The Dr Pepper Prophecies (2 page)

'Help me!' he pleads again, clutching my arms harder. 'We can get the doors open, jump out.'

Jump out?  We’re at thirty-something thousand feet.  We’d suffocate before we even had a chance to fall to our deaths. 

My vision is getting patchy and my balance is going.  What’s happening?

'Help me!' someone says, somewhere in the distance.

Everything goes black.

A face slowly swims into focus above me.  A really dark, scary face, with a black bandana round it.

I scream.

'Don’t kill me!' I shriek. 'I didn’t see anything.  I don’t know who you are.  Please can I have one last phone call before I die?'

'I haf no intention to kill you,' the face says. 'Please calm yourself.'

'I can’t calm down,' I gasp. 'I’m too young to die.  I’m not ready, I’ve barely done anything.  I haven’t even paid off my student loan yet, I haven’t had time.'

Another face joins the first one.  A blond stewardess with a face full of
Botox.

'This man is a doctor,' she says. 'You fainted.'

I move my eyes from one to the other.  I still don’t think I can move my head.

'Hasn’t the plane been hi-jacked?' I say stupidly.

I think she’s trying to smile.  It looks painful. 'No,' she says, 'you’re quite safe.'

'What happened to Scary Guy?' I ask weakly.

'He’s with some other members of the flight crew.  I’m afraid he has a fear of flying and you walked into the middle of one of his panic attacks.'

My ears are buzzing and everything has a yellow tinge.  It’s weird.  I haven’t fainted since the school trip to France when I was eleven.  I’d forgotten
what it feels like.

'How are you feeling?' Doctor Guy says.

I’m lying flat on my back outside a toilet.  Obviously, I feel peachy.

'Okay,' I say.

'You faint often?'

'No.'

'You eat much?'

'No, not on planes.'

'Maybe you haf not enough sugar in your blood.'

The stewardess is nodding sagely.  She looks like one of those plastic dogs with their heads on springs you see in the back of cars.

I have a sudden desire to tell them, to say it out loud.  A problem shared is a problem halved and all that.

'I’m pregnant,' I say.  And then I burst into tears.

**

It was so the right thing to have said.

Ten minutes later I’m installed in first class.  I even have one of those sleeper seats.  I’ve already tipped it back and forward three times.  The other passengers are exchanging ‘nouvelle riche’ looks, but I don’t care.  Nothing short of a miracle will get me a second chance here and I intend to make the most of it.

They were so nice!
  One little word and it’s like I’ve announced I’m made out of…I don’t know.  China, rose petals, chiffon.  I bet they think I’d sue them if I miscarried.  Finally, an upside to the litigation lunacy!

I think Scary Guy is around here too.  Maybe in business class.  I’ll have to buy him a drink.  Strange idea really, thanking the guy who made your life flash before your eyes.

The only tiny drawback is that I can’t exactly take advantage of the open bar.  But then, I guess you can’t have everything.  I'm not much of a drinker anyway – chocolate is just as good and doesn't even give you a hangover.

I tilt the seat back again and close my eyes.  I can’t wait to tell Beth about this.  She won the flights in a competition and didn’t want them, which is how I co
uld afford to go.  I work as a clerical officer – which is what they call office juniors who are over twenty-one – for an insurance claims office.  No money, no interest and no prospects, although my sweet friend Julie does bring in home-made cookies every Friday.  Not exactly a stunning career.

Which was
inevitable really.  I got to university two years late (glandular fever = GCSE retakes, then I changed courses halfway through the sixth form), then I had a mad moment and applied to do economics.  I barely understood a word for three years, so obviously I didn’t do very well.  I don’t know what possessed me to choose that.

Okay, actually I do.  I picked it because my dad said I couldn’t possibly do it and I decided to prove him wrong.  Unfortunately, I failed.  Well, not quite.  I got a third, but it seems to amount to the same thing.

So I’m stuck being bored five days a week.  Except that tomorrow, Martin will be starting work with me.  He’s going to be my line manager, which is a little weird really, but I’m sure we’ll be fine.  At the very least, it’ll give me something else to think about at work.

I open my eyes suddenly.  Oh yes, I have to tell him about the baby.

Or do I?

I mean, I’m not sure yet.

I haven’t done a test or anything.

I shouldn’t give him a shock like that when I’m not definite.  Especially not when he’s so nervous about starting his new job.  I won’t tell him.  I’ll wait.  I’ll do the test to make sure and then I’ll tell him next weekend, when he has time to adjust.  Maybe the one after.

Or maybe the one after that.

**

By the time we land I’ve convinced myself that it’s better to wait.  And while I have my passport checked and collect my baggage, I burrow further into denial and decide that the actual chances of me being pregnant are negligible.  Nothing to worry about.

I trundle down the arrivals alley, pushing my trolley and pretending there’s a chauffeur waiting for me as I scan the crowds for Martin.

I spot him, wearing a smart blue shirt I’ve never seen before, checking his watch.  I check my own.  We’ve actually come in early.

'Hi,' I say, as I get to him. 'I’m back.'

I go to put my arms around him, but he immediately takes my trolley.

'Good,' he says. 'Ten minutes left before the parking fee goes up.'

Now, I know I’ve only been gone for the weekend, but I expected a warmer welcome.

'Don’t I get a welcome back kiss?' I ask.

I think it’s a pretty reasonable request, but Martin get this ‘Now?!' look on his face.  As if I’d asked that he recite the Lord’s prayer backwards in Norwegian.

He does kiss me, but it’s a quick ‘I guess I’ll have to’ kiss, not a ‘I’m so glad you’re back’ kiss.

Then he starts pushing my trolley towards the exit. 'Chop chop, can’t waste time,' he says, running a hand through his hair.  Or, really, running a hand across his scalp, because the hair that was floppy is now about half an inch long. 

'You cut your hair,' I say.  He never told me he was getting it cut.  It’s all spiky.  He looks like a pre-teen hedgehog.

He finally smiles. 'More professional image,' he says proudly. 'Can’t go around looking like a hippy now I’m management.'

I look him up and down.  His shoes are polished.  He’s wearing smart trousers instead of jeans.  He’s taken out his earring and I swear the hole’s already closed up.

'I didn’t think you looked like a hippy,' I say, as I hurry along beside him.  These shoes are hell to walk in.

'No,' he says, giving me the most pat
ronising smile I have ever seen, 'but then, you’re not exactly qualified to judge, are you?'

Not qualified?  I have eyes.  I’ve seen hippies.  I’ve seen him before he let Edward Scissorhands loose on his hair.  What more qualifications do I need?

'What?' I ask uncertainly.

'Well, what I mean is, you don’t exactly present the most professional image yourself.'

I stare at him.  He sees me.

'I mean that in a nice way,' he says.

A nice way?  He’s just told me I dress like a slob.  What next?  You look like the child of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles (i.e. Dumbo) but in a nice way?

'It’s fine for you with your typing,' Martin’s saying.  I can’t tell if he doesn’t know he’s insulted me, or doesn’t care, 'but I have a career to think about.  It’s imperative that I look the part.  In business,' he says, puffing up his chest like a penguin, 'you dress for the job you want, not the job you have.  Everything I do, every thing I have – clothes, car, friends, girlfriend – must say ‘winner!’.
'

Alarm
bells are ringing.  In fact it’s like being right next to Big Ben at midday.  Girlfriend?

'I suppose a clerical o
fficer girlfriend doesn’t fit that image?' I say.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to get a new job.  Everywhere’s downsizing, it’s tough.  He should know, he wouldn’t have this job if I hadn’t told him about it.

He stops.  We’re almost at the exit.  He puts his hand on my arm.  His hazel eyes meet mine, radiating gratitude.

'I’m so glad you realised that,' he says, patting me like I’m a cocker spaniel. 'It makes it much easier that you understand why this has to happen.'

I stand stock still and stare at him.  Is he saying…?

'After all,' Martin says, 'intra-office relationships are forbidden, surely you know that?'

I’m in shock. 'Everyone breaks that rule,' I say. 'Half the office is in couples.  I helped set up one of them.'

'I have to set an example,' he says.  A Stepford boyfriend. 'You understand, don’t you?  You’ve been so supportive, but it’s time that we both move on.'

I want to scream.  I want to cry.  I want to kill him.  But, most of all, I want to wake up from this nightmare.

He looks at his watch again. 'We’ve got exactly five minutes before the parking
fee goes up.  Astronomical, the prices they charge.  We’d better hurry.'

He starts pushing the trolley again.  I grab it. 'I’m not going home with you,' I hear myself say.

Martin looks at me like he can’t fathom why I would object to this. 'Of course you are,' he says. 'I promised to drive you home and I’m a man who always keeps his word.'

Oh God, now he’s doing his interview sales pitch on me.

'I’m not going home with you,' I repeat.  My voice is stronger this time.  I do have some pride left.  Not a whole lot, but some.

'Don’t be silly.'

'I’m not going,' I insist.

He gives a long-suffering sigh.

'Get out before your precious parking fee goes up,' I say.

He looks
at me. 'Very well,' he says, 'if you insist on being so irrational, I will.  I’ll see you at work tomorrow.'

He lets go of my trolley and starts to walk away.  I stare after him.  He doesn’t look back.

He’s actually going to leave, isn’t he?  He’s actually going to leave me stranded here.  I mean, I know I told him to, but he’s supposed to realise that I’m trying to save face.  How else am I going to get home?

He’s gone.  He’s left me.  I’m dumped and abandoned.

Bastard!

I need a phone.

I dump my bag on the top of my trolley and hunt through it.  Where’s my…?  Oh.  I left it at home, due to astronomical phone bill.  This is why I prefer the Internet.

Pay phone.  It’s an airport, there must be pay phones.  I can’t be the first woman this has happened to.

I look around wildly as I zip up my bags.  I’m looking too fast to read the signs.  Slow down, try again.

Lifts, toilets, arrivals, information.  Pay phones.

I heave my trolley in that direction.  It keeps trying to curve round to the right.  I nearly run over several people’s toes.  Every single time I have to use one…

I find a phone and guard it while I rummage in my bag for my English money.  Then
I feed the phone all my twenty pence pieces.  And dial Will’s number.

It starts to ring.

He has to be home.  Will’s always home.  He gets withdrawal symptoms if he’s away from his computer for more than a couple of hours.

He picks up. 'Knightley.'

Thank God. 'It’s me,' I say.

'Welcome back!  Are you home already?'

'I’m at the airport.'

'I thought Martin was picking you up?' Will says.

'We broke up,' I say.

'Ah.'

'I don’t fit his image anymore,' I add.

'Oh.'

'I refused to let him drive me home,' I explain.

'I see.'

'And I’m stuck.'

'You could take a bus,' Will points out.

'I could,' I admit.

'Or a train.'

'True,' I whisper.

'I’ll be there as soon as I can.'

'I love you,' I say.  I can hear Will smiling down the telephone.

'See you in a bit.'

'Bye.'

I hang up.  Already I feel better.  I love Will’s voice.  It’s deep and rich and velvety.  Beth once called it sexy, but I can’t hear that.  For me, listening to it is like getting a hug.  And, in the twenty-five years we’ve known each other, I’ve needed a lot of those.