The Dr Pepper Prophecies

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  'I thought you’d say that,' I begin, 'but…'

  I pause. I run her response through my head once again.

  'Really?' I ask, amazed. 'I thought you’d try to get out of it. I mean, you never go anywhere except work. Apart from that weekend at your…'

  I break off. 'Beth?' I say curiously. 'Where did you go that weekend you were away?'

  'I went to my mother’s,' Beth says, normally enough, but there’s a touch of a pink hue to the skin on her neck.

  She brings over our plates to the table I’ve already set and sits down opposite me.

  'No, really,' I press her. 'I know you didn’t go to see her, because she called Friday night after you left. And don’t even think about telling me she’s got amnesia or some soap opera excuse like that. Where did you really go?'

  Beth pauses, fork in hand. 'You’re right,' she admits. 'I wasn’t at my mother’s.'

  And then she starts calmly eating her lasagne.

  I watch her for a few minutes. Not eating, even with the gorgeous smell of my dinner tempting me to abandon all conversation.

  'You’re not going to tell me where you were, are you?' I say finally, when my stomach demands immediate clarification of the position.

  'No,' Beth says, kindly but firmly, 'I’m not.' She pauses. 'At least, not yet.'

  And I thought waiting for results day was bad.

  I can’t believe she’s not going to tell me.

  **

  A full thirty-six hours later, Beth still hasn’t told me. I’ve told Patrick that Beth will be there tomorrow and I’ve nearly called home six times. Cynthia is still on vacation, Matt is obviously giving me ‘space’, I’d swear Julie was avoiding me if I could think of any reason why she would be doing that and Martin has taken to popping by for ‘spot-checks’. Otherwise known as those surprise inspections they used to do at guide camp. He’s dying to give me another verbal warning but, unfortunately for him, having no friends means I’m getting stacks of work done. I’m beginning to wish I was paid by the piece.

  It’s a sad day really, when you realise you have nothing better to do at work than work.

  I sit there, doing an impressively efficient job of data-inputting, not even misspelling Mr Focker’s name as I usually would, when I become aware of someone watching me.

  Usually when I feel like this, Martin is watching me. I steel myself for a ‘nice little quiz’ on underwriters (the people who word your insurance policy so precisely that you end up not being able to claim for anything) and office procedures and look up.

  It isn’t Martin. It’s my mother.

  There is a distinct possibility that I may be hallucinating.

  A couple of stressed negotiators head for the filing cabinets, staring at her as they go past, which knocks that idea on the head.

  It’s as if someone has cut her out of a magazine and pasted her onto the background of my office. In her could-never-be-fashionable blue dress and cream cardigan, her hair all pinned back, she fits in like a pigeon amongst bats. It’s bizarre, almost surreal, that she’s actually here.

  She approaches me, clutching her skirt. She’s nervous, I realise. My own mother is nervous about speaking to me.

  'Hello, darling,' she says awkwardly, when she reaches my desk. 'I just thought I’d pop in to visit you.'

  My parents don’t have a car anymore. My dad refused even to let my mother learn to drive. Just popping in requires a two-hour bus trip.

  'I suppose you’re very busy,' she says, looking at the pile of claim forms on my desk.

  'I do have a lot to do,' I say awkwardly. 'But I’d love a reason not to do it.'

  The ice doesn’t quite break, but it melts a little. Mum smiles weakly.

  'We could go to the staff room,' I suggest. I check my watch. It’s eleven-thirty. Diet Coke Break. 'There shouldn’t be anyone in there at this time.'

  Mum nods in acquiescence, disturbingly in the same way as she does to my Dad, and follows me without further comment as I get up and lead the way.

  She has a good look round the staffroom while I busy myself making coffee, a rather pained expression on her face. It's certainly not an inviting place. They spent thousands on a fancy conference room and pennies on this. The furniture is battered and stained and everything is in some shade of grey. There may even be fifty.

  I bring two mugs of coffee over and we sit together. 'I’m sorry I didn’t call back,' I say, before the ice between us has a chance to re-harden. 'I knew Dad would probably answer. And I didn't know what to say.'

  My mother has her hands folded neatly in her lap and she’s sitting up perfectly straight, the way she would always softly encourage me and Brittany to do when we were young. The way we always didn’t. I find myself trying to force my now-lazy spine to copy hers.

  'I don’t think that there’s anything you need to say to us,' Mum says, in her low, soft voice. 'I think that there are things we…or I, at least…should say to you.'

  Typical that it's Mum trying to fix things.

  'You don’t have to…' I try to say.

  Mum shakes her head. 'There are things that I want you to know.'

  She takes a deep breath. 'When I was young,' she begins, slowly and carefully, 'I was taught that my future was not something I should worry about. I should go to school until I could leave, work in an office and then marry the first suitable man who made me an offer. All of which I did.'

  She pauses. Her eyes look almost sad. 'I am now forty-five years old,' she continues, her voice wavering a tiny bit, 'and I have been nothing in my life but a wife and mother. I love my family, but now you're grown and there is really little for me to do with my time.'

  'You have choices I would never have dreamed of when I was a girl. Brittany has made my choices again. I think that your father and I have discouraged you both from adventuring. Your father intentionally, me by accident.'

  She squeezes my hand. 'I expected you to marry Alan Marshall,' she says, 'although I never truly liked him. When you applied for university, I believed you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You have made your own decisions and taken risks I would never have had the courage to take. And for that, and countless other things, I’m very proud to call you my daughter.'

  I feel suddenly lighter. Like I did on the Duke of Edinburgh Award expedition when I finally took my backpack off. I’m not a total failure. I have done something with my life.

  'Do you really want to move?' I ask. Deep down, I think I already know the answer.

  Mum shakes her head. 'No,' she says resignedly. 'I don't.'

  'Well then say so,' I say, impassioned. 'Put your foot down. It’s not too late to start affecting your own life.'

  I can see Mum shying away from the idea.

  'I couldn’t,' she says. 'If your father decides to sell, I’ll go along with it.'

  'But the house is half yours,' I insist. 'And he’d be lost without you. He doesn’t even know where the towels are kept.'

  'The man is the head…' my mother starts to say.

  'That’s crap,' I say flatly, almost forgetting that I’m talking to my mother. 'You own half the house, you’re half the marriage so you get half the say. Tell him you want to stay and make him listen.'

  My mother smiles wryly. 'You still have much to learn about men, my darling,' she says.

  'I know about Will,' I shoot back. 'He understands the concept of equals. What more proof do you need that a Y chromosome doesn’t eliminate the ability to compromise? It’s completely unreasonable of Dad to expect you to casually pull up your roots and replant yourself in an area where you know no one and you need to make him see that.'

  'Had I known political posturing was part of your job description,' comes Martin’s irritated voice from the door, 'I would have issued you with a regulation soap box. Please save your ideologies for designated break times and return to work.'

  He disappears again, face like a weasel’s.

  'Charming man,' my mother says. 'Your boss, I take it
?'

  I nod. 'And my ex,' I explain. 'He dumped me as soon as he got the job here and he’s been victimising me ever since.'

  'That doesn’t seem right,' Mum says, frowning. 'Isn’t there anyone you could speak to about his behaviour?'

  'Yeah,' I say grimly, 'him. I’m trying to find a new job, but no luck so far.'

  Mum looks surprised and concerned. 'And is he representative of the kind of man you usually see?' she asks.

  'Oh no,' I say cynically, 'I’ve dated much worse. It’s not easy to find the good guys. Hunting grounds have stopped being offices and starting being reality TV shows.'

  'I think you can be sure you are better off without that one,' Mum says, returning to Martin, 'but I suppose I should let you get back to work so we don’t antagonise him any further.'

  'That’s probably a good idea,' I admit reluctantly.

  Mum picks up her coat, tipping her bag over as she stands up. And envelope falls out of it and I bend down to pick it up.

  It’s an official one, I notice, but I don’t think it’s a bill. N.A.I.D. it says on the logo. What’s that? And why is she carrying it around in her bag?

  Mum takes it from me quickly and shoves it in her bag. 'Just a letter from a friend,' she says quickly.

  Mmm, a friend who writes on company stationery.

  Wonderful, more mysteries.

  **

  I’m wondering about it again when I get home from pretending to meet Beth on Friday. I told her I’d had to go straight up to town after work to get a present for Mum's birthday (which isn't until November, but she doesn't know that) and I’d meet her there. By now she should be meeting Patrick. Beth will have a great time and I will have a nice quiet evening all to myself.

  Perfection.

  Perfection lasts about an hour. Maybe less. I’m just settling down on the sofa with a Blackadder DVD and a fresh batch of Angel Delight when the door is unlocked and thrown open.

  For the record, I mean thrown. The door handle nearly punctures the wall.

  It’s Beth and yet not Beth. Beth’s psychotic twin sister. The angel has fallen from grace. Her hair is wild, her expression savage and I am seriously scared.

  'What the hell is wrong with you?' she screams, at such a high pitch I half expect the light bulb to shatter. 'Why can’t you understand plain English?'

  She advances on me and I instinctively shrink back against the far arm of the sofa.

  'I don’t want to go out with Patrick,' she shouts. 'How can that mean I want you to set me up with him? Why the hell can’t you just leave me alone?'

  God, what on Earth happened?

  'Are you okay?' I ask tentatively, the dormouse facing the lion.

  'No, I am not fucking okay!' Beth screams at me, kicking over the coffee table. A chocolate puddle spreads slowly over the carpet.

  She’s drunk, I’m sure of it. Seriously, frighteningly drunk.

  'And you know what?' she says, now close enough for me to smell her breath and know for sure, 'you can no longer ask me that question. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to speak to you and I’m sure as hell not going to keep living with you. Get out!'

  She jabs her finger at the door. When I don’t move, she grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet.

  'Get out!' she repeats, shoving me over to the door. She pushes me outside and slams the door behind me.

  'And stay out!' I hear through the door.

  I stare at the door from the wrong side of it. The paint is peeling a bit round the edges and the metal number has lost a screw. I don’t know how to react.

  That's Beth in there. Beth. Beth who, until this moment, I thought was the embodiment of The Seven Deadly Virtues. Calm, sensible, teetotal Beth.

  I’m locked out. I have no money. I’ve just been thrown out of my own home. I’m wearing fluffy elephant slippers on my feet.

  What do I do? Where do I go?

  I’m having a crisis. And there's only one thing I can do in a crisis.

  Me and my elephant friends take the first step towards Will.

  Chapter 23

  Needless to say I get some rather strange looks on the way, although a group of glittery teenagers seem to think I’m making some anti-convention statement and yell out a few encouraging-sounding words that, before now, I didn’t know formed part of the English language.

  With summer limping towards us, it's still quite light. It's amazing how…normal the world looks. It doesn't seem right that my life can be turned upside down and yet everyone else's is unchanged.

  Did you ever see The Truman Show? The only guy the world really did revolve around. For the rest of us…we're just not that important, I guess.

  The further I get from home, the more real the situation becomes. And the more afraid I get of what’s going to happen next. I mean, I live there. I can’t exactly never go back.

  Although I suppose I could send Will round for my stuff.

  And I’m sure he’d let me stay with him.

  Of course, then I’d have to lie in bed at night knowing that Will and Natalie were in his room together.

  God, what am I going to do?

  Will’s caretaker (well, his building's caretaker) recognises me and pauses in mending the outside light to let me in, barely raising an eyebrow at my slippers. Which is probably because I turned up dressed as a carrot last Halloween. And a goblin the one before that. I mutter a thank you and trudge up the stairs.

  Which is when it first occurs to me that Will might not be there. Or that he might be there with Natalie.

  What would I do then?

  I reach his door and ring the bell. Not once, not twice, but six times. I wait, concentrating on visualising Will answering the door.

  Although I suppose visualisation can’t help much if he’s not there.

  Even when I’ve waited long enough for a tortoise to reach the door, I refuse to give up. He could be in the shower, or be wearing earplugs, and be not quite sure if the bell has rung or not.

  So I ring it again. Six more times.

  The minutes tick by. No Will. Not even any sounds of movement inside.

  After watching five long minutes on my watch, I admit it to myself. Will is not here.

  I slump to the floor outside his door and lean back on it. Suddenly my legs can’t hold me up anymore. Reality has just bitten and the blood loss has left me too weak to stand.

  I’m homeless. I’m alone. I have no place to go and no one to turn to.

  I pull off my elephants and hug them to my chest the way I usually do with my pillow when I’m upset and Will isn’t there. And I start to cry.

  Tears drip uselessly down my face and onto the carpet.

  I’m homeless and alone.

  I’m homeless and alone.

  I’m home…

  The lift wirrs up to my floor and the little number at the top lights up as it shudders to a halt. The doors jerk open and Will steps out.

  He might as well be dressed in shining armour instead of battered jeans and a Galaxy Quest t-shirt. I have never been so utterly grateful to see anyone in my entire life.

  'Mel,' Will exclaims, startled to say the least. 'What on Earth…?'

  That’s as far as he gets before I, having scrambled to my feet the moment I saw him, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. On the mouth. And…he kind of kisses me back.

  Crap, why did I do that?

  I suddenly feel all nervous and panicky. I’ve never kissed Will like that before. I don’t know what to do with myself.

  And I never imagined that it would make me feel like that.

  I mean, I never imagined it full stop.

  And I can’t read Will’s expression and that’s even scarier to me.

  'What happened?' Will asks, sounding concerned but more-or-less natural, while I put my slippers back on as something to occupy myself with.

  'Beth threw me out of the flat,' I say, daring to look up at him in the hope that the enormity of my statement will render the awkwardness obsol
ete.

  Will looks as though I’ve told him that aliens have landed in Leicester Square.

  Although, if I really did say that he’d probably get all excited and want to go there and see.

  'Beth? Threw you out?' Will repeats.

  I nod.

  Will rakes a hand through his hair. 'Frell,' he says confusedly. 'What…I mean, why…are you okay? How long have you been here?'

  'I just got here,' I say, rubbing my eyes on my sleeve. 'And you weren’t here and I didn’t know where else to go.'

  Will hugs me and holds me close. 'I’m here now,' he murmurs into my hair. 'Come in and get cleaned up and I’ll find you something to wear.' He frowns. 'I’m sure I have something somewhere that won’t fall off you.'

  Maybe I should have mentioned that I’m also wearing my pyjamas with flying pigs on them. I’m not even wearing a bra.

  Which is probably another reason why the caretaker was so pleased to see me.

  He unlocks the door and I pad into the flat in my elephants, Will’s hand resting lightly on the small of my back. I’m getting that warm feeling again.

  What does this mean?

  **

  I’m lying in Will’s absolutely massive bathtub, enjoying the mountain of bubbles – in a delightfully childish way – that I’ve created with half a bottle of extremely expensive-looking foam bath that must belong to Natalie.

  Share and share alike. Her fault for leaving it there.

  Although I’m trying not to let it, Will’s kiss is on instant replay in my mind. I can’t get it out of my head.

  Will and I are friends. We always have been. Nothing else. We’ve never lost a dare, or got drunk and depressed, or won each other at spin the bottle. It just hasn’t been an issue.

  But I’ve never felt that way when anyone else kissed me.

  There’s that little voice again.

  I lie back and soak my hair. I'll have an afro later, but I don't care.

  Being a good kisser doesn’t make him boyfriend material, does it? Enjoying one little kiss doesn’t mean I fancy him.

  What does it mean then?