandwich at that, but today I seem to be lacking a sense of humour.  I’m still thinking about last night’s revelations.

'Is there something wrong?' Matt asks, obviously surprised that he’s not being called on to do the Heimlich manoeuvre.

It doesn’t seem tactful to tell the guy I’ve been on two sort-of-dates with that my mind is rather occupied by another man.  Even if that man is just a friend.  I’ve noticed that, on the whole, men tend to have a problem with accepting that other guys can be just good friends.

Bizarre, isn’t it?

'Nothing,' I say. 'I was just thinking about Beth and how she’s going to find a decent guy.  They seem to be in such short supply.'

'She’s lu
cky,' Matt says meaningfully, 'to have someone who wants to help her with that.  So many people just flounder around on their own.  You’re doing a great thing.'

I give what is doubtlessly a very unattractive snort.

'Even when I set her up with social rejects with serious psychological problems?' I ask.

'Bad luck,' Matt says, dismissing it as someone who didn’t sit through the other two disasters can. 'It’s the thought that counts.'

That is true.  I mean, it could be worse.  I could be trying to sabotage her life instead of improve it.

Although the effect would probably be much the same. 

'I wish I had someone trying to do that for me,' Matt says casually. 'The dating game seems more like a gladiator fight sometimes.  Innocents falling at the wayside.  It’s hard to find someone you want to spend a full day with, let alone the rest of your life.'

'Tell me about it,' I agree. 'I feel like I’m only alive in the game because the emperor has given the thumbs up every time I’ve lost the fight.  It gets to the point where you start to wonder if the chance of winning is worth the risk of being thrown to the lions.'

'I think the trick is to find someone you want to team up with, not fight,' Matt says.

'Definitely,' I say, sighing. 'The problem is how?'

Matt looks me in the eyes. 'I was thinking maybe we could figure that out together,' he says.

I should have expected that.  Normally I don’t find it difficult to work out when a guy’s about to ask me out.  This just proves how distracted I am.

I have a tiny little problem.  I have absolutely no idea what to say.

'Ummm…'

No, I don’t think I can leave it at that either.

'It’s just,' I say, inspiration coming, 'I’m not sure about dating colleagues.  After Martin, you know.  So…could I just think about it for a few days?'

He looks disappointed and, if I’m honest, a little taken aback.  Obviously he expected me to say yes.

Which, when you think about it, is quite reasonable.  I mean,
I
expected me to say yes.

'That’s fine,' he says, in the voice that tells you that it’s really not. 'I’ll be around, so you can find me when you’re ready.'

'Thanks,' I say, as he gets up and disappears back to his own section.

Why on Earth did I say that?

By the time I’ve finished my sandwich, I still don’t know.

Do I think he’s handsome?  Yes.

Am I actually attracted to him?  Yes.

Do I like him?  Yes.

Do all these things make him already superior to every other guy I have ever dated?  Yes.

And yet, I effectively turned him down.  Everyone knows that ‘I’ll think about it’ almost always equals no.

So why did I do that?

My mum’s called.  There was a message on the machine when I got home from work.  No one else, just Mum.  At least she loves me, although I haven’t got up the nerve to call her back yet.

I’m standing by the phone, trying to decide if I’m up to calling home and getting Dad on the phone, when it rings.

I dither while it rings four times and then
chicken out and let the answer phone pick it up.

'Hi, this is Mel and Beth.  If you’re listening to this message, Beth is out and I don’t feel like coming to the phone.  Leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you.'

God, I hate listening to myself.  I really should change that message.  I should have Beth do it.   'Good day, this is the Parker/Davidson residence’.  Inviting.