The Dr Pepper Prophecies (20 page)

'Your receptionist thought I was a hooker,' I blurt out.

Will’s head jerks up and he stares at me.

'Why?!' he exclaims.

I move back from the doorway and let Will in.

'I’d guess someone in your office has a lot of visitors for last-minute meetings,' I explain, 'and now she thinks you’ve joined the club.'

Will looks intrigued. 'I should pay more attention to the office grapevine,' he says. 'I had absolutely no idea.'

We look at each other.  At least we’re making eye-contact now.

'Are we okay?' Will asks suddenly. 'I mean, has this…changed anything?'

'Of course not,' I say.

Of course it hasn’t.

It hasn't changed a thing.  Barely a ripple in the fabric of life.  Like…nuclear war, for example.

'It was just a bit of a…surprise, that’s all,' I add. 'I mean, why should it change anything?  This isn’t a big deal, it’s…something to laugh about,
really.  The look on your face!'

I force a laugh. 

Will is nodding.  Doesn’t he know it was forced?

'You’re right,' he says.  He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.  The sparkle in them is missing. 'We should laugh about this.'

We look at each other again.

'Or,' I say eventually, 'we could not talk about it and try to forget it ever happened.'

Will considers this for a second.  Then he nods emphatically. 'I like that idea,' he says.

I breathe a sigh of relief.  All this stuff about how you should talk about things is crap.  I personally believe that repression is a vital part of any long-standing friendship.  Particularly with members of the opposite sex.

Maybe now things can get back to normal.

**
 

Denial can be a wonderful thing.  I switched the topic to Beth and now we’re arguing away like nothing has happened.

'Are you insane?' Will says, settling down opposite me on the sofa with his coffee. 'Come to think of it, is she insane?  I can’t believe she agreed to a third date.'

'She wanted to cheer me up after…my interview,' I say, just catching myself in time.

I draw my knees up so Will has a little more leg room.

'I take it things
didn’t go quite as you hoped?' Will says, sipping his coffee.

'Understatement of the millennium,' I say, rolling my eyes.

I do a quick recap of the worst bits.  Like a
You’ve Been Framed
montage.  By the end, Will’s coffee cup is shaking as he tries not to laugh.

'I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,' he says, when it’s over.

'You should’ve been,' I agree, blowing on my hot chocolate and nursing my burnt tongue. 'And you should’ve brought a video camera.  We could’ve made some extra cash.'

'No,' Will says, shaking his head. 'I mean, I’m sorry I wasn’t there afterwards.'

'That’s okay,' I say lightly. 'It’s not like your life revolves around me.'

Why doesn't his life revolve around me?

We have a quiet moment.  The kind that, when you’ve known each other as long as Will and I have, you stop thinking you need to fill.

'So, when are we going to see what’s behind door number three?' Will jokes.

I’m about to tell him, when a thought occurs to me.  Oh yeah, I asked Matt, didn’t I?

'Actually,' I say, feeli
ng guilty for no logical reason, 'I’m going with Matt.'

Will pauses, his cup at his lips.  Then he takes a mouthful, swirls it around thoughtfully in his mouth and swallows. 'Right,' he says. 'Obviously.'

'You did say you didn’t want to go on anymore blind dates,' I say, feeling some bizarre need to justify myself.

'No.  I mean, yes.  It’s fine.  No reason why you shouldn’t.' Will contemplates the contents of his mug. 'Matt’s a nice guy.  Could be exactly what you need.'

No, he’s not! comes a surprisingly vehement voice in my head.

Ignore the little voices, I say to myself.  The little voices are not a friend.

'You have to hear about Cynthia,' I say brightly.

Or, more accurately, you have to stop talking about Matt so that the little voices will leave me alone.

'What now?' Will says, frowning.  He doesn’t seem as keen on the saga as I am.

I run over the latest instalment, black book and all.

Will frowns more. 'Mel, maybe you should encourage her to slow things down a bit,' he says.

Even though I know quite well that I’ve thought that myself on numerous occasions, I suddenly get all defensive.

'Why?' I say. 'She’s having a great time.'

'
I know,' Will says carefully, 'but she’s been a virtual Miss Havisham all her life and this seems like too much too soon.  She doesn’t have the experience to realise that risks don’t always work out and, the way you tell the story, it sounds like she’s heading towards being fired.  Does she even want to do all this stuff, or is it all some kind of shock reaction to her mother’s death?'

'She’s fine,' I say soothingly. 'She’s just having a little taste of forbidden fruit.  Once the novelty wears off, she’ll calm down.'

'I’m sure she will,' Will says seriously. 'The problem is how long the novelty will take to wear off and what happens in the meantime.  Just…don’t get too excited over her exploits.  Be a calming influence, like Beth.'

A calming influence?  I don’t have a calming bone in my body.  That’s why I need Will.

'I’m nothing like Beth,' I point out.

Will pauses.

'You’re quite right,' he admits. 'Okay then…just try not to give her any more pushes, she’s rolling along fast enough as it is.'

'Okay,' I agree. 'But you’re worried about nothing.  Cynthia is happy.  Susan is happy.  Julie is happy.  And I’m absolutely positive that
, after this next date, Beth will be too.'

Will takes a sip of coffee.  And says nothing.

'Are you okay?'

This has to be at least the sixth time blind date number three has asked Beth that question. 
If she had red eyes from crying I could understand it, but she looks perfectly normal.

'Yes, thank you,' Beth says again, smiling politely.  The smile is getting more and more forced.  We’ve been in the restaurant almost an hour and she’s cracking.

'Are you sure you’re not cold?  You can have my jacket.'

'I’m fine,' Beth says, the tiniest edge of tension creeping into her voice.

'Are you absolutely positive?'

Beth gives up. 'I am a little.  Thank you.'

As he puts it around her shoulders, he gives her a look.  I can put that look into words.  They are ‘See, sweetheart, Daddy knows best.’.

This guy’s name is
Kevin.  He’s a teacher.  He has a small bald spot right at the back of his head and a permanent concerned look in his eyes.  And if he makes one more helpful suggestion, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

He is evidently from th
e school of men – a very poorly-performing school, I might add – who believe that women should be treated like princesses.  Sounds good in theory, doesn’t it?  However, the catch is that they consider that princess to be five years of age, terminally ill and practically brain dead. 

He has already
suggested
that white wine is better than red, that the candles are dangerous, that the wallpaper is conducive to eye-strain, that the napkins should be folded ‘just so’ and that shell fish – Beth’s favourite food in the whole world – carry a terrible risk of food poisoning and should be avoided at all costs.  Which is why Beth is eating smoked salmon and trying to like it and Matt and I are afraid to talk.

'How’s the
website going?' I ask Matt desperately.

'Good,' Matt says, jumping on my opener. 'We’ve added a couple of new sections and we’re starting to get other contributors adding to the site.  We’re going to make mysmilies.com look like a mobile library, with us as the Bodleian.'

I love how excited they get over this.  Sometimes I think that’s what I’m missing in my life – a purpose, a passion.

Other times I just think how cute they are.

I don’t tell them that, obviously.

'Sounds great,' I say. 'I’ll have to check back and take a look.'

And then I wait.

There are two kinds of guys.  The good kind, of which Will is one, realise that when you say stuff like that, you’re happy for them and that’s it.  The bad kind, of which I have dated more than my fair share, assume that you’re fascinated by sta
mp collecting or whatever it is and start trying to involve you in it.

Of course the same goes for some women I know.  My Aunt Freda – who apparently didn't have many marbles as a child and has lost a good deal since then – always used to try and get Brittany and I interested in collecting old postcards.  Now, pictures of stunning scenery or bronzed surfer hunks I could understand, but why she wanted to keep any of hers was a mystery to me.  'Bridges of Wiltshire' was probably her most fascinating collection.

She's still my favourite relative though.  No one else at school had an aunt who bought them a vibrator for their sixteenth birthday.  I really must go and visit her.

'Look at the ‘For Women’ section,' Matt says. 'But leave it a couple of days so we can get them all up.  My sister’s a computer nut too and she gave us her whole collection.  Even I laughed at them.' He grins sheepishly. 'Although I felt like a traitor to my gender afterwards.'

Sexism.  Not big, not clever, but sometimes very funny.

And he didn’t even try to get me into it.

'Have you ever done them?' Matt asks.

Spoke too soon.

'I’ve never been any good at design,' I say, in what I hope is a discouraging, yet friendly tone. 'Mum used up several generations’ worth of artistic talent, I think.'

'But this is a totally new form of design,' Matt says encouragingly. 'I’m sure you’d be great at it.  And I’d love to teach you.'

I almost give in.  Surely it can’t be so bad?  But then I remember.  Jeremy.  Jeremy and his horses.  Hour upon hour at Ascot, wearing a stupid dress and a hat that kept poking people in the eye, trying with all my might not to imitate Eliza Doolittle and scream at the horses to move their bleedin’ arses.  No, not happening.  Never again.

'I’m really not interested,' I say, a little blunter than I’d intended. 'It’s not for me.  I’ve spent twenty-five years with a computer geek and a
voided learning how to be a webmaster, so I don’t intend to start now.'

There’s an awkward silence.

'Fair enough,' Matt says.

I'm crap at being assertive.

I’m just about to soften it a little by explaining about Jeremy when Kevin looks up from his pasta primavera and says, 'Melanie, I think you should be a little nicer to Matthew and take the time to consider his offer in a less emotional state.'.

There is nothing I hate more than being told I’m too emotional.  It’s my cue to become half-insane with fury.  My shoulders rise towards my ears and my spine curves like it’s a full moon and I’m morphing into a werewolf.

This of course is Will’s usual cue to take my little finger and squeeze, our old signal for ‘cool it’.  After all these years, I do it on reflex.  Will’s touch is my tranquilliser.

I suddenly feel unreasonably annoyed at Matt for not knowing me like Will does.  In fact, for not being Will.

Kevin is waiting expectantly. 

'I’m sorry, Matt,' I say sincerely.  I can do that part. 'Thank you for the offer.  I know you meant well.'

Kevin looks all satisfied.  It’s the last straw.

'
However,' I say, turning to him, 'I do not need to consider his offer further.  I know that I am an Internet junkie, not a computer fiend and that I am simply not interested in learning how to create smiley faces.  And the reason I know, Kevin, is because I am a grown woman, not a pre-schooler, and I do not appreciate being treated otherwise.  Is that absolutely clear?'

My voice has got louder with every word and other diners are now staring at us. 
Kevin gives them apologetic smiles.  Then he turns back to me. 'We are in a public place,' he hisses between clenched teeth. 'This is not the time for tantrums.'

I cannot survive this.  I want to stab those infuriating eyes out with my fork.

'I will be back shortly,' he says, setting his napkin neatly by his plate, 'by which time I hope you will have calmed down.'

He gets up and walks over to the toilets.  All three of us watch him until he goes in.

'Run for it,' Beth says, a split second before I do.

I can’t believe she’s actually suggesting such a thing.  I must be rubbing off on her.

We grab our bags, leaving our dinners half-eaten, scurry over to the door, yank our coats off the rack and scarper.

'My date is picking up the cheque,' Beth says to the seating host on the way past. 'We have an emergency.'