The Dr Pepper Prophecies (32 page)

Obviously that was just a random, shock-evoked thought.  Besides, cake without chocolate just isn't right.

'All I see all day are these four walls, the supermarket and the park,' Brittany says flatly. 'Some days it barely seems worth getting out of bed.'

There’s a lull while she takes a sip of tea.  Daintily, like we’re discussing the weather or the state of the roads.

'I tried to tell Phillip once how miserable I was,' she says, 'and he just brushed it off.  Then we had James and he decided that was enough to fill the gap.'

She snorts, very unlady
like.  A lot like me, come to think of it.

'He can’t talk,' she says bitterly. 'His greatest interest in life is his rainbow mobile and all he does is scream at me to do stuff for him all day and all night.  That’s not company, it’s just an endless struggle.'

'Of course,' she continues, 'maybe if Phillip actually helped, it would be better.  But babies need their mothers, don’t they?  Because anyone with a Y chromosome is incapable of shoving a bottle into a screaming baby’s mouth or changing a nappy.  So he comes home, goes out to play golf or stays in his office and listens to bloody Gilbert & Sullivan, while I have my life sucked out of me by a whining little poop machine.  And now, for some unknown reason, he wants another.  He barely sees the first one!  We could just cut a few baby photos out of magazines and put them in his wallet.  No one would ever know the difference.  And even when he comes home early and doesn’t start playing ‘A Wandering Minstrel, I’ the second he gets in – and if I hear that song one more time I cannot be held responsible for my actions – he has the nerve to complain that I’m not falling over myself to scramble into bed with him.  Like all I am is a combination milk machine and blow-up doll.'

Lovely image.

Naturally I’m sympathetic and outraged, but I’m also thrilled.  I know Brittany being miserable shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.  For so long she’s had the perfect life and I’ve been the failure.  Now, suddenly, our positions are reversed. 

Well, equalled anyway.

'And the thought of years and years of more screaming blobs and being shut up here like the mad woman in the attic makes me want to die,' Brittany finishes, burning herself out. 'It’s not that I don’t love James, because I do.  I just need something in my life that doesn’t involve him.  Does that make me so very selfish?'

Is she serious?  She thinks she’s selfish?

'If I spent one day like that, I’d reward myself for surviving it,' I say truthfully. 'It’s completely illogical to think you’re selfish because you want a vacation from work.  I take all the time off I can get and my job is nowhere near as full-on as yours.'

Brittany looks a little surprised, but pleased.

'Thanks,' she says, starting to smile. 'I wasn’t sure if you’d get it.  All the mothers at playgroup look scandalised if you mention being even the slightest bit down.  They still haven’t forgiven me for using supermarket nappy-rash cream instead of the all-natural one that costs £32.50 a jar.'

'£32.50?' I repeat, astonished. 'For cream?'

Brittany nods wryly.

'Does the supermarket kind work?' I ask.

'Perfectly.'

'Then what on Earth is the point in spending £32.50 on some fancy stuff?' I exclaim. 'Who cares if it’s all natural?  It’s going on him, not in him.  And it’s not like he’ll spend the rest of his life having top range stuff rubbed into him – he’s not the Prince of Sheba.  What do they think, he’s going to grow up emotionally scarred because his mother used the wrong brand?  Or have they discovered a link between cheap nappy cream and autism now?'

To my horror, Brittany starts to cry.

Crap, I thought we were getting somewhere.  Was that the wrong thing to say?  How do I fix this?

I look around desperately for tissues.  I see none.  I grab my bag from the floor and rummage through it, turning up one rather crumpled tissue.

'Here,' I say, holding it out to her. 'Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.'

Brittany takes it and wipes her eyes. 'You didn’t,' she says, shaking her head. 'I’m not crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because I’m so glad that you understand.  All this time I’ve been trying to find someone to talk to about this and you were there all along.'

This is beginning to sound like a Disney film.

'Then why were you such a bitch to me?' I ask bluntly.

'I was jealous!
' Brittany exclaims. 'I still am.  You have a job, I have a baby.  You have a salary, I have a household fund.  You live with a friend, I virtually live alone.  You went to university, I went to the wedding planners.  You’re free, you’re independent, you’re…'

'Broke,' I interrupt. 'Stuck in a job I despise, working for my ex-boyfriend who’s threatening to fire me, but unable to quit because I have to pay bills.  Scared that I’ll never get married and will end my life alone.  Bored, uninspired and jealous of what you have.'

'You are?' Brittany asks, in a small voice.

I shrug. 'Well, I was until I heard about what it’s really like,' I say. 'At least I get a few pence
of my own and company during the day.  And I get out of the house.  But I’d still prefer to share a place with a husband rather than just a flatmate.  And probably a baby too.'

'We’ve each got half of a life,' Brittany says, smiling again.

'And we both want a whole one,' I say. 'Although I think the part you lack is easier to get.  I mean, finding someone to marry is so…'

'What about Will?' Brittany asks.

'What?' I ask, caught off guard.

'What about Will?' she repeats, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table. 'You two were always so close when we were kids.  I was madly jealous that you got all the fun.  And every time I see you together, you still seem like you’re made for each other.  I know that’s not that often, but still.'

I guess as part of the new honesty/bonding thing, I should tell her the truth.

'Things are a little…difficult between us right now,' I confess.

'Why?' Brittany asks.

I can’t help revelling for a moment in the fact that she actually seems concerned about me.  I guess I didn’t realise until now that sisterly love was missing in my life.

God, that was sappy.  I should start writing self-help books.

'Well, briefly,' I say, warming up to the topic, 'me and Beth had a fight, so I went to Will’
s place.  I kissed him and then when I woke up with him I told him it was freaky and he got weird and then we made up, but then you called and I said…I wouldn’t help and then Will and I fought and I stormed off.  Will came round to see me yesterday, but Matt was there asking me out and now Will thinks that I love Matt when I really love him and I have no idea what to do.'

Brittany blinks while her brain tries to decide which part to deal with first.

'You woke up with him?' she asks finally, staring at me. 'You mean…'

Why does everyone automatically assume that?

'No,' I say and I am aware that there’s a slight edge of disappointment in my voice. 'We didn’t do anything at all.  Just went to sleep and woke up all curled round each other.'

Brittany’s eyebrows collide with her hairline. 'You do this with your friends a lot, do you?' she says sceptically.

'Of course not,' I say, surprised.

'In all the time you’ve known him, at least since you reached puberty, has that ever happened before?'

'Well, no,' I admit.

'I see,' Brittany says, giving me a penetrating look. 'And kissing him.  Why?'

'I was just glad to see him,' I protest. 'I just sort of did it.'

'And he didn’t seem to have any objection to either the kissing or the spooning?'

'Well, he wouldn’t exactly throw me out, would he?' I say, crossing my arms. 'It didn’t mean anything.  He has a girlfriend.  It was just an alcohol-induced, completely innocent moment.'

Brittany’s expression is a picture.  A picture that’s worth exactly two words.  Yeah, right.

'Don’t you want it to mean something?' she asks, leaning her chin on one hand.

'No!' I say. 'I want to do it again and have it mean something, with a hell of a lot more going on between the kiss and the waking up and no alcohol involved, but not while he’s seeing someone else.  I’m not going to knowingly be anyone’s bit on the side and I don’t want Will to be the kind of guy who would actually go for that.'

Brittany holds up her hands. 'Sounds like it’s him you need to talk to,' she says.

'I can’t,' I groan. 'He thinks I’m with Matt.'

'So, tell him you’re not.'

'But how do I do that without it sounding like it’s important that he knows?'

'It is important.'

'I know.  But I can’t let him know that.'

'Why not?'

'Just because,' I snap. 'I can’t come on to someone else’s boyfriend.'

'I bet he’d dump her if he thought he could have you,' Brittany says.

Funny, just what Susan said.

'Yes, but him leaving her for me isn’t the same as him leaving her first and then turning to me,' I say, trying to explain. 'If I made the first move, even if he broke up with her right away she’d always be there.  I can’t start something with Will unless he comes to me free and ready, because he knows he doesn’t want anyone but me.'

Brittany sighs. 'You don’t think you might be asking too much?' she asks softly. 'Many people refuse to be single, sticking with the wrong one until somebody better comes along.  If Will’s one of them, you could be waiting for the rest of your life.'

'If Will is one of them, then he’s not the man I think he is,' I say firmly. 'I don’t keel over and die when I’m single and I don’t want to be with someone who does.'

'Okay,' Brittany says, sitting back again. 'Your choice.  Good luck.'

I think there’s a rift forming in our new sisterly bond.  Quick, fix it.  Change the subject.

'So,' I say, not in the least desperately. 'Ummm…'

Something.  Anything.

Ooo, have an idea!

'What was it you wanted my help with?' I ask, trying not to sound relieved at having found a topic. 'You know…when you called me at Will’s?'

Brittany pushes vegetables around her plate, completely spoiling their symmetry.

'I want to get a job,' she says nervously. 'When we move to Cornwall.  I thought I could hire a nanny to look after James, at least part-time.  We can afford it.  Phillip’s against it, of course, but I’ll convince him.  I’ll have to.  I can’t live like this for the rest of my life.  I don’t want to end up just being a ghost like Mum.'

And here was I thinking I was the only one who thought of her like that.

'So, I was wondering,' she says,' if you could help me?  You know, with a CV and things.  If you have time.  I’m sure you know way more about that sort of thing than me.'

I feel a sudden desire to laugh. 'Actually,' I confess, 'I’m terrible at it.'

Her face falls.

'But Will’s great!' I add quickly. 'He helped me do mine and it looks really good.  I still don’t have a job, but it’s not his fault that I’m terrible at interviews.  You should call him.  He always refused to hate you and if you tell him we made up he’ll be pleased and maybe he’ll come round and see me again.  A win-win situation.'

Brittany looks much more cheerful.

'Oh
and I have a great idea about how you can get Phillip to hire a nanny,' I say, inspiration hitting at just the right moment.

'How?' Brittany says, interested.

'Tell him Dad wants to move in with you,' I say triumphantly. 'Mum too.  To supervise their only grandchild’s upbringing.  And the only way to put them off is to hire a nanny with proper training.'

A smile slowly spreads over Brittany’s face.

'That might work,' she says thoughtfully. 'Of course, they did decide not to move, didn’t they?'

'I don’t think Phillip needs to know that just yet,' I reply.

We grin at each other over the table.  Then we shake hands.  Partners in crime.

At last.

The next day starts off worryingly due to the fact that Cynthia arrives a) on time and b) with a bright, chirpy Annie-esque smile on her face.  I spend the next ten minutes ready to bolt if I hear the opening notes of ‘Tomorrow’.

'You’re in a good mood,' I say tentatively.

'I am,' Cynthia answers, starting to attack her pile of claims with frightening zeal.

'Any particular reason?' I ask, watching her like Mad-eye Moody for any signs of a newly-acquired drug habit.

'Because,' Cynthia says, turning to give me a beam, 'I’ve just handed in my notice.'

My feelings are a little mixed about this.  Why can’t that be me?  How can it be her?  What did Martin’s face look like when she told him?

'But how can you afford it?' I ask, bewildered.  No work = no money, unless you save.  Which is virtually impossible on what we earn.

'My mother left some money,' Cynthia says, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. 'In fact, quite a lot of money.  Seems that her ‘Us poor folks can’t afford luxuries like
takeways thing was a complete act and not just an exaggeration.  Plus I’m selling the house.  Get it on the market, keep in touch by e-mail, but basically leave it to the estate agent.  It’s probably worth three times what she bought it for and I can’t wait to see the back of it.'