The Dr Pepper Prophecies (8 page)

'I can hardly wait,' Matt says dryly.

'Good luck,' I say, but I don’t move.

Matt doesn’t move either. 'Are you doing anything this weekend?' he asks.

I pretend to think about it. 'Well,' I say, 'on Saturday I’m having my self-esteem ripped to shreds by my family, but on Sunday we’re having a picnic.'

'Sounds nice,' Matt says.

'You should come,' I say, like he hasn’t already guessed I’m going to invite him. 'My flatmate Beth is cooking, so you won’t have to eat my culinary disasters and I’ll be able to introduce you to Will – your fellow computer fiend.'

'You could have just told me that you were going to be there,' Matt says, reaching up and tucking a stray bit of hair behind my ear. 'I still would have said yes.'

Nice.  Very smooth.

'Drop by my desk later,' I say, sorely tempted to skip the small talk and fast forward to the kissing part. 'I’ll give you my number.'

For a moment, I almost think he’s read my mind.  Then he steps sideways out of my way.

'See you when I get out of the donkey’s pen,' he says, winking at me.

I step down onto the landing and he heads up the stairs.  I’ve got no choice but to head back to my desk.

Shame.  I wouldn’t have minded get
ting something from the stationery cupboard.

It’s only on the way home that my mind wanders back over the day and falls over my phone call with Brittany.  So not until then do I realise that I actually received divine inspiration.

A lonely hearts advert!  Not for me obviously, but for Beth!  I mean, they can’t all be the last chicken in the shop.  And she really needs to meet some new guys.  I think she must have developed tunnel vision or cataracts from being surrounded by Adrian Mole wannabes all day.  Even one nice date with one nice guy could help her see that the greatest place on Earth isn’t the Bodleian library.

I think about it all the way ho
me and by the time I get there I’m decided.  I won’t tell Beth about it right away, she’d just say no.  I can put it in myself easy.  Then, when she’s got guys lining up around the corner, she’ll be so thrilled that she’ll forget to be shy.

It’s a perfect plan.

And it’s helped by Beth working late and consequently not being there when I get home.

I dump my stuff on the sofa and hit the button on the answer phone on the way to the fridge.

'You have one new message.  Message one.'

I crack open a can of
cola.

'This is Guy Pearce of Pearce, Platt & Associates calling for Ms Mary-Beth Davidson.  If you would be so good as to return my call at your earliest convenience on the number on my card.  Thank you.'

This guy’s accent is so Etonian he makes Beth sound like she needs elocution lessons.  Who is he?  Why’s he calling?

And then I remember the letter.  Could there be a connection?

Of course, there’s not much point in asking her.  It’s obviously private.  And Beth’s a private person.  You know, come to think of it, I still know hardly anything about her.  Even though we’ve been living together for nearly a year now.  I don’t even know how she lost her virginity and how can you call someone a friend if you don’t know that?

So I suppose I’ll just have to wait and hope she tells me.

I mean about the letter, not her virginity.

I hate waiting.

I take my cola over to the computer and switch it on.  Then, while I’m waiting for it to warm up, I make myself a sandwich.  Cheese.  I prefer egg, but that requires me to cook.

Then I settle myself down to compose Beth’s advert.

I stare at a blank page in Word for about ten minutes, eating my sandwich and waiting for inspiration.  Then I conclude that inspiration is stuck in traffic.  I open Messenger.  Susan and Will are both online.

Inspired!!! says:

‘Are you busy?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘If I say yes, will you leave me alone?’

Inspired!!! says:

‘Ha ha, very funny.  And no, I won’t.’

Inspired!!! says:

‘I need your help.’

Inspired!!! says:

‘I’m writing a lonely hearts advert.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘What happened to the Aussie bloke?’

Inspired!!! says:

‘Not for me, for Beth.’

NY Alien says:

‘What Aussie bloke?'

Inspired!!! says:

'Guy from work.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Are you mad?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Beth doesn’t want a lonely hearts advert.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘And she’s a big girl, she can do this stuff for herself.’

Inspired!!! says:

‘How do you know what Beth wants?  Have you asked her?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Have you?’

NY Alien says:

‘About this Aussie bloke…?’

Inspired!!! says:

‘She’ll go for it fine when she gets loads of offers.’

Will is so pessimistic sometimes.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Mel, seriously, this is a bad idea.’

Inspired!!! says:

‘If you don’t want to help, fine.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Listen to me.  Or read me carefully.  This bad.  Stay out of flatmate’s life, if wish flatmate to stay.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘You get Beth pissed off, she’ll move out and you’ll have to learn to cook.’

Beth pissed off?  It’s like trying to imagine Mother Teresa with PMT.

NY Alien says:

‘Will, it’s a losing battle.’

NY Alien says:

‘Mel, just be careful.’

NY Alien says:

‘Truce?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Fine.’

Inspired!!! says:

‘Fine.’

NY Alien says:

‘Tell me more about this Aussie bloke.’

Ah.  Safe ground.

**

I spend all the next morning working on the advert.  While working very hard at what I get paid to do, obviously.  While I'm at it I create one for me as well.  May as well cover all my bases.

And then I take the afternoon off.  To watch someone lower a corpse into the soggy ground.

I stand there, shivering slightly in a ‘light breeze’ that’s come straight from the arctic.  My heels are sinking into the ground and the bottoms of my trousers are splattered with mud.  My smart, black clothes are covered by a raincoat and Cynthia and I are half hidden under an umbrella.

'Lord, on this day we commit her ashes to the ground…'

Cynthia’s in tears.  It’s the first time I’ve seen her show any emotion stronger than irritation because I’ve borrowed her stapler and forgotten to give it back.

I’ve never been to a funeral before.  My parents thought I was too young to go when my grandfather died and all the others were long gone by the time I was even born.  It’s sad, although in an odd way since I never met the woman. 

What’s saddest though, is that Cynthia and I are the only ones here.

‘…in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…’

How terrible is that?  Fifty, sixty years on this Earth and
one of your two mourners has never met you.

Makes you think.  About how important it is to stay close to your family.

I don’t hate my family, not really.  Even when I’m fantasising about stabbing Brittany with the bread knife, I don’t actually want her to die.  Just be quiet.  And maybe grow a wart or two.

'…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’

On Saturday I will go to my parents’ house and I will remember just how lucky I am to have them.

Whether I like it or not.

**

Afterwards, I take Cynthia to the nearest available pub.  It’s an Irish tradition and I…like Guinness.  Not that I drink it much, quite honestly.  Beth's teetotal and doesn't seem to like having alcohol in the house, so I only get it when I go to pubs

Which, come to think of it, isn't all that often.

So I have that and I get some good strong whiskey for Cynthia, to help with the shock, and then I offer myself as a counsellor.

'I can’t imagine what you’re feeling now,' I say sympathetically. 'You must have been close.'

'Close?' Cynthia says dully.

'I mean, very close,' I say quickly.

A moment’s silence.

'I hated her,' Cynthia says, in a voice so full of venom it’s as if she’s grown fangs in front of my very eyes. 'I hated her every minute of everyday.  And every year it got worse.  I hated her so much I can’t remember one good thing about her, even now she’s dead.'

I’m sort of…speechless.

'And now she’s dead,' Cynthia says, her face crumpling up. 'I’m all alone.'

I’m sort of…more speechless.

Except that’s not possible.

What do I do now?

'Umm…that’s good,' I say, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder. 'I mean, not good that you hated her.  Good that…you’re letting your feelings out.'

Pity I'm not a d
ementor.

'I’ve got nothing,' Cynthia sobs. 'I’m twenty-nine years old and I’ve got nothing.  I have no friends.  I have a job that I hate.  I live in a house full of chinz that I’ve never been out of for one night in my entire life.'

The rest of the customers are now silent and trying desperately to listen without looking like they are.  On second thoughts, the pub wasn’t the greatest place to do this.  We should have gone somewhere where we wouldn’t have been so out of place.

The
Jerry Springer Show
, maybe.

'I don’t have children,' Cynthia carries on, tears still running down her face. 'I don’t h
ave a husband.  I’ve never been in love.  I’ve never even lost my virginity.'

Okay, that was an over-share.  The barman’s eyebrows have met his receding hairline.

And never?  In twenty-nine years?  Heavens above.  And I thought my love life was bad.

Cynthia’s now struggling to speak. 'I…didn’t…even…choose…the…wallpaper…in…my…own…bedroom,' she chokes out.

Then she sobs uncontrollably while I glance sheepishly at the other patrons and dig into my bag for a tissue.

'My whole life,' Cynthia says, once she’s calmed down and blown her nose, 'she’s told me what I could wear, what I could say, what I could eat, where I could go.  I don’t know what to do now.  I’ve never made a decision for myself.  Where do I start?  What do I do?'

I’m still grappling with the whole twenty-nine-year-old virgin thing.  I mean, I know some people save themselves, but have you ever noticed that those same people tend to marry kind of young?  Funny that.  I didn't think anyone waited that long.

It takes me a moment to realise that she actually requires an answer.

'Well,' I say slowly, 'you could start by doing something you always wanted to do but she wouldn’t let you.'

Cynthia looks overwhelmed, like she’s ten and I’ve taken her to Toys R Us for the first time and told her to pick one toy.

'Like what?' she says helplessly.

'Like…' I look around for inspiration.  My eyes fall on our glasses. 'Like…did she let you drink alcohol?'

Cynthia looks at her glass like she hadn’t realised it was there. 'No,' she says uncertainly.

'Well then,' I say, relaxing just a little. 'You can start with that.  This,' I point to my glass, 'is Guinness, which is a type of beer
, and this,' I point to her glass, 'is whiskey, which is lethal but very good for shock.  Try some.'

Cynthia picks up the glass hesitantly and sniffs the contents.  Her eyes water.

'Are you sure this is safe to drink?' she asks anxiously.

'Positive,' I say, nodding encouragingly. 'Best if you sort of toss it down your throat rather than sip it.'

Cynthia holds the glass up and eyes it apprehensively.  Then she tilts her head right back, like she’s a stork trying to swallow a fish, and throws the whiskey in.

Then she gasps for breath and starts coughing.  Any harder and she’d lose a lung.  I give her some of my drink to soothe her throat.

'Like I said,' I say, trying not to laugh. 'It’s strong stuff.'

Once she stops wheezing, she manages a weak smile.

'That’s the first step,' I say, feeling like some quietly smug lifestyle guru. 'You’ve done one forbidden thing.  Now all you do is, whenever you feel like doing something that you weren’t allowed to do before, remind yourself that you can do whatever you want and then do it.  Easy.'