The Dr Pepper Prophecies (17 page)

Nine.  It’s nine.  I’ve overslept by two hours.  I now have precisely one hour to get up, get dressed and get to my interview.
  And it takes at least thirty minutes to get there.

I have a nice calm moment while I quietly accept that fact.  Then I leap out of bed in a panic, ready to run to the bathroom.  I turn my ankle, so I hobble instead, pulling off my clothes en route.  My mind kicks into overdrive.  Forget food, no time.  Suit, phone, keys, purse, watch.

I take the fastest shower of my life and hobble back to my room, trying to dry myself on the way.  Suit, phone, keys, purse, watch.  That’s all.

Crap.  I still have to call in sick.

I search feverishly for the cordless phone, hidden under a mountain of potential interview outfits.  Where is it?  Has it sprouted legs?  Wings?  Bought itself a Nimbus 2001 perhaps?  Where’s the sodding phone?!

I find it and dial work, while I grab my underwear and start
trying to get dressed.  Why, oh why didn’t I buy the hands-free kit for my mobile?  I can’t put on my clothes with one hand.

'Murchison.'

I wedge the phone against my shoulder and try it that way.

'Thib ib Melanie Parker,' I say, using my best bunged-up voice. 'I’b feelimb terrible.  I can’b cub into work tobay.'

'Very well.'

What?  He’s just agreeing?

'Cynthia mentioned you didn’t seem well yesterday.'

Of course.  I have to buy her something.  A small island in the Caribbean maybe.

'I’ll try to be back tomobbow,' I say. 'Thanb you.'

'You’re welcome.'

I sit still on the bed for a second.  Finally a piece of good luck.

Crap.  Still have to get ready.

I throw my clothes on, somehow avoiding laddering my tights, pull on my suit and shoes, grab my phone, purse and keys, shove them into my bag and run out the door as fast as humanly possible.  I’ll just have to fix myself up on the way.

I just pray nothing else goes wrong.

**
 

I catch my tights on the gate post.  Needless to say, they rip.  But I’ve got a
spare pair in my bag, haven’t I?  So it’s fine.  I’ll just change on the bus.

I hobble along the road to the bus stop, as fast as my dodgy ankle will allow.  There’s no need to panic.  I’m on my way.  I’m not even late, so long as I don’t miss the bus.  I remembered the essentials.  I just have to do a little making-up on the way.  No problem.

What did I just step in?

Crap. 

No, literally.  What kind of person lets their dog poo right in the middle of the pavement? Now I’ll stink out the whole place.

I get to the bus stop and inspect my shoe.  I scrape it against the kerb.  I don’t think anyone will notice it.  Of course, the problem is really more what they smell, as opposed to what they see.

Something wet just landed on my head.  I reach up and bring down fingers covered in a whitish, gooey substance.  It can’t be.

A bird has crapped on my head.  What am I, the toilet of the animal kingdom?

I reach for the zip of my bag to search for a tissue, just as the bus pulls up.  Thank God, I didn’t miss it.

The bus driver looks appraisingly at me as I climb on and extract my pass from my pocket.

'I think a bird crapped on your head,' he says helpfully.

'I noticed,' I say shortly. 'Thank you.'

'You’re welcome, love.'

Have you ever wanted to choke a total stranger?

I hobble down to the back of the bus, nearly being thrown to the floor by the maniac behind the wheel.  Why is it that all bus drivers seem to have secret ambitions to be Formula 1 drivers?

Once I’m safely installed in a seat, I take stock.  I’ve got about
thirty minutes on this bus to turn myself into the Infamous Interview Acer.

No problem.  Better get started.

I unzip my bag.  I see my purse, keys, phone, an old hairbrush with a frayed purple hair-band (entirely devoid of elastic) wrapped round the handle, an old bottle of styling spray and a single tissue.  That’s it.

Where’s my map?  Where’s my make-up?  Where’s my list of questions?  Where’s my tights?

I think it’s obvious what’s happened.

Gremlins.

Or maybe pixies.

Leprechauns on vacation from Ireland are also a possibility.

I look at my bag again.

Or, it could be that I picked up the wrong bag.

Which is quite easy to do, since the two are very similar.

So, a tiny little hitch in the plan.

Still, all is not lost.  I have the essentials.  I can repair this.

As nonchalantly as I can, I bend down and take my shoes off, keeping my head up and looking around innocently.  Then I conduct a series of movements that are a cross between callisthenics, pelvic floor exercises and the shimmy shake, as I try to get my mangled tights off without anyone noticing.  Fortunately there are only two other people down here.  A middle-aged guy who looks like an intellectual Homer Simpson and a truanting teenager with a face that belongs in the ‘before’ part of a Clearasil
advert. If he saw me taking my tights off, he’d probably try to buy them off me.

I put my shoes back on in the same way and stuff my tights into my bag.  Bare legs may not be traditional, but I don’t have a lot of choice.  Maybe I can tell them I’m allergic to Lycra.

I get my solitary tissue and wipe off the bird poo as best I can without a mirror.  God knows if it’s working or not.  I need to hide it somehow.  Change my parting.

Except, as the saying goes, you can create a new parting, but you can’t make it stay.  At least, not if you have my hair.

But I have styling spray.  I haven’t used it in quite a while, but I’m pretty sure it worked okay.  And I have a brush.  This is doable.

I get the brush and spray from my bag and brush my hair right back.  Then I part it on the other side.  So far, so good.  Then I pick up the bottle and spray ‘super-hold’ all over my hair, holding my breath like I always do.  Once it’s done, I breathe again.

God, what is that smell?

It smells almost like…

My styling spray has fermented.  As in turned into alcohol.  My head smells like I’ve bathed in wine.

I’m actually…sort of beyond words now.  I have dog crap on my shoe, goose-pimples on my legs, bird crap and now L’Oreal’s finest label wine on my hair.  There’s no make-up on my face, no food in my stomach and no hope in my heart.  Let’s face it, I have about as much chance of getting this job as I do of being simultaneously struck by lighting, hit by a falling meteor and abducted by aliens.  I should just get off the bus, buy a metric ton of mint choc-chip ice cream and go home.  And then wash my hair.

Except that we’re actually here.  And I’ve still got ten minutes.  So I might as well give it a shot.

I mean, it’s not like it could get any worse.

**
 

'Excuse me,' I say politely, trying to stay as far away from the recept
ion desk as I reasonably can, 'could you tell me where the Ladies is, please?'

The receptionist, who bears a striking resemblance to a grown-up Marsha Brady, looks up.  Then she looks down to my shoes and back up again.

'Do you have an appointment?' she asks.

Or have you just craw
led away from your park bench?

'Yes,' I say, trying a professional tone that I know clashes spectacularly with the rest of me. 'Mr. Andrews, 10
a.m.'

Let me go, you bitch.  I’ve got major damage to repair and not enough time to do it in. 

The fact that it would take a short ice age to fix myself up properly is irrelevant.

'Four Star Recruitment?' she asks dubiously.

'Uh, huh,' I say, nodding, trying to look all happy and confident.

'He’s on the third floor,' she says, just a hint of a raised eyebrow. 'The Ladies is on the left, right by the lifts.'

'Thank you,' I say, in a dignified voice.  As if I don’t smell like I badly need to go to an AA meeting.

'Good luck,' she calls after me, as I stride briskly to the lifts.

I think I may have become psychic in the last ten minutes, because I know exactly what she’s thinking.

It’s ‘Heh heh, not a chance in hell
.’.

How not to get the job you want.  I could run workshops.

I pity anyone who gets in this lift with me, since it now has the air quality of a gas chamber.  I will the lift to go faster.  Thank God it doesn’t have mirrors.

The second the doors open on floor three, I bolt across the hall and into the Ladies.
I check my watch.  I have six minutes to make myself over.  Time to see exactly what I’m up against.

I turn the corner and face the mirror.

As far as I can actually describe the Halloween monster that’s staring back at me, I look like a cross between the Abominable Snowman, Mo Mowlam and a Tribble.  A Tribble is pretty much a ball of fluff.  That’s me, only without the cute factor.

Okay.  Easy stuff first.

I hike my leg up onto the sink and undo my shoe.  Then I balance precariously on the other one while I wash off dog crap.  It works quite well and I start feeling a good deal more optimistic about my chances of pulling this off.  I put my shoe back on.  Now my foot feels a little damp, but nothing I can’t handle.  I'm being interviewed, I'm not supposed to be comfortable.

Right.  I have no make-up and no way to acquire some in the next few minutes other than going back downstairs and providing the receptionist with some more free entertainment.  That’s a lost cause.  What I have to do is fix my hair.  Or, at least, lessen its impact.

Well, I don’t have shampoo, but I have a sink, soap and a hand drier.  What’s the worst that could happen?

Actually, this whole experience is beginning to feel like a Dr Pepper
advert.  Fifteen more minutes and I’ll probably be standing over my potential boss holding a poker.

I strip off my jacket and tuck it and my bag where they can’t get splattered.  Then I surrender whatever pride I had left and bend over the basin.

A few minutes later my hair has more or less ceased to smell of wine.  Now it smells like lily of the valley.  I’m not entirely sure that’s an improvement, although I hear sperm love that scent.

Yes, you
heard that right.  Makes you look at Granny in a whole new way, doesn't it?

I check my watch again.  I don’t have time to get it properly dry. 
All I can do is stop it dripping and then tie it back.  The ancient purple hair-band will revisit its former glory days.

The only trouble with hand-dryers is that they’re meant for drying hands, not hair.  If I remember, I might just make a complaint about that.  Surely it makes sense in a country this wet for all appliances to double-up as hair-dryers?  It’s a conspiracy by the male-dominated government to discredit professional women by making them appear with frizzy hair.

So, really, the only way to do it is to put my back against the (fortunately clean) wall and bend my knees until my head is under the right bit.  And lay paper towels on my shoulders to catch drips.

Beadle’s law states that, when one looks just the tiniest bit ridiculous, one must have a witness.  Ideally clutching a video camera.

The poster-girl of professionalism walks past me on her way in, stops and slowly pivots on one spotless designer heel.  She doesn’t speak, she just looks, canting her head as she does it.

'It’s a long story,' I say, still looking like I’m one half o
f a practical demonstration of
The World’s Most Uncomfortable Sex Positions
.  My knees are killing me.

Poster Girl no
ds. 'Evidently,' she says dryly and continues on her way.

I pull myself up with difficulty, yank my brush through my hair with even more difficulty and tie it back in a style Houdini couldn’t get out of.  I look in the mirror.  I look almost presentable.  Maybe I’m still in with a shot.

Which is good.  Because time has just run out.

**
 

'Melanie Parker.'

Cool, I’m being announced.  I fix what I hope is a winning yet not over-familiar smile on my face and step into the room.  The door is closed behind me.

Interviewer Guy has highlighted hair and teeth straight out of a Colgate advert.  And he’s staring at my feet.

Is this one of those You-can-tell-everything-you-need-to-know-about-a-person-by… things?  But my shoes are the most inoffensive in the world.  And it’s not like I’m being interviewed for a job where shoes will matter.  I look down at them, trying to see what he’s seeing.

And I do.

How?  How?

Somehow
I have managed to put on two different shoes.  But that’s not the incredible part.  The incredible part is that I have got through the whole of the last hour, including taking both of them off, and not noticed.