The Dr Pepper Prophecies

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  'Wonderfully fun,' Patrick says enthusiastically. 'Bit of a rebel, like the whole crowd.'

  I stare at him and then at Beth, who avoids my gaze. Beth was a rebel? How does a schoolgirl rebel become a librarian? He’s got to be thinking of someone else.

  'Beth?' I say. 'You can’t be serious.'

  Patrick laughs. 'We had a great time, back in the old days. We were all devastated when you left, old girl.'

  Beth gives rather a weak smile. 'I needed a change of scenery,' she says. 'It just got a bit much, I didn’t want to board anymore.'

  'And now you spend your life surrounded by books.' Patrick shakes his head in mock sadness. 'Terrible waste. I’ll have to bring you to one of our parties, get you back in with the fast set.'

  Beth’s gone pale. What on Earth is she afraid of?

  'I don’t have that much free time,' she says.

  Beth volunteers to do other people’s work. Need I say more?

  'Sure you do,' I say. Then, to Patrick, 'She’s just shy.'

  'Goodness,' Patrick says, 'she has changed.'

  He produces a minute notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and scribbles on it.

  'Here’s my number,' he says, handing a tiny page to Beth. 'Don’t be upset if the bloody thing cuts out on you. Endless trouble it’s giving me.'

  Beth takes it and stuffs it into her handbag without even glancing at it. 'Thank you,' she says. Politely, but not encouragingly.

  She’s so not going to call.

  'Are you still in touch with any of the old crowd?' Patrick asks Beth.

  'No,' she says. 'Not really. We…grew apart.'

  Patrick considers this. 'Well…truth be told I don’t see a lot of them either these days. Still get together with Harry and Colin from time to time though.'

  Beth doesn’t even say ‘Oh yes?’. She is just making no effort at all to keep the conversation going.

  'So, Patrick,' Matt says from beside me. 'What exactly do you do?'

  'Family business,' Patrick says, pouring himself more white wine. 'Art collections, terribly dull. Gives me a chance to get around, though. Just came back from Italy last week.'

  'I’ve never been to Italy,' I say. 'Is it nice?'

  'Pleasant enough, pleasant enough. If you know where to go. Not the same as it was though. Too many bloody tourists.'

  'Aren’t you a tourist when you go?' Matt asks mildly. I have a slight suspicion that he doesn’t like Patrick.

  'Maybe, maybe,' Patrick says, not looking in the least offended. 'But we have a charming little villa a quick stroll from Rome, so I like to think of myself as a native. Not that I’d want to live there permanently, that is. Food’s good, but half the people don’t speak English.'

  Hmm, I think. Handsome, friendly and, by the sound of it, loaded. Now this is what Beth needs.

  Matt is now looking vaguely amused, but in a dangerous way.

  'That might be because they’re Italian,' he says.

  'Yes, but everyone speaks English now. Most used language in the world.'

  'Actually, that’s Mandarin Chinese,' Beth says quietly.

  Patrick pulls a face. 'Can’t believe that, who’d want to speak Mandarin Chinese? Ridiculously complicated. English is the only one that makes sense to have as an international language.'

  'How is your sister?' Beth asks suddenly, years of practise in preventing fights between little boys coming in handy.

  'Celia is very well,' Patrick says, with an air that suggests that the whole last part of the conversation has been wiped from his mind by the introduction of a new topic. 'Married now, to a delightful old fellow with an estate on the Somerset border. And a couple of little horrors to go with it.'

  Horrors? Like a poltergeist in the cellar?

  'Horrors?' I ask. It’s going to bug me all night otherwise.

  'Dear little Jemima and Jeremy – named after Beatrix Potter characters, would you believe it?'

  Ah, children. Obviously.

  'How old are they?' I ask.

  'Just a couple of months.'

  'Oh, still in nappies. What fun.'

  Patrick blinks at me for a few seconds. 'Dogs,' he says, when light dawns. 'Jeremy and Jemima are the guard dogs.'

  Okay, not children.

  'Oh right,' I say. 'Sorry.'

  'Easy mistake to make, easy mistake,' Patrick replies, waving off my last words. 'God forbid those two actually do breed. Charming fellow, but not exactly well endowed in the looks department. Not that Celia is a stunner herself, although she does have a very fine set of teeth on her.'

  Celia was the sister, right? Not another dog?

  Patrick turns to Beth, obviously bored by this subject. 'So tell me,' he says cheerfully, 'what have a pile of books and a pack of screaming ankle-biters got that’s made you abandon your old set?'

  **

  We get home later than I expected but earlier than I wanted, since I sensed Matt had had enough. Personally, I could have sat and listened to Patrick for hours, but I have to get up in the morning too.

  I wish I was one of those people who can stay awake all night and still function in the morning, but I’m not. I got no end of stick for it at university. I once tried to stay up until three and then go to a 9a.m. lecture, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Which would have been fine if I hadn't then had an erotic dream about the lecturer and started moaning and calling his name.

  I couldn't face him again after that. Considering he was my supervisor, perhaps it's not surprising that I ended up with a third.

  Beth goes right to her bedroom as soon as she gets her coat off. She throws the piece of paper with Patrick’s phone number on it in the sitting room bin as she walks past it.

  I go to my room, dump my stuff, yank on my pyjamas and wait.

  As soon as I hear water running and know Beth’s safely in the shower, I sneak back out of my room and rescue the scrap of paper from the bin. Then I sneak back into my room and hide it in my battered jewellery box.

  Because, after all, you shouldn’t burn your bridges.

  This is absolutely in her best interests.

  I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

  I really have to stop saying that.

  Chapter 19

  Making covert phone calls from the office isn’t something I’ve done that much of. Just the odd call to Will – because I’m about to phone one of the new claimants, who wants £20 for an eyelash curler they left in a hotel three years ago, and scream at them to get a life – and to my mother, as it gives me built in excuses to get off the phone. The filing cabinet’s come alive and started eating someone’s tie, that sort of thing.

  But now I’m making a call so that I can’t be overheard. It’s like Beth’s my wife and I’m having an affair. I’m getting the same vaguely ridiculous feeling I get whenever she gets home before I do and I’m greeted with ‘How was work? Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes.'.

  Cynthia is staring at her computer screen like one of those cartoon kids whose eyes have gone square from too much TV. Ever since the transformation, she’s managed to generate the impression that her wonderfully creative soul is being tortured and imprisoned here. I keep expecting her to start wearing a beret and a hang-dog expression. Although hopefully she won't cut her ear off.

  'For whom does this bell toll?' comes the cheery voice.

  I sternly order back a laugh. 'Hi, Patrick,' I say. 'This is Mel, Beth’s flatmate.'

  'Wonderful,' he says. 'How are you?'

  'Fine,' I say. 'Listen, do you still want to get together with Beth?'

  'Of course.'

  'I can fix it up,' I tell him, looking around for eavesdroppers and then feeling ridiculous for doing it. 'I’ll talk her into it, no problem. She’s just shy. The blind dates rather put her off.'

  'That would be excellent.'

  'Call back in a couple of days,' I suggest. 'And I bet she’ll be thrilled to hear from you.'

  'Is she there now?'

  I look at the cl
ock. It’s 10 a.m. Who’s home at that time on a Friday?

  'No, we’re both at work,' I say.

  'Ah yes, of course. A few days you say? That’s perfect. Thank you, Mel.'

  'No problem,' I say, feeling a rush of kudos, and hang up.

  'Who was that?'

  I jump about a foot in the air and then feel guilty for no reason. Fortunately, it’s Matt, not Martin.

  'Just Patrick,' I say, trying to look unruffled. 'I’m helping him fix up a date with Beth.'

  'Really?' Matt says doubtfully. 'Can’t say I thought much of him actually. I don’t like that type, never have.'

  'Oh,' I say.

  I'm a little tired of all this pessimism. Patrick is friendly, polite and wealthy and well-connected to boot. What is there to object to? And he's known Beth for years. Alright she doesn't seem to have wholly fond memories, but they were school kids for God's sake! They probably fell out over a lost pencil case.

  'Christ, I’m bored,' Cynthia announces suddenly, shoving herself back from her desk. 'This is positively inhuman. Being shut up in a badly air-conditioned box, surrounded by a small rainforest of paper, doing a job that would’ve made Mother Theresa into an alcoholic. When I think I could be here for the rest of my life…'

  An appalled expression appears on her face. I’m pretty sure there’s a matching one on my own. The rest of my life in this place. I may as well commit suicide. Hell would be a step up.

  'It’s not that bad,' Matt says, with the easy acceptance that comes from a) still having novelty on your side and b) knowing that your escape route is soon to be accessible.

  'It is if you’ve already wasted the best years of your life in it,' Cynthia declares, with just a touch of melodrama. 'With your heart drying up a little more everyday. Not to mention other very important body parts.'

  Another image I could have done without.

  Matt looks a little disturbed. 'You have a point,' he admits.

  'Of course I have a point,' Cynthia says, with more passion than she’s shown all day. Possibly all her life. 'A steady, secure job – that’s what we’re told real life is. Well if this is real life then I can’t see that it’s worth our while keeping the human species going. Another day, another tree’s worth of pointless forms. What, precisely, are we contributing?'

  I’m sure Martin has an answer to that one, but I’m damned if I do.

  'Cynthia,' I ask, feeling more depressed by the second, 'do you have anymore chocolate?'

  Cynthia digs in her side drawer and produces a virtual selection box, which she lays out on her desk. I grab a Boost. I figure I could use one.

  Cynthia sighs, contemplating a fruit and nut bar. 'Chocolate,' she says despairingly. 'Safer than cocaine, easier to get hold of than Prozac. The government’s most effective way to prevent revolution.'

  'You don’t think you’re exaggerating slightly?' Matt asks in amusement.

  'No,' Cynthia and I say in unison.

  'If free supplies of chocolate were in any political party’s platform,' Cynthia continues, 'they’d win by a landslide. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t vote for them. But it doesn’t matter anyhow,' she says despondently. 'It will never happen. All the politicians are either men who don’t have a clue what women are about, or women who’ve forgotten where their loyalties lie. No wonder the country’s so screwed up.'

  Matt is staring at her in fascination.

  'Have you ever considered applying to be on Big Brother?' he asks. 'I bet you wouldn’t get voted out.'

  Cynthia seems to consider this a compliment. That is worrying.

  I've watched some pretty crap TV, but I will go on record that I have never seen a single episode of Big Brother. Hard as it is sometimes, I try to maintain some faith in human nature and I've always suspected that that show would destroy it forever.

  'You know,' she says thoughtfully, 'that’s not such a bad idea. Maybe I'll look into it.'

  Now I’m definitely having second thoughts about what I’ve created.

  'At the very least, it would be better than being here.'

  Debatable.

  'Anyway,' she says, cheering up. 'Tonight I have the greatest night planned. I’m going to this great new club and, come alcohol poisoning or foot cramps, I’m not sleeping at home tonight.'

  I guess since Matt’s standing right beside me, it would be a bit insensitive to ask if I can go with her.

  'Have fun,' I say lamely.

  Cynthia grins. 'Oh, don’t worry,' she says, winking at me. 'I will.'

  **

  Beth and I are having a quiet, girly night in tonight. Which is to say that we’re watching Notting Hill and pretending that the mountain of Chinese takeaway, pizza and chocolate we’ve got spread out is really a perfectly reasonable amount of food for two people.

  'Would you ever want to go out with a celebrity?' I ask lazily, debating with myself over whether I can find space for the last slice of pizza. I don't think I can. Not unless I cut out a vital organ.

  'No,' Beth says, equally lazily, from her chair. 'The film makes it look very romantic, but it would be terribly difficult in real life. Imagine having photographers follow you everywhere you went.'

  The closest I ever got to fame was having my photo taken at a school fête when I was seven, with my face made up like a butterfly. Sometimes I think it would be nice. You know, being recognised and signing autographs and doing interviews. But then, doing it when you feel great is one thing. Doing it when you feel like something from the bottom of a cesspit is something else.

  'Mmmm,' I say nodding slowly. 'Plus, in that movie it’s a guy going out with a famous girl. I think it would be way harder for a girl to go out with a famous guy.'

  There’s a comfortable silence.

  'Can you pass the lemonade?' Beth asks, not moving.

  'No,' I say, not moving either. 'I’m too full to move. You get it.'

  Beth groans. 'My stomach doesn’t bend anymore,' she says.

  We lie there, doing nothing, moving nothing except our necks. Post-Christmas dinner paralysis, only in spring.

  The doorbell rings.

  Why is it that people never come round when you want them to and do when you don’t? How do they know? It’s like their brains are remote-controlled and someone’s triggered an alarm. Mel is comatose, must go see her.

  Beth and I meet each other’s eyes. It’s a silent battle of wills. One of us must get up and answer the door.

  Neither of us moves.

  The doorbell goes again. And again. This better not be that encyclopaedia salesman again.

  'Mel!' I hear. Sounds like Cynthia. Crap, that means I have to get up.

  I heave myself out of my chair like I’m eight months pregnant and pad over to the door in my thick, comfy bed socks.

  It is Cynthia. She looks terrible. Her face is pale and mascara is water-skiing down her cheeks.

  I’m guessing that her big night out didn’t go quite as she’d planned.

  'Hi,' she says uncertainly. 'I'm sorry to barge in on you. Things didn't go so well.'

  Don’t tell me, all the men there were gay.

  'What happened?' I ask, in my best ‘crisis management’ tone of voice. The best I can manage in my current stuffed and sleepy state anyway.

  Cynthia kind of crumples right in front of my eyes. 'I was attacked,' she sobs. 'He tried to rape me.'

  **

  Ten minutes later and we have Cynthia on the sofa, drinking a huge mug of hot chocolate. The door is locked and Hugh Grant’s voice no longer forms the soundtrack to our lives.

  She's huddled into a ball and keeps trying to pull her skirt further down her legs. It's leather, so it doesn't really stretch. Her skimpy top does nothing to hide the bruises that are coming up on her shoulders.

  'The place was really great and I was having such a good time,' Cynthia says, her voice all shaky. 'I met this really attractive guy. He bought me a drink, we danced and then he suggested going to another place he knew that was quieter, s
o we could talk. So we went and then we took this shortcut he knew down an alley...'

  'You went into an alley with a total stranger?' I exclaim, before I can stop myself. 'Are you nuts?'

  Cynthia starts to sob again and Beth comforts her, glaring at me.

  'That won’t help her just now,' she says firmly.

  'Sorry,' I say. I hardly know what I’m saying anymore. I’m in shock. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe I was so cynical when she showed up.

  'I’d done it before,' Cynthia tries to explain. 'And he didn’t look dangerous to me. He was polite and well-dressed and kind and he'd been the perfect gentleman. It was only a five minute walk, it seemed silly not to agree. But then he pushed me up against a wall and he…'

  She chokes back more tears.

  'I got away,' she gulps. 'I bit and I kicked and I punched him as hard as I could, wherever I could.'

  The tiniest smile creeps out from behind the general cloud.

  'I think I broke his tooth,' she says, proud in a small way. 'And possibly his nose. Plus I don’t think he’ll feel up to it for a few days. I kicked him pretty hard in the crotch.'

  Will swears being kicked in the balls is more painful than childbirth. I suppose that's one debate that will never be resolved.

  'Good for you,' I say, for want of something better.

  'Are you hurt?' Beth asks, concerned.

  Cynthia shakes her head.

  'No,' she says, her voice steadying out now. 'I’m fine. I managed to get away and run – and then I realised how close I was to your place so I just came here. I don’t think he tried to follow me. It was just the shock.'

  'Would you like to stay here?' Beth asks. 'I could make up the sofa.'

  'No, I'll be fine at home,' Cynthia says positively, wiping her eyes with a tissue. 'I just don't want to walk back, that’s all.'

  'I’ll call you a cab,' Beth says, heading into her bedroom for her address book.

  'The guy at the cab company has a crush on Beth,' I tell Cynthia once Beth’s bedroom door is closed. 'She can get a cab anytime. I think he’d actually hire a car from somewhere else if they didn’t have one free.'

  Cynthia smiles weakly. She’s calmed down, which I take to be a good sign.