The Dr Pepper Prophecies

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  I’ve been stood up precisely three times in my life. The first at the cinema, so I didn’t have to sit through the latest blood and guts film but saw a romantic comedy instead, so that worked out well. The second at a party, the result of which was that I snogged his best friend. And the third at a restaurant not unlike this, where the staff were incredibly sympathetic and I was given three free drinks and the waiter's phone number. I’d be fine. Beth’s a different saucepan of molluscs.

  Yes, I made that up. It makes every bit as much sense as kettle of fish. If not more.

  Oh my God, I think that’s him. Looks like Adam Sandler, dresses like Ricky Martin and is headed our way. There’s a camera case over his shoulder.

  'Hello,' he says, reaching our table. He’s looking right at me. 'You must be Beth.'

  Some sixth sense tells me this is not going to go as well as I'd hoped.

  'No, I’m Mel,' I say, not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 'This is Will and this is Beth.'

  Beth comes out from behind the drinks list like a mouse out of its nest.

  'Hello,' she says bravely, holding out her hand. 'It’s nice to meet you.'

  He low-fives her. No, I’m not kidding. I wish I were.

  'Pleased to meet you, Beth,' he says, plonking himself down in his seat. 'And you two as well, of course. Now, why don’t we make a start on the alcohol poisoning while we chat?'

  My mother always taught me to reserve judgement. I was never very good at it. First impressions stick and my first impression of this guy is that we may as well buy a new date, because this one’s a write off.

  Nevertheless, we order drinks.

  'So,' Little Ricky says, beaming round the table. 'What do you guys do for a living?'

  'Well,' Will says, when it’s clear that Beth and I are finding it difficult to answer. 'I’m an accountant, Mel is in insurance and Beth works in the children’s library in town.'

  'Right, right,' Little Ricky says, nodding like the bones in his neck have been replaced by Slinkies. 'I remember that from your advert. Not much of a life, is it? Cleaning up after a load of grubby youngsters with ADHD.'

  I don’t think Beth’s brain can actually process that.

  'I like children very much,' she says, once it’s thrown out his comment, 'and I love books. I enjoy helping them find books they’d like to read.'

  'Um, yeah,' Little Ricky says, still nodding enough to make me wish I had some travel sickness pills in my purse. 'Can’t make a lot of money though.'

  'Not a great deal,' Beth replies, remarkably composed. 'It’s more of a vocation.'

  A pause.

  'What do you do?' Will asks. His right eyebrow appears to be being held up by invisible thread and, knowing him as I do, I have a shrewd suspicion that he’s trying not to laugh.

  'I’m a photographer,' Little Ricky says, dumping his camera case on the table. 'Just stopped off to take some new snaps on the way here actually. The way the light was hitting the road was perfectly beautiful.'

  I don’t dare look at Beth.

  'Road?' I ask. What kind of photographer takes pictures of roads?

  Do I want to know the answer to that?

  'Here,' Little Ricky says, getting his camera out of the case and passing it across the table to me. 'You can flick through the photos I’ve taken.'

  I’m sure I could, if I actually had a clue how it worked.

  Will leans over. 'Press that button,' he says, pointing to it.

  So, I do. Needless to say, I regret it.

  'They’re…graphic,' I say, as I pass it back to him. Little Ricky hands it to Beth. She looks too and her skin takes on a distinctly green tinge, rather like she’s been smeared in pistachio ice cream. She then hands it to Will. He looks at two photos, looks at Little Ricky and says, 'You take photos of road kill?'

  'It’s art,' Little Ricky informs us.

  Will blinks. 'If you say so,' he says. 'Do these…sell well?'

  'Art always finds a market,' Little Ricky says sagely. 'One day I will be known throughout the world and revered as a God in the world of multimedia. It is my dream. A dream that will eventually become a reality.'

  All three of us stare at him. Then we stare some more. Fortunately, he appears to regard this as his first step to become the Road-Kill King.

  'I know,' he nods, as if he’s just imparted some fundamental truth to us, his chosen few. 'Quite something, aren't they?'

  Beth’s eyes meet mine and I realise a fundamental truth of my own. I’m on laundry duty forever.

  **

  'Overall,' Will says, when we’ve managed to escape, 'that was an experience I could’ve done without.'

  Little Ricky has gone to take night-time shots. The full moon illuminates dead animals nicely apparently.

  'I don’t know,' I say, trying to sound upbeat. 'His Ace Ventura impression was really rather good.'

  Will’s eyes meet mine. 'Yes, it was,' he agrees. 'The first time.'

  'Fine,' I admit, 'it was a disaster. Are you okay, Beth?'

  Beth is walking beside us back to the car, looking like there should be cartoon bluebirds flying around her head.

  'It was most…educational,' she says weakly.

  'In short, Mel,' Will says, searching through his jacket pockets for his car keys. 'I don’t think matchmaking is your true calling in life.'

  'I’m sure the next one will be better,' I say defensively.

  'Next one!' Will exclaims.

  'Of course, next one,' I reply. 'You can’t just give up after one bad date. If I’d done that, I’d still be a virgin.'

  Will sighs. 'Mel, I say this because I love you. Give up. Your little lamb for the slaughter is already traumatised and you want to put her through this again?'

  'We don’t have to decide now,' I say calmly. 'We’ll discuss it in the morning.'

  Will sighs as he opens the car door to let Beth in. 'Will I ever persuade you to take my advice?' he says.

  'Only when you start taking mine,' I say, sliding into the passenger seat. 'Come on, there’s a post-date tub of Ben and Jerry’s waiting at home.'

  'One day,' Will says ominously, as he settles himself into the driver’s seat, 'this could go very, very wrong for you.'

  'Don’t be such a pessimist,' I say, fastening my seatbelt. 'Everything will be just fine.'

  Chapter 13

  'You will never believe this,' Cynthia says, speed-walking back to her desk in a pencil skirt and a Wonderbra that makes it seem as if gravity is just something that happens to other people. 'You are going to be so completely jealous you’ll just curl up in the corner and die!'

  Is this a good thing?

  I abandon the claim I'm inputting and lean forward, happily forgetting about Mrs. M.M.Watson and the pin scratch she found on her Louis Vuitton bag. 'What happened?' I ask.

  'Okay,' Cynthia says, settling herself back into her chair and crossing her legs like she’s practising to appear in Basic Instinct 2. 'You know the sex-on-legs guy who works upstairs?'

  I gasp. 'The one who looks like Han Solo?'

  'Who?'

  'A young Harrison Ford.'

  Cynthia grins like a tabloid journalist with an exclusive about Brad Pitt’s secret love affair with the entire Swedish volleyball team. 'Then yes, I mean the one who looks like Han Solo,' she says. 'Guess who has a date with him on Friday?'

  I stare at her. 'You do? I thought he had a girlfriend.'

  One who looks like the TK Maxx Victoria Beckham, no less.

  'Oh, he does,' Cynthia says breezily.

  I pause. 'Isn’t that, in a way, something of an impediment?'

  Cynthia looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Klingon and she’s lost her universal translator. 'Why? She’s shop-lifting designer gear in Monaco for another two weeks, she’ll never know.'

  'Doesn’t it bother you?' I ask curiously.

  I did once date a guy with a girlfriend, but only because he conveniently forgot to mention to me that she existed. I've been on t
he other side.

  'It’s just a casual dinner,' Cynthia says lightly, idly examining her sapphire-blue nails. We’re just going to…' she giggles, '…do a little dance, make a little love and get down on Friday night. No harm done.'

  'What about Underwear Guy?' I ask.

  Cynthia showed me a picture of him. Ten minutes later I looked up, remembered I was at work and seriously considered going to the stationery cupboard on my own.

  Cynthia looks at me in surprise. 'Oh, we’re still seeing each other,' she says. She winks at me. 'He has a lot to recommend him, if you know what I mean.'

  Honey, the filing cabinets know what you mean.

  'A little quiet though,' Cynthia says pensively, like we’re discussing a potential pet. 'I like a man with a little more of a dark side. I’ll hold onto him though, for now.' She gives a distinctly dirty chuckle. 'Until I wear him out.'

  Just like Dr. Frankenstein, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about what I’ve created.

  'What about you and Matt?' Cynthia says, still ignoring her work and popping Maltesers into her mouth. 'What’s going on there?'

  Good question. To which there is only one possible answer.

  'Not a lot,' I say listlessly.

  'Why?' Cynthia says, leaning forward on her desk. 'What’s the problem?'

  The problem, as far as I can make out, is that Matt can’t articulate the sentence ‘Will you go out with me?'. To which I have every intention of saying yes. We bump into each other, we chat, we flirt a little and I feel certain that he’s going to ask me out. And then, every time, he’ll suddenly cool off for absolutely no reason. I can’t understand it. What on Earth could I be talking about often enough for it to be responsible for this?

  'Nothing,' I say, tracing letters on my keyboard with my finger. 'We just never seem to get around to making a date.'

  'Why don’t you just ask him out?'

  Another good question. To which I have no answer.

  'I don’t know,' I say. 'It just never seems like the right moment.'

  Which is an excuse I’ve never heard myself use before. I once asked a guy out when he was halfway through getting his braces tightened.

  Cynthia nods slowly. 'You could just e-mail him,' she suggests.

  I could. And I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.

  'I’ll probably do that,' I agree.

  Just not right this minute. When I'm in a more asking-out kind of mood.

  Cynthia glances at the stack of new claims on her desk as if she’s vaguely considering doing some work. Then she rejects the idea and turns back to me. Her gaze sweeps over my desk, searching for something to comment on.

  'What’s that?' she asks, nodding to the letter I’ve propped up in front of my computer.

  I pretend not to know what she’s referring to. 'What?' I ask, eyes on my screen.

  'That envelope right in front of you.'

  I look down at it.

  'It’s a response to one of my applications,' I say, nerves beginning to gnaw at my insides like hungry rats. 'The only one I’ve had.'

  'What’s it say?'

  'I haven’t read it,' I say, feeling my body tense up. 'I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind to face rejection yet.'

  'Might as well find out the worst,' Cynthia says, encouragingly.

  Now I feel very supported.

  Okay, the truth is that I don’t want to open this letter. While it’s there, looking all official, I can pretend to myself that it might just be an interview. The moment I read ‘Dear Ms Parker, although we have cruelly raised your hopes by sending an official rejection instead of ignoring your letter like every other firm in the county, we will not have need of your services unless the five billion more qualified candidates in the world all die in mysterious circumstances. Yours etc’ I will just be the serial reject once again.

  But, since Cynthia is determined to avoid work by any means possible, it looks like my time is up. I have to read it, otherwise I definitely won’t be getting any more boxes of Milk Tray.

  I slice open the letter, silently praying that I’ll somehow forget how to read English, thus preserving hope a little longer.

  Unfortunately, God appears to have reached his quota of miracles today.

  I scan it. Then I read it. Then I read it again.

  'I got an interview!' I shriek.

  God, I’m glad Martin’s not on the floor today. Then I’d have to take holiday for it instead of calling in sick.

  Come on, everyone does it. And, in this office, I mean everyone. It's in the unofficial staff handbook.

  'Let me see,' Cynthia says, reaching for the letter.

  I hand it over. I want her to read it anyway, just so I’m sure I’m not dreaming.

  'You got an interview!' she shrieks. 'That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you and hardly even jealous at all.'

  I beam stupidly at her. This is like having a kilogram bar of Dairy Milk injected straight into my bloodstream.

  'How much does this job pay?' Cynthia demands.

  'I don’t know,' I say dreamily. 'I can’t even remember what the company does. But who cares? It’ll be so much better than here, if only because it doesn’t have Martin.'

  'Look it up on the Internet,' Cynthia says enthusiastically. I’m so blissed out that I don’t even care that she’s just using this as an excuse to procrastinate.

  I take the letter back from her and type in the address of the company website. Internet Explorer creaks into action at its usual break-neck speed – that of a lethargic snail.

  Hey, this place looks pretty cool. But then anything does when you work in insurance.

  'Well, what do they do?' Cynthia asks, between Maltesers.

  I start to laugh. 'They’re a recruitment company,' I choke out. I laugh more and more. 'I…would…be…helping…other…people…find…jobs.'

  Cynthia starts to laugh too. Before long we’re verging on hysteria. The people wandering through admin stop looking curious and start looking worried.

  'So you’re going to be a…' Cynthia suppresses another fit of the giggles, '…recruitment consultant?'

  'Well, no,' I say, checking the letter again. 'They want an administrator. By the looks of it, I’d be doing pretty much what I do here, but I’d get to go on reception as well, so a bit of variety involved. Plus, it’s more money.' I scan the profile on the website. 'Still not a lot, but more.'

  Beggars can’t be choosers. My present salary barely reaches five figures. Intensely depressing. All my teachers told me that a degree would mean a high paid job. They lied.

  'When’s the interview?' Cynthia asks, tapping her nails on the desktop.

  'Friday,' I say automatically. Then I look again. 'Oh God, this Friday. That’s inhuman. I’m not ready. I can’t possibly read all those books I got in time. I haven’t even picked an outfit.'

  'Maybe you could ask Matt to help you prepare?' Cynthia suggests.

  Now that’s a good idea. I will. I’ll ask Will to help me prepare.

  **

  My new optimistic mood, once I’ve gone firmly into denial over how soon my fate will be decided, makes it really, really difficult not to tell everyone about my interview. It’s an accepted part of the whole sick day thing that you don’t tell anyone about it until after you’ve done it. Then everyone glosses over that bit.

  But Julie, I can tell Julie. So I go to see her instead.

  Julie’s in tears, or very close. That’s not right.

  'What’s the matter?' I ask, stealing the chair from the empty cubicle beside her.

  Julie wipes her eyes with a tissue, all her concealer coming away from the dark circles underneath them. 'It’s nothing,' she sniffs. 'Just another nasty caller.'

  They do get some horrendous ones. Is it any wonder we get through so many biscuits in this office?

  But negotiators don’t usually cry. They often swear, they never waste holiday or sick leave and one once punched a hole in the wall, but they don’t cry.
<
br />   'You don’t usually cry,' I point out, handing her another tissue.

  'PMS,' Julie answers. Another tear rolls slowly down her face. 'And you know I always let these things get to me. It’s silly really, but it’s so hard not to take it personally.'

  Julie is definitely the most sensitive of the lot. Personally, I think the job is too stressful for her. In fact, I think it’s too stressful for anyone capable of experiencing the full range of human emotions.

  'Do you want to get an early lunch?' I ask sympathetically.

  So what if it’s only eleven? My adrenaline surge has made me hungry and Julie’s in pain.

  'I can’t, I have too much work to do,' Julie says, resolutely pulling herself together. 'I’ll talk to you later, okay?'

  'Okay,' I agree reluctantly. I can’t exactly force her.

  Damn, I guess that means I have to get back to my own job.

  **

  I’m not overly fond of libraries these days. They tend to invoke flashbacks to when I was revising for finals. When I discovered that I knew hardly anything about economics and that I didn’t understand what I did know. The reason that I’m going to one now is because I have to talk to Beth. And the reason for that is that I just fixed another blind date for tomorrow night.

  I have complete confidence that this one will be a success.

  I find Beth exactly where I expected to find her, in the children's library, pottering around tiding up the books that today’s batch of ankle-biters have left all over the floor. Whenever I see Beth at work, I always find two things very hard to believe. One, that there’s a worse job than mine and two, that Beth doesn't realise she has it.

  'Hello, Mel,' Beth says warmly, looking tired but content, as opposed to tired and fed up like I would be. 'You don’t usually come here, is everything alright at home?'

  'It’s fine,' I say, perching myself precariously on a table shaped like a ladybird. 'I just thought I’d pop by for a quick chat.'

  Is it my imagination, or is there the tiniest hint of suspicion on Beth’s face? Hmm, maybe she’s finally learning to translate that phrase.