The Dr Pepper Prophecies

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  Funny, just what Susan said.

  'Yes, but him leaving her for me isn’t the same as him leaving her first and then turning to me,' I say, trying to explain. 'If I made the first move, even if he broke up with her right away she’d always be there. I can’t start something with Will unless he comes to me free and ready, because he knows he doesn’t want anyone but me.'

  Brittany sighs. 'You don’t think you might be asking too much?' she asks softly. 'Many people refuse to be single, sticking with the wrong one until somebody better comes along. If Will’s one of them, you could be waiting for the rest of your life.'

  'If Will is one of them, then he’s not the man I think he is,' I say firmly. 'I don’t keel over and die when I’m single and I don’t want to be with someone who does.'

  'Okay,' Brittany says, sitting back again. 'Your choice. Good luck.'

  I think there’s a rift forming in our new sisterly bond. Quick, fix it. Change the subject.

  'So,' I say, not in the least desperately. 'Ummm…'

  Something. Anything.

  Ooo, have an idea!

  'What was it you wanted my help with?' I ask, trying not to sound relieved at having found a topic. 'You know…when you called me at Will’s?'

  Brittany pushes vegetables around her plate, completely spoiling their symmetry.

  'I want to get a job,' she says nervously. 'When we move to Cornwall. I thought I could hire a nanny to look after James, at least part-time. We can afford it. Phillip’s against it, of course, but I’ll convince him. I’ll have to. I can’t live like this for the rest of my life. I don’t want to end up just being a ghost like Mum.'

  And here was I thinking I was the only one who thought of her like that.

  'So, I was wondering,' she says,' if you could help me? You know, with a CV and things. If you have time. I’m sure you know way more about that sort of thing than me.'

  I feel a sudden desire to laugh. 'Actually,' I confess, 'I’m terrible at it.'

  Her face falls.

  'But Will’s great!' I add quickly. 'He helped me do mine and it looks really good. I still don’t have a job, but it’s not his fault that I’m terrible at interviews. You should call him. He always refused to hate you and if you tell him we made up he’ll be pleased and maybe he’ll come round and see me again. A win-win situation.'

  Brittany looks much more cheerful.

  'Oh and I have a great idea about how you can get Phillip to hire a nanny,' I say, inspiration hitting at just the right moment.

  'How?' Brittany says, interested.

  'Tell him Dad wants to move in with you,' I say triumphantly. 'Mum too. To supervise their only grandchild’s upbringing. And the only way to put them off is to hire a nanny with proper training.'

  A smile slowly spreads over Brittany’s face.

  'That might work,' she says thoughtfully. 'Of course, they did decide not to move, didn’t they?'

  'I don’t think Phillip needs to know that just yet,' I reply.

  We grin at each other over the table. Then we shake hands. Partners in crime.

  At last.

  Chapter 28

  The next day starts off worryingly due to the fact that Cynthia arrives a) on time and b) with a bright, chirpy Annie-esque smile on her face. I spend the next ten minutes ready to bolt if I hear the opening notes of ‘Tomorrow’.

  'You’re in a good mood,' I say tentatively.

  'I am,' Cynthia answers, starting to attack her pile of claims with frightening zeal.

  'Any particular reason?' I ask, watching her like Mad-eye Moody for any signs of a newly-acquired drug habit.

  'Because,' Cynthia says, turning to give me a beam, 'I’ve just handed in my notice.'

  My feelings are a little mixed about this. Why can’t that be me? How can it be her? What did Martin’s face look like when she told him?

  'But how can you afford it?' I ask, bewildered. No work = no money, unless you save. Which is virtually impossible on what we earn.

  'My mother left some money,' Cynthia says, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. 'In fact, quite a lot of money. Seems that her ‘Us poor folks can’t afford luxuries like takeways thing was a complete act and not just an exaggeration. Plus I’m selling the house. Get it on the market, keep in touch by e-mail, but basically leave it to the estate agent. It’s probably worth three times what she bought it for and I can’t wait to see the back of it.'

  God, I wish that would happen to me.

  I don’t mean the parents dying part, obviously. Just the being suddenly wealthy part.

  'So, what are you going to do?' I ask, determined to enjoy this vicariously if nothing else, practising to play Miss Havisham in my old age.

  'I,' Cynthia says triumphantly, 'am going travelling. Round the world, or some of it at least. India, South America, China. All the places I’ve seen in the news without really believing in.'

  'Wow,' I breathe. 'That sounds amazing.'

  To be honest, I’ve never been much of a traveller myself. The thought of being separated by seas from the nearest Cadbury’s factory gives me heart palpitations. But I can’t deny that the idea is appealing. Months spent doing exactly whatever I want – bliss.

  'I’ve got a house full of brochures,' Cynthia says. 'I had to give six weeks’ notice and I’m leaving one week later, come hell or an air-traffic controllers’ strike. If I can’t fly, I’ll swim. I’m starting in Brazil and going on from there. No set plans, just wherever I want to go.'

  'Wow,' I say again, vicariously nervous. 'Do you speak Spanish? Or Portuguese? What do they speak in Brazil anyway?'

  'Not a word of either,' Cynthia says, cheerfully unconcerned. 'But I’ve bought a couple of phrasebooks. I’m sure I’ll get along. Best way to learn a language, I hear.'

  Now I’m intimidated. I’d no more go to a country like that with just a phrase book than I’d go into the lion enclosure at London Zoo with meat sewn into my jacket.

  'How long are you going to be away?' I ask, trying to imagine staying out of England for longer than two weeks. I'd miss fish and chips. And I'd have to take my own personal supply of chocolate.

  'I should think a year,' Cynthia says. 'That’s the usual time, I believe. The money will run out eventually and I’d rather be back here, with a new job, before it does.'

  'Definitely a good idea,' I agree. 'You can’t stay away too long or some things might not be here when you get back.'

  A thought occurs to me. 'Cynthia,' I say, 'what happened to Underwear Guy? Are you still seeing him?'

  It could be my imagination, but I think Cynthia’s blushing under all that make-up.

  'I am,' she says. 'We had a long talk and I told him everything that happened. He was very understanding. He’s a very nice guy.'

  I can’t help smiling. 'You’ve said that a lot,' I say innocently.

  'Well it’s true,' Cynthia says, a trifle defensively.

  A trifle? Where did that expression come from? Why not a sundae? Or a pavlova?

  'And now I suppose you’re breaking up,' I say wryly. 'Pity.'

  Now Cynthia is definitely blushing. Either that or she’s seriously overloaded on blusher.

  'Well…we sort of have an understanding,' she says awkwardly. 'When I get back I’m going to look him up and maybe we’ll try it for real. You know, if both of us still want it.'

  God, this is cute. Her face is less of a picture and more of a valentine’s card.

  'But you’re absolutely, definitely leaving?' I ask, curiously.

  'I’m absolutely, definitely leaving,' Cynthia says decidedly. 'I have to. This is probably my last chance to do this. If I stay, before you know it I’ll be married with 2.4 kids and a steady job and the chance will be gone. I have to go now.'

  I smile wider.

  'What?' Cynthia asks, seeing it.

  'You’re marrying him now?' I say, thoroughly enjoying myself.

  'I didn’t necessarily mean to him,' Cynthia protests, looking incredibly embarrassed.
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  'Of course not,' I say, keeping my smiles to myself this time.

  I may not have met this guy, but I have a good feeling about the two of them. After all, if a man can make you happy when you’re with him, make you even happier by letting you go so you can follow your dreams and welcome you back at the end of it, what more could you ask for?

  I’m sure Will would do that for me.

  If I was the one who was with him.

  Sigh.

  **

  You know, I can’t help thinking that every office in England would grind to a halt if they outlawed sugar. Forget coffee, sugar is what powers the workforce. There may be the tiny little problems of obesity, diabetes and hyperactivity associated with it, but that’s no reason to dislike it. Let us remember (alright, misquote) the sage words of the modern-day God us mortals call Homer Simpson: to sugar, the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems.

  I take a moment to deliberate over my choice of chocolate bar – thus taking more care over this task than any I am actually paid for – punch in the familiar combination and am rewarded by the satisfying thud of my treat hitting the bottom of the machine. I crouch down to get it out.

  I hear the staff room door opening, but where I am there's a counter between me and it and I can’t see who's come in.

  The pub-style bench along the side wall creaks as whoever it is slumps onto it. After a few moments, a muffled sob penetrates the silence.

  My chocolate bar not precisely forgotten, but for once not receiving my full attention as it starts to melt in my hand, I stand up. It’s Julie, looking like a canary with conjunctivitis.

  'What’s wrong?' I ask, momentarily forgetting that she doesn’t know I’m there.

  Julie jumps so high she nearly goes into orbit. Her head snaps up and then she looks down again in a pathetic attempt to pretend that she’s not crying. The old ‘I have something in my eye’ routine, a blatant lie unless that something happens to be a small waterfall.

  'Nothing,' she says, with one of those awful watercolour smiles. 'I just…'

  She’s actually going to say it, isn’t she? Someone has to invent a new excuse for this situation. A medical condition maybe. I mean, they can rationalise arse-squeezing now. I saw it on Ally McBeal.

  Julie’s face crumples like a crisp packet, halfway through her defensive cliché.

  'I feel so humiliated,' she chokes out. 'I don’t think I can go back out there.'

  God, these bloody callers. It’s not Julie’s fault if they can’t get money back. She doesn’t write the policies, anymore than they've read them.

  'Forget about it,' I say sympathetically, coming over and sitting down beside her. 'These callers are failed human cloning experiments. You can’t pay any attention to what they say.'

  'I know,' Julie says, nodding in agreement.

  Two things. One, she didn’t look at me when she said that. Two, she paused just a fraction too long. She’s not upset about a caller.

  'You’re not upset about a caller,' I say.

  'Yes, I am,' Julie protests. 'A really awful one.'

  Now she’s trying to look more upset. This doesn’t make sense. Why would she not want to tell me what’s going on? I want to help her. It’s not like she'd upset me.

  Ah. I think I may be catching on.

  'It’s Paul, isn’t it?' I say.

  'Of course not,' Julie says, way too quickly but trying to look as if the possibility should never even have crossed my mind.

  'Yes, it is,' I say flatly. 'It’s Paul. Something has gone wrong between the two of you, but you’re afraid to tell me since I’m the one who set you up in the first place and I therefore have a vested interest in you two.'

  'It’s not that at all,' Julie says feebly.

  'Julie,' I say, patting her hand. 'I’ve recently learned that my matchmaking talents aren’t what I thought they were. This won’t do anything to me, it’s all about you. Tell me what’s wrong.'

  Julie’s face is Loch Ness. Calm, flat, still, until…the monster appears.

  'He’s having an affair!' she wails.

  That bastard.

  'No!' I say, genuinely shocked. I figured they just had a few couple issues.

  'With two different women.'

  I am in no way personally affected by this. I am merely outraged on Julie’s behalf.

  'At the same time.'

  Okay, now I’m personally affected. If you’re going to have a threesome, at least make your girlfriend part of it.

  I’m sure there are a few things wrong with that sentence, which I’ll analyse at a later time.

  I utter an extremely unflattering description of Paul in Klingon, which needless to say I picked up from Will.

  Will.

  No, now is not the time. Anger trumps wistfulness.

  'I can’t believe it,' I say, standing up and starting to pace. I rip the wrapper off my chocolate bar and tear a bit off with my teeth in the manner of a lion. Or possibly a female preying mantis.

  Hmmm, yes. Second one definitely more appropriate.

  'He has the nerve to cheat on you, humiliate you, while making everyone else think he’s perfect so you look like the one with the problem.'

  I am just outraged on her behalf. I am not over-identifying.

  Yes I am, dammit!

  I march to the cola machine and thump it, purely as an act of mindless violence. Amazingly, a can of cola appears. The alarm it supposedly has doesn’t even go off.

  Hmmm, good to know.

  When I pick up the can, I suddenly feel like a chain-store version of Phoebe Halliwell out of Charmed, because I get a premonition of exactly what’s going to happen next.

  I march back to the table, grab Julie’s hand and pull her to her feet. 'Come with me,' I say firmly. 'We're going to see Paul. It’s time for a little in-house entertainment.'

  For the record, yes I do realise what a spectacularly bad idea this is.

  Chapter 29

  I descend the stairs dramatically, feeling like some sort of warrior goddess – possibly Xena – holding my now open can of cola like it’s the Olympic Torch. I will exact revenge on behalf of all womankind.

  Fine, I’ll exact it on behalf of Julie and myself. Quit trying to burst my bubble.

  Julie scurries along nervously at my side. 'Is this a good idea?' she asks worriedly. 'I don’t want to cause a scene.'

  'Don’t worry, Julie,' I say, in what is supposed to be a comforting, goddess-like tone. 'Leave everything to me.'

  When I get downstairs and enter the main office, it’s like I’ve acquired a targeting system for my eyes. Target is identified. Pour at will.

  Paul is, joy of joys, in the middle of a large group of people. Popularity – all the better to humiliate you with, my dear.

  I suddenly seem to have Superman’s faster-than-light speed, because I’m facing him before I even have time for a second thought.

  'You bastard!' I scream at him.

  The office suddenly falls silent as the mad banshee attacks.

  Paul looks a little scared, but tries to laugh it off. 'Have I done something to you, Mel?' he asks, sharing a ‘hormones’ look with the guy next to him.

  'Not to me,' I say, as loud as I can. 'To Julie.'

  Paul shifts his weight and lowers his voice, leaning down to talk to me. 'Then don’t you think it’s between me and her?' he asks, casting a look at Julie who’s trying to blend into the background a safe distance away.

  'No,' I say, feeling empowered. That’s the sugar kicking in. 'I set up my friend with you because you tricked me into thinking that you’re a really nice guy and you cheated on her. She may not be able to expose you in front of all these people, but I can.'

  I spin round and address the whole office. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever had an audience curled up in my lap.

  'This man,' I say, jabbing my finger at Paul, too high on sugar and adrenaline to really consider how stupid I might look, 'is a liar and a cheat, who has only not brok
en my friend’s heart because she is too smart to fall for a pathetic loser like him.'

  I brandish my can of cola dangerously. 'I also,' I say, inspiration appearing like Eve’s serpent, 'have it on good authority that he is hung like a guinea pig, has the staying power of a teenager and, generally, has all the sexual prowess of a rutting rhino.'

  The female half of the office burst out laughing. A ‘shit, I’m glad that’s not me’ look sweeps over the faces of the male half. Paul's face has taken on an interesting blotchy red and white complexion, rather like a strawberry fruit corner that hasn’t been mixed properly.

  'So,' I say triumphantly, really enjoying myself for the first time ever in this office, 'from Julie and me to you, here’s the only present you deserve.'

  With that, I raise my can of cola and tip the contents down Paul’s very stylish, very expensive, very white shirt.

  I can hear applause in the background, but I’m just enjoying the look on his face. This is fantastic. I feel good, I feel liberated, I feel…

  'Melanie!'

  I feel sick. That’s Martin’s voice.

  Of course there's no reason to believe that he witnessed all this. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  Especially since conclusions are practically on top of me already.

  I turn around, very slowly. Delaying the inevitable really, since I already know what’s going to happen.

  Martin’s expression makes Paul’s look like a Cabbage Patch Doll’s.

  'Assault,' he says, eyes gleaming with delight, 'on a colleague.'

  He leaves a dramatic pause.

  'Oh, just get on with it,' I say, when I realise I can’t be bothered to wait for the pause to end.

  Martin glares and extends the pause beyond dramatic and into ‘Line!’ just to irritate me. Of course it rather lessens the impact of his next words.

  'You’re fired,' he says finally.

  'Yes,' I say. 'I got that already.'

  On a mad whim, I turn to everyone and hold my arms out wide. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' I say, 'I hope you all enjoyed the show. You’ve been a wonderful audience, really. Goodnight and God-bless.'

  And then I stroll out and back to my desk. I don’t even fall over anything.