The Dr Pepper Prophecies

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  And so it begins…

  'Let me take him, darling,' my mum is saying to Brittany. James is still screaming blue murder. 'I think he needs his grandmother.'

  Why blue murder? Surely red would be more logical?

  'Now,' my dad says, as Brittany sits down in the chair opposite him, 'as I was saying. What are your plans for his education?'

  Education. The boy’s two months old. He hasn’t even learned to burp without help yet.

  'Phillip feels we should put his name down for Eton,' Brittany replies smoothly, glancing sideways at me, 'but we’ve also heard favourable reports of Harrow.'

  Phillip is Brittany’s husband. The son-in-law parents dream of. Those who’ve never truly left the 1950s anyway. The only thing I actually like about Phillip is that he almost always has to work when we have family gatherings, so I hardly ever have to see him.

  My dad looks frankly horrified. He’s gone puce. 'I’m not having no grandson of mine walking around in one of those ridiculous uniforms, talking like he’s got a plum in his mouth and a pole up his backside. Private education never did anyone any good.'

  There’s no point in arguing with my dad. Ever. He’s selectively deaf.

  'The school of life,' my dad continues, gesturing emphatically with his finger, 'that’s where I went. Hard work and hard knocks, that’s what makes a man a man. You stick a silver spoon in his mouth now and in twenty years he’ll want a whole flaming dinner service.'

  There’s an interesting battle going on in Brittany’s head. It’s almost visible. On one hand she wants to annoy me, on the other she doesn’t want to annoy Dad. And, for once, the two are mutually exclusive.

  I glance round quickly. Mum must have taken James into the kitchen. If I just stay quiet, maybe they’ll forget I’m here.

  'Well,' Brittany says, settling reluctantly on a compromise. 'Phillip is quite an advocate for the system. Perhaps you should discuss it with him.'

  'I’ll do that,' my dad says. 'Can’t have him doing such a foolish thing, not realising the consequences.'

  He pats Brittany’s hand.

  'Don’t you worry, my girl,' he says, 'I’ll talk some sense into him. Just needs a guiding hand, that boy does. And, as head of this family, I’ll see that things turn out all right.'

  For ‘all right’ read ‘the way I want them’.

  Hey! I just realised something. They’re not talking about me.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  **

  I can’t believe I even thought that for one second. Have I learnt nothing in twenty-five years as part of this family?

  'I only want what’s best for my grandson,' my dad says, now gesturing with his fork. 'Since it looks like he’ll be the only one.'

  My dad has been talking about grandchildren since I turned sixteen. I must be the only girl in England whose father wanted her to be a teenage mother.

  'Still, I did warn you,' Dad continues, digging into a pile of mashed potato the size of Everest. 'A university education doesn’t do a woman any favours.'

  Don’t speak. Don’t react. Just endure.

  'I told you when you applied that no man would wait three years for you. That Alan Marshall would’ve put a ring on your finger by the time you were nineteen, but you had to go gallivanting off halfway across the country.'

  Alan. Yes, the same Alan who three-timed me. And, unfortunately, Dad’s chosen one.

  'And now here you are,' Dad finishes, looking at me pityingly. 'A spinster.'

  The average age of marriage for women is now, what, thirty? My dad wrote me off like a smashed-up car on my twenty-third birthday. Is it any wonder I have trouble forming functional relationships?

  There’s a slight lull in the conversation, while the gramophone is rewound so that the broken record can keep playing.

  'Pass the potatoes, dear,' my mum murmurs.

  Every so often I get really, really frustrated with her for not saying anything. She always, always keeps out of it.

  Mind you, she's had to live with him longer than I have.

  'Now, Brittany,' Dad says. God, he’s rewound quick. 'She had the right idea. Found herself a good man, settled down, doing what she does best. Making the most of herself.'

  When Brittany was four and I was seven, all she wanted to do was build things. We went round the toy store a few weeks before her birthday to see if there was anything that caught her eye. She wanted a toy workbench. For her birthday, Dad bought her Bridal Barbie. He doesn’t comprehend subtlety.

  'It is a shame that James won’t have any cousins to play with,' Brittany says regretfully, 'but I’m sure it’s not Melanie’s fault.'

  My ears prick up. Could she possibly be defending me?

  'She’s trying her hardest. Maybe it’s time to face facts. Not everyone is suited to marriage. It doesn’t mean she can’t be involved helping those who are.'

  I bring a whole new meaning to the word ‘delusional’.

  I have a sudden vision of myself dressed up like Mary Poppins and taking Brittany’s kids up to the rooftops to watch Will do the chimney sweep dance. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Dad grunts. 'It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t had an offer – but to throw one away! I’ll tell you, that Alan would’ve made her a fine husband.'

  I look at my watch under the table. 12:30.

  If I told them there was a bus strike starting at one, would they believe me?

  'Although,' Dad says, spearing a sausage thoughtfully, 'one of the chaps in the gardening club has a son about your age. Single. Secure profession too. One thing I’ll say for undertakers – they’re never out of work.'

  What about if I went to the toilet, phoned Will and got him to phone me back with an emergency?

  No, won’t work, mobile at home charging. Damn.

  'We’ll have to have him round to dinner sometime. Introduce you. An undertaker isn’t a patch on a doctor, of course, but beggars can’t be choosers.'

  God give me patience. Either that or give my dad a gag. Or laryngitis – lasts longer.

  'No indeed,' Brittany says. That silly little laugh again.

  I’m not sure I can survive this visit.

  **

  'Have you heard anything about that job yet?' Dad asks Brittany. The first sentence not directed my way since Alan was mentioned.

  Brittany studies her nails carefully. 'Phillip was chosen. We’ll be going in three months.'

  'You’re moving?' I ask, too surprised to keep trying to become part of the wallpaper.

  'Going to a better job down in Cornwall,' Dad says proudly. 'More money, more prestige. Doing just what a good husband should.'

  The fact that he never gained much of either seems to have escaped him.

  But Brittany moving? A nice long way away? Taking the perfect son-in-law and precious grandson with her? Finally, things are looking up! With her that far away and me nearby, maybe, just maybe, I won’t seem like such a failure anymore.

  'Shame you don’t have someone to do that for you, eh Melanie?'

  'I love what you’ve done to this room,' I say desperately. One more word, one more, and I’ll crack.

  Mum smiles, but Dad answers.

  'Decided it would make it easier to sell, didn’t I, Sarah?' he says.

  All the oxygen suddenly gets sucked out of the room.

  'Sell?' I squeak.

  'Of course,' Dad says, leaning back in his chair. 'We’re going to Cornwall with Brittany. Don’t want to be too far away from our only grandchild.'

  He might as well have said ‘our only daughter’. I’m as good as disowned.

  It’s the last straw. And, all of a sudden, all I want is Will.

  **

  The second I get home that evening, I call him. I get the answer machine. He’s out. With Natalie no doubt.

  There’s nobody for whom I’m the most important person in the world.

  So I eat chocolate.

  And cry.

  Chapter 9
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  On Sunday, the weather is perfect. I’ve really got no choice but to have a good time.

  'Holy frell, what have you got in here?' Will asks, trying to pick up the picnic hamper by himself and nearly having his arm torn off. 'It weighs more than I do.'

  'Two person job,' I say, grinning at him. 'Like I said.'

  Will rubs his arm ruefully. 'When you said that, I assumed you meant you and Beth.'

  'And you thought you were stronger than both of us?' I ask, raising an eyebrow at him while I search through the kitchen for the paper plates we bought last time.

  'Obviously, on some level,' Will says, coming over to help. 'Either that or I’m a smegging masochist.'

  He stops, one hand on the counter, licking his lips as he thinks. 'Oven,' he says. 'You put them in the oven drawer last time, so you couldn’t lose them.'

  I kneel down and pull open the drawer. No paper plates. I look back up at Will. He drums his fingers on the counter top as he thinks some more.

  'Then Beth washed all the oven trays,' he says finally, 'so there wasn’t room for them anymore.' He frowns. 'Then you put them in the freezer compartment until you bought ice cream again, in the biscuit tin when you gave them up for lent and then…'

  He slaps the counter top. 'You put them under your bed,' he says triumphantly.

  I go to look and emerge a few moments later with the box.

  'How did you remember all that?' I ask, amazed. Will can remember more about last year than I can about last week.

  Will shrugs. 'A good memory for virtually useless information is a common trait among us anoraks,' he says quietly. He sounds almost down about it.

  'You’re not an anorak,' I say firmly. Admittedly, I’ve called him one tons of times. I never mean it seriously. 'Who said you were?'

  Will hesitates. 'She didn’t actually use that word,' he says.

  Natalie. No one insults Will except me. I’ve earned that privilege through a lifetime of friendship and no girlfriend-come-lately is going to cheapen it.

  'You’re not an anorak,' I say again. 'Anoraks are people who…' I break off while I try to think of something.

  'Stay in all the time?' Will suggests.

  'You’re the home-loving type,' I say immediately. 'Not some playboy. I’m the same way. It’s absolutely a good thing.'

  'Own a Star Trek t-shirt?'

  'You can pull off anything. And you hardly ever wear it.'

  'Spend hours on the Internet?'

  'You love designing,' I protest. 'And it’s not like you never talk to real people. We talk practically everyday.'

  'Own a model of The Starship Enterprise?' Will offers finally, as I dump the box of paper plates on the counter beside him.

  I look up at him seriously. 'I bought that for you,' I say. 'Christmas 2008. We’d had that big fight and I wanted to say sorry. It’s not just a model, it’s a reminder that I never mean to hurt you, no matter what stupid things I say.'

  Will looks at me, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. 'I wasn’t sure if you still remembered that,' he says.

  'Of course I do,' I reply. 'I remember the important stuff, even if I can’t quote Space Corps directives.'

  Will smiles at me. 'Twenty-five years is a long time to be friends. Even though you were kind of dull before you learned to talk.' He shakes his head, grinning. 'I should have appreciated it more.'

  Normally I’d insult him back. Today I just grin back. This is the Will I know and love.

  'Are you feeling better about your parents yet?' he asks.

  Am I ever going to feel better about being the after thought, even though they had me first?

  'Am I ever going to feel better about being the after thought, even though they had me first?' I say.

  'You’re not an afterthought,' Will says, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. 'And one of these days they’ll realise they’re treating you like one and stop.'

  'Yeah,' I say, grimacing, 'when I marry someone they like more than Phillip, with a respectable profession and a decent salary, give up work and produce grandchildren like a battery hen.'

  Will regards me for a second. 'Battery hens don’t produce chicks, just eggs.'

  'Don’t be so pedantic.'

  He laughs. 'Otherwise,' he says, 'I think the answer is clear. You’ll have to marry me.'

  I stare at him. Somehow that thought never occurred to me before.

  'Your parents like me,' Will’s saying. 'At least, I think they do. I’m an accountant, which is about as dull as you can get and dull things are inevitably respectable. I wouldn’t expect you to give up work unless you want to, although I’d try to find you a better job, and I’d like to count my children on the fingers of one hand in case I ever lose some. Fingers, that is, not children. So no cage required.'

  Marry Will? That’s insane. He’s like my big brother. I don’t want to marry him, I just don’t want him to marry anybody else.

  Unless I never get married. In which case maybe we could have one of those companionship marriages where you share the housework, but don’t have sex.

  Please, God, don’t let it come to that.

  'Earth to Mel?'

  I snap out of it.

  'Are you okay?' Will asks, looking concerned.

  'I’m fine,' I say, even though this conversation’s making me feel a little weird. I can’t remember the last time I felt this confused over Will. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this confused over Will.

  Will hugs me and I hug him back, like I always do, even though it feels like something has changed.

  Doorbell rings. Saved by the bell. Coincidence is a wonderful thing.

  Will lets me go and answers the door. It’s Matt. I see him standing there beside Will and, for one moment, I want to tell him to leave again. As if he doesn’t belong here.

  Now I’m weirding myself out.

  'Hi Mel,' Matt says, as Will steps out of the way to let him in. 'Can I help?'

  'You can help Will carry the hamper down to his car,' I say, trying to sound normal. 'Be warned, it’s heavy.'

  'Leaving the heavy stuff to the men, huh?' Matt asks, as he and Will approach the hamper. 'Why isn’t it sexism when guys get the short end of the stick?'

  'Because we put up with it so we look macho,' Will replies. 'Grab a handle. One, two, three, heave. Okay?'

  I watch them slowly negotiate the stairs. It’s beginning to look more like a six-person job.

  I should help.

  So I fetch the box of paper plates. And bring that.

  **

  Natalie shows up just as we’re finishing packing up. She had some appointment or something. Probably getting her claws sharpened.

  'Melanie, you’re wearing Reeboks,' is the first thing she says to me, after I’ve watched her catalogue and value my clothes. Natalie does something in fashion; her shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. For all intents and purposes though, what she is is a professional bitch.

  'Yes,' I say, rather at a loss as to how to answer that.

  'Didn't you know they're completely out this season?'

  Didn’t know, didn’t care. I like Reebok. Besides, I bought them last season.

  'I’m so glad you told me,' I say. There may be the tiniest hint of sarcasm in my voice. 'With my criminal record, I risk being shot by the fashion police.'

  I really tried to be nice to Natalie when I first met her, but in less that ten minutes she’d told me I needed a personal shopper, an entire new wardrobe from designers whose names I can’t pronounce and extensive plastic surgery. So it became a little difficult.

  What she sees in Will, I can’t imagine. His interest in clothes begins and ends with whether or not they’re clean. For a man, I think even that is impressive.

  Natalie sighs like I’m a rebellious two-year-old and she’s my long-suffering mother. 'I’m only trying to help you,' she says.

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

&nbs
p; '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.

  **