The Dr Pepper Prophecies Read online

  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 dementor.

  '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 have 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.'

  Cynthia nods slowly. 'I can do that,' she says, sounding more confident already. 'I’ll…I’ll go straight home and…watch The Weakest Link.'

  Not exactly the first thing that sprang to my mind.

  'That’s…a start,' I say, not quite clear on the reasoning behind it.

  'Mother always said that game shows encourage gambling,' Cynthia explains.

  I can’t see The Weakest Link encouraging gambling. Feelings of intellectual inadequacy yes, but not gambling.

  'What else?' I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

  Cynthia did look as if she was drowning. Now I think she’s starting to fight her way to the shore. 'I’ll…get fish and chips and eat them out of the newspaper,' she says, starting to smile properly. 'I’ll read one of those trashy magazines, like…Woman’s Weekly. I’ll…use tea bags instead of tea leaves. I’ll buy supermarket bread instead of making my own. I won’t vacuum this week. I’ll…I’ll throw out that horrible cat ornament. In fact,' she says, now grinning broadly, 'I’ll smash it to pieces like I always wanted to.'

  I’m suddenly feeling very good about my life.

  'Fabulous,' I say. 'A new start, a new life. Starting right now. In fact, I think you should take the day off tomorrow. Call in sick. I’ll even tell Martin for you. You can have a three-day weekend to do whatever you want.'

  It’s like releasing an animal back into the wild. She’s hovering round the gate, trying to get back into her enclosure.

  'I don’t know,' Cynthia says doubtfully. 'Three whole days…'

  'I’ll tell you what,' I say, rummaging in my bag for a pen and a bit of paper. 'I’ll give you my phone number and address in case you need a confidence boost. In fact, me and some of my friends are having a picnic on Sunday, either in the park or on the carpet, depending on the weather. You should come. My flatmate is the greatest cook.'

  It’s amazing how much nicer Cynthia looks when she smiles.

  'I might do,' she says shyly. 'I’ll see how I’m doing by Sunday. I’ll try and follow your advice.'

  'Do,' I say, 'and have a great time.'

  Forget Martin, forget my family, forget my crappy job. Today I made a difference in someone’s life.

  And, as soon as I send off the advert I wrote, I’ll make a difference in Beth’s too.

  I can’t wait!

  Chapter 8

  I posted the adverts to the newspaper as soon as Cynthia went off to revel in the rebellious feelings associated with wearing shoes in the house. For once Beth was home when I got there, which made it incredibly hard not to tell her what I’d done.

  'It was just plain weird,' I say, between mouthfuls of chicken curry. 'I’ve been sitting opposite her for eighteen months without even being able to remember her last name. She was just like part of the furniture. And all of a sudden it was like I’d been sucked into Beauty and the Beast – the wardrobe started talking to me.'

  I take another mouthful. 'God, this is fantastic,' I say, closing my eyes for a second and savouring the taste. 'Your best ever. Is there more? Are you going to finish that?'

  Beth is sitting across from me, absent-mindedly stirring her curry with her spoon and staring at it, like it’s trying to hypnotise her. It takes quite a few more mouthfuls before she registers that I’ve stopped talking and looks up.

  'Hmmm?' she says. 'I’m sorry, did you say something?'

  'I just wanted to know if you’re going to eat your curry or just make whirlpools all day,' I say, staring at her. 'What’s the matter? You never play with your food.'

  'Oh, nothing,' Beth says. She seems to be saying that a lot lately. 'I’m just tired. I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening properly.'

  I shrug and grab another piece of bread. I dip it into my curry while I get back to where I was before.

  'Anyway, it’s really made me think about families,' I say. 'How important they are. I’ve decided that I’m going to go down there on Saturday and I’m going to remember,' I spear a lump of chicken with my fork, 'that they could be a hell of a lot worse and I’d better learn to appreciate them while they’re here. Family bonds are sacred…and, more importantly, they’re permanent.'

  'You should,' Beth says in a funny voice. I look up and realise to my amazement that she’s got tears in her eyes. 'You should. Or you’ll regret it later. It’s hard enough to know that they’re alive in the world and you can’t tell them how much you care. It must be worse still when you know they’re gone and there’s no hope anymore.'

  I so shouldn’t have started this subject. One of the few things Beth has told me is that her father moved to Australia after her parents got divorced. She hardly ever sees him, even now.

  'I’m sorry I said anything,' I say.

  'It’s okay,' Beth says, waving off my apology as she produces a spotless handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her eyes. 'It’s silly. I’m overreacting.'

  'Of course you’re not,' I say comfortingly. 'My family live so near I could see them everyday and I only see them when I can’t avoid it, but Australia might as well be the moon on what you earn.'

  I’m so much better off than Beth really. My whole family live nearby, I still get to visit the house I grew up in and my parents barely even fight. I’m lucky, I really am.

  'Don’t be,' Beth says, looking worried. 'Not everyone gets on with their family. Don’t feel bad. I made pavlova for dessert.'

  I immediately feel better. Sometimes I think I should worry about my using sugar like Prozac. Then I decide it could actually be Prozac that I’m addicted to. If sugar were that serious, surely it would only be available on prescription?

  'Thank,' I say gratefully. 'Let’s stop talking about families now.'

  **

  As the crow flies or, more realistically down here in the south, the pigeon, it’s really not that far to my parents’ house. The bus journey, however, is an absolute bitch. Three different buses and nearly two hours to go fifteen miles. And they wonder why more people don’t use public transport.

  As I walk slowly down the road, getting nearer and nearer to my ex-home, the semi-detached, brick doll’s house that I spent eighteen years in before I went off to university, the Earth’s gravity seems to get stronger and stronger. It’s harder and harder to keep picking my feet up. And the desire to spin round and run home grows.

  I picture seeing the house again. The spring daffodils and tulips. The bed of primroses in the shape of a wonky cross. My dad found religion at the same time as he discovered the joy of gardening, mainly because the local vicar is in the club with him.

  Before I’m ready, I arrive. I stare at the place I used to call home. The paint work has been redone. The gate doesn’t squeak when I open it. Weird.

  At the door I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

  This time I’m greeted by my nephew, James. He’s two months old and this is the first time I’ve seen him, due to many good reasons – okay, excuses – why I couldn’t visit before now. His face is bright red and he’s screaming his head off. I know exactly how he feels.

  Attached to him is his slave and milk-dispenser. If I were her, I’d have gone on strike.

  Super mum, God forbid, actually looks slightly stressed, although she rearranges her features very qui
ckly when she sees me.

  'Wind,' she says, smiling at the scarlet blob as if perforated eardrums are only to be expected. 'How lovely to see you. James is thrilled to meet his Aunty Melanie, aren’t you?' she coos.

  God, how does he greet the ones he doesn’t like? Projectile vomiting probably.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like children. I may even want to have one or two of my own someday. It’s just that I prefer them asleep. Or making cute noises like they do in adverts on TV. Not acting like they could star in another re-make of The Omen. Is that so very unreasonable?

  I’m ushered through to the sitting room. It’s too late to escape. I’m stuck here, in the torture chamber.

  Family bonds are sacred. Family bonds are sacred.

  Who am I kidding? How long until this is over?

  I glance at my watch. It’s 12 o’clock. Minimum four hours. What was I thinking?

  Wow! The room’s all been done up. It looks amazing. New creamy wallpaper, curtains with this funky gold writing all over them. A strange, but nice, coffee table with curved legs. I love it.

  'Hello, darling,' my mum says softly, coming over to me. I hug her. My mum’s by far the best of the family, in that I think she actually likes me.

  'Hi mum,' I say. 'The house looks great.'

  Two little spots like pink Smarties appear on my mum’s cheekbones. 'Thank you,' she says, embarrassed. 'How was the journey?'

  'Okay,' I say, looking round the room again as I put my bag down on a chair. 'Buses were running on time for once, thank God.'

  'There’ll be no blasphemy in this house, thank you,' a voice much louder and stronger than my mum’s says from one of the armchairs.

  My dad. A man who still believes that an Englishman’s house is his castle. And, therefore, that it’s his duty to keep everyone locked up inside it.

  'Sorry, Dad,' I say meekly, even though I’d love to point out that my dad’s taken the Lord’s name in vain so often in his time that he’s practically become the common law owner of it.

  'Those big city types are a bad influence on you, my girl,' my dad says, making disapproving noises with his tongue. 'Should’ve stayed around here. This is a good area, where you meet the right kind of people.'