The Dr Pepper Prophecies (4 page)

'Perhaps you need a new job,' Beth says, passing me a plate of lasagne.

Will and I groan in unison.

'No?' Beth says, confused, as she hands Will his dinner.

'I tried that,' I say, picking up my knife and fork and starting to cut my lasagne. 'I applied everywhere, for everything.  I don’t think there’s a company within a fifty-mile radius that hasn’t thrown my CV in its bin.'

'And you had absolutely no response?' Beth asks, settling down to her dinner.

'Not much,' I say gloomily. 'My CV practically screams ‘Don’t hire me.’.  I mean, I did retakes, then I signed up for that childcare course on a whim and practically failed it.  Then even after I passed As, I got a third class degree in a subject I still know nothing about.  And, finally, I was unemployed for months before I got my current crappy job.  I wouldn’t even hire me.'

'What you need,' Will says, already halfway through his piece of positively divine lasagne, 'is a new approach.'

I blink. 'Like sleeping with the interviewer?' I ask.  What other approaches are there? 'I don’t think I’m all that good at that either.'

'I’m sure Will didn’t mean that,' Beth says, taking a sip of her water.

'Of course not,' Will says, to me rather than Beth. 'You just need to present yourself in a more positive light.  There’s got to be a way to show all that stuff without it looking quite so terrible.'

'Thanks,' I mutter, stabbing my lasagne.

'You know what I mean,' Will says. 'We need to show that your track record doesn’t dictate your future.  Because it doesn’t.'

His eyes meet mine and I know he’s talking about Martin.  I smile. 'Does that mean you’re going to help me?' I ask hopefully.

Will pretends to roll his eyes. 'I should have known you’d ask me that,' he says. 'I suppose I’m stuck with it now.'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully.  I start to feel a bit more optimistic.  Maybe I
can
get a new job.

At least I’ll have one hell of a motivator.
 

I make it out of bed and into work.  Mostly because Will calls me and gives me a pep talk.  By the time we’ve concocted fifty ways to get Martin fired, I feel better.

Not that I’m the kind of person who would actually inflict emotional pain on another human being out of a selfish, twisted need for revenge.

I just like to think about it.

Once there, my cock-eyed optimism starts to falter just a little.  In fact, I start devising ways to get me fired.  Unemployment and bankruptcy versus emotional gut-rot.  It’s a very tough one to call.

I sit miserably at my desk, eating chocolate hobnobs back to back and drinking
cola.  I have a pile of new claims on my desk, which I’m very slowly entering on the system.  At this rate I should be done by Christmas.  Fortunately, in this office, people will usually leave you alone as long as it looks like you’re doing something.

Sitting opposite me, my team-mate Cynthia is inputting another pile.  Her expression is blank, like a robot.  In fact, I think she may actually be one.  Whereas my desk is covered in crap – metaphorical, I promise – hers is all office-issue.  She follo
ws the exact same routine everyday.  She even wears the same outfits, all in shades of brown.  I once suggested that she come out to the pub with me, Will and Susan, back in the days when Susan lived with me and I didn’t know Beth existed.  I swear I could actually hear her thinking ‘That does not compute.’.

I flick through the next claim.  Another death.  I hate my job.  The first few months some of the claims actually made me cry.  People whose partners of fifty years passed away unexpectedly three weeks before their trip of a lifetime to Australia.  Before I started this job I’d never seen a death certificate and now I have to see them everyday.

The only tiny good thing about today is that I haven’t seen Martin yet.

Of course, the moment I think that he shows up.

'Melanie,' he says stiffly.  He’s wearing a jacket and tie in an office where blue jeans are practically the uniform.  He’s even carrying a clipboard.  Any minute now he’s going to tell me about his idea for a new salute.

'Martin,' I say, as calmly as I can manage.

He frowns. 'I think it would be more appropriate if you call me Mr Murchison.'

Oh
, God.  I cannot do this.

I take a deep breath. 'Mr Murchison,' I force myself to say.

I cannot believe I had sex with this guy.  If love is blind, then lust is deaf as a post to boot.

Query, are posts technically deaf?

'Melanie,' he says again, straightening up and trying to look important. 'I thought we should have a short dialogue about proper conduct in the workplace.'

I’m guessing that me stabbing him with my letter opener wouldn’t fall under that.

'First of all,' he says, frowning again.  His nose wrinkles up when he does that.  I have a vague memory of thinking that was cute. 'Dress code.'

My first day I wore a suit and everyone looked at me like I was mad.  From the second day onwards I’ve worn jeans.

'Jeans are against it.  So are trainers.'

I tuck my feet in their battered
Reeboks further under the desk.

'That neckline is unsuitable for the workplace, jewellery should be subtle if it is present at all and no purple nail polish.'

I clench my hands into fists to hide my nails.  Or maybe to make it easier to punch him.

'In addition,' he says, his eyes sur
veying my desk, 'your work space should be kept tidy and free from personal items.'             

I look at my desk.  Tub of H
obnobs, cola can, perfume bottle, hand cream, nail file, the picture of me and Will from my university graduation ball.  I got dumped three days before it.  Will borrowed a tux from his flatmate and took the train down so he could go with me.  I had a much better time with him than I would have had with my ex.

'You should not use your company e-mail address for personal messages.'

I’m a clerical officer.  It’s not like I need it for work.

'You should not use your I
nternet connection to access non work-related sites.'

I know for a fact that at least one person in the office is downloading pornography.  All I do is read the sodding TV guide.

By this time a small crowd has gathered in the open doorway between admin and the negotiators.  Martin’s so focused on torturing me that he hasn’t noticed.  Julie smiles sympathetically and mouths ‘Cookies?’ at me.  I nod back.  Fortunately Martin thinks I’m agreeing with him.

'You should not use the telephone to call friends, least of all ones in America.'

Now that is just not true.  I always talk to Susan on Messenger, never on the phone.  So what if I’ve made a couple of quick calls to Will?  The old line manager never minded.

'And you are expected to get on with the work you are paid to do and not waste company time chatting, fantasising or flirting with other members of staff.'

I sit there mutely.  I want to leap up and tell him exactly what I think of him – and not the clean version either – but I can’t.  I can’t afford to get fired.  I hardly have any money as it is and there’s no way Beth could pay the rent on her own.  She works in the library helping small children with sticky fingers pick out books for their exhausted parents to coax them to sleep with.  She actually earns less than I do.

'I trust that I’ve made myself clear?' Martin says.

I’ve got no choice.  I have to agree.

'Yes,' I manage.

'Yes?' he prompts.  It’s like being back at school.

'Yes, Mr Murchison,' I mumble.

'I didn’t quite catch that.'

So much for not fantasising.  I’ve got a particularly vivid image in my head involving his naked body, a tube of super-glue and a flesh-eating squirrel.

Query, do flesh-eating squirrels exist?

'Yes, Mr Murchison,' I say.  So help me
, God, I can’t do it a third time.

'Excellent,' he says, with a self-satisfied smile.

He turns to leave and the crowd at the door scuttles away.  All except Julie who pretends to be busy at the fax machine.  I don’t breathe out until he’s disappeared out of the door.  Then I reach for my tub of Hobnobs and start comfort eating again.  I hate to think how much weight I’m going to gain if this keeps up.

Julie comes over, pretending to be delivering faxes in case Martin comes back.  Julie is tiny and has fluffy blond hair.  She always makes me think of a canary.  Unfortunate, but true.

'The new guy really has it in for you,' she says, her eyes wide.

'He’s my e
x,' I say, starting on another Hobnob.

'When did you break up?' she asks, staring at me in horror.

'Yesterday,' I say morosely, between bites.

'Oh dear,' Julie says.  She pauses, biting her lip as she tries to find something encouraging to say. 'Oh dear,' she says again.

'I know,' I say. 'It’s a nightmare.'

'I made cookies,' Julie says, inspiration hitting. 'I’ll go get them.  You look like you could use them.'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully.

Sugar.  My life’s blood.

**

Once I’ve inhaled the rest
of my chocolate Hobnobs and half of Julie’s cookies, the world seems a much nicer place.  Obviously once the sugar high wears off I will feel depressed, fat and lethargic, but I’m more than happy to forget that until I have no choice but to remember.

'You really dated that ass-kissing twerp?' Paul asks me, as Julie removes the rest of the cookies from harm’s way

'He didn’t seem that bad,' I say, contemplating my cola can. 'He’s trying to fit some image.  Or maybe he was pretending before and this is his real personality.  Either way, I’m the one that suffers.'

'Actually, it’s not just you,' Paul says, tapping the top of my computer. 'Check your e-mail.  He’s sent round a memo.'

I open up my inbox.  Sure enough, there’s an e-mail from Martin.  I open it.

My eyes widen as I read. 'Is he for real?' I gasp.

'He wants to regulate skirt length,' Julie says, tugging hers further towards her knees.

'And hair length,' Paul says, fingering his ponytail.

'Measure our heels.'

'Make us clock in and out in the morning and at lunch.'

'Ban long earrings.'

'Take away the
drinks machine.'

'End dress-down Fridays.'

'Stop Julie bringing in cookies.'

'WHAT?!' I scream.  All the people milling around the filing cabinets stop and stare at me.  I smile sheepishly at them.

'He’ll have a mutiny on his hands,' Paul says grimly.

'Shame,' I say, with a half-hearted attempt at looking sorry.  It fails, so I grin instead. 'Couldn’t happen to a more deserving person,' I add.

'Don’t worry,' Julie whispers conspiratorially. 'Even if he tries to ban them, we’ll survive.  We’ve been here longer than he has, so we can beat him.  We’ll set up a black market.'

'And h
ave a speakeasy in the stationery cupboard,' Paul adds.  He winks at Julie. 'That is, when it’s not being used for other pursuits.'

Julie blushes like she’s got serious sunburn on both cheeks.  I grin at both of them.  I’m still psyched that I was right about them.  Everyone said I w
as mad to try and set them up.  They seemed like such an odd couple, but they got on like a house on fire.  In fact, it’s the only valuable contribution I’ve made since I started work here.

'How was Paris?' I ask.  I’ve spent the whole weekend (pre-crisis at least) dying to know.

Julie’s sunburn now requires medical attention. 'It’s a very beautiful city,' she says shyly.

'Yeah,' Paul say
s. 'The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysées.  Of course we didn’t actually find time to see any of that.'

I laugh. 'Well it’s nice to know not everyone’s love life is as terminally ill as mine.'

Julie slides off the desk suddenly, her eyes on the door.  I look.  Paul follows our gaze.  Martin.

'Ah,' Paul mutters. 'Le ass-kissing twerp est arrivé.  We’d better scarper.'

And the fact that Martin lets them go before swooping down on me like a pre-menstrual pigeon proves that it’s not business, it’s personal.

'Do I already need to repeat what we discussed this morning?' he asks.

My self-image suddenly includes braces and a school tie.

'We were just discussing operational manifestations of strategic competencies within a multi-layered corporate framework,' I say.

For the record, I do not have the slightest clue what I just said.

Martin looks a little stunned.  I’m a little stunned.  Where the hell did I pick up that crap?

'Oh,' he says.  Now he just looks disappointed. 'That’s excellent.  Carry on.'