The Dr Pepper Prophecies (37 page)

I stare at her and start to laugh through my tears.

'Yeah, I can just see his face,' I say. 'What a hard decision it would be; his model-dressed girlfriend, with money and a flashy job and a manicure, or me, unemployed, in battered trainers and scruffy jeans, with a face like puff pastry made with badly mixed food-colouring.  All I’d do is convince him that he’s got it right.'

'Will’s never seemed to care about clothes, or jobs,' Beth points out, sitting down next to me. 'And I don’t think he even knows what a manicure is.'

'But I’m his friend,' I say, 'not his girlfriend.  It’s different.  Bottom line is, the only thing I have to offer that she doesn’t is that I don’t want to change him.'

Beth laughs. 'That sounds like a pretty big thing to me,' she says.

'It’s not enough,' I say, defeated, 'and I have to accept that.'

'I still think you should go see him,' Beth says quietly, putting an arm around me.

'I will,' I say. 'I just need something to help me face it.  Some kind of boost.  Anything to make me feel like things aren’t completely shit.'

'How long will that take?' Beth asks tactfully.

My shoulders slump. 'Years, probably.'

**
 

By Thursday
I actually physically need to get out of the house, even if it means spending money I don’t have.  I called Brittany last night to find out how housewives survive this.  Brittany said they have affairs with the postman.

I don't
think
she was talking from personal experience.

Our post
man is actually kind of cute though.

I think I’ve just proved my point.

I sit at the back of the cinema, watching the latest Bond film and mentally putting the Bonds into order of preference while I cram Maltesers into my mouth.  I’m not going to tell you which one I think is best.  I’ve ended friendships with that debate.

The audience consists of me, two scabby teenagers who are blatantly playing truant (they both keep glancing at the exit nervously while pretending to the other that they’re not even remotely scared of getting caught) and a bored, middle-aged woman gazing
in rapt adoration at Daniel Craig.

Kind of an ego boost to know that I’m not the saddest person in the world after all.

'Ahh!  I vould never ave sexe with you, Mr Bond,' the latest plastic Bond girl exclaims, her chest heaving indignantly under half a yard of strategically placed latex.

Why does she bother to say it?  Doesn’t she realise it’s inevitable?  He’s a secret agent, for God’s sake!  Hasn’t she seen
Austin Powers
?

I eat more Maltesers, deliberately not thinking about how I’m reducing my chances of ever having thighs like that.  Not that there’s really much chance of that anyway.

A mobile goes off.  Four sodding people in this whole cinema and one of them hasn’t turned theirs off.  It’s unbelievable, it’s inconsiderate and it’s unacceptable.

And it’s mine.

Oops.

I scuttle out quickly, nearly forgetting my bag.  At least the lack of people means that I don’t have to do the old ‘turn sideways, breathe in and squeeze’ thing.

'Hello,' I say, the second I get outside.

Please let it be Will, saying he’s seen the light and now knows I’m the only girl for him.

'Hand-drier Girl!' comes that dry, terribly familiar voice.

Fabulous, more rejection.  Just what I need.

'Hello…' I start to say, which is when it occurs to me that I can’t actually remember her name, '…Poster Girl,' I finish.  It doesn’t really matter what I call her, after all.

'Would you like the bad news, or the really bad news?'

Gee, let me think.

'Let’s go with the bad news,' I say, leaning against the wall for support.

'I can’t offer you the job in admin,' Poster Girl says.

'That’s not news,' I reply, closing my eyes.

'Don’t be so pedantic,' Poster Girl says dismissively. 'Don’t you want to hear the really bad news?'

'Frankly, no,' I say honestly. 'Surely really bad news is by definition something you don’t want to hear.'

'Good point,' Poster Girl says. 'But it’s moot in this case, because I’m going to tell you anyway.'

'Fine,' I say, waving my hand at no one.  Stupid that, the way you do the actions
when you’re on the phone even though the person you’re talking to can’t see them. 

'The really bad news is, I want to hire you to work for me.'

Is she serious?

'Are you serious?' I ask.

'I’m always serious,' Poster Girl replies. 'Though I may deny it later.  So, do you want the job?'

I stare at the cracks in the wall opposite me.

'What job?' I ask. 'I didn’t even know you were looking for someone.'

'I told you, the temps aren’t working out,' Poster Girl says impatiently, like this was five minutes ago. 'Brain-dead cretins, the lot of them.  I need a permanent PA.  One with no pride, who’s desperate to find a job.  You’re perfect for it.'

Does she actually realise she’s insulting me?

'Thanks,' I say sarcastically.

'You’re welcome,' Poster Girl says cheerfully.

Note to self: sarcasm wasted on this person.

'So, I take it that this job doesn’t pay much,' I say thoughtfully, twisting the bottom of my t-shirt round my fingers.

'More than unemployment.'

'In other words, beggars can’t be choosers.'

'Exactly.'

Could I really work for this person?

Although, she does have a point.

'I’ll take it,' I say, before I think about it too much.

Now you know I’m desperate.

'Great.  Monday, 9a.m., same place, dry your hair before you leave the house and double-check your shoes.  We’ll fix up the details then.  Bye.'

She hangs up.

Additional note to self: will never have last word with this person.

This is a very, very bad idea, isn’t it?

But, on the upside, I’m no longer unemployed.

So life has got a little bit better.

So I guess now I have to go face Will.

Gulp.

Resolution: will be cool as a cucumber. 

Except that, honestly, cucumbers aren’t really that cool, are they?  Surely cool as ice-cream would be more logical.  Or maybe cool as something that’s been in the fridge for ages.

Although not long enough to go mouldy
, obviously.

I think I’m turning into the alcopop Bridget Jones.

I stand outside Will’s door, his jacket in my hand, the ring that is soon to change my life in its pocket.  I am not in a frenzy, I am perfectly still.

Which is mainly because of the stalemate between the half of me that wants to
go in and the half that wants to run away.

Very, ve
ry slowly, the way you open credit card bills when you know you’ve overspent, I reach up and press the doorbell.

Will likes to call them door-chimes, like in one of his sci-fi shows.  I bet Natalie doesn’t know that.

Of course, he may not be there.  I couldn’t call before I came over for fear of having a meltdown on the line.  It would be a bit of an anti-climax if he were out.

I think there’s a lot to be said for anti-climaxes.

I hear footsteps and the sound of the door being opened.  No anti-climax.  This is it.  Houston, we have lift off.  Earth must be abandoned.  Life as we know it is over.

'Hi,' Will says, leaning on the door and smiling. 'Come in.'

At least he looks glad to see me.

'I brought this back,' I say, shoving his jacket at him a little less elegantly than I intended. 'You left it at my place when you came over.'

'Thanks,' Will says, as he closes the door behind me. 'I actually wanted to talk to you about that.  I know things have been awkward between us and I…'

'Can I go first?' I interrupt, already pacing the living room nervously.  I’m too high on adrenaline to wait.  I’m all psyched up to do the whole ‘I’m your friend and I’ll support your decision’ talk and if I wait I’ll lose my nerve.

Will hesitates.  He doesn’t move from the door. 'Okay,' he says.

'I found the ring,' I blurt out.  Somehow I’ve forgotten every line of my calm, understanding, talk-show psychologist speech.  Even after doing sixteen drafts and memorising it.

Will stares at me and opens his mouth.

'I know you’re going to propose to Natalie,' I say, before he can get a word out. 'And I came here to tell you that I want you to be happy, so I’ll support you and back out of your life and congratulate you, even though I haven’t always been as nice to her as I could have been.'

Will tries to speak again.

'But I can’t,' I interrupt, as my heart overrules my carefully prepared psychobabble. 'I hate Natalie.  She’s all wrong for you, she wants to change you and she’ll never make you happy.  This is a huge mistake and I can’t bear to stand by and watch you ruin your life.'

Somehow my tongue has been hijacked and is no longer attached to my brain.  The words are rushing out of my mouth like the evils from Pandora’s box.

'You should be with me,' I say passionately, even though my brain is trying to gag me by telekinesis. 'I love you, I always have.  I just didn’t know it until all this crap happened.  I don’t want to change you, I may try to direct your life but I fully expect you to tell me to quit it and I want you to be happy doing what you love.  I know that I can be insane and foolish and seriously overreact, but I can change and I will if you’ll just give me a chance to prove to you that we’re perfect for each other.'

I stop.  I’m emotionally drained.  Like I’m a wet t-shirt that someone’s just wrung out.

Crap, what have I done?

Will isn’t trying to speak now.  Actually, I’m not convinced that he’ll ever speak again.  He looks rather like he just got his back massaged by a dinosaur’s tongue.

'Haven’t I always told you,' he says, in this really thick voice, 'that I don’t want you to change?'

There’s this weird time lapse just then.  One minute we’re a mile apart and the next you couldn’t slide a fruit roll-up between us.  And, oh God, it’s even better than the last time.  Will is the most amazing kisser.  Now I’ve lost control of my knees, since my tongue is very busy.  And I'm running out of oxygen.

Personally, I think oxygen is overrated.

'You don’t need to ask, because I’ll tell you,' Will says, when my supply returns. 

'Tell me what?' I ask dazedly.  I don’t remember anything I needed to ask him about.

'About Natalie,' Will says.

Less coming back to Earth with a bump than burning up on re-entry.  Oh my God, I’m the other woman.

I try to extract myself from Will’s embrace, but he’s not letting me go without a fight and I can’t seem to muster up enough strength to give him much of one.

'Will, I can’t…' I start to say, with only a hazy idea of how I mean to end that sentence.

'We broke up,' Will says, looking deep into my eyes.  God, his are gorgeous.

'When?' I ask, stopping my futile struggle in astonishment.

'The night you stayed over,' Will says, answering my real question as only he can.

'But…but…' I say, bewildered, '…the ring.  You have your mother’s engagement ring in your jacket pocket.'

'I know,' Will says, pulling me gently closer to him. 'That’s why we broke up.'

Now I’m not confused, just mystified.  She can’t have turned him down?

'You broke up because of a ring?' I ask, frowning up at him.

Will nods.

'Explain,' I say firmly.

Will sighs. 'You know how my parents have been laying on the pressure about this.  Well, my mother gave me the ring when I went to see them last time.' He tucks a stray curl behind my ear. 'So I thought about it.  And I realised I couldn’t ever give it to her.'

I love Will’s mother.  She’s my favourite person in the whole world.  After Will, obviously.  She's wonderful, even if she didn’t see through Natalie’s ‘perfect daughter-in-law’ act.

Will produces the ring box from his
jacket pocket and flips it open.  Then he holds it up for me to see. 'What do you think of it?' he says, his tone neutral.

Oh.  My.  God.  Is he going to…?

Mel, get a grip.  This is not Pride & Prejudice.  He is not going to propose to you after a couple of kisses.

Not even really, really great kisses.

I look at the ring and try to like it.

I can’t.  It’s ghastly.  If I ever did get engaged to Will, it would have to get unfortunately stolen.

I look up at Will. 'It's vile,' I say.

Then I panic.  What if that was a metaphorical question?  What if he was asking me if I really like him?