The Dr Pepper Prophecies (11 page)

If she really wanted to help me, she’d totter off a cliff in those ridiculous shoes.

'We’re all done,' I say. 'Just get in the car.'

Natalie eyes Will’s car like she was eyeing me.  Fortunately it doesn’t care.  It’s unfashionable, inexpensive and all Will, so it’s somewhat ironic that she doesn’t seem to like it.

She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘All that money and he drives a
Ford!'

Would it be incredibly cynical of me to call her a gold digger?

**

The picnic
feels a lot like a scene from
The Aristocats
.  Four street cats tucking into whatever food is available and loving it, one pedigree looking at us in sophisticated horror and waiting for someone to bring her personalised bowl full of gourmet cat food.

Natalie shifts her position on the rug she’s sharing with Will, trying to look elegant.  Her shoes are muddy and the wind keeps trying to blow her skirt up.

God, I love England.

'Must we stay here?' she says irritably, as her skirt parts company with her legs for the tenth time. 'It’s far too windy, the ground is damp and I’m cold.'

'You can have my fleece,' Will offers, starting to unzip it.

'Will please, it clashes with my outfit.'

I roll my eyes and then try to pretend I didn’t when Will looks at me.  I just do not get what he can see in her.  She may be well groomed, but she’s got a worse personality than Freddy Krueger.

'So, how did it go with your family?' Matt asks me, serving himself yet more pasta salad.  Beth, I notice, is barely eating at all.

'Okay,' I say, pretending to smile.  This is the bad bit of new romances, you can’t exactly unload all your problems onto them at once.  Although I always unload onto Will first anyway.  'They’re moving.  To Cornwall.'

'Nice place,' Matt says.

'Yeah,' I answer.

You know what?  This was a dumb idea.  Last time we had a picnic…it was the same way.  I just forgot.  Why didn’t Will remind me?

Some weird, niggling voice in my brain keeps saying it doesn’t want Natalie here.  Which I already knew.  But the same voice doesn’t want Matt here.  And that I don’t understand at all.

**

'I have a confession to make,' I say to Beth, once we’re safely back home and alone.

'Very well,' Beth answers, as she methodically unpacks the remains of lunch, covering them with Clingfilm before putting them in the fridge.  Her shoulders have tensed very slightly.

'I wrote you a lonely hearts advert and sent it to the local paper,' I say.

Beth stops, halfway through ripping off a piece of Clingfilm.  Whatever she was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that.

'I think it could be a really good idea,' I say, as she turns to me in disbelief.  I take the Clingfilm from her and finish covering the chicken drumsticks. 'Meet some new people, have some fun.  Spending everyday with under-fives and cardigan-wearers isn’t exactly good for your love life, after all.  You might even meet someone really special.'

If I’d done this for Will, he would’ve looked at me like I was mad and refused point blank to go.  Beth, on the other hand, seems to have decided that I really am mad.  And, therefore, that
she should simply accept all the incomprehensible stuff I do as if it’s perfectly normal.

'I…don’t think that’s something I would enjoy,' she says eventually. 'Although I appreciate the thought.'

'Come on, Beth,' I coax, as she returns to unpacking.  I lean my elbows on the counter. 'What have you got to lose?'

Beth looks as if she can think of several things, but politeness precludes her from mentioning them.  Sanity, I bet, is top of the list.

'Are they even safe?' Beth asks, her forehead wrinkling slightly in thought. 'Anyone could answer.  A serial-killer, or a rapist.'

Until this moment, I wasn’t sure Beth knew that such people existed.

'Well, obviously you take precautions,' I say, sensing a small window of opportunity and trying to squeeze through it. 'Meet in a public place, tell me where you’re going.  I could call part-way through the evening so you have an excuse to leave, or be somewhere nearby.  In fact, why don’t I go too? We can double date.  I’ll bring Will.'

Or Matt, obviously.

Beth looks doubtful. 'Would he agree to that?' she asks.

'Absolutely,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.  Okay, so he said this idea was nuts.  I’ll talk him round.  Besides, Will likes Beth and this is absolutely in her best interests. 'I already ran the idea past him.'

Just so quickly he didn't notice it.

I can’t say that Beth looks keen, but I can almost hear her conscience activate. 
‘Must humour flatmate’, it’s saying.

Old fashioned good manners.  Seriously underrated.

'Very well,' she says slowly, once her conscience has fought and won against her shyness.  It’s one handicap I’ve never suffered from.  It does seem to get in the way a lot. 'Provided we double date.'

'Fantastic,' I say, hunting in my bag for the
answer phone number they gave me.

Safety and fun combined.  Like safe sex.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Monday morning the bus is early.  Naturally, I’m late.  So I have to wait for the next one, which makes me later.

I sneak into work, pretending to myself that I’m the spy girl from
Alias
, hoping Martin hasn’t started bugging the pot plants.

As I walk casually towards my desk, pretending that I’ve been here all along but having a very important meeting with someone who’s recognised my potential, I notice something strange.  Cynthia’s not there.  At her desk is a temp with the most amazing raspberry-coloured hairdo and an outfit that even my fashion-blind eyes appreciate.  What there is of it.  A horrible thought occurs to me – please
, God, don’t let this be another Natalie.

And where’s Cynthia?  Has she decided to take another day off?  Will that violate official mourning policy?

'Morning, Mel,' Raspberry Beret Girl says cheerfully as I sit down.  Two very well accentuated eyes meet mine. 'No offence, but you look like shit.'

I blink.  Not exactly backward in coming forward, is she?  Nothing like Cynthia.

Hang on a minute.

Holy cow.  That
is
Cynthia.

My mouth drops open as I look at her properly.  She’s wearing perfume, I can see her cleavage, she’s had a manicure.

It’s an alien conspiracy cover-up.  She’s been abducted and replaced by the cousin of the blond one from
Third Rock from the Sun
.

I spend too much time with Will.

'Cynthia?' I whisper.  I’m too stunned to manage more.

She laughs. 'Yes, it’s me.  What do you think?'

She gets up and does a little twirl.  A random guy strolling through admin turns to look and falls over a box of files.  I nod dumbly. 'That’s…amazing,' I say. 'Obviously you had quite a weekend.'

She sits down again and nods excitedly. 'I’m having the most fun,' she says. 'I decided I’d start slow, you know.'

I blink.  This is slow?

'So I thought I’d get my hair cut,' Cynthia says happily. 'Mother always made me have it flat cut.' She laughs. 'I mean blunt cut.  I went to this place that looked nice, but seemed a bit expensive and they said they’d cut my hair cheap if they could do something a bit different with it.'  She grins. 'And they did this.'

I don’t think different is a strong enough adjective for that cut.  Let alone that colour.  It would stop traffic.  Literally.

'And I took one look at mys
elf in the mirror and thought ‘What am I wearing?’' Cynthia continues blithely.  She’s spoken more words to me in the last eighteen seconds than in the rest of the last eighteen months. 'So I just went a bit wild.  I got my ears pierced and everything.'  She pauses and gives me a contented smile, a lot like the one I get right after my first Cadbury’s fix of the day. 'I’ve been wanting to do that since I was thirteen.'

I’m glad she has fond memories of it.  I threw up when I had mine done.

'And I really wanted to say thank-you,' she says, bending down and rummaging in her bag. 'I might never have done this if it wasn’t for you.  I feel…liberated.  So I bought you this.'

She sits up triumphantly and hands me something.  I take it automatically and look down at it.  It’s an absolutely massive box of Milk Tray.

I’m going to have to give serious thought to becoming a lesbian, because I am now officially in love with this woman.

'Thanks!' I say, eyeing my present ecstatically. 'How did you know?'

'Intuition,' Cynthia jokes. 'You virtually support the chocolate industry single-handedly.  But that’s okay.' She winks at me. 'Woman’s prerogative, after all.'

Finally, someone who understands me.

'Did you do anything else besides get the makeover?' I ask.  I love the new Cynthia.  She’s like a soap character, only brighter and better acted.

Cynthia grins wickedly. 'I have a date with a demi-God.'

Wow, she is one fast worker.

'Describe,' I demand, all thoughts of pretending to work gone.

Cynthia makes a face like Homer Simpson does when he sees a doughnut. 'The embodiment of pure masculinity.  Tall, built like an ox, and dark – Polynesian, I think.  Stunning; I could hardly speak for drooling.'

'Where did you meet him?' I demand.

Wherever it is, I’m going there a.s.a.p.

'La Senza,' Cynthia replies, with a mischievous grin.

'Uh, Cynthia,' I say doubtfully. 'A guy buying fancy underwear may not be one you want to date.  It suggests he’s either seeing someone or is having an identity crisis.' I pause. 'Although I did date one guy who just found satin a real turn on.'

'Oh, he wasn’t buying,' Cynthia assures me. 'He was the shop assistant.  I asked for his opinion on what I should buy.' The wicked grin widens.  I can almost see little devil horns sprout out of her forehead. 'He said I had wonderful taste and that my partner was very lucky.  I told him finding one was next on my to-do list.  He seemed quite keen to fill the hole.'

Accurate in more ways than one.

'I’m in awe,' I say.  And I really am. 'You’re
a fast learner.'

'Well, I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for,' Cynthia says, briefly inspecting her nails. 'And I seem to be doing well so far.  Still, I know where to turn if I need advice.'

I grin. 'Honey, I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl.  My boyfriend track record reads like the guest list for
The Jerry Springer Show
.'

Cynthia looks confused. 'What’s that?' she asks.

'Obviously you still have a few things to learn,' I say.

'Obviously,' Cynthia replies cheerfully. 'But this is definitely more fun than school.  And I haven’t even started practical classes yet.'

A thought occurs to me. 'I don’t suppose your mother went in for safe sex lectures, did she?' I ask.

I remember my mother trying to explain it to me.  The memory continues to surface no matter how hard I try to suppress it.  She began by explaining that babies start as seeds and every woman had a special place inside her to plant them in – sort of like a grow bag.  It went down hill from there.

Cynthia dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. 'I’ve been reading up,' she says. 'I know all about it now.  And I’m going to the family planning clinic tonight.'

I pull a face. 'Take a magazine,' I advise her. 'Or six.  It takes forever.  Mind you, I suppose we’ll all have to do that now Martin’s in charge.  Cathy always let us take time off.  But, are you sure you’re all up to date?'

Now I’ve turned into her mother.  That’s worse than turning into mine.

'Definitely.'

'You have condoms?'

'Yup.'

'You know hand cream is oil-based and eats them?'

'Yup.'

'Chocolate sauce too.'

'Chocolate sauce?' Cynthia repeats, eyebrows ascending to the heavens.

I grin. 'Ask Underwear Guy,' I say. 'I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to help further your education.'

**

Even the steady production of chocolate-stimulated endorphins and the novelty of having someone to chat to during the day doesn’t make my job any more bearable.  I’ve sent out a whole load of CVs, but nothing yet.  I’m trying to be optimistic, but I had this lovely image of a headhunter calling me the second she got my CV and offering me the job of a lifetime.  Sometimes I think how much nicer it would be if my life were a movie.  Although I’d prefer it to last longer than two hours.

'Why are we doing this?' Cynthia asks suddenly, turning away from her computer screen and towards me. 'Out of every five claims we get, one hasn’t sent us a policy, one has sent us someone else’s policy, one has sent us a policy that’s expired and one has sent us a policy that doesn’t actually cover what they’re claiming for.  Which leaves only one with any chance of getting paid – except that their handwriting is illegible, so we can’t actually process it.'