The Dr Pepper Prophecies (30 page)

'I get it,' I say.  I have a horrible feeling that I might start to cry. 'Listen, I’m really busy, so can we talk later?  I call you tonight…I promise.'

For once, I actually mean that.

After we’ve rung off, I think about Mum's words all day.  They knew all along that Will was perfect for me, didn’t they?

So why on Earth didn’t they tell me?

I suppose I wouldn't have listened.

I can be really stupid sometimes.

**
 

The next day, Will and I still haven’t made
up.  Which is probably because on all but one of the occasions when I tried to phone him, I chickened out.  The final time I got a wrong number, which my nervous brain insisted was a sign that I shouldn’t call.

Even so, I’ve nearly picked up the phone seventeen times this morning.  I’ve been keeping count.

I did manage a nice chat with Mum and Dad last night though.  Dad still hasn't quite mastered the art of being supportive, but I’m pretty certain his suggestion of freezing my eggs for later use was intended to be.

'And where is Ms. Burnett today?' Martin’s voice penetrates the picture of Will that’s been sitting in front of my eyes since I walked out of his building.  The stunned, hurt look.

'She’s on holiday,' I say, prodding randomly at my keyboard with my pen.

Martin makes a tutting noise in the back of his throat.

'She is supposed to be returning today,' he says, making a note on his clipboard. 'Although not for much longer, given her recent performance.'

That snaps me out of my fog.

'You mean you’re going to fire her?' I ask, aghast.

Martin looks pointedly at me. 'It’s a serious possibility for several people,' he says haughtily.

'But you can’t!' I protest.  It’s my fault she stopped being Super Employee in the first place.  I can’t let her get fired.

'I think you’ll find I can,' Martin says, in his most superior tone.  It usually infuriates me, but today I barely notice.

'But she’s got a really good reason for being late,' I say desperately. 'And taking time off and not working quite at her best.'

Understatement of the year.

'And what’s that?' Martin asks, looking expectant.

'She…' I start to say, then stop.  I can’t exactly tell her boss that she was attacked, can I?  The last thing she needs is everybody knowing.

Plus, I have a very strong feeling that Martin would turn out to be one of those beyond-belief guys who say ‘She was asking for it.’.  I mean, I know she may have been a little foolish, but no one asks for that to happen to them.  It would be like asking to get trapped in a lift with an axe-murderer.

'She lost her mother,' I finish lamely. 'She’s grieving.  I’m sure she just needs a little time and…'

'The mental health of my employees is hardly my primary concern,' Martin says.  A man whose feelings run about as deep as a finger bowl. 'I have to do what is best for the company and that is obviously to get rid of those who are not pulling their weight.  And don’t think that doesn’t include you, Melanie.'

I have just about had it with this guy.

'Half the people here don’t pull their weight,' I say tensely. 'It’s an insurance claims office.  You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone actually devoted to their job.  Except you, the new and improved model of Ass-kisser Ken.'

Martin’s face goes a bizarre mixture of red and white.  Obviously one colour is oil paint and the other water-based, because they won’t blend.

'I shall have to add that to your record,' he says. 'Verbal abuse.'

'That was not verbal abuse,' I say, now devoid of nerves for him to get on, 'but I’m sure I can manage some.  Let’s see…'

I take a deep breath.

'You’re a pompous, self-important twerp with no charm, kindness or actual talent,' I say, for a first attempt.

I think I could get to like this.

'Everyone in the office either hates you or laughs at you.  Not one single person respects you,' I add, warming up. 'Your haircut makes you look like an army reject.  You can’t carry off that suit, you look like a ten-year-old who’s borrowed his father’s clothes.  There’s a betting pool going over how long you could stay alive without your clipboard, since you act like it’s your life-support machine.'

I do like this.  I’m on a roll.  My voice has gotten louder and there’s a small group of spectators pretending to need things from the filing cabinets.

'You were a terrible boyfriend,' I say, before I even wonder if I should stop this. 'You’re selfish, you have no consideration, you’re rude, you’re terrible in bed…'

I pause for breath as the crowd quickly turns laughs into coughs.

'And finally,' I say, looking him stra
ight in the eye, 'you should really think about surgery, because you’re hung like a baby carrot.'

There’s a small explosion of (quickly smothered) laughter in the crowd and, for one moment, I feel good.  Very therapeutic, this.

Then it crashes.

'That would be your last warning,' Martin says, a vein twitching in his neck. 'Be thankful I’m a reasonable man.  But one more word, one more
toe out of line, and I’ll fire you on the spot.  And her too.'  He jabs a finger at Cynthia’s deserted desk.

Then he turns and tries to make a dignified exit, while everyone who was in earshot for my little attack sniggers.

I really, really need a new job.

Five minutes later, Cynthia walks in the door.  Her hemline has sunk and her neckline has ascended.  The hair is still raspberry.

'Morning,' she says cheerfully, as she settles down at her desk. 'Don’t tell me, Martin’s already made his daily visitation.'

'Yeah,' I say.

'The verdict?'

'One more
toe out of line and we’re both fired.'

Cynthia smiles as she switches on her computer. 'Obviously I didn’t miss much,' she says.

I keep looking at her and then looking away.  I really want to ask if she's alright, but I keep chickening out.

'What?' Cynthia
asks finally, noticing it.

'Well, you know,' I say awkwardly, looking at my desk. 'I just wanted to know if you’re okay.'

'I’m fine,' Cynthia says. 'Pass me some new claims, would you?'

'Are you sure?' I ask, as I hand them over. 'I mean, you’ve been off more than a week.'

Cynthia shrugs nonchalantly. 'I’ve got a lot of holiday that I want to use up.  Now seemed as good a time as any.'

A few moments’ silence.

'Yes, but are you really okay?' I burst out. 'Or have you stopped speaking to me?  I don’t mind if you have, because I deserve it, but could you tell me so that I don’t have to wonder?'

'Of course I haven’t stopped speaking to you,' Cynthia says, in something like the no-nonsense tone she used to use (when she spoke at all). 'And you don’t deserve to.  I’m fine.  If anything, this has done me good.'

'How can you say that?' I say, aghast.

Cynthia looks thoughtful for a moment. 'I didn’t say that it was good in itself,' she explains. 'I just mean…  I needed something to shock me out of this.  Mother’s death knocked me out of my old life and made me loosen up, but too much.  I needed a push back the other way and this worked.  No permanent damage done.'

'I still,' I wind my arms around myself, 'I still shouldn’t have interfered with all this.  I was wrong and I’m sorry.'

'You don’t have to…' Cynthia starts to say.

'Yes, I do,' I break in. 'I was wrong.  I see it, I admit it.  Let me feel it.'

'Fine,' Cynthia says, holding up her hands. 'Beat yourself up about it.  You can have one hour.' She checks her watch. 'And then you have to stop and forget about it.  Okay?'

I smile, now feeling silly. 'Okay.'

'So wallow in a pit of self-loathing while I try to look busy,' Cynthia says, picking up the first claim on her pile and starting to input it.

It’s very hard to wallow in self-loathing on demand.  Even though I was paddling in it on my way to deeper waters, the lake now seems to have dried up a little.  Must have been a hot day in hell.  Maybe if I lay down…

The telephone rings, interrupting my march towards insanity.

'Mel Parker,' I say automatically as I pick it up, still picturing lakes.

'Ms Parker, you applied for the post of administration assistant at Paua Shell PR, did you not?' a dry, oddly familiar voice says without preamble.

'What?' I say, caught off guard. 'I mean yes, I did.'

I think I did anyway.  I sent so many applications I rather lost track.

'Good to know that we’re clear on that.'

The slightest hint of sarcasm perhaps.

'I’m in the middle of a very important piece of work,' I say, crossing my fingers. 'I was a little distracted.  So, how can I help you?'

'I can interview you in one week, i.e. on Tuesday next at 1p.m. sharp.  Be late and I’ll deny all knowledge of your existence.'

Uh…kay.

'Who sho
uld I ask for?' I ask, since I still can't actually remember which job we’re talking about.

'Helen Murray.  1p.m. Tuesday.  Goodbye.'

She hung up.

Just like that.

Is this really someone I want to work for?

Nevertheless, I scribble down the details.  Beggars can’t be choosers and the alternative is Martin.  That’s assuming he doesn’t fire me.

A part of me can’t believe he hasn’t, actually.  I mean, I'd probably have fired me by now.

'Who was it?' Cynthia asks, obviously interested by my bemused expression.

'I’ve got another interview,' I say slowly. 'With someone very weird.'

'Fantastic!' Cynthia says. 'Wallowing in self-loathing is
hereby postponed.  You can do it later, after we celebrate.'

I could.  Or I could just not do it at all.

**
 

At home time I shut my computer down and breathe a sigh of relief that another day is over.

I'm putting on my coat when Matt slowly approaches. 'Hi,' he says awkwardly.

I pause for a moment and then carry on.

'Hi,' I say, flipping my hair out from under the collar. 'I haven’t seen you around much lately.'

'Well, I’ve been pretty busy,' Matt says casually. 'Filling in piles of mindless forms, that sort of thing.'

'Me too,' I say, picking up my bag.

A slight pause.  Cynthia pauses in putting on her own coat to pay close attention.

'Listen,' Matt says, 'could I walk you home?  So I could tell you about the… forms?'

'Sure,' I say. 'It’s very
important to keep up-to-date on what’s happening in the world of…forms.'

Cynthia gives me a thumbs up sign as we walk out of the office and I wave absently back.  We make it out of the door and about two steps down the stairs when Martin’s voice comes out of nowhere.

'Melanie, Matthew,' he says sharply, 'don’t you remember that little chat we had about…'

'We’re discussing forms,' Matt and I chorus.

'Co-ordinating between departments,' Matt adds quickly.

We both attempt the difficult task of looking innocent, respectful and sincere all at once.  The question is, did it work?

Martin looks concerned, in a suspicious way.  Any moment now he’s going to pull a thermometer out and take our temperatures.

'Very well,' he says slowly, studying us intently like he expects us to go delirious any second. 'Forms.  Very…commendable.'

And he disappears back up the stairs to his office.

'You actually dated that guy?' Matt asks, as soon as we hear Martin’s door slam shut above us.

'I can hardly believe it either,' I say, as we start walking downstairs again. 'I sure know how to pick them.'

Why didn't I just pick Will at the start?

'Your luck could easily change,' Matt says casually and I know for sure that he’s going to ask me out again.

Trouble is, I don’t know quite what I’m going to say.

**
 

Whoever it was who first decreed that the innocent ‘Would you like to come up for coffee?' should mean ‘Would you like to come up, screw my brains out and stay for breakfast?’ should be shot.  They have made it impossible for women everywhere to propose a simple conversation
over drinks without the man in question getting the wrong idea.

Nevertheless, I have spoken the magic words (in the least suggestive tone I could manage, without actually sounding rude – very difficult) and invited him into the flat.  I am now prepared to mentally toss a coin.  Heads I go out with Matt, tails I don’t.  Unfortunately, the coin has rolled under my mental sofa and I can’t quite see what it says.

'Beth at work?' Matt asks, looking around from his place on the real sofa.