The Dr Pepper Prophecies (31 page)

'Yes,' I say, hunting in the fridge for a couple of cans of
cola (since we don't actually have any coffee, which only makes it worse). 'We’re…giving each other space.  Lots of it.  And she’s trying to organise a
Harry Potter
party for the kids.  You know, hats, broomsticks, wizard food.  Keeps them out of the way so their parents can stay home and read the books.'

'Great,' Matt says.

He’s doing that thing where you try to get the conversation to peter out so that you can introduce the topic you want to talk about.  Since you’re really nervous about it and want to get it over with.  I’ve done it so many times…

'She bought a Hedwig puppet and everything,' I babble, avoiding the inevitable. 'And she made herself a Hogwarts uniform.  They’ve never had so many fathers bringing their kids to the library.  And she…'

'Mel,' Matt breaks in, 'we both know what we’re really here to talk about.'

Damn, stalling technique has failed.  I bring the cans of
cola over to the sofa and sit down next to Matt.

'Yeah,' I say nervously. 'I guess we do.'

I love Will, but he doesn’t love me and we’re not actually speaking still.  I do like Matt, but I don’t think I could love him like I do Will.  On the other hand maybe I would if I tried, but Matt is Will’s friend now which makes it more complicated and…

I actually used to think this was easy.  Dating’s so much simpler when the men show up in single file.

'Don’t look so scared,' Matt says, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. 'I’m not that frightening, am I?'

'Of course not,' I say, with what was suppos
ed to be a relaxed little laugh but comes out as more of a nervous giggle. 'There’s just been so much going on lately.  I’m a little on edge.'

'I do a great line in massages,' Matt offers. 'Shoulder or…anywhere else you want it.'

Is there a nice way of saying ‘That’s a great idea.  I’d really love a full body massage.  I just don’t want
you
to give it to me.’?

Probably not.

'No, thanks,' I say, 'I…don’t really like massages.'

I cross my fingers behind my back.

'Okay,' Matt says slowly, obviously disappointed. 'That’s fine.'

I find myself studying the sofa cushion in minute detail.

'So,' Matt says, his casual tone gone since I’m not exactly making it easy for him. 'Have you thought anymore about my idea?'

I could play dumb.  But I’ve never liked that.

'I have,' I say, 'but things have been so up and down lately, that I just don’t know if…'

Matt, probably anticipating rejection, pulls me to him and kisses me.

He’s a good kisser.  Soft and not sloppy and…

Who am I kidding?  I feel nothing.  Less than nothing.  It’s like I have anaesthetic in my lips.

I wish he was Will.

I can’t believe I just thought that.

'Does that help you decide?' Matt asks, when he pulls away.  He’s expecting me to say yes now, I can tell.

I run my fingers through my hair.  They get stuck
in a tangle. 'Um…' I start.

The doorbell rings.

Whoever that is, I love them.

'I’ll just get that,' I say brightly, fairly leaping up from the sofa.  Then I deliberately try to walk composedly to the door.

I open it, ready to greet the person like a long-lost brother.  Gas man, insurance salesman or Jehovah’s witness – whatever.

It’s Will.

He’s wearing his cream shirt again.  He looks nervous.  He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

I want them on me.

I’m so glad neither of them can read my mind.

'Hi,' he says awkwardly. 'I was hoping we could…'

Matt knocks over his empty coffee mug, accidentally on purpose.  Will’s eyes snap over to him.  Then he looks back to me, staring intently.

'Sorry to interrupt,' he says quietly. 'I’ll…come back some other time.'

He starts to turn, but then stops.  My heart leaps.

'Your lipstick is a little smudged,' he says, even more quietly.  My heart crashes to the floor and breaks a leg.

Then he starts to leave.

I want to run after him.  I want to yell ‘Will!' at the top of my lungs and throw myself on him so he can’t go.  Then I want to tell him exactly how I feel about him and he’ll tell me that he’s dumped Natalie and realised that I’m the only one for him and…

Hollywood should be sued for misleading impressionable young women.  He’d just think I’d gone mad.

I close the door very slowly and turn around.

'Bad timing,' Matt remarks.

Yes, it is.  If he wasn’t here, me and Will would be sitting down and getting things sorted out.

But I guess that isn’t quite what he meant.

'Matt,' I say, still standing by the door, 'I have thought and I’m sorry, but I don’t think we should date.  I’m…'

In love with our mutual friend.

'…not sure that we’re right for each other.  I think we’re better just as friends.'

That was…easier than I thought it would be.

Matt’s sitting very still on the sofa. 'Oh,' he says, nodding. 'Right.' He pauses.' To be honest, I kind of expected you to say yes.'

'I probably would’ve done,' I say honestly, 'if you’d asked me when we first met.  But…I suppose my ideas about things have changed.'

Matt gets up from the sofa and comes to join me.  For a second, I think that he’s just going to leave.  Then he turns to me and says 'There’s someone else, isn’t there?'.

'No!' I say automatically. 'Of course not!'

Why do people ask that question?  Has anyone ever said yes?

Matt’s eyes narrow. 'Are you sure?' he asks suspiciously.

Another stupid question.  I don’t know, maybe I’m sleeping with someone else, but I might not be.  Let me just think…

'I’m not seeing anyone else,' I say, probably more convincingly now I’m actually telling the truth. 'I promise.'

Matt’s still giving me the x-ray stare. 'But you’re thinking of someone, aren’t you?' he says.

He’s just going to keep pushing if I say no.

'You’re right,' I admit. 'I am.'

I think he was expecting another denial.

'Who?' he asks.

'I don’t want to say,' I say. 'He doesn’t feel the same way and it will never go anywhere, but he’s still my first choice.  It’s not fair to date someone else until I can figure out what to do about that.'

Matt straightens himself up. 'Fine,' he says, offhandedly. 'Maybe you can give me a call when you’re finished with that.  If you ever are.  See you at work.'

He lets himself out and I don’t stop him.

I’ve no desire to run after
him
.

The next morning, while I’m in the shower, I decide to call Brittany.  I question this decision while I’m getting dressed, while I eat breakfast, on the way to work and roughly every other minute from then on.  Finally, five minutes before work is out for the day, I take action.

Naturally, I get the answer machine.

'Brittany,' I say, making a lightening decision. 'I’m coming to see you.  Tonight.  Unless you phone me and tell me that you’re busy.  My mobile number is…'

There’s a click as someone picks up the phone.

'Mel?' Brittany’s voice asks warily.

'Yes,' I say, trying to sound all calm and adult.  Even though half of me really wants to hang up.

'You want to…come here?' she asks, the tiniest hint of disbelief in her voice.

'Yes,' I say again, very positively.  Maybe if I act well enough, I’ll convince myself as well as her.

Silence.

'Okay,' Brittany says eventually. 'Phillip is working late again, so I’ll try to get Mrs. Jaffer from next door to watch James.  I’ll make us some dinner.  You…like lasagne, don’t you?'

Wow, she actually remembers.

'Lasagne’s great,' I say, a little cheered that she actually seems to want to make something I’ll like. 'I’ll see you…whenever the bus gets there.'

'Okay,' Brittany says again, sounding uncertain.

'Okay,' I echo, sounding more uncertain.

Awkward moment.

'See you then,' I say. 'Bye.'

'Bye.'

I put the phone down.

It’s official, I’m going to go make it up with my sister.

I really need some chocolate.

**
 

She’s got flour on her cheek.  That’s the first thing I notice when she answers the door.  Brittany has always looked perfect at our family gatherings.  Every single time.

She’s wearing a God-awful flowered dress and an apron.  Not a huge, plastic, sensible apron – the kind you use to keep your clothes clean while you cook – but a little, frilly, delicate one – the kind you wear if you’re a 1950s housewife.  She looks ridiculous.

But insulting her outfit probably isn’t the greatest way to start off our reconciliation.
  And, let’s face it, I’m no fashion plate myself.

'You look well,' I say politely. ‘You look nice’ being too much of a lie.

Actually, she doesn’t.  She looks tired.  Like a real new mother, as opposed to these perfectly manicured actresses in the dangerously misleading nappy adverts.

I don’t think she believes my platitude.

'So do you.  Come in,' she says wearily. 'Dinner’s nearly ready.'

I follow her obediently into the kitchen.  What with one thing and another – namely the damage done to my psyche by each visit – I’ve only been here once
before.  That was when they first moved in and I had to buy a set of hand-woven coasters and spend three hours chatting to a bunch of strangers whose sole aim in life seemed to be to climb up someone else and get on the next rung of whatever ladder they happened to be on.

I’ve never been overly fond of ladders.  They have a way of falling over.

Everything’s very smart and polished, like this is some estate agent’s show home.  The kind nobody actually lives in.  I simply don’t understand how a house can be a home without clutter.

'I thought we could have dinner in here,' Brittany says, as we enter a shiny silver kitchen straight out of the IKEA catalogue. 'Since it’s just the two of us.'

'Sure,' I say, settling myself down at the table, which is stainless steel.  It looks more like an operating table than a kitchen one.  Maybe Phillip brought it home from work.

I really wish I hadn’t thought that.

I don’t dare put my elbows on it, so I fold my hands self-consciously in my lap and look around.  Everything’s neat, everything matches.  Even the floor-cloths are colour co-ordinated.

'You could set the table,' Brittany says, taking a pan from the cooker over to the sink to drain it. 'Over there, left-hand drawer.'

I go over and open it.  Someone has tidied this cutlery drawer.  There’s not a fork out of place.

God, I’m glad I don’t have that much free time.

I deliberately mess the drawer up as I get out the knives and forks.  I locate plates in the cupboard above and lay out the table.  The normal, roughly-in-the-right-place way, not the kitchen maid way.

Brittany bustles around, serving lasagne – which smells amazing – and matching vegetables, until finally there’s nothing to do but eat.

We sit down, ready to bond over a plate of lasagne.

We
stare at each other.

What do I do now?

This stuff doesn’t look half so hard on
Oprah
.

**
 

Since eating doesn't require being as emotionally vulnerable as talking does, we do that instead.  The lasagne really is very, very good.  Almost better than Beth’s, although I won’t tell her that.

'It’s great,' I say, between mouthfuls. 'You’re a really good cook.'

'I know,' Brittany answers, in a way that could have sounded conceited if she looked happier about it. 'I’m a wonderful cook, a wonderful cleaner and a wonderful nursemaid.  The perfect wife and mother.'

Since when does she think that that’s a bad thing?

'And therefore the perfect daughter,' I say, perhaps slightly bitterly.  It’s hard to be anything else.

'Yes,' Brittany says, nodding her head in agreement. 'The perfect daughter.'

I take another forkful of lasagne.

'I’m bored,' Brittany says, matter-of-factly.

I stare at her, not quite knowing what to say.

'I’m so bored that I ordered a full set of encyclopaedias from the man who came last week and invited two Jehovah’s witnesses in for coffee and carrot cake.'

That's pretty bored.

Does she have anymore carrot cake?