The Dr Pepper Prophecies

© Jennifer Gilby Roberts 2002 - 2013

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

For Ffion and Elizabeth, even though I

wrote this before I met either of you.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 1

When Harry Met Sally.

I just do not get that movie.  I mean, how can two people be good friends for that long and not realise that they’re meant for each other?  How?

If I’d been a character in that film, it would only have lasted half an hour.  I’d have got them together, easy.

I’m sitting in my uncomfortable, economy class seat (they like to call it World Traveller, but no leg room and a screaming baby in the next aisle makes it economy in my language) eating the contents of a packet that may contain nuts.

It's a packet of peanuts.  I never would have guessed.

I’m flying back to London from New York after a weekend with my friend Susan (who lives there), during which I learned that I’m too short, too fat and must pay more attention to grooming.  Definitely not a city to go to if you have low self-esteem.

I am not scared of flying.  Will, my best friend in the whole world, is afraid of flying.  He went on one flight when he was thirteen, they hit a tiny bit of turbulence (to hear him tell the story, you’d think Godzilla had got loose and shake the plane like a maraca) and he’s refused to ever get on another.  I’m the only one who knows that – his evil girlfriend, Natalie, just thinks it's severe motion sickness.

What I get on planes is bored.  Hence why I’m watching this movie.  Which is about to end.

And now I’m crying.  For absolutely no reason.  I mean, not that I never cry at movies.  I do.  But not this one.  I must be pre-menstrual.

Automatically I bend down to my bag and slam my head on the seat in front.  I let out a short, violent exclamation that results in the mother of the screaming baby in the next aisle giving me an accusing look.

'Do you mind?' she says haughtily. 'There are children present.'

Of course I don’t mind.  What’s a blinding headache and a few less brain cells?

'Sorry,' I mutter.

I try again to get into my bag, nearly breaking my neck since the person in front of me has pushed his seat back.  The only way to do it seems to be to spread my legs and pull the bag up between them.  I really wish I’d worn trousers, because the jammy bastard who got the window seat is now leering at me.

I dump my (fake) D&G bag on my lap and unzip it.  I scrabble around in the five tons of stuff I have in there (to tell the truth, I’m not absolutely sure that half of it’s even mine, despite what I told the people at customs) until I locate my diary.  I open it to today and then flip back through the pages looking for the little blue hearts.  Don’t ask me why I started marking my periods like that, because I have no idea.  It must have been right at the start, when they were still a novelty.

I can’t find any.  Where the hell are they?  Blue hearts, blue hearts.  I’m flipping further and further back through the dates.  Someone’s just encased my insides in dry ice.  How long has it been?

Blue heart.  Okay, blue heart.  Breathing.  Staying calm.  Slowly I start counting forward.  One week.  Two weeks.  Three weeks.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Then today.

I slump back in my chair, thumping my head again on the back of the seat.  But I barely notice.  I’m too busy having a heart attack.  I can’t breathe, my vision’s going cloudy.  I swear there are shooting pains in my arm.

I’m pregnant.  I, Melanie Caroline Parker, am pregnant.  I’m a single mother, I’m a statistic.  My mum will have a stroke, my dad will disown me.  I’ll have to wear navy dresses with white collars and eat baked beans so I can afford nappies.

Martin will leave me.

Why did I think that?  I don’t know that.  Okay, so we’ve only been going out for three months and he’s really focused on his career and when my nephew was born he wanted to send my sister a condolence card.  What does that prove?

He’s absolutely going to leave me.

I could do it on my own.  My flatmate Beth loves kids.  And Will’s always saying how much he’d like a nephew.  Beth’ll make gourmet baby food and teach it proper pronunciation and she has so many books around it’ll probably read before it can speak.  Will will be its father figure.  It’ll grow up just like him.  A computer geek who can recite episodes of Red Dwarf word for word.

I am so not ready for this.

**

Okay, I’ve had five minutes of panic.  The guy who was leering at me now thinks I’m about to throw up, because I’ve been leaning back with my eyes closed and a tortured expression on my face.  I’m thinking clearly now.

I might not be pregnant.  I have been late before.  I even skipped one period altogether when I went on that stupid crash diet after GCSEs.  What I need is a pregnancy test.

Somewhat inconvenient then that the plane won’t even land for another three hours.  And Martin’s picking me up at the airport.  They really should sell them on the plane.

Okay, I’m thinking.  There are other ways to tell if you’re pregnant, aren’t there?  Like…okay, I know I read somewhere that you have vivid dreams when you’re pregnant.  And I did have a great one last night.  Colin Firth, the lake scene in Pride and Prejudice.

But then, who hasn’t had that one?

Nipples.  Your nipples go dark brown or something.

Except I can’t really get my breasts out on a plane.

Or can I?

I go to get up and nearly gut myself with the seatbelt I’d forgotten I’d put on.  Now the window seat guy thinks I’m running off to be sick.  I sit down again, jarring my spine, take a deep breath and try again.  Undoing my belt this time.

I walk unsteadily to the toilet.  In fact my knees feel a little weak.  It’s low blood sugar, that’s all.  Or maybe food poisoning from the failed cloning attempt they gave us for lunch.

I’ve slipped into denial now.  I’ve always liked denial.  The sky is always blue and there’s never a queue at the post office.

Or the toilet.  I bet someone’s trying to join the Mile High Club.  I never applied for membership.  I don’t like using aeroplane toilets, let alone want to have sex in one.  They’re dirty and the lighting makes you look terrible.  Plus, is there actually space?

I finally get into one.  I lock the door, pull my top up and my breasts out.  Then I study them very carefully.  They look normal to me.

Of course, it might just be too early for it to show.

What else?  There must be something else.  Morning sickness – don’t think so.  Dizziness – low blood sugar, low blood sugar.  C’mon, I watched all those medical dramas.  Think.

I have it!  If you’re pregnant, your cervix turns blue!

Well that’s a fat lot of use, isn’t it?  I can’t exactly get a quick look at my own cervix.

Or can I?

I mean, theoretically, all I need is a mirror.

It might work.

And it’s not like I have anything better to do.

I pull off my knickers and hike up my skirt.  Hmm, in fact, I’d better take it off.  I dump them both on the toilet seat.

First hitch, mirror is on wall.

Finally, gymnastics comes in handy.

I get one foot up by the wash basin and keep the other on the floor.  Then I sort of tilt myself so I can see.  It’s not working.  I can’t see the right bit of me.

I get onto the toilet seat, put my leg up again and try that.  That’s better.  I’m kind of in the right place now.  I try to see.

Nope, no good.  Can’t see anything.  Need a smaller mirror.  And maybe a miner’s helmet for my finger.

It was never going to work.  I’ve gone mad, haven’t I?  Post traumatic stress disorder.

I try to get down.  I catch my foot on the tap.  Oh shit, I’m falling!

Ow.

My butt hurts.  And I hit my head on…

Oh, God, no.

The ‘call for help’ button.

**

I jump up like the floor’s made of hot coals.  Oh, God, I’m naked from the waist down, alone in an aeroplane toilet and any minute the Mary Poppins of air stewardesses will be knocking on my door.  I’m starting to hyperventilate.

No!  Can’t waste time.  Must get dressed.  Fast.

I grab my knickers.  They’re inside out, but I yank them on anyway.  Then I grab my skirt.  I’m in a cold sweat.  I put it on back to front.  Crap!  They’ll see me.  They’ll take pictures.  Maybe they’ll even have a video camera.  I’ll be the star of every party they have for the next decade.  I’ll be recognised on planes.  I’ll have to get plastic surgery.

I can’t get my shoes on.  Why am I wearing shoes with buckles?  Why did I buy shoes with buckles?  Why didn’t I realise that this might happen one day?

Got it!

I’m dressed.  I’m okay.  They didn’t come.

I sit on the toilet seat and hang my head between my knees.  I’m okay.  I’m calming down.

Why didn’t they come?  I mean, I could be seriously hurt, couldn’t I?  What if I’d collapsed with deep vein thrombosis?  It’s total negligence.

What am I saying?

I get to my feet again, take off my knickers, put them on again the right way out and fix my skirt.  Then I take a deep breath.

Crisis over.  All’s well.  I’ll just take a pregnancy test when I get home.  It’s not like the result’s going to change, is it?

I check my hair and reach for the door lock.  Please don’t let there be someone waiting outside.

I unlock it and fold it open.  No one.

Safe.

I step out, trying to look like nothing unusual has happened.

The next thing I know, I’m grabbed and pushed against the wall.

'You have to help me!' the man gasps.  He’s all pale and sweaty and he’s breathing really fast.  He gulps. 'We have to get out.  It’s not safe.  We’re all going to die.'

I’m dizzy again.  My knees are shaking.  This is it.  The plane’s been hijacked and I’ve just spent my last few minutes of life trying to see my own cervix in an aeroplane toilet.

'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.

Chapter 2

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 could 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 patronising 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 officer 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!

Chapter 3

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.

Nothing to do now but wait.  I grab my trolley and go off in search of a chair.

**

By the time Will arrives I’ve read an article on ‘30 reasons why it’s great to be single’ and I’m killing myself laughing over Sophie Kinsella’s latest.  Plus I’ve bought myself a box of Belgian chocolates and I’m really feeling much more positive about this whole thing.

Some sixth sense makes me look up in time to see Will heading towards me.  He’s wearing his standard blue jeans, battered Timberland boots that he’s had for about ten years and my favourite soft cream shirt that makes me want to hug him even more.  Will is tall and dark and has blue eyes.  He looks kind of like a young Jeremy Northam – think Emma.  He’s way too good-looking to be an accountant.

He gets to me and stands there, looking down at me. 'One day,' he says, 'I’ll stop bailing you out and you’ll have to manage on your own.'

'I can manage on my own,' I protest, as I start shoving everything into my bag.

'I know you can,' Will says, folding his arms across his chest. 'The problem is that you don’t.'

'Can’t you be more sympathetic?' I say, finishing packing my bag and getting up. 'I did just get dumped.'

Will sighs. 'Mel, I am sympathetic and I am suitably outraged on your behalf at how that frelnik has treated you.  I’m not saying this to be nasty, I’m saying it because I’m your friend and I’m trying to be honest with you.'

'Could you be honest later?' I ask, moving closer and leaning my head on his chest. 'I’m very upset.'

'You’re better off without him,' Will says, hugging me. 'I don’t know what you ever saw in him anyway.'

By this point, neither do I.

'There’s one tiny thing you don’t know,' I say into his shirt.

'What?'

'I think I’m pregnant,' I whisper.

Will stops hugging me.  Then he slowly exhales. 'Oh,' he says. 'Oh dear.'

'Can we just go home?' I ask.  I suddenly start feeling scared again.  Somehow, now I’ve told Will, it’s real.

Will doesn’t answer right away.  I think he’s a little shell-shocked.  This has to be the biggest bombshell I’ve ever dropped on him and he’s been through pretty much every crisis I’ve ever had.

'Right,' he says slowly. 'Yes.  We’ll go home.  On the way, we’ll stop at a chemist and we’ll find out for sure.  Okay?'

I nod.

'It’ll be fine,' he continues, in a softer tone. 'I’m here.  You’re not alone.'

Tears start pricking my eyes.  I can’t believe I’m going to cry again.

'I know,' I whisper, as Will hands me a tissue.

**

It’s a long drive home.  Will and I both live in Surrey, just south of London.  Technically in the London suburbs.  It’s expensive here, to say the least.  Will can afford a decent-sized place, but the flat I share with Beth is tiny. Not really a shoebox, more of a matchbox.  I grew up here though and I can’t imagine leaving.  Just like I can’t imagine not living near Will.

I spend the first twenty minutes silent, looking out of the window.  It’s a perfect example of an English spring day, i.e. wet and grey.  The existence of the sun has once again descended into mythology.

Then I start to cry.  For ten minutes I can’t stop.  Will pulls onto the hard shoulder and feeds me Belgian chocolates until I calm down.

Then the sugar high kicks in.  I go back into denial and start bitching about Martin instead.

'He wouldn’t buy anything that wasn’t organic,' I say, once we’re cruising along the motorway again. 'He ironed his y-fronts.  He invited me round for dinner and then he insisted we wash up right after instead of just leaving it until tomorrow.  He was always quoting his self-help books.  He wouldn’t let me watch Friends.  He kept trying to get me to give up dairy.'

Will’s nodding, encouraging me.  This is our post break-up ritual.  I’ve done this for every guy I’ve ever dated.  It really does help.

'When I got my hair done last time, he told me I looked like a poodle,' I continue, warming up to the task. 'He asked me to help him pick out new glasses and it took him three hours to figure out that he wanted contact lenses instead.  He tried to seduce me half an hour after my smear test and then got pissed off when I said no.  He always picked the radio station in the car.  Every time I ordered dessert he mentioned the calorie content.  And finally,' I pause for dramatic effect, 'it was the size of a button mushroom.'

There’s a short silence.  Will clears his throat. 'I thought size wasn’t supposed to matter,' he says, glancing briefly away from the road to raise an eyebrow at me.

'Lies,' I say, now feeling much better. 'All lies.  Size matters.  It matters when you’re seeing a guy and it matters even more when he dumps you.'

'So, do you feel better now?' Will asks, laughing.

'Absolutely,' I say, with a cheerleader smile.  I’m completely hyper. 'In fact, I have no idea why I went out with him in the first place.  Good riddance.  I’m going to embrace the single life.  You know what, I’m going to give up men.'

'Really?' Will says dryly.

He could be more supportive.  Admittedly I have said this a couple of times before.

Okay, more than a couple.

'Really,' I say. 'For good this time.  I might as well face facts.  I repel all decent men and attract losers like a magnet.'

'You don’t repel men,' Will says comfortingly. 'You’ve just had bad luck.'

I stare at him. 'Bad luck?' I ask. 'One is bad luck.  Two maximum.  This is a curse.'

Will just shakes his head, laughing at me.

'You’ve been here,' I say. 'I’ll run through the evidence to jog your memory.  Pete – told my mother I’d slept with him.  Alan – no less than two other girlfriends at the same time.  Luke – borrowed £300 and never paid it back.  And that's just pre-graduation.  Are you noticing a pattern here?'

'Okay, so you’ve had very bad luck,' Will says. 'That’s no reason to give up.'

'It’s not like you’ve done much better,' I say. 'You should be with me on this.'

'I’ve been with Natalie for nearly a year,' Will says mildly.

'Yes, but she’s…' I say, then stop.  What I want to say is ‘Yes, but she’s a total bitch who hates me and, as far as I can see, doesn’t like you that much either.’.  I can’t though.  This is the one subject Will and I don’t seem to be able to agree on.

'She’s…?' Will prompts me.

'She’s…just not the kind of person I picture you marrying,' I say lamely. 'That’s all.'

'Stranger things have happened,' Will says, staring at the road.

'She hates me,' I say.

She really does.  She hated me before we even met.  She wants to turn Will into some flashy, fashionable trophy guy and it spoils her plans to have someone who likes him just the way he is.

'Of course she doesn’t,' Will says.

She’s also only nasty to me when Will isn’t there.  That way I sound like the bad guy.  The jealous one.

Which is insane.  I’d never be jealous of her.  I’ve known Will my whole life.  We grew up next door to each other.  He was practically the big brother I never had.  There’s no way she would ever mean more to Will than me.

I drop the subject.  Will’s such an innocent.  He has no idea that he’s a pawn in her evil game.  I’ve tried to explain to him that she’s no good for him, but he just doesn’t see it.

I lean forward and turn on the radio, to stop myself trying again.

**

'What have you got in here, rocks?' Will says, as he drags my suitcase up the last couple of stairs.

'I smuggled Susan back with me,' I say, unlocking the door to my flat.

'Wouldn’t she go over the baggage allowance?' Will says, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

'It’s not that heavy,' I say, pushing open the door. 'You’re just out of shape.  Too many hours sitting in front of the computer.'

Will snorts. 'You can talk.  I have a website that requires maintenance.  I use my time constructively, as opposed to having endless Instant Messenger conversations and forwarding chain letters.'

'At least I’ve never thrown my entire office into uproar by releasing a virus into the network,' I reply, heading straight to the fridge and getting out two cans of cola.

'It wasn’t a virus,' Will says, taking the one I hand him and opening it.  He takes a gulp. 'It was just a harmless joke.'

'That turned everyone’s screensavers into dirty messages.'

Will grins. 'It was great.  Work was actually interesting for a couple of days.  And I fixed it, didn’t I?'

'Only after the big clients came round,' I say dryly, as I drink my own cola.

Wills laughs. 'Ah, memories,' he says. 'I’ll never forget the look on their faces.'

We grin at each other.

'Are you ready?' Will asks.

Damn, I hoped he’d forgotten.

'No,' I say.

Will takes my hand. 'It’s better to know,' he says softly. 'The longer you put off knowing, the less time you’ll have to figure out what to do.'

'Right,' I say.  I feel sick.

Will picks up the little Boots bag that I tried to hide behind a cushion. 'There are six tests in here,' he says,  'so you can’t convince yourself that it’s inaccurate.'

He knows me too well.

'Right,' I say again.  My stomach muscles have turned to steel. 'Okay, let’s do this.'

Will gives me a supportive smile as I take the bag and head towards the bathroom.  My palms are sweaty already.

I stop at the door. 'Maybe…'

'Now,' Will says, pointing to the bathroom. 'Or I’ll have to come in and supervise.'

Will knows more intimate details about me than any other man.  He’s even seen me naked, although I was about six at the time.  I still don’t want him to watch me pee.

'I’m going,' I mutter and carry on into the bathroom.

Chapter 4

A minute has never seemed such a long time.  I’m sitting on the edge of the bath and Will has put the toilet seat down and is sitting on that.  Both of us are riveted on the little row of white sticks on the windowsill.

'Fifteen seconds,' Will says, looking at his watch. 'Ten.  Five.  Done.'

Neither of us moves.  I’m frozen to the spot.  My fate is now to be decided by the absence or presence of a blue line.  This is the scariest moment of my entire life.

Will takes a deep breath and gets up.  He takes the first stick off the windowsill, looks at it and then holds it up for me to see.  No blue line. 'Negative,' he says.

I still can’t relax.  It’s like a game show.  All white and I’ve won the grand prize.  One blue and I’m going home with nothing.  Or not, in this case.

He picks up the second.  Also negative.  One by one they show up white, but I’m still tense with fear.  The last one will be blue, I just know it.

Will picks up the last one. 'Negative,' he says, smiling.

The breath I didn’t realise I was holding comes out in a whoosh and I start coughing.  And laughing.  And crying.  Will is hugging me and then we’re jumping up and down like we’re ten again and on the trampoline.  It’s a perfect moment.  If we were in a movie the sun would come out from behind a cloud.  But, this being England, I guess that’s a bit much to ask.

We both hear the sound of a key in the door and we bound back into the sitting room.  Beth comes in, looking damp.

'Congratulate me, Beth!' I say, bouncing up and down like Tigger.

Beth looks a bit stunned at being greeted by two hyper lunatics. 'Congratulations,' she says obediently. 'Why?'

'I’m not pregnant!' I say, beaming at her.

She looks more taken aback. 'That’s wonderful,' she says. 'I didn’t know you thought you were.'

'I did on the plane,' I say, starting to calm down.

'But you’re not?'

'No, definitely not.  We did six tests to make sure,' Will says.

'Wonderful,' Beth says again.  I think she’s finally getting used to me, her recovery time is getting shorter. 'We should celebrate.  I made vegetarian lasagne and carrot cake.'

When I was interviewing Beth as a potential flatmate, I asked her about her hobbies.  She said she enjoyed cooking for others.  I asked her when she could move in.

'Great,' Will and I say in unison.  Vegetarian means Will’s invited too.  In fact Beth’s adapted most of her recipes so he can eat them.  Will hates cooking nearly as much as I do, so we both live off Beth’s.

'Be ready in half an hour,' Beth promises.

**

By the time dinner is served, Will and I have calmed down.  Now that I’ve realised what a complete idiot Martin was and that I’m absolutely not pregnant, I’ve remembered that I have to see him at work tomorrow.  And everyday, from now on.  I hate my life.

'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 follows 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 surveying my desk, 'your work space should be kept tidy and free from personal items.'

I look at my desk.  Tub of Hobnobs, 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 Internet 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 ex,' 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 have 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 was 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 says. '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.'

I have a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t know what I said either.

**

Thanks to that, a quick heart-to-heart with Julie to get an edited version of her heavenly mini-break, and nipping out for more Hobnobs at lunch, I actually finish the day in quite a good mood.

Half a stone heavier, but in a good mood.

The bus journey from work to where I live is about fifteen minutes.  I think it takes less time to walk.  Every few weeks I promise myself I’ll start including it in my carefully-planned-but-never-executed exercise routine.  As soon as I do that, it starts to rain.  Living in a country where welly boots are practically part of the national dress, it’s quite hard to take that as a sign.  Yet somehow I manage it.

So I’m thinking about Julie and Paul, vaguely wondering what Paris is like and toying with the idea of learning to say something other than ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?’ in French, when it hits.  My first ever epiphany.

I nearly jump up and yell ‘Eureka!'

But I’d feel kind of silly if I did.

Not that that usually stops me.

I’m buzzing with excitement though.  Because I have just figured out what I was meant to do with my life.  Five seconds ago I was clueless, but now I know.

I was meant to help others.

I mean, look at the evidence.  Julie and Paul – who might never have looked twice at each other if I hadn’t given them a helping hand.  Susan –who’s now following her dream of being a full-time painter because I gave her the encouragement she needed to quit her 24-hour high-stress job from hell.  Will – okay so I still haven’t managed to educate him about Natalie’s close ties with the underworld, but I will eventually.  Martin – I got him a job.  Okay, so it backfired just the tiniest bit, but nevertheless.

I may not be able to find a good job.  Perhaps I am doomed to attract only the production line rejects of the male species.  But I have a gift to use in the service of humankind.

I feel truly blessed.

Now, where do I start?

Oooo, it’s my stop!

I hurry down to the doors, where a middle-aged woman with varicose veins and a knackered expression is gathering up about a hundred carrier bags.

'Excuse me,' I say, feeling positively saint-like. 'Would you like some help with those?'

She eyes me like I’m a weasel who’s just offered to baby-sit her eggs.

'No,' she says flatly. 'No, thank you.'

'Really,' I say, giving her an encouraging smile. 'I don’t mind.  I’m getting off here anyway.  Do you have a long way to walk?'

Now she thinks I’m a stalker.  Her eyes flick nervously towards the door.

'Are you two getting off, or what?' the driver yells at us from his tiny cabin.

'Sorry driver,' my potential beneficiary says.  She jerks her head towards me. 'This girl’s giving me trouble.'

Before I can even open my mouth to protest, the driver gets out of his chair, undoes his little door and comes out.

'What seems to be the problem?' he says impatiently.  I can hear him thinking ‘Bloody women passengers’.

'This girl’s trying to steal me shopping.'

My eyes widen. 'I was just offering to help,' I say.  My heart starts beating double-time.  God, is he going to arrest me or something?

The driver turns to me.  I feel like I’m fourteen again and being thrown off the bus for sticking gum under the seat in front.

I still maintain my innocence on that point.

'You,' he says, pointing with his whole arm at the door. 'Off, now.  Go wherever you have to go, no dawdling, no looking back.  I’m not going to have any hassle on my bus.'

Half of me is outraged at the injustice.  The other half of me feels guilty.  I almost feel like I was trying to rob her.

'Sorry,' I whisper, head down to avoid the accusing stares of the rest of the passengers.

I jump off the bus and scuttle up the road as fast as my little legs will let me.  In fact, I’ve never felt smaller in my life.

Okay, so my first attempt didn’t go so well.

But there’s still the evidence.  The indisputable evidence.  And anyway, it’s different with people you know.  My friends all know that I’m only trying to help.  Which is very important.

Revised plan for helping others is now in effect.

It’ll be a success.  I can feel it.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Chapter 5

By the time I’ve hiked up the a) long and b) steep hill that I have the misfortune to live at the top of, I’m hot, sweaty and utterly fed up.  It’s one of those horrible muggy evenings and all my clothes feel damp.  I puff my way up the stairs like I’m climbing Everest, fall against the door the moment I’ve unlocked it and stagger into the flat.  Then I drop my bag and coat on the floor and collapse on the sofa.

Beth isn’t home.  In theory she doesn’t do evenings, in practice she ends up covering every time someone stays off sick or goes on holiday.  Which is good in a way, because it means I get the place to myself sometimes.

Once I’ve caught my breath, dragged myself over to the sink to get a drink and had a pre-dinner snack of scampi fries and a chocolate mousse, I almost feel human.  By the time I’ve had a shower and changed into sweat pants, I feel ready to appreciate my alone time.

Of course, by then Beth has come home.

The joys of flat-sharing.

'Is there any more lasagne?' I ask hopefully, from my prone position on the sofa.  I love lasagne.  Love it.  Just like Garfield.  Except for the whole cat thing obviously.

'Huh?' Beth says.  She looks puzzled, like I’ve just spoken in Greek and she’s trying to translate. 'Oh…no, Will ate it all.'

Damn.

It’s hard to love a man who eats the last piece of lasagne.

'What are we having then?' I ask.

'Umm…pizza.  Unless you would prefer to wait?'

'Pizza’s fine.' I hate waiting.

I watch Beth through half-closed eyelids.  She looks distracted.  She keeps picking things up and putting them down again.  She’s all flustered.  Very un Beth-like.

I open my eyes properly and struggle into a sitting position.  Then I pull my knees up and hug them to my chest.

'What’s up?' I ask.

Beth, God love her, actually glances at the ceiling.  Sometimes I think we really are speaking two different languages.  I mean, I know she went to private school, but she must have had a seriously sheltered childhood to be confused by that.

'Nothing,' she says.  The back of her neck has gone red beneath her little blond bun.  Beth only ever seems to blush from the chin down.  Disturbing thought really.

She’s avoiding my gaze.  I’m intrigued.  Beth’s life is usually even more boring than mine.

'Really, tell me,' I say. 'I’ve spent the whole day being watched by the love child of Big Brother and Adolf Hitler.  I need something to take my mind off the pile of crap that is my life.  Spill.  What’s going on?'

Beth fusses some more, getting a pepperoni pizza out of the freezer compartment and taking off the wrapper.  I wait.  Beth is like the Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the adverts – prod it a couple of times and it’ll open up.  As opposed to the real ones, which take a sledgehammer to break apart.

Once the pizza is safely in the oven, she’s ready.

'Something just happened at work today, that’s all,' she says.

I nod.  It’s best not to interrupt.

'I was asked for a date,' she adds, blushing more.

I sit up, riveted.

'I’m just not sure if I should accept,' she says, frowning a little. 'We are colleagues, after all.'

Not another person.  Work-based romances don’t always go bad.  Don’t 70% of people meet their future spouse at work, or something like that?

I’m about to say this, when it occurs to me to get one more tiny piece of information.

'Who was it?' I ask.

Beth looks shyly at me. 'I don’t know if you’ll remember him, I introduced you to him at the staff Christmas party.'

I do a quick re-cap of everyone I remember meeting.  Which isn’t many.

Oh!  I have it!  The completely gorgeous Italian guy who works in the library café to practise his English!  This is fantastic!

I’m not even remotely jealous.  Really.

Okay, maybe slightly.

'Angelo!' I squeal.

Beth looks amazed, as if the fact that such a sex God even existed has completely passed her by.

'No,' she says, 'Andrew.'

My smile fades.  Just the tiniest bit.

'Andrew,' I repeat, trying to sound enthusiastic. 'That’s…great.'

Not that there’s anything wrong with Andrew exactly.  I’m sure he has a lovely personality.  It’s just that…  How can I put this?  If Angelo is Blackadder, season three, Andrew is Mr Bean.  Both fascinating characters, I’m sure, but it’s not exactly hard to figure out which is more attractive.

'I told him I wasn’t sure that we should mix a personal relationship with a professional one,' Beth says. 'Do you think that was right?'

It’s clearly my duty to save Beth from herself.  She’s so soft-hearted that she might actually accept him if I don’t keep her on the right track.  Beth is beautiful and sweet and a total innocent.  She’s like Jane Bennett from Pride and Prejudice.  And with no Bingley on the scene, she’s in grave danger of saying yes to Mr Collins.

'While obviously the decision is yours and I wouldn’t dream of interfering,' I say, knowing that Beth is no more likely to ignore my advice than a vampire is to take up sunbathing, 'I think that you’re right not to date someone you work with.  Look at me and Martin.  It would be terrible when you broke up.'

Beth nods slowly. 'That is what I thought,' she says. 'I was right first time.  It would be terrible if we didn’t stay together.'

I smile encouragingly at her until she starts to smile back.  Weakly, but it’s there.

'Thank you,' she says.

For the rest of the evening, I bask in the glow of satisfaction.

I’m like cupid.  Only in reverse.

**

Later, on Messenger…

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Repeat after me.  I am a good person.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘I am a good person.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘I deserve to be treated well.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘I deserve to be treated well.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Martin, you are a complete git.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘Martin, you are a complete git.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘I fart in your general direction.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘?????’

Will is another person who seems to speak in another language half the time.  He doesn’t even use regular swearwords, he likes alien ones from the five thousand science-fiction TV shows he watches.  Very disorienting.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Just say it.  It’ll make you feel better.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘I fart in your general direction.’

Then I start to laugh.  It’s so ridiculous it’s funny.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

'I told you so. ;-)’

Dumped!!! says:

‘I’m not laughing.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Liar.’

This is my strategy for getting through Tuesday.  I went to bed on top of the world and woke up at the bottom of a cess pit.  I hate my job.  I hated it even before Martin.  I have to find a new one.

Although maybe I should start playing the lottery.  Just in case.

How great would that be?  Walking into work around noon and saying 'Screw you Martin.  I don’t need your job, I’m worth 7.8 million.'.

In slightly stronger language, of course.

Dumped!!! says:

‘Is Natalie coming round tonight?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘No.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘I’ll probably regret telling you this, but we had a small fight.’

Why do they never have large fights?  Why can’t she drop her Snow White act and reveal the evil queen inside?

Dumped!!! says:

‘What about?’

Note to self: bring up topic frequently.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘She wants to throw a dinner party.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘For the Big Boss at my company.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

'So we can make the right connections.’

Making the right connections in Will-speak means plugging your keyboard into the right bit of your computer.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘She thinks I’m wasted.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘She’s right.’

Dumped!!! says:

‘You’re too cute to be an accountant.’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘LOL.  Thanks.’

'And this is Cynthia Burnett and Melanie Parker, two of our administrators.'

Crap!  Martin.  I close Messenger instantly.  Will’s pretty used to being cut off without warning.

I look up quickly and smile innocently.

Mmmm, who is that?

'Matthew March, our new negotiator,' Martin says.

I’m positive I didn’t ask out loud.

'Nice to meet you,' Matthew March says. 'Call me Matt.'

Australian accent.  I love Australian accents.

'Call me Mel,' I say, gazing up at six foot of pure, sun-bleached hunk.

'Moving on, moving on,' Martin says impatiently, as he ushers Matt away from me again.  My eyes are glued on him until he leaves my sight.  He looks back at the door and gives me the sexiest grin I have ever seen.  I smile back.  No red-blooded woman could have resisted the temptation.

The second he’s gone, I open Messenger again.

Dumped!!! says:

‘Will?  You know how I gave up men?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘Uh-huh?’

Dumped!!! says:

‘I think I’ve changed my mind.’

A pause.

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘One day, seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes.  I think that’s a new record.’

I stick my tongue out at the screen.

**

By lunchtime I’ve convinced Will to come over and help me write a new CV.  Even the very fine addition to the scenery isn’t enough to make me want to stay.  Plus Natalie gets pissed off every time Will hangs out with me and I live in hope of getting her to get her claws out in front of him.  Then Will will go back to being with me all the time.

I climb up the stairs again, after getting my sandwich from the bakery, all the way to the top floor where the staff room is.  The lift is broken again.  There are too many hills in my life.

I reach the top and shove open the door.

Inside sit Matt and Martin.

This is the definition of ambivalence.

'Hi again, Mel,' Matt says, in that gorgeous voice.  Is it my imagination, or does he sound the tiniest bit relieved?

'Hi,' I say.  Then, because I have to, 'Hello, Mr Murchison.'

'Melanie,' Martin says, smoothing down his tie as I walk into the room and sit down as close to Matt and as far away from Martin as possible.  He gives me a look so pointed it nearly blinds me. 'I was just bringing Matthew up to speed on our intra-office dating policy.  Perhaps I should remind you of it too?'

'I think I have it down now,' I say, resisting the temptation to bitch-slap him.

'Good,' he says stiffly.  He gets up like he’s in finishing school and has a book on his head. 'I’m glad to know that you’ve begun to take your work seriously.'

He walks out slowly, as if he’ll spin round if we make the slightest sound.  Matt and I sit tight and wait.

When the door swings shut behind Martin, I turn to Matt.

'The intra-office dating policy is simple,' I say. 'Don’t let him find out.'

Matts laughs. 'Is he for real?'

'I’m afraid so,' I say ruefully, ignoring my sandwich and starting on my doughnut instead.  Sugar is going everywhere.

'What did you do to get on his most wanted list?'

I stare at the jam oozing out of my doughnut.

'I slept with him,' I say.

Matt looks beyond horrified.

'Seriously?' he says. 'With him?  How drunk did he get you?'

I nearly choke on a mouthful.

'That’s the worst part, I was completely sober,' I say, wiping sugar off my chin with the serviette Matt hands me. 'But, in my defence, it was before he turned into such a nightmare.  He wasn’t my boss.  He had hair.  And an earring.  And a sense of humour.' I frown. 'I might have imagined that last part.'

'And you dumped him when he became robo-employee?' Matt asks, sipping his coffee.

'I didn’t have a chance,' I say, licking sugar off my fingers. 'I went away for the weekend and the Martin I knew mutated into that prat.  Although, looking back, maybe he was like that all along and I just didn’t notice.'

'Have you thought about an eye-test?' Matt asks, dead pan.

I groan. 'If they made loser-vision goggles I’d be first in the queue, believe me.  They crawl to me like ants to a jam jar.'

Matt grimaces. 'That’s no ant,' he says. 'Possibly a skunk.'

I grin.  In a strange way, Martin’s done me a favour.  You always get sympathy when you’re dumped in this office, but you get a lot more when everyone has daily proof of what an ass-hole your ex is.

And if Matt were to offer me a shoulder to cry on, it would be only good manners to accept.

'How do you like it here?' I ask, starting on my sandwich. 'England, I mean.'

Matt rolls his eyes. 'I’ve lived here since I was twelve, I just can’t get rid of the accent.'

'Don’t try,' I say. 'It’s sexy, gives you an edge in the dating game.  Does your girlfriend like it?'

'I don’t have a girlfriend.'

That’s what I like to hear.

'What do you think of this place?' I say.  No point in rushing things.

'It’ll do,' Matt says, glancing around the staff room.  I see his eyes fall on a dying pot-plant on the window ledge.  He gets up and goes to the little kitchenette. 'It’s hopefully a stopgap thing.  I want to get into web design,' he says, carrying a glass over and watering the plant, 'but I’m still building up a portfolio.  Honing my skills.  It’s pretty competitive.'

'I know someone who’s great with computers,' I say, immediately thinking of Will. 'I know he’s done websites before and he’s always saying he wants to work seriously on one.  You two should get together.'

Matt comes back to the table and starts drinking the rest of the water. 'I was hoping you meant yourself,' he says. 'Shame you didn’t.  I was hoping for an excuse to get to know you better.'

My insides turn to marshmallow.  I love this bit.

'Who says you need one?' I hear myself say.

'True,' Matt says.

We smile at each other.

'There’s no reason why two people who work together can’t be friends too,' I say.

'Exactly,' Matt says, nodding.

We smile some more.

Matt looks at his watch. 'I have to get back to work,' he says. 'Otherwise the walking rule book will probably fire me.  See you around.'

'Bye,' I say happily.

When he’s gone, I slide down in my seat and say a silent thank you to the universe.

Goodbye Martin, hello Matt.

Chapter 6

'So, what do you think?' I ask nervously

Will studies my CV from several angles.  His eyebrows draw down.  That’s never a good sign.

'Well,' he says, handing it back to me. 'One thing does jump out at me.'

I scan it quickly.  I see nothing.  I look more closely.  I still see nothing.

'You couldn’t make it jump any further, could you?' I ask finally.

'Look at the top,' Will says, folding his arms.

I look.  I see my name and address, like I’m supposed to.  I raise my eyes and gaze at Will, utterly confused.

'Mel,' Will says gently, 'you spelt your name wrong.'

He can’t be serious.  I check.

Menalie Caroline Parker.

Menalie

Oh, God.  I did.  I actually did.  It’s official, I’ve lost my grip on reality.

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or hyperventilate.

'So, all in all,' Will says dryly, 'I think it needs a little work.'

I give him a watery smile.

'But that’s why I’m here,' Will adds. 'To spot things like that.  Have another biscuit.'

He pushes the plate closer to me.  We’re sitting across the dining table from each other at my flat, which is the usual venue for our counselling sessions.  Beth is in her room.  Probably reading the collected works of Dickens or something.

I take a ginger biscuit and dunk it in my mug of orange squash.

I have juvenile tastes, so sue me.

'It’s basically fine,' Will continues, taking my CV back from me and running an eye over it again. 'It just needs tweaking.  For example, you don’t necessarily have to put that you got a third.'

I stare at him. 'You’re telling me to lie on my CV?  What happened to it being fraud?  You gave me that whole long lecture about it.'

'That was when you wanted to put that you got a first,' Will says firmly. 'That was fraud, this is just selective honesty.'

'Not ‘the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ then?'

'For CVs,' Will says, taking a biscuit and dunking it in his coffee, 'you can skip the middle bit.  Just put BA (Hons) Economics, it looks better.'

'What else?' I ask, munching my nice soggy biscuit.

'Don’t put you were unemployed.'

'But I was,' I protest. 'What else am I supposed to put?'

'You helped out at that old folks group, didn’t you?' Will says, as his biscuit starts to disintegrate into his mug.

'That was for about eight hours a week,' I say.

'So?'

'So I spent the other however many hours filling in application forms, watching daytime TV and eating Jaffa Cakes,' I say.

'Which is exactly what you did at university,' Will says, winking at me, 'but you still claimed to be studying full-time.'

Hmm.  He has a point.

'So I was volunteering in my community,' I say slowly.

'Right,' Will says, nodding encouragingly.

'Why did I quit?' I ask.

'Because you realised that your talents lay elsewhere.'

'Right,' I say, picking up my pen and crossing out ‘unemployed’. 'Obviously.  You should have told me earlier.'

'You didn’t ask,' Will says, with a Cheshire Cat grin.

Sometimes I just don’t know if I should kiss him or kick him.

'Speaking of talents,' I say (it’s best to change the subject when he’s in this mood). 'I found you a potential web-design partner.'

The Cheshire Cat look goes and Will looks interested. 'Really?  What’s he like?'

I give him a stern glance.  Will holds up his hands in surrender. 'I’m sorry, what’s he or she like?  I just know a lot more guys than women who like this stuff.  No offence meant.'

'None taken and it is a he,' I say. 'His name’s Matt.'

'And what’s he like?' Will tries again.

'Gorgeous,' I say dreamily. 'Tall, fit, blond and he has the greatest accent.'

Will blinks. 'And from the point of view of someone who is neither sex-starved nor attracted to men?'

'I’m not sex-starved,' I retort. 'It’s only been four days.' I grin. 'I’m good for at least a week.'

Will laughs. 'So Matt-the-God has three days left?  Somebody should really warn him.'

'Spoilsport,' I pretend to pout.

Will laughs again.

I’ve made jokes like that with guys I’ve dated and been looked at like I’m a disgrace to the good name of all woman-kind.  Will is so great.  I wish I could find a guy like him.

'Seriously,' Will says. 'What’s he like?'

'He’s nice,' I say. 'Friendly.  He wants to get into professional web designing and he’s building up a portfolio or something.  You could probably create something pretty great together.'

'You bring him round one time and we’ll see,' Will says, drinking his biscuit-crumb-filled coffee.

'I can live with that,' I say cheerfully. 'The three of us…and Beth.  In fact, we should have a picnic.'

I love having picnics.  Admittedly it usually rains, but the food tastes just as good spread out on our floor.  Plus no ants.

'Better consult the master chef,' Will says, frowning at the biscuit-mush at the bottom of his mug.

'Right,' I say, shoving my chair back and heading over to Beth’s bedroom door.

'You don’t think she’s busy?' Will says.

'Maybe.  That’s what I need to ask,' I say.

I knock on her door. 'Beth?' I call.

No answer.

I push the door open a little and poke my head in.

Beth’s sitting at her desk, frowning over what looks like a letter she’s writing.  Her table light is on and she’s wearing her reading glasses.

'Beth?' I say again.

She jumps and immediately turns the paper over. 'Hi,' she says quickly.

'Are you busy?' I ask.

'No.  I was just…nothing.  Is something wrong?'

'Will and I were just talking about having another picnic,' I say, pushing the door open a little more.

'When were you thinking of having it?'

I think for a moment.  I have to go to my parents’ house on Saturday.  I’ll need something to cheer me up.

'How about Sunday?' I ask.

'That’s fine,' Beth says, nodding.  She’s got her elbow on the letter now.  Hmm, I wonder what she’s writing.

'Great,' I say.

We look at each other for a few seconds.

'Anything else?' Beth asks.

She’s trying to get rid of me.

'No, nothing,' I say. 'I’ll let you get back to…whatever you were doing.'

I duck out of the room again and shut the door.

'We’re on?' Will asks.

'We’re on,' I say.

'Great,' Will says. 'Now, back to your CV.'

**

Wednesday morning and the phone rings.  I glance at the display and come very close to not answering.  It’s Brittany, my sister.  My family’s answer to Nigella Lawson.

I close my eyes, pick up the phone and lift it slowly to my ear.  My other hand hovers over the hang-up button

'Good morning, Brittany,' I say, already bracing myself for the inevitable.

'Hello, Melanie,' comes the familiar syrupy voice.

'I take it you’re calling about Saturday?' I ask.

'Now, Melanie,' Brittany says, in the patronising tone that makes me want to stab her via telekinesis, 'what else would I be calling about?'

My nails are making dents in the desktop as I try not to throw something.

'Have the plans changed?' I ask, in the politest tone I can manage.

'I just wanted to confirm Martin’s preferences with you.  We can’t have one of our guests unhappy, can we?' A silly little laugh.

She knows, doesn’t she?  Her flying monkeys have been watching my house night and day, waiting to inform the Wicked West of the South-East that Dorothy has been dumped yet again and is ripe for attacking.

'Actually,' I say slowly, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible, 'Martin and I are no longer seeing each other.'

A slight pause.  Delight has overwhelmed her.

'Oh, that’s too bad,' she croons, with the sincerity of a Disney villain. 'How long was it this time?

'Three months,' I state flatly.

'That is a pity,' she says.  Even down the phone I can see her shaking her head sorrowfully and giving me her faux-sympathetic smile. 'But then, you have had plenty of experience in dealing with this.'

Rub it in, why doesn’t she?  Just because she got married practically as soon as she was out of nappies.  To a doctor.  To a rich, handsome doctor.

'Actually,' I say, 'I broke it off.'

So what if it’s not true?  It’s not like they know each other.  I have to at least attempt to retain some dignity.

There’s a tut-tut noise down the line.

'Melanie,' Brittany says sadly, as if I’m beyond help. 'What are we going to do with you?  Don’t you want to get married?'

Of course I want to get married! I want to be the centre of attention in my family for one day.  I want a cake with more calories than I can count.  I want to wear a dress that costs more than I earn in a year.  And most of all, I want you to stop asking me that question!

And I want to make a lasting commitment to another person as well, obviously.

'Maybe I don’t,' I say. 'Maybe I want to devote my life to my career.'

'And how is your career?' she asks.  When she says it, career is in quotes.

'Just now, my career manager and I are strategizing to obtain promotion,' I say.  God, that sounds good.

'And how is Will?' she asks sweetly, as if she’s delighted to hear from the guy she once said ‘Would never be terribly successful, but a good safety net for you, Melanie dear.’.

'He’s fine,' I say shortly.

'Isn’t it wonderful about him and Natalie?'

'What about him and Natalie?'

'Oh!' That little laugh again. 'I hear on the grapevine…'

By grapevine, she means Will’s parents, who don’t live next door anymore, but still keep in touch.

'…that they’ll soon be announcing their engagement.'

What?!  I nearly drop the phone.  No!  No!  This cannot be happening!

Stop.  Calm down.  There’s no way Will wouldn’t have told me if he was going to propose.

Although he does know that I don’t like her.

And that I’d definitely try to talk him out of it.

Oh, God, no.

I have to phone him.

Which means I have to get rid of Brittany.

'I have another call waiting,' I say automatically. 'I have to go.'

'Who is it?' She just had to ask, didn’t she?

'Some guy.  You don’t know him.  He…works at the local paper.' Inspiration! 'I’m putting in a lonely hearts advert.  You know, ‘social leper with mother issues seeks similar’.  I’m considering writing a book on how not to find the man of your dreams.  Must go.  Bye.'

I cut her off.  I’ve never done that before.  It’s strangely liberating.

No time to appreciate it though.  Have to call Will.

I hit speed-dial.  It’s a great invention.

'Knightley.'

'Will?'

'This isn’t the greatest time, Mel.'

Oh no.  She’s there.  He’s doing it now.

Now I’ve lost it.  Who proposes in an office, for goodness sake?

'I just have one really quick question.'

'Okay?'

'Are you planning to propose to Natalie?'

Silence.  Then Will mutters something.  I can’t make it out properly, but it sounds like ‘Not you too.’.

'Who told you that?' he asks.

'Brittany,' I say.

'No doubt she heard it from my mother,' Will says.  He sounds irritated.

'Yes.'

Will sighs. 'Mel, my parents are just trying to dictate my life.  No need to panic.'

'I wasn’t panicking,' I say quickly. 'I just wanted to stay up to date with the situation.'

I can hear Will smiling.

'If it changes, you’ll be the first to know,' he says. 'After her, obviously.  Is that okay?  Because I’m swamped with work today.'

'That’s okay.  See you later.'

'Bye.'

I hang up.  Then I breathe a sigh of relief.  He’s safe.

Although, after her?  Is it incredibly selfish and unreasonable of me to want to be first?

Yes, it is.

Is being selfish and unreasonable such a bad thing?

'Melanie?' An only vaguely familiar voice breaks into my somewhat incoherent thought patterns.  I snap back to reality and look around.  There’s no one there.

'Melanie?'

The world goes cold.  It’s finally happened.  I’ve gone mad.

'Melanie?'

Oh no, I haven’t.  It’s Cynthia.

Hold on a minute, Cynthia never talks to me.

'What?' I ask.  What’s happened?  Has the building caught fire or something?

'I was wondering,' Cynthia says quietly.  Even her voice is beige-coloured, 'how you would feel about taking time off work tomorrow?'

Strangely enough, I feel pretty good about it.

'For what?' I say, my attention now firmly caught.

'I’m afraid my mother passed away at the weekend,' she says, eyes down. 'The funeral is tomorrow and I was wondering if you would come with me?'

I don’t know what to say.  Random thoughts are floating in my brain.  Cynthia has a mother?  Cynthia’s mother died and she still came to work?  Cynthia’s asking me to be her support when we’ve barely exchanged two words in all the time I’ve been here?

Cynthia’s getting me out of half a day’s work?

'Okay,' I say, that last thought at the top of the pile. 'Just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.'

I can’t believe she’s so calm.  If it was my mum…

I suddenly feel a little better about Saturday.

**

I almost regret agreeing to go when I realise that it means going to ask Martin for permission.  Time off versus avoid Martin.  It’s a very hard one to call.

I trail up to Martin’s office anyway.  I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t worn my knee-high boots.  I’ll probably have to sit – or, worse still, stand - through an hour-long lecture on the importance of practical footwear before I can even ask.

Outside the door I take a deep breath, steel myself and knock.

'Enter.'

I go in.  Then I stop and stare.  It’s straight out of The Brittas Empire.  I used to love that show.  He’s even got one of those name bars that are shaped like Toblerones. 'Martin Marcus Murchison: Manager’ it says.

It’s moments like this that make you really appreciate being dumped.

'Ah, Melanie,' he says, leaning forward and resting his clasped hands on the desk. 'What can I do you for?'

I mustn't laugh.  I must not laugh.

I force myself to look up and focus on the wall behind him. 'I just came to put in a request to have tomorrow afternoon off,' I say.

He frowns. 'For what purpose?' he asks.

'Cynthia’s mother’s funeral,' I say.

He looks taken aback.  I try to look as if everyone knows about it except him.

'Were you close to her?' he asks.

Because I would actually say no.

'Cynthia asked me to go with her actually,' I say, trying to imply that we’re bosom buddies without actually lying outright. 'For support, you know.'

I cross my fingers behind my back.

'I suppose that is an acceptable reason,' he says, with effort.

I wonder anew how I could have dated a guy who seems to think my happiness must be prevented like a third world war.

I open my mouth to thank him and scarper.

'However,' he says, frowning more.  The lines on his forehead now resemble trenches. 'I don’t want you to think that this can happen with any regularity.'

I bite my lip to keep from saying that I’m fairly sure Cynthia’s mother won’t be dying again anytime soon.

'In this office,' he says, like I haven’t been here eighteen months longer than he has. 'We pride ourselves on commitment.  It is of grave importance that you attend everyday and work to your highest potential.'

He now appears to be impersonating Professor McGonagall.  He looks more like Dobby the house elf after having been concussed by a bludger.

I nod.  I can’t manage speech.

'And frankly,' he continues, 'I’m a little concerned that your attitude doesn’t meet our high standards.'

Oh please, half our office called in sick last FA Cup finals day and there is not one person in the entire place whose grandmother hasn’t died at least once since they started working here.

I adopt what I hope is a meek expression.  It’s demeaning, but it might get me out of a lecture.

Hey, what do you know?  I did learn something at school.

'And if it doesn’t improve, drastic measures may have to be taken.'

Yada, yada, yada.  Can I go yet?

'You may go.'

Hallelujah!

I hurry out before he can change his mind, trot downstairs and bump into something hard at the bottom.

Oooo, it’s Matt.

And, as they say, a hard man is good to find.

'Hi,' I say, extracting myself from him.  More or less anyway.  I’m still the tiniest bit closer than is absolutely necessary.

'Hi,' he says, smiling down at me.  This is the great advantage of being short.

'Have you been summoned?' I say, smiling back.

Matt glances up the stairs. 'I think he’s seeing most people.  Easier to pick us off one by one.'

I pull a face. 'I can save you the trouble of going up there.  He’s going to talk about your attitude and how important it is that you bypass your personality and become a poorly-paid version of him.'

'I can hardly wait,' Matt says dryly.

'Good luck,' I say, but I don’t move.

Matt doesn’t move either. 'Are you doing anything this weekend?' he asks.

I pretend to think about it. 'Well,' I say, 'on Saturday I’m having my self-esteem ripped to shreds by my family, but on Sunday we’re having a picnic.'

'Sounds nice,' Matt says.

'You should come,' I say, like he hasn’t already guessed I’m going to invite him. 'My flatmate Beth is cooking, so you won’t have to eat my culinary disasters and I’ll be able to introduce you to Will – your fellow computer fiend.'

'You could have just told me that you were going to be there,' Matt says, reaching up and tucking a stray bit of hair behind my ear. 'I still would have said yes.'

Nice.  Very smooth.

'Drop by my desk later,' I say, sorely tempted to skip the small talk and fast forward to the kissing part. 'I’ll give you my number.'

For a moment, I almost think he’s read my mind.  Then he steps sideways out of my way.

'See you when I get out of the donkey’s pen,' he says, winking at me.

I step down onto the landing and he heads up the stairs.  I’ve got no choice but to head back to my desk.

Shame.  I wouldn’t have minded getting something from the stationery cupboard.

Chapter 7

It’s only on the way home that my mind wanders back over the day and falls over my phone call with Brittany.  So not until then do I realise that I actually received divine inspiration.

A lonely hearts advert!  Not for me obviously, but for Beth!  I mean, they can’t all be the last chicken in the shop.  And she really needs to meet some new guys.  I think she must have developed tunnel vision or cataracts from being surrounded by Adrian Mole wannabes all day.  Even one nice date with one nice guy could help her see that the greatest place on Earth isn’t the Bodleian library.

I think about it all the way home and by the time I get there I’m decided.  I won’t tell Beth about it right away, she’d just say no.  I can put it in myself easy.  Then, when she’s got guys lining up around the corner, she’ll be so thrilled that she’ll forget to be shy.

It’s a perfect plan.

And it’s helped by Beth working late and consequently not being there when I get home.

I dump my stuff on the sofa and hit the button on the answer phone on the way to the fridge.

'You have one new message.  Message one.'

I crack open a can of cola.

'This is Guy Pearce of Pearce, Platt & Associates calling for Ms Mary-Beth Davidson.  If you would be so good as to return my call at your earliest convenience on the number on my card.  Thank you.'

This guy’s accent is so Etonian he makes Beth sound like she needs elocution lessons.  Who is he?  Why’s he calling?

And then I remember the letter.  Could there be a connection?

Of course, there’s not much point in asking her.  It’s obviously private.  And Beth’s a private person.  You know, come to think of it, I still know hardly anything about her.  Even though we’ve been living together for nearly a year now.  I don’t even know how she lost her virginity and how can you call someone a friend if you don’t know that?

So I suppose I’ll just have to wait and hope she tells me.

I mean about the letter, not her virginity.

I hate waiting.

I take my cola over to the computer and switch it on.  Then, while I’m waiting for it to warm up, I make myself a sandwich.  Cheese.  I prefer egg, but that requires me to cook.

Then I settle myself down to compose Beth’s advert.

I stare at a blank page in Word for about ten minutes, eating my sandwich and waiting for inspiration.  Then I conclude that inspiration is stuck in traffic.  I open Messenger.  Susan and Will are both online.

Inspired!!! says:

‘Are you busy?’

SciFiFreak3001 says:

‘If I say yes, will you leave me alone?’

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 quickly 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.'

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

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.

'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.

**

'I have a confession to make,' I say to Beth, once we’re safely back home and alone.

'Very well,' Beth answers, as she methodically unpacks the remains of lunch, covering them with Clingfilm before putting them in the fridge.  Her shoulders have tensed very slightly.

'I wrote you a lonely hearts advert and sent it to the local paper,' I say.

Beth stops, halfway through ripping off a piece of Clingfilm.  Whatever she was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that.

'I think it could be a really good idea,' I say, as she turns to me in disbelief.  I take the Clingfilm from her and finish covering the chicken drumsticks. 'Meet some new people, have some fun.  Spending everyday with under-fives and cardigan-wearers isn’t exactly good for your love life, after all.  You might even meet someone really special.'

If I’d done this for Will, he would’ve looked at me like I was mad and refused point blank to go.  Beth, on the other hand, seems to have decided that I really am mad.  And, therefore, that she should simply accept all the incomprehensible stuff I do as if it’s perfectly normal.

'I…don’t think that’s something I would enjoy,' she says eventually. 'Although I appreciate the thought.'

'Come on, Beth,' I coax, as she returns to unpacking.  I lean my elbows on the counter. 'What have you got to lose?'

Beth looks as if she can think of several things, but politeness precludes her from mentioning them.  Sanity, I bet, is top of the list.

'Are they even safe?' Beth asks, her forehead wrinkling slightly in thought. 'Anyone could answer.  A serial-killer, or a rapist.'

Until this moment, I wasn’t sure Beth knew that such people existed.

'Well, obviously you take precautions,' I say, sensing a small window of opportunity and trying to squeeze through it. 'Meet in a public place, tell me where you’re going.  I could call part-way through the evening so you have an excuse to leave, or be somewhere nearby.  In fact, why don’t I go too? We can double date.  I’ll bring Will.'

Or Matt, obviously.

Beth looks doubtful. 'Would he agree to that?' she asks.

'Absolutely,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.  Okay, so he said this idea was nuts.  I’ll talk him round.  Besides, Will likes Beth and this is absolutely in her best interests. 'I already ran the idea past him.'

Just so quickly he didn't notice it.

I can’t say that Beth looks keen, but I can almost hear her conscience activate.  ‘Must humour flatmate’, it’s saying.

Old fashioned good manners.  Seriously underrated.

'Very well,' she says slowly, once her conscience has fought and won against her shyness.  It’s one handicap I’ve never suffered from.  It does seem to get in the way a lot. 'Provided we double date.'

'Fantastic,' I say, hunting in my bag for the answer phone number they gave me.

Safety and fun combined.  Like safe sex.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Chapter 10

Monday morning the bus is early.  Naturally, I’m late.  So I have to wait for the next one, which makes me later.

I sneak into work, pretending to myself that I’m the spy girl from Alias, hoping Martin hasn’t started bugging the pot plants.

As I walk casually towards my desk, pretending that I’ve been here all along but having a very important meeting with someone who’s recognised my potential, I notice something strange.  Cynthia’s not there.  At her desk is a temp with the most amazing raspberry-coloured hairdo and an outfit that even my fashion-blind eyes appreciate.  What there is of it.  A horrible thought occurs to me – please, God, don’t let this be another Natalie.

And where’s Cynthia?  Has she decided to take another day off?  Will that violate official mourning policy?

'Morning, Mel,' Raspberry Beret Girl says cheerfully as I sit down.  Two very well accentuated eyes meet mine. 'No offence, but you look like shit.'

I blink.  Not exactly backward in coming forward, is she?  Nothing like Cynthia.

Hang on a minute.

Holy cow.  That is Cynthia.

My mouth drops open as I look at her properly.  She’s wearing perfume, I can see her cleavage, she’s had a manicure.

It’s an alien conspiracy cover-up.  She’s been abducted and replaced by the cousin of the blond one from Third Rock from the Sun.

I spend too much time with Will.

'Cynthia?' I whisper.  I’m too stunned to manage more.

She laughs. 'Yes, it’s me.  What do you think?'

She gets up and does a little twirl.  A random guy strolling through admin turns to look and falls over a box of files.  I nod dumbly. 'That’s…amazing,' I say. 'Obviously you had quite a weekend.'

She sits down again and nods excitedly. 'I’m having the most fun,' she says. 'I decided I’d start slow, you know.'

I blink.  This is slow?

'So I thought I’d get my hair cut,' Cynthia says happily. 'Mother always made me have it flat cut.' She laughs. 'I mean blunt cut.  I went to this place that looked nice, but seemed a bit expensive and they said they’d cut my hair cheap if they could do something a bit different with it.'  She grins. 'And they did this.'

I don’t think different is a strong enough adjective for that cut.  Let alone that colour.  It would stop traffic.  Literally.

'And I took one look at myself in the mirror and thought ‘What am I wearing?’' Cynthia continues blithely.  She’s spoken more words to me in the last eighteen seconds than in the rest of the last eighteen months. 'So I just went a bit wild.  I got my ears pierced and everything.'  She pauses and gives me a contented smile, a lot like the one I get right after my first Cadbury’s fix of the day. 'I’ve been wanting to do that since I was thirteen.'

I’m glad she has fond memories of it.  I threw up when I had mine done.

'And I really wanted to say thank-you,' she says, bending down and rummaging in her bag. 'I might never have done this if it wasn’t for you.  I feel…liberated.  So I bought you this.'

She sits up triumphantly and hands me something.  I take it automatically and look down at it.  It’s an absolutely massive box of Milk Tray.

I’m going to have to give serious thought to becoming a lesbian, because I am now officially in love with this woman.

'Thanks!' I say, eyeing my present ecstatically. 'How did you know?'

'Intuition,' Cynthia jokes. 'You virtually support the chocolate industry single-handedly.  But that’s okay.' She winks at me. 'Woman’s prerogative, after all.'

Finally, someone who understands me.

'Did you do anything else besides get the makeover?' I ask.  I love the new Cynthia.  She’s like a soap character, only brighter and better acted.

Cynthia grins wickedly. 'I have a date with a demi-God.'

Wow, she is one fast worker.

'Describe,' I demand, all thoughts of pretending to work gone.

Cynthia makes a face like Homer Simpson does when he sees a doughnut. 'The embodiment of pure masculinity.  Tall, built like an ox, and dark – Polynesian, I think.  Stunning; I could hardly speak for drooling.'

'Where did you meet him?' I demand.

Wherever it is, I’m going there a.s.a.p.

'La Senza,' Cynthia replies, with a mischievous grin.

'Uh, Cynthia,' I say doubtfully. 'A guy buying fancy underwear may not be one you want to date.  It suggests he’s either seeing someone or is having an identity crisis.' I pause. 'Although I did date one guy who just found satin a real turn on.'

'Oh, he wasn’t buying,' Cynthia assures me. 'He was the shop assistant.  I asked for his opinion on what I should buy.' The wicked grin widens.  I can almost see little devil horns sprout out of her forehead. 'He said I had wonderful taste and that my partner was very lucky.  I told him finding one was next on my to-do list.  He seemed quite keen to fill the hole.'

Accurate in more ways than one.

'I’m in awe,' I say.  And I really am. 'You’re a fast learner.'

'Well, I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for,' Cynthia says, briefly inspecting her nails. 'And I seem to be doing well so far.  Still, I know where to turn if I need advice.'

I grin. 'Honey, I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl.  My boyfriend track record reads like the guest list for The Jerry Springer Show.'

Cynthia looks confused. 'What’s that?' she asks.

'Obviously you still have a few things to learn,' I say.

'Obviously,' Cynthia replies cheerfully. 'But this is definitely more fun than school.  And I haven’t even started practical classes yet.'

A thought occurs to me. 'I don’t suppose your mother went in for safe sex lectures, did she?' I ask.

I remember my mother trying to explain it to me.  The memory continues to surface no matter how hard I try to suppress it.  She began by explaining that babies start as seeds and every woman had a special place inside her to plant them in – sort of like a grow bag.  It went down hill from there.

Cynthia dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. 'I’ve been reading up,' she says. 'I know all about it now.  And I’m going to the family planning clinic tonight.'

I pull a face. 'Take a magazine,' I advise her. 'Or six.  It takes forever.  Mind you, I suppose we’ll all have to do that now Martin’s in charge.  Cathy always let us take time off.  But, are you sure you’re all up to date?'

Now I’ve turned into her mother.  That’s worse than turning into mine.

'Definitely.'

'You have condoms?'

'Yup.'

'You know hand cream is oil-based and eats them?'

'Yup.'

'Chocolate sauce too.'

'Chocolate sauce?' Cynthia repeats, eyebrows ascending to the heavens.

I grin. 'Ask Underwear Guy,' I say. 'I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to help further your education.'

**

Even the steady production of chocolate-stimulated endorphins and the novelty of having someone to chat to during the day doesn’t make my job any more bearable.  I’ve sent out a whole load of CVs, but nothing yet.  I’m trying to be optimistic, but I had this lovely image of a headhunter calling me the second she got my CV and offering me the job of a lifetime.  Sometimes I think how much nicer it would be if my life were a movie.  Although I’d prefer it to last longer than two hours.

'Why are we doing this?' Cynthia asks suddenly, turning away from her computer screen and towards me. 'Out of every five claims we get, one hasn’t sent us a policy, one has sent us someone else’s policy, one has sent us a policy that’s expired and one has sent us a policy that doesn’t actually cover what they’re claiming for.  Which leaves only one with any chance of getting paid – except that their handwriting is illegible, so we can’t actually process it.'

I stop typing and turn to look at her, raising an eyebrow. 'You’ve only just figured that out?  I ask. 'In…how long have you been working here anyway?'

'Since I left school,' Cynthia says wryly.

My life flashes before my eyes.  Spending your life in this place!  It’s like purgatory, only run by a bus company.

'I never really let myself think about that,' Cynthia sighs.  Her gaze sweeps over the office.  'And suddenly I can’t help it.  There must be something better than this.'

'There is,' I say, playing with my computer mouse, 'we just can’t afford it.  I’ve been looking for a new job since my second week here.  No luck.'

Actually I did once get an interview.  For quite a good job too.  You don't want to know what happened.

No trust me, you really don't.

Cynthia looks horrified. 'It can’t be that hard?'

'My career track record’s no better than my love one,' I say sadly. 'I’m trying again though.  With some help from Will.  I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have him.'

Cynthia clears her throat and surreptitiously points behind me.  I swivel my chair round and look up.  Matt’s standing there and he’s not smiling.

'I was just going to say thanks for inviting me to the picnic,' he says. 'And, if I didn’t send them before, pass on my compliments to the chef.'

I’m sorry it didn’t go so well,' I say, looking apologetically at him. 'Natalie wasn’t supposed to be there and we don’t get on too well.'

'I noticed,' Matt says.  He’s got a weird expression on his face. 'You’re pretty different.  And…I get the impression you don’t like that your friend Will is dating her.'

'I’ve never liked any of Will’s girlfriends,' I answer.  And, now I say it, I realise that it’s true.  I shrug. 'I usually hide it better though.  Natalie’s the jealous type, she keeps trying to get me out of Will’s life.  That’s not really conducive to friendship.'

Matt nods slowly. 'Odd that she should be jealous of you,' he says.

'I know,' I say. 'I can’t understand it.'

'What’s Will like?' Cynthia says, looking interested.

I pick up the photo of us on my desk and show it to her. 'Like that,' I say. 'Only a bit older and minus the goatee.'

Cynthia studies the photo carefully. 'Doesn’t suit him,' she declares.

'I know,' I say, rolling my eyes. 'It took forever to convince him to get rid of it.  Made him look only half as gorgeous as he is.'

I put it back on my desk and look at Matt again.  His eyes are still on the photo.

'Yes,' he says, not moving his eyes. 'Silly that she should be jealous.'

'Melanie, Matthew, this is a work place, not a town social.  Kindly return to work.'

Martin glares at us as he bustles over. 'And do I have to remind you again of the dating policy here?'

'Frankly, Mr Murchison,' comes Cynthia’s voice, just as I’m opening my mouth to reply. 'It sounds like you’re jealous.'

Martin turns in the direction of the voice and blinks at the glare from her head.

'Who are you?' he asks, in confusion, his nose wrinkling up.

'I would have thought you'd recognise a member of your own staff,' Cynthia says archly. 'It almost sounds, Mr Murchison, as if you’re drunk on the job.'

'I most certainly am not,' Martin exclaims, as if this is quite the worst slander he can imagine. 'I would never dream of doing such a thing.  I am a professional.'

His expression changes as Cynthia’s first comment finally registers in his brain.

'And I am by no means jealous,' he protests, all flustered.  He keeps looking over his shoulder, as if Big Brother really is watching his every move. 'I would never dream of letting my personal feelings colour my professional judgement.  Never.  Never.'

I’m having flashbacks to The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

'Get back to work,' he says finally, then scuttles away like a crab who’s just spied a dangerous-looking fishing net.

I stare after him in amazement.

'That was great!' I exclaim. 'He didn’t even tell you off.  I’m in your debt forever.'

'Naah,' Cynthia says, grinning at me. 'I think we’re about even.'

**

I fall into the flat that evening, already sleepy from the sugar come-down, to find Beth staring at the telephone as if it’s just come to life and introduced itself.

'What’s the matter?' I ask, dumping my stuff on the floor as usual.

Beth says nothing, but holds up her hand.  She’s holding the paper, open to the lonely hearts section.

'It’s in already?!' I exclaim.

Beth silently picks up the telephone, dials a number and passes it to me.

'You have…ten new messages,' a robotic voice drones.

'Ten!' I exclaim. 'Wow, I never thought it would do that well!'

Beth still doesn’t answer, but points to her advert.  I frown at her, what’s the problem?  I look again.

‘Sex-starved, 25, seeks same for fun and experimentation.  Must have vivid imagination and like chocolate body paint and latex.’

Oh shit.  I sent in the wrong one.

'It was just a joke,' I say desperately. 'I wrote you a really nice one and I did one for me and then I just made up some silly ones for a laugh.  You know how bored I get at work.  I swear, I thought I’d sent the proper ones.'

Beth nods slowly.  It’s like she’s a dam with a crack.  If I don’t repair it quick smart, my home will be washed away.

'Really,' I insist. 'I wouldn’t send that in for me, let alone you.  God, now all the fetishists in the borough have our number.'

I turn my attention back to the telephone.  Our personals answer machine is playing the messages.

‘…Hi, this is <ahem> Dave, from the newspaper office.  I saw your advert and I just thought we could discuss it over dinner sometime.  Or maybe some fish paste…’

'Fish paste?' I repeat in disbelief.  That’s certainly a new one on me.

‘…Hi, this is Sandy from the South East Bondage Club.  We’re always looking for new members, so if you’re interested…’

She’s going to kill me for this.

‘…I’m sitting here wearing only a latex cat suit.  If you’d like to peel it off me…’

I swear to God that was my GP.

‘…This is Carol from the Leisure Supplies Warehouse.  We’ve patented a brand of fat-free chocolate body paint.  We have mint, orange and alcoholic varieties.  If you’d like a copy of our catalogue…’

I casually pick up the phone pen and scribble her number in the newspaper margin.

I love the chocolate mint stuff.  In fact, I love all chocolate body paint.

I just love all chocolate.

‘…Hello, this is uh…Carl.  I don’t normally do this, but I’m a real book-lover too and I was wondering…’

Now I’m confused.  He sounded like he was answering a totally different advert.

Like the first one I wrote.

'They’re a rather mixed bunch,' Beth says calmly, hitting pause. 'Mainly, it seems, because of this.'

She points to another advert halfway up the next column, sitting innocently between ‘Single White Female’ and ‘Rebecca, 32’.

I look obediently.

‘Shy book-lover, 24, children’s librarian, seeks similar for friendship and possibly more.’

Hang on a second, I wrote that one too.

'I did send the right one for you,' I say, realisation dawning. 'I just sent the wrong one for me.  They must have given them both the same number.'

Beth actually looks amused now.  Thank God, I thought I’d just destroyed all that finishing school training and unleashed the terror within.

Beth starts to laugh. 'Actually,' she says, 'this is all rather good.'

And laughs harder.  She starts to gasp for breath.

Oh my God, she’s going hysterical.  I’ll have to slap her.  Get her to breathe into a paper bag.  Do we have any paper bags?  Will a plastic one work?

'Some of them even sound quite nice,' Beth says, as the laughter dies down. 'I might actually like to meet one or two.'

Does this mean I didn’t screw up as bad as I thought?

'Am I forgiven?' I ask, cautiously.

'You’re forgiven,' Beth agrees. 'Just don’t do this again.'

'I won’t,' I say.

Crossing my fingers behind my back.

Chapter 11

Will looks up from the paper. 'I’m amazed,' he says.

'That they printed it?' I ask, putting my feet up on the stylish-but-ugly coffee table that Natalie picked out and blowing on my hot chocolate.

Will's apartment is a weird mix of his stuff (old, practical, comfortable) and Natalie's additions (new, fashionable, sharp edges).  They clash horribly.  How can he live here and not notice that?

'No,' Will says, setting the paper down by my feet, 'that Beth hasn’t gone psycho on you and stabbed you in the shower.  What were you thinking?'

'I told you, it was an accident,' I protest. 'And it's really mine I messed up, not hers.'

'How did you even come up with that?' Will asks, dropping miniature marshmallows into his coffee.

I shrug. 'I don’t know.  Spending all day dealing with insurance tends to make you a bit twisted.  Besides, I need some outlet for my creativity.'

I take the bag of marshmallows from Will and start chain-eating them.

'Matt still not asked you out?' Will asks.

'No,' I say gloomily.

'Why don’t you ask him?' Will says, sipping his coffee and grimacing as it burns his tongue.  He never waits for it to cool down properly.

I pause briefly between marshmallows. 'I asked him to the picnic, he can’t not realise that I like him.  I’ve done my bit, now it’s his turn.'

'The picnic didn’t go so well,' Will points out. 'Maybe he thinks that was because of him.'

Maybe it was, that little voice says again.

I’m beginning to question my sanity.  Just the tiniest bit.

'Of course it wasn’t,' I say, partly to myself.

Will shrugs. 'Maybe he doesn’t know that.  It’s not only women who second-guess other people’s feelings.'

'The first guess is hard enough.'

'Indeed.'

We lapse into comfortable silence.

'Beth liked the sound of a couple of the guys who left messages,' I say, taking another sip of hot chocolate. 'But she wants to double date for security.  Will you come with me?'

Will takes another marshmallow. 'Why aren’t you asking Matt?'

Yes, why aren’t I asking Matt?

That little voice again.  I need psychiatric help.

'Well, Beth knows you,' I justify myself. 'She’ll feel more secure if she’s surrounded by friends.  Besides, double dates aren’t always the greatest start to a romance.' I frown. 'Other than in this case, obviously,' I amend.

One time when I was at university, I agreed to go on a blind double date.  It was with my housemate's boyfriend's cousin's friend's brother, who had – and I quote – "a really nice personality".  You'd assume that meant he was ugly.  You'd be right.  He also collected tarantulas and belonged to Bug Lovers Anonymous.

Never again.

'True,' Will says.

Good, he’s not going to say anything else.

Will’s computer beeps at him.  I turn to look on reflex.  New message.  From Matt March.

I turn back to Will. 'Why is Matt sending you e-mails?' I ask.

'Web designing, remember?' Will replies. 'We’re working together on my site.  He came up with some good ideas when I gave him a lift home on Sunday.'

I follow him to the computer and stand behind his chair.  He opens a new window and types in an address.  A website flashes up.

'I’ve been working on this one for a while now,' Will says, relinquishing control of the mouse to me. 'It’s an emoticon database – those little faces who grin and wink at you – although I’m trying to go further than that.  I've thought of creating ones specific to TV shows.  There are massive fan communities on the web who would love them and it’s non-profit so I can do it without getting sued.  I’m aiming to have the biggest collection there is, standard and original, and get outside contributions.  With Matt’s help, I can work a lot faster, especially since he knows a couple of really talented creators.'

I pull up a chair, then take the mouse and click on the link that says ‘flowers’.  Eight pages of cartoon flowers come up, blinking, dancing and changing colour.  One’s telling me to go drink weed killer.

'Will, this is amazing,' I say, as I flick through pages of alien ones of varying degrees of weirdness.  I spot a link that says ‘adult’ and click on it.  Then I stare.

'Are these yours?' I say, tilting my head sideways in an attempt to decide if what those cartoon pigs are doing is actually possible.

Will goes a little pink and rubs the back of his neck. 'Not all of them,' he says.

'But most of them?'

'Kind of, yeah.'

'Have you actually tried all these?' I ask, before I question if I really want to know the answer.

'A lot of them just came out of The Karma Sutra,' Will admits, going pinker.

Will owns a copy of The Karma Sutra?

'Well…they’re really good,' I tell him.

Which they are.  Especially the…uh…live action ones.

This is weird.  Not weird like your parents having sex, more like your brother.  I’ve just never pictured Will in this…context.

Except for this weird dream I had about him once where we were having sex on his balcony and the whole town was watching.  Which I’ve tried really, really hard to forget about.  And I’ve never mentioned to anyone.

'You should be doing this professionally,' I tell him for the thousandth time.  Then I blush stupidly. 'Web designing, I mean.  No one with real talent should be an accountant.'

Will shakes his head. 'There’s nothing wrong with being an accountant.  There’s steady work, promotion opportunities, a good salary…'

'That’s your father talking,' I interrupt. 'You hate the work, you hate the office politics, you don’t want to be promoted because it would mean even longer hours and you don’t need anywhere near the amount you earn because all you buy is computer software.  You have a gift and you should be using it in your work, instead of calculating how much money some corporate madhouse is wasting running the heating and the air conditioning at the same time.'

'It’s not that easy,' Will says, running a hand through his hair. 'I’m not qualified for this stuff, I’m just an amateur.'

'Half the professional websites I’ve used suck,' I say matter-of-factly. 'If you showed any of your sites to an employer, they’d hire you on the spot.'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Will says, smiling slightly.

'I mean it,' I say passionately. 'It’s alright for me to have a dull job, I don’t have any talent.  But you…you’re doing the world a disservice by not using yours.'

'You have talent,' Will says, putting an arm around me and letting my head rest against his shoulder.  He doesn’t seem to have heard the last thing I said. 'You just haven’t found exactly how to use it yet.  You will.  I have just as much faith in you as you’ve always had in me.'

'I’m a screw-up, Will,' I say, suddenly feeling very low. 'I keep bouncing around and making bad choices.  I can't even find something half-decent.  I don’t think I’ll ever find anything I love as much as you love this.'

Will holds me tighter. 'Maybe you just haven’t looked in the right place for it yet.'

'When will I?' I ask, turning my head against his shoulder to look up at him.

Will smiles. 'I don’t know,' he says, 'but I know I’ll be there when you do.'

Will looks down at me and I look up at him.

If he leant his head down just a tiny bit, he could kiss me.

Did I really think that?

The doorbell rings and saves me from having to decide.  I have to sit up again properly so Will can get up and answer it, which somehow feels wrong.  I change the page on his website and look at little flying reindeer in the Christmas section.

'Mel.  How nice to see you,' Natalie says, as she swishes in.  I correctly translate this as ‘Get out of here and leave us alone, you ensemble-challenged cow.'.

'Good evening,' I say, with considerable effort. 'I think that’s my cue to leave.'

There’s always a sort of internal struggle when Natalie turns up unexpectedly, between the part of me that wants to stay on principle (and because it will annoy her) and the part of me that can’t stand watching her with Will.  She ruffles his hair and touches his arm and kisses him – all of which makes me want to throw her off the balcony.  Today, however, thanks to the website, I’ve got a far more disturbing image in my head.  One that makes me physically ill.

'I’ll just use the bathroom before I go,' I say, getting up.

Will doesn’t say I should stay.  I prefer to believe that he’s staying out of it, rather than that he’s siding with her.

I hope to God I’m not wrong.

**

When I come out of Will’s too fancy and too feminine bathroom – recently re-designed by Natalie – I very nearly walk into her.  Because the vulture is perched right outside the door.

'Could we just get one thing clear?' Natalie says sweetly, smiling lethally at me.

'By all means,' I say, a little off guard since I’m not used to having verbal cat fights right after I’ve pulled my trousers up.

'One,' she says, 'I am Will’s girlfriend, not you.  Two, I am not letting him waste himself designing silly little websites for middle-aged men who wear diamond sweaters and still live with their parents, when he has such potential where he is.  Three, I am working very hard to help him advance in his career and I do not appreciate your efforts to drag him down by encouraging him in his more embarrassing hobbies, social leprosy and poorly-developed dress sense.'

She takes a breath.

'When I marry Will, things are going to be different.  If I were you, I would stop treating this apartment as a glorified secret club house and realise that Will has moved on and you are no longer the woman in his life.'

One eye becomes a laser beam that penetrates my skull and starts systematically targeting the pain centre of my brain.

'Have I made my position quite clear?'

I nod. 'Perfectly,' I say.

'Good,' Natalie says. 'Now, get out and seriously re-consider yours.'

And then she pushes past me into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Well, I certainly have clarified my position.

If she marries Will, I will kill myself.

Chapter 12

One dull, and yet disturbing, week later, during which Cynthia appeared to have thrown away her watch and I half expected Natalie to send me poison pen letters in the mail, Beth is going on her first blind date.  She’s nervous as a kitten, although I’ve always found that a rather strange expression since all the kittens I’ve come across have been the feline equivalent of professional skydivers.  So, she’s nervous as…I don’t know.  Maybe an owl who’s afraid of the dark.

'Do you like this one?' Beth says, coming out of her room in the tenth new outfit she appears to have acquired since yesterday.  Which is really confusing me, because I thought she was…well, broke.  Although I suppose all those thrilling weekends with the Jane Austen Appreciation Society aren't much of a strain on the bank balance.

'It looks great,' I say, which is precisely what I’ve said about the other nine.  Beth has surprisingly good taste for someone whose usual wardrobe could be described in two words – Sloane Ranger.

'I don’t know,' Beth says worriedly. 'Maybe I look too plain next to you.'

'Well, why don’t you wear my outfit and I’ll wear something else,' I say.  It's not like I'm trying to impress anyone.

Beth shakes her head. 'It looks much better on you anyway.  I think I’ll just try on something else.'

Forget Narnia, I'm beginning to suspect that her wardrobe leads to Oxford Street.

'Will will be here in ten minutes,' I call after her, as she darts back into her bedroom. 'We don’t want this guy thinking you've stood him up.'

Beth returns a few minutes later wearing a compromise between outfits three and six, with eight's accessories.

'Perfect,' I say. 'Now, you’ve got five minutes to do your hair before…'

The doorbell rings.

'…Will gets here,' I finish.

Beth vanishes again as I get up from the table to answer the door.

It's Will.  He's wearing a fancy suit.  He owns a fancy suit?

'I see Natalie’s been playing dress up Ken again,' I say, as I let him in.  He’s even got gel in his hair.  It’s all spiky and weird and not nice.

'One of my networking outfits,' Will says, looking down at himself. 'And yes, she did choose it.  Do you like it?'

I study him.

'It’s quite nice,' I say eventually, 'in that it’s an attractive suit.  But you look like Niles Crane.'

Will nods in resignation. 'I did get a certain Frasier vibe when I first saw myself in it,' he says. 'I sudden felt like I should be reading Proust and tweezing a muffin.'

'Why do you let her do this?' I ask, stepping forward and starting to undo Will’s yellow silk tie.  He raises an eyebrow at me.

'What?' I say, carrying on. 'I can’t look at you dressed like this all evening.  You don’t look like yourself.  And don’t avoid the question.  Why do you let her do this?'

Will bows his head as I pull his tie off and undo his top button. 'She’s trying to help,' he explains. 'She wants me to be a success.'

I put my hands on his shoulders. 'Yes, but her idea of success is you selling your soul to the Devil.  Otherwise known as the Big Five.  You'll be miserable.'

'You’re not just saying that because you don’t like her?' Will says, covering my hands with his.

'I freely admit that I don’t like her, but that's because I know she won’t make you happy,' I say.

Okay, maybe that's not entirely why.  But it's a big part of it.

'You need someone who accepts you as you are, not whose grand ambition in life is to turn you into someone else,' I add.

'And where do I find such a woman?' Will asks, bringing my hands down from his shoulders, but keeping hold of them.

I sigh. 'I’m not exactly the dating expert,' I say wryly. 'I just want you to be happy and I know you won’t be if you marry someone like her.'

Will half smiles. 'Now I’m getting married?' he asks, pulling a face of mock horror. 'Why on Earth would I want to do that when I can keep spreading my wild oats?'

'You’re a romantic and you know it, stop pulling the macho crap,' I say, half-smiling back.

'Okay, I’m ready,' Beth says, emerging from her room like a butterfly from a cocoon. 'Sorry, am I interrupting something?'

Will drops my hands.

'Of course not,' I say. 'What would you be interrupting?  We need to get going or we’ll be late.'

**

Beth gets steadily more nervous all the way there.  Five minutes more and I think me and Will would’ve had to take an arm each and drag her in.  As it is, we merely flank her like bodyguards so she can’t turn and flee.

'What name please, sir?' the Maître d’ asks Will, even though I’m nearest to him.

'Knightley,' Will says automatically.

I wait for the Maître d’ to check his list and pronounce that we’re not on it.

'I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t appear to have your reservation.'

There we go.

'We’re actually part of the Carmichael party,' I say. 'Has Mr. Carmichael arrived yet?'

The Maître d’ pauses.  If he replies to Will, I may have to slap him.

'I’m afraid not, madam,' he says, fortunately for him. 'But I do have that name.  Please come with me.'

'Now I feel silly,' Will murmurs into my ear as we gently guide a rather pale Beth towards our table.

'Didn’t Natalie’s finishing classes cover this?' I murmur back.

Will looks a little sheepish. 'Probably.  I may have daydreamed a little in that lesson.'

'Best thing to do in school,' I whisper back and Will grins.

We settle down.  Beth starts playing with the drinks list.

'Nice place,' Will says, looking around.  Then he lowers his voice. 'Mel, I can’t remember, which fork do I use first?'

I look at them all and shrug. 'Does it matter?' I ask, at my normal volume. 'The object of a fork is to transfer food from the plate to your mouth.  It won’t affect the ultimate fate of the universe if you use the wrong one.'

Will squeezes my hand under the table. 'I love going out to dinner with you,' he says and I smile.

While Beth attempts to camouflage herself and Will scouts out the perimeter, I keep my eyes firmly on the door.  Of us three, I think I’m the most curious to meet David Carmichael.  Imagine, this absolutely stunning guy could walk through the door at any second and sweep Beth off her feet.  Then they'll get married and at the wedding he'll thank me profusely and tell everyone 'It's all because of Mel.'.

I knew this was a good idea.

'Beth, it’s going to be fine,' I hear Will say comfortingly. 'You’ve got me and Mel here, so you don’t even have to carry the conversation on your own.  And I’m sure this guy will be nice and normal and we’ll all have a great time.'

Beth’s smile is less watery than it is flat, diluted lemonadery, given its usual sweetness.

My heart’s jumping up and down like it’s trying to see through a high window, as every new possible comes through the door.  I nearly have a crisis when I think a guy who looks old enough to be Beth’s grandfather is coming to join us, but his table is actually right behind ours.

He’s not going to stand her up, is he?  Of all the worst things he could do!  Just casually abandon a sensitive, sweet young woman, perhaps permanently damaging her sense of self-worth?  Men!

I’ve been stood up precisely three times in my life.  The first at the cinema, so I didn’t have to sit through the latest blood and guts film but saw a romantic comedy instead, so that worked out well.  The second at a party, the result of which was that I snogged his best friend.  And the third at a restaurant not unlike this, where the staff were incredibly sympathetic and I was given three free drinks and the waiter's phone number.  I’d be fine.  Beth’s a different saucepan of molluscs.

Yes, I made that up.  It makes every bit as much sense as kettle of fish.  If not more.

Oh my God, I think that’s him.  Looks like Adam Sandler, dresses like Ricky Martin and is headed our way.  There’s a camera case over his shoulder.

'Hello,' he says, reaching our table.  He’s looking right at me. 'You must be Beth.'

Some sixth sense tells me this is not going to go as well as I'd hoped.

'No, I’m Mel,' I say, not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 'This is Will and this is Beth.'

Beth comes out from behind the drinks list like a mouse out of its nest.

'Hello,' she says bravely, holding out her hand. 'It’s nice to meet you.'

He low-fives her.  No, I’m not kidding.  I wish I were.

'Pleased to meet you, Beth,' he says, plonking himself down in his seat. 'And you two as well, of course.  Now, why don’t we make a start on the alcohol poisoning while we chat?'

My mother always taught me to reserve judgement.  I was never very good at it.  First impressions stick and my first impression of this guy is that we may as well buy a new date, because this one’s a write off.

Nevertheless, we order drinks.

'So,' Little Ricky says, beaming round the table. 'What do you guys do for a living?'

'Well,' Will says, when it’s clear that Beth and I are finding it difficult to answer. 'I’m an accountant, Mel is in insurance and Beth works in the children’s library in town.'

'Right, right,' Little Ricky says, nodding like the bones in his neck have been replaced by Slinkies. 'I remember that from your advert.  Not much of a life, is it?  Cleaning up after a load of grubby youngsters with ADHD.'

I don’t think Beth’s brain can actually process that.

'I like children very much,' she says, once it’s thrown out his comment, 'and I love books.  I enjoy helping them find books they’d like to read.'

'Um, yeah,' Little Ricky says, still nodding enough to make me wish I had some travel sickness pills in my purse. 'Can’t make a lot of money though.'

'Not a great deal,' Beth replies, remarkably composed. 'It’s more of a vocation.'

A pause.

'What do you do?' Will asks.  His right eyebrow appears to be being held up by invisible thread and, knowing him as I do, I have a shrewd suspicion that he’s trying not to laugh.

'I’m a photographer,' Little Ricky says, dumping his camera case on the table. 'Just stopped off to take some new snaps on the way here actually.  The way the light was hitting the road was perfectly beautiful.'

I don’t dare look at Beth.

'Road?' I ask.  What kind of photographer takes pictures of roads?

Do I want to know the answer to that?

'Here,' Little Ricky says, getting his camera out of the case and passing it across the table to me. 'You can flick through the photos I’ve taken.'

I’m sure I could, if I actually had a clue how it worked.

Will leans over. 'Press that button,' he says, pointing to it.

So, I do.  Needless to say, I regret it.

'They’re…graphic,' I say, as I pass it back to him.  Little Ricky hands it to Beth.  She looks too and her skin takes on a distinctly green tinge, rather like she’s been smeared in pistachio ice cream.  She then hands it to Will.  He looks at two photos, looks at Little Ricky and says, 'You take photos of road kill?'

'It’s art,' Little Ricky informs us.

Will blinks. 'If you say so,' he says. 'Do these…sell well?'

'Art always finds a market,' Little Ricky says sagely. 'One day I will be known throughout the world and revered as a God in the world of multimedia.  It is my dream.  A dream that will eventually become a reality.'

All three of us stare at him.  Then we stare some more.  Fortunately, he appears to regard this as his first step to become the Road-Kill King.

'I know,' he nods, as if he’s just imparted some fundamental truth to us, his chosen few. 'Quite something, aren't they?'

Beth’s eyes meet mine and I realise a fundamental truth of my own.  I’m on laundry duty forever.

**

'Overall,' Will says, when we’ve managed to escape, 'that was an experience I could’ve done without.'

Little Ricky has gone to take night-time shots.  The full moon illuminates dead animals nicely apparently.

'I don’t know,' I say, trying to sound upbeat. 'His Ace Ventura impression was really rather good.'

Will’s eyes meet mine. 'Yes, it was,' he agrees. 'The first time.'

'Fine,' I admit, 'it was a disaster.  Are you okay, Beth?'

Beth is walking beside us back to the car, looking like there should be cartoon bluebirds flying around her head.

'It was most…educational,' she says weakly.

'In short, Mel,' Will says, searching through his jacket pockets for his car keys. 'I don’t think matchmaking is your true calling in life.'

'I’m sure the next one will be better,' I say defensively.

'Next one!' Will exclaims.

'Of course, next one,' I reply. 'You can’t just give up after one bad date.  If I’d done that, I’d still be a virgin.'

Will sighs. 'Mel, I say this because I love you.  Give up.  Your little lamb for the slaughter is already traumatised and you want to put her through this again?'

'We don’t have to decide now,' I say calmly. 'We’ll discuss it in the morning.'

Will sighs as he opens the car door to let Beth in. 'Will I ever persuade you to take my advice?' he says.

'Only when you start taking mine,' I say, sliding into the passenger seat. 'Come on, there’s a post-date tub of Ben and Jerry’s waiting at home.'

'One day,' Will says ominously, as he settles himself into the driver’s seat, 'this could go very, very wrong for you.'

'Don’t be such a pessimist,' I say, fastening my seatbelt. 'Everything will be just fine.'

Chapter 13

'You will never believe this,' Cynthia says, speed-walking back to her desk in a pencil skirt and a Wonderbra that makes it seem as if gravity is just something that happens to other people. 'You are going to be so completely jealous you’ll just curl up in the corner and die!'

Is this a good thing?

I abandon the claim I'm inputting and lean forward, happily forgetting about Mrs. M.M.Watson and the pin scratch she found on her Louis Vuitton bag. 'What happened?' I ask.

'Okay,' Cynthia says, settling herself back into her chair and crossing her legs like she’s practising to appear in Basic Instinct 2. 'You know the sex-on-legs guy who works upstairs?'

I gasp. 'The one who looks like Han Solo?'

'Who?'

'A young Harrison Ford.'

Cynthia grins like a tabloid journalist with an exclusive about Brad Pitt’s secret love affair with the entire Swedish volleyball team. 'Then yes, I mean the one who looks like Han Solo,' she says. 'Guess who has a date with him on Friday?'

I stare at her. 'You do?  I thought he had a girlfriend.'

One who looks like the TK Maxx Victoria Beckham, no less.

'Oh, he does,' Cynthia says breezily.

I pause. 'Isn’t that, in a way, something of an impediment?'

Cynthia looks at me like I’ve just spoken in Klingon and she’s lost her universal translator. 'Why?  She’s shop-lifting designer gear in Monaco for another two weeks, she’ll never know.'

'Doesn’t it bother you?' I ask curiously.

I did once date a guy with a girlfriend, but only because he conveniently forgot to mention to me that she existed.  I've been on the other side.

'It’s just a casual dinner,' Cynthia says lightly, idly examining her sapphire-blue nails.  We’re just going to…' she giggles, '…do a little dance, make a little love and get down on Friday night.  No harm done.'

'What about Underwear Guy?' I ask.

Cynthia showed me a picture of him.  Ten minutes later I looked up, remembered I was at work and seriously considered going to the stationery cupboard on my own.

Cynthia looks at me in surprise. 'Oh, we’re still seeing each other,' she says.  She winks at me. 'He has a lot to recommend him, if you know what I mean.'

Honey, the filing cabinets know what you mean.

'A little quiet though,' Cynthia says pensively, like we’re discussing a potential pet. 'I like a man with a little more of a dark side.  I’ll hold onto him though, for now.' She gives a distinctly dirty chuckle. 'Until I wear him out.'

Just like Dr. Frankenstein, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about what I’ve created.

'What about you and Matt?' Cynthia says, still ignoring her work and popping Maltesers into her mouth. 'What’s going on there?'

Good question.  To which there is only one possible answer.

'Not a lot,' I say listlessly.

'Why?' Cynthia says, leaning forward on her desk. 'What’s the problem?'

The problem, as far as I can make out, is that Matt can’t articulate the sentence ‘Will you go out with me?'.  To which I have every intention of saying yes.  We bump into each other, we chat, we flirt a little and I feel certain that he’s going to ask me out.  And then, every time, he’ll suddenly cool off for absolutely no reason.  I can’t understand it.  What on Earth could I be talking about often enough for it to be responsible for this?

'Nothing,' I say, tracing letters on my keyboard with my finger. 'We just never seem to get around to making a date.'

'Why don’t you just ask him out?'

Another good question.  To which I have no answer.

'I don’t know,' I say. 'It just never seems like the right moment.'

Which is an excuse I’ve never heard myself use before.  I once asked a guy out when he was halfway through getting his braces tightened.

Cynthia nods slowly. 'You could just e-mail him,' she suggests.

I could.  And I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.

'I’ll probably do that,' I agree.

Just not right this minute.  When I'm in a more asking-out kind of mood.

Cynthia glances at the stack of new claims on her desk as if she’s vaguely considering doing some work.  Then she rejects the idea and turns back to me.  Her gaze sweeps over my desk, searching for something to comment on.

'What’s that?' she asks, nodding to the letter I’ve propped up in front of my computer.

I pretend not to know what she’s referring to. 'What?' I ask, eyes on my screen.

'That envelope right in front of you.'

I look down at it.

'It’s a response to one of my applications,' I say, nerves beginning to gnaw at my insides like hungry rats. 'The only one I’ve had.'

'What’s it say?'

'I haven’t read it,' I say, feeling my body tense up. 'I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind to face rejection yet.'

'Might as well find out the worst,' Cynthia says, encouragingly.

Now I feel very supported.

Okay, the truth is that I don’t want to open this letter.  While it’s there, looking all official, I can pretend to myself that it might just be an interview.  The moment I read ‘Dear Ms Parker, although we have cruelly raised your hopes by sending an official rejection instead of ignoring your letter like every other firm in the county, we will not have need of your services unless the five billion more qualified candidates in the world all die in mysterious circumstances.  Yours etc’ I will just be the serial reject once again.

But, since Cynthia is determined to avoid work by any means possible, it looks like my time is up.  I have to read it, otherwise I definitely won’t be getting any more boxes of Milk Tray.

I slice open the letter, silently praying that I’ll somehow forget how to read English, thus preserving hope a little longer.

Unfortunately, God appears to have reached his quota of miracles today.

I scan it.  Then I read it.  Then I read it again.

'I got an interview!' I shriek.

God, I’m glad Martin’s not on the floor today.  Then I’d have to take holiday for it instead of calling in sick.

Come on, everyone does it.  And, in this office, I mean everyone.  It's in the unofficial staff handbook.

'Let me see,' Cynthia says, reaching for the letter.

I hand it over.  I want her to read it anyway, just so I’m sure I’m not dreaming.

'You got an interview!' she shrieks. 'That’s fantastic!  I’m so happy for you and hardly even jealous at all.'

I beam stupidly at her.  This is like having a kilogram bar of Dairy Milk injected straight into my bloodstream.

'How much does this job pay?' Cynthia demands.

'I don’t know,' I say dreamily. 'I can’t even remember what the company does.  But who cares?  It’ll be so much better than here, if only because it doesn’t have Martin.'

'Look it up on the Internet,' Cynthia says enthusiastically.  I’m so blissed out that I don’t even care that she’s just using this as an excuse to procrastinate.

I take the letter back from her and type in the address of the company website.  Internet Explorer creaks into action at its usual break-neck speed – that of a lethargic snail.

Hey, this place looks pretty cool.  But then anything does when you work in insurance.

'Well, what do they do?' Cynthia asks, between Maltesers.

I start to laugh. 'They’re a recruitment company,' I choke out.  I laugh more and more. 'I…would…be…helping…other…people…find…jobs.'

Cynthia starts to laugh too.  Before long we’re verging on hysteria.  The people wandering through admin stop looking curious and start looking worried.

'So you’re going to be a…' Cynthia suppresses another fit of the giggles, '…recruitment consultant?'

'Well, no,' I say, checking the letter again. 'They want an administrator.  By the looks of it, I’d be doing pretty much what I do here, but I’d get to go on reception as well, so a bit of variety involved.  Plus, it’s more money.' I scan the profile on the website. 'Still not a lot, but more.'

Beggars can’t be choosers.  My present salary barely reaches five figures.  Intensely depressing.  All my teachers told me that a degree would mean a high paid job.  They lied.

'When’s the interview?' Cynthia asks, tapping her nails on the desktop.

'Friday,' I say automatically.  Then I look again. 'Oh God, this Friday.  That’s inhuman.  I’m not ready.  I can’t possibly read all those books I got in time.  I haven’t even picked an outfit.'

'Maybe you could ask Matt to help you prepare?' Cynthia suggests.

Now that’s a good idea.  I will.  I’ll ask Will to help me prepare.

**

My new optimistic mood, once I’ve gone firmly into denial over how soon my fate will be decided, makes it really, really difficult not to tell everyone about my interview.  It’s an accepted part of the whole sick day thing that you don’t tell anyone about it until after you’ve done it.  Then everyone glosses over that bit.

But Julie, I can tell Julie.  So I go to see her instead.

Julie’s in tears, or very close.  That’s not right.

'What’s the matter?' I ask, stealing the chair from the empty cubicle beside her.

Julie wipes her eyes with a tissue, all her concealer coming away from the dark circles underneath them. 'It’s nothing,' she sniffs. 'Just another nasty caller.'

They do get some horrendous ones.  Is it any wonder we get through so many biscuits in this office?

But negotiators don’t usually cry.  They often swear, they never waste holiday or sick leave and one once punched a hole in the wall, but they don’t cry.

'You don’t usually cry,' I point out, handing her another tissue.

'PMS,' Julie answers.  Another tear rolls slowly down her face. 'And you know I always let these things get to me.  It’s silly really, but it’s so hard not to take it personally.'

Julie is definitely the most sensitive of the lot.  Personally, I think the job is too stressful for her.  In fact, I think it’s too stressful for anyone capable of experiencing the full range of human emotions.

'Do you want to get an early lunch?' I ask sympathetically.

So what if it’s only eleven?  My adrenaline surge has made me hungry and Julie’s in pain.

'I can’t, I have too much work to do,' Julie says, resolutely pulling herself together. 'I’ll talk to you later, okay?'

'Okay,' I agree reluctantly.  I can’t exactly force her.

Damn, I guess that means I have to get back to my own job.

**

I’m not overly fond of libraries these days.  They tend to invoke flashbacks to when I was revising for finals.  When I discovered that I knew hardly anything about economics and that I didn’t understand what I did know.  The reason that I’m going to one now is because I have to talk to Beth.  And the reason for that is that I just fixed another blind date for tomorrow night.

I have complete confidence that this one will be a success.

I find Beth exactly where I expected to find her, in the children's library, pottering around tiding up the books that today’s batch of ankle-biters have left all over the floor.  Whenever I see Beth at work, I always find two things very hard to believe.  One, that there’s a worse job than mine and two, that Beth doesn't realise she has it.

'Hello, Mel,' Beth says warmly, looking tired but content, as opposed to tired and fed up like I would be. 'You don’t usually come here, is everything alright at home?'

'It’s fine,' I say, perching myself precariously on a table shaped like a ladybird. 'I just thought I’d pop by for a quick chat.'

Is it my imagination, or is there the tiniest hint of suspicion on Beth’s face?  Hmm, maybe she’s finally learning to translate that phrase.

'About?' Beth asks, going down on her knees and busying herself tidying a shelf so she doesn’t have to look at me.

'Well, I just wanted to apologise again for last night,' I start.  I’ve got this whole big speech planned about the importance of not giving up. 'But, you know, everyone has a lousy date once in a while.  It’s Mother Nature’s way of encouraging procreation by making you feel that mediocre men could be a lot worse.  So, really, I think…'

'You’ve already made another date, haven’t you?' Beth says.

I can’t see her face and her tone is carefully neutral, so I don’t know whether she’s resigned to it or whether this may turn into a scene from Single White Female.

'I’m sure it’ll be better than the last one.'

'Whom have you chosen?' Beth asks, giving up tiding and sitting down cross-legged on the floor, facing me.  A worried look crosses her face. 'Not the fish paste man?'

'Beth,' I say gravely, 'I promise I will never set you up with someone like that.  I’m only doing this because I’m positive that it’s in your best interests.'

Beth gives me a small nod of acceptance and pulls her knees up to her chest.

'This guy is called Charles,' I tell her. 'He didn’t say much in his message, except that he’s a health club member, which has to mean that he’s pretty fit.  And he was definitely not one of the Bondage Brigade.  We’re going to the Chinese buffet up in town tomorrow night.'

Beth starts to smile. 'I love Chinese food,' she says.

Hence my choice.  Of course both Will and I like nothing except fried rice, but never mind.  We’ll just fill up on lasagne while Beth’s getting ready.

'I have a really good feeling about this one,' I say confidently. 'I mean, Charles – it’s a very distinguished name.  We’ve had two kings called that, after all.  The fact that both of them were beheaded is purely coincidental.'

Beth smiles. 'A very minor detail,' she says.

'I’m serious,' I insist. 'Beth and Charles – that sounds like a great combination.  I bet he’ll be this toned Adonis, with a tight butt and an eight-pack.  And a great personality, obviously.'

'Of course,' Beth agrees, a little teasing edge creeping into her voice.

Hey, what do you know?  I think she’s learning to banter.

'And he’s got to be about a million times better than any of the geeky bookworms you could meet here,' I finish triumphantly.

Beth’s face sort of freezes.  On instinct, I turn around.

Murphy’s law dictates that it’s the ultimate geeky bookworm.  Andrew – the guy I convinced Beth to turn down.

He clears his throat and I shift uncomfortably on the table.  I know I called him a socially-retarded loser, but I didn't mean it personally. 'Here are the keys to the toy library,' he says, holding them out to Beth. 'Could you check the number of dice in the games?  There’s extra in a box under the desk if there’s one missing.'

'Thanks,' Beth says quietly.  Her neck has gone pink and she’s not meeting his eyes as she takes the keys. 'Have a nice day off.'

'I’ll see you on Monday,' he says and gets out of there as quickly as he can, looking at the floor.  Beth bites her lip as she stares after him.

'Sorry,' I mutter.

I know, I should have said it while he was here.

'I need to finish tidying up here before I can leave,' Beth answers softly.

I pretty much just want to get out of there too.

'I’ll see you at home,' I say, raising myself up from the table carefully. 'Tell him I didn’t mean it,' I add uncomfortably.

Beth nods. 'I will,' she says, not looking at me again.

I hurry out of there, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in case I see Andrew.

Okay, now that I wish I hadn’t done.  I mean, he's Beth's friend after all.

Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut.

Chapter 14

'Okay,' Will says, pacing up and down in front of the dining table. 'Quick quiz.'

I sit up straight in my chair, cross my legs at the ankle and fold my hands neatly in my lap.  I feel like I’m in The Princess Diaries.

'Ready,' I say, fixing my best ‘hire me’ smile on my face.

Will pauses and looks me up and down. 'I know I said look alert, but you need to relax a little bit more,' he says. 'You look constipated.'

My smile fades somewhat.

'I’m trying as hard as I can,' I grumble, yanking my practise interview skirt a little closer to my knees. 'This position is unnatural.'

'But it looks good if it’s done right,' Will insists.

I've said it before, I'll say it again.  Natalie is a bad influence on him.

'Quiz,' I say, through clenched teeth. 'We can go back to posture class later.'

'Right,' Will says slowly.  He now appears to be trying to channel Anne Robinson.  I feel suitably scared.

'If they ask if your boss will mind you being away for several hours, what do you say?'

Ooo, I know this one.

'I nonchalantly mention that I had holiday coming, thus implying that I took some of it instead of claiming to be at death's door,' I say triumphantly.

'Correct,' the Quiz Master pronounces. 'Under what circumstances should the following be mentioned: degree class, present salary, real reason for wanting to leave present job?'

'First two only if they ask outright,' I reply. 'Last one not under any circumstances.'

It’s not like I’m going to forget any of that.

'Correct.  If they ask you how you get on with your current manager, what should you do?'

'Lie through my teeth.'

'Obviously.'

Will is now doing the Anne Robinson posture as well.  I’m getting a little worried.

'If they ask you why you want the job, what should you not tell them?'

'The truth,' I reply confidently.

'Which is?'

'More money and no Martin.'

'What should you say instead?'

'The chance to develop my skills in a new field, increased variety and career progression.'

'Right.'

Will fixes me with a penetrating stare. 'What is your motto?' he asks.

'There’s the truth and there’s…' I produce a perky smile, '…the truth.'

Will nods like a proud father. 'Everything you need to know in life, you can learn from watching The Simpsons,' he says.

'Am I ready now?' I ask impatiently.

We've been practising for an hour and all we've accomplished is to make me realise exactly how many things I could get wrong.

I’m starting to think that Will should apply for this job instead of me.

Of course, it would be a serious step down for him.

But maybe then Natalie would dump him.

Hmmm.

'That depends,' Will says. 'Do you feel ready?'

I think about this.

'No,' I say finally.

'Good,' Will says sagely. 'If you had felt ready, it would have proved that you are not.'

Now it’s my turn for the penetrating glare.

'Don’t you think you’re a little old now to be quoting the The Chronicles of Narnia?' I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

'You read Harry Potter,' Will protests.

'Everyone reads Harry Potter,' I exclaim. 'It’s an institution.  Besides, it’s not really a kids book, it’s a metaphor for the world at large.  It’s almost philosophical in its way.'

'So are The Chronicles of Narnia,' Will says firmly. 'And, for that matter, all the classics that are supposedly for children.  Besides, you know quite well that you did not see The Order of the Phoenix six times because of great philosophical truths – you just fancy Jason Isaacs.'

'Who doesn’t?' I protest. 'Besides, your greatest criticism of The Lord of the Rings films was that Liv Tyler wasn’t in them enough.'

We glare at each other for a few moments.

'Feel better?' Will asks.

'Much,' I say, nodding.

'Right, back to work,' Will says, coming to sit down opposite me.  He stares at the frighteningly long list of notes he appears to have been making ever since I recruited him to help. 'What do you need to remember to take with you?'

It’s like one of those Brownie games where you have to remember what was on the tray.

I chew my lip, thinking.

'Ummm…okay.  Watch.'

Will nods. 'Very important.  What else?'

I look around the room for inspiration.

'A map of how to get there,' I say, although I can’t for the life of me think what could have inspired that. 'The number of the place in case I get held up.  My mobile in case I get held up somewhere that doesn’t have a phone.'

'All very important,' Will agrees. 'Keep going.'

There’s more?  I was never any good at these games.

'Ummm…extra money in case I miss the bus and have to take the train instead.'

Will checks his list. 'Onto appearance,' he says. 'What things do you need to feel secure that you can maintain a professional image, come what may?'

Great, now I’m being interrogated by one of the presenters of What Not To Wear.

Okay, what do I take with me to the office?

'Hairbrush,' I say, 'and spare hair band in case the weather goes mental and I need to tie my hair back.'

'Yes,' Will nods encouragingly, 'but use your imagination.  What else could go wrong?'

I don’t want to start down that slope.

I groan. 'Can’t you just tell me?' I complain.

Now Will looks like my old maths teacher.  These personality changes are getting very disorientating.

'Mel, if I don’t test you how can I see what you’re learned?' he asks patiently.

I think people drastically overestimate the value of tests.  I got a B in maths GCSE and I can barely add up.

I've always suspected that they mixed my paper up with someone else’s.  Fortunately I wasn't stupid enough to check.

'Fine,' I say, searching my creaking memory once again. 'Tights.  I need spare tights in case they get ripped.  Plus make-up essentials, a hand mirror…  I’m out.'

Will consults his list. 'That’s about all I came up with,' he says. 'Have you packed your bag?'

'Yes.'

'Picked out your outfit?'

'Yes,' I say, rolling my eyes.

'So, you’re all ready,' Will says confidently. 'Just get a good night’s sleep and it’ll go fine.'

'So long as Beth’s date doesn’t run too late tonight,' I point out.

Will tries to turn a snort into a cough.  It doesn’t work.

'Judging by the last one,' he says. 'I don’t think that will be a problem.'

'Just because the last one didn’t go quite as I’d hoped does not mean that this one won’t be a success,' I say, folding my arms. 'I expect a little more support from you.'

Will holds up his hands. 'Fine.  If it goes well, I’ll drive you home and go back.  Or leave her with lover boy if she prefers.  If he hasn’t begun rhapsodising about the artistic beauty of her black bean chicken.'

Pessimist.

**

Beth gets home from work, has a shower and appears dressed and ready inside half an hour.  Quite a change from last time.  Pessimism, it appears, is contagious.

This time her date is there when we arrive, although it takes me a few minutes to accept that it’s actually him.  He’s not exactly what I was expecting.  He’s…hmm, how to put this.  Geoffrey Rush, only twenty years younger and half his weight.  In a bad way.

Beth and Will both turn to look at me.  I pretend not to notice.  Beth’s love of Chinese food (fortunately or unfortunately) settles the question.

She bravely takes the lead and heads over to his table.  He’s using his napkin to clean the cutlery.

No, scrap that.  He’s using someone else’s napkin to clean the cutlery.

'Hello, Charles?' Beth says, the embodiment of poise. 'I’m Beth and these are my friends, Mel and Will.'

We’ve straggled along behind her.  Snow White and two of the seven dwarves.

Charles looks up from his polishing. 'No one in the restaurant business has standards anymore,' he complains. 'This knife is smeared, my plate is greasy and there is something drifting around in my water.  You should check yours.  Do you know how many germs are lurking around here?  And don’t even get me started on the buffet.  We really should go somewhere more hygienic.'

Beth’s smile flickers a little round the edges.  Will presses one finger into the small of my back, our old sign for ‘Say nothing, you’ll only make it worse.’.  I produce a credible attempt at a smile and settle myself decorously into a chair.  I may as well use the time to practise for my interview.

'Well…' Beth says, searching for a response. 'It’s very nice to meet you.'

'We should eat straight away,' he says strictly, eyeing each of us in turn. 'I react very badly to delayed meals.  I get terrible cramps.'

The three of us stare back at him.

'And avoid anything containing fish,' he counsels. 'I find that it has a laxative effect.  I once spent an entire night in the lavatory as a result of one unfriendly sole.'

I think modern society must have rendered natural selection obsolete – that’s the only explanation for how this guy can have survived this far.  God forbid he ever procreates.

Would he consider it hygienic enough?

'I’m going to get food,' Will says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that Hygiene Guy is oblivious to.  He gets up, his hands on the table. 'You’re right.  Lack of food, very unhealthy.'

'Me too,' Beth and I say in unison.

Charles smiles, pleased.  He also looks a little surprised. 'Excellent,' he says. 'It’s so rare to find people who understand that.  Remember, no fish.'

I never thought I’d live to see the day when eating sweet and sour fish balls would constitute an act of rebellion.

'This guy or the last one, which would you least like to get stuck in a lift with?' Will murmurs to me, as we both load up our plates with egg fried rice at the buffet.

What a choice.  Morbid art freak or paranoid germ freak?

'Frankly,' I say, having given it careful consideration, 'if I got stuck in a lift with either of them, I think I’d force the doors and jump for it.'

Will grins. 'Him, the other guy and me.  Marry, shag, push off cliff.'

Easy one.

'I’d push them both off a cliff,' I say, extracting a stray mushroom from my rice. 'I never understood that game.  What on Earth is the point of getting married if you’re not going to have sex?'

Will searches the buffet for things he can eat and sighs. 'No more blind dates,' he says, taking another spoonful of egg fried rice.

Charles, returned with a plate of the dullest noodle dish on offer, starts scrutinising our dishes for any bits of fish that may have crept in.  He pulls a hair out of Beth’s black bean pork and looks at it like someone’s tried to assassinate her with it.

'This is beyond belief,' he complains. 'I’m not going to let them get away with this.  Waiter!'

It’s a buffet, for God’s sake.

'You!' he shouts to the seating host. 'Get over here!'

As one, Beth, Will and I slide down in our seats.

**

'I’m absolutely positive that it’ll be third time lucky,' I say, when Charles has hurried off home to ‘preserve his circadian rhythms’.  Whatever that means.

Although, to be perfectly honest, even my optimism is flagging a little.  I thought I’d encountered the worst the male species had to offer and now I find there’s a whole other underclass that I knew nothing about.

Will and Beth stare incredulously at me.

'You’re not actually suggesting a third one?' Will says in horror. 'I’ve just stuffed myself with food I don’t even like in a guilt-driven attempt to convince the chefs here that their food is not really on a par with human excrement, as Disaster Date Number Two seemed to think.  I am not doing this again.'

I turn to Beth hopefully.  This can work out, I tell her telepathically.  Just give it one more try.

I don’t want to have messed this up.  And I really can help her.  I know I can.

Beth sighs. 'Mel, this wasn’t a bad idea.  It might have worked.  But I don’t think I can take another night like this.  Two is enough.'

'But the next one could be Mr Right,' I insist. 'You could be throwing away your chance at true love.'

Will leans forward. 'Mel, remember telling me that I was looking in the wrong places?  Well maybe this is the wrong place for Beth.  She’s not meeting people she has anything in common with.  It makes much more sense for her to meet people through doing the things she enjoys.'

'But all she does is work,' I protest.  I turn to Beth.  'Name one place you go other than work.  And the supermarket doesn’t count.'

Beth bites her lip.

'Maybe they're the perfect places for Beth to meet someone,' Will points out, sipping his drink.

'Yes, but the guys there are all so dull,' I exclaim.

'I don’t find them dull,' Beth says quietly.

'Yes, but…' I start.

'But what?' Will interrupts. 'But Beth’s dull too?  Just because she doesn’t share your taste in men.  Which, it has to be said, is not exactly exemplary.'

That hurts.  Not the words, but because it’s Will saying them.

'You know I didn’t mean that,' I say, wrapping my arms around myself.  I turn to Beth. 'I didn’t.  I just…the whole point of this was to help you meet some guys who are different.  Exciting.  For fun, not book clubs.'

'I like book clubs,' Beth says mildly. 'And if I’m going to date someone, I want him to be steady and secure…and maybe a little dull.  I’m not looking for the glamorous kind.'

'Glamorous can be fun sometimes,' I say lamely.

Beth nods. 'Sometimes,' she says quietly. 'But it's not something I want long term.'

I suddenly feel very far away from both of them.

'Why don’t we just go home?' I say, gathering up my things. 'I have a big day tomorrow.'

'Beth?' Will asks.

Beth nods. 'I’m ready to go.  Even I couldn’t manage anymore.'

I’m not exactly on top of the world as we pay the bill and trail out.  In fact, I’m not even sure if I’m on top of the carpet.  Party of three with Will and I’m the third wheel.  It feels strange.

And not nice.

Chapter 15

I’m dreaming.  Or, at least, I’m fairly sure I am.  The dancing gnomes I saw not long ago seem to suggest it.

I’m strapped into what appears to be an electric chair, except that Anthony Hopkins is coming towards me carrying a Black & Decker power drill, which I think may be destined for my skull.

On balance, I think this might be a good time to wake up.

I open my eyes and blink at the real world.  I see it first through satin, then cotton, then some light muslin, until it finally comes in focus.  Rather as if God pressed the tracking device on his remote control.

And then, of course, I realise that the drill is real.  Except that it’s making contact with the road outside my window.

There has to be a law against this.  I mean, road works at seven o’clock in the morning?

Wait a minute.  What self-respecting road-digger starts works at seven?  Or, for that matter, what road-digger period?

I snatch a quick ice-cream sundae in Denial during the time it takes me to roll over and let my eyes make contact with my clock.  I already know what I’m going to see.

Nine.  It’s nine.  I’ve overslept by two hours.  I now have precisely one hour to get up, get dressed and get to my interview.  And it takes at least thirty minutes to get there.

I have a nice calm moment while I quietly accept that fact.  Then I leap out of bed in a panic, ready to run to the bathroom.  I turn my ankle, so I hobble instead, pulling off my clothes en route.  My mind kicks into overdrive.  Forget food, no time.  Suit, phone, keys, purse, watch.

I take the fastest shower of my life and hobble back to my room, trying to dry myself on the way.  Suit, phone, keys, purse, watch.  That’s all.

Crap.  I still have to call in sick.

I search feverishly for the cordless phone, hidden under a mountain of potential interview outfits.  Where is it?  Has it sprouted legs?  Wings?  Bought itself a Nimbus 2001 perhaps?  Where’s the sodding phone?!

I find it and dial work, while I grab my underwear and start trying to get dressed.  Why, oh why didn’t I buy the hands-free kit for my mobile?  I can’t put on my clothes with one hand.

'Murchison.'

I wedge the phone against my shoulder and try it that way.

'Thib ib Melanie Parker,' I say, using my best bunged-up voice. 'I’b feelimb terrible.  I can’b cub into work tobay.'

'Very well.'

What?  He’s just agreeing?

'Cynthia mentioned you didn’t seem well yesterday.'

Of course.  I have to buy her something.  A small island in the Caribbean maybe.

'I’ll try to be back tomobbow,' I say. 'Thanb you.'

'You’re welcome.'

I sit still on the bed for a second.  Finally a piece of good luck.

Crap.  Still have to get ready.

I throw my clothes on, somehow avoiding laddering my tights, pull on my suit and shoes, grab my phone, purse and keys, shove them into my bag and run out the door as fast as humanly possible.  I’ll just have to fix myself up on the way.

I just pray nothing else goes wrong.

**

I catch my tights on the gate post.  Needless to say, they rip.  But I’ve got a spare pair in my bag, haven’t I?  So it’s fine.  I’ll just change on the bus.

I hobble along the road to the bus stop, as fast as my dodgy ankle will allow.  There’s no need to panic.  I’m on my way.  I’m not even late, so long as I don’t miss the bus.  I remembered the essentials.  I just have to do a little making-up on the way.  No problem.

What did I just step in?

Crap.

No, literally.  What kind of person lets their dog poo right in the middle of the pavement? Now I’ll stink out the whole place.

I get to the bus stop and inspect my shoe.  I scrape it against the kerb.  I don’t think anyone will notice it.  Of course, the problem is really more what they smell, as opposed to what they see.

Something wet just landed on my head.  I reach up and bring down fingers covered in a whitish, gooey substance.  It can’t be.

A bird has crapped on my head.  What am I, the toilet of the animal kingdom?

I reach for the zip of my bag to search for a tissue, just as the bus pulls up.  Thank God, I didn’t miss it.

The bus driver looks appraisingly at me as I climb on and extract my pass from my pocket.

'I think a bird crapped on your head,' he says helpfully.

'I noticed,' I say shortly. 'Thank you.'

'You’re welcome, love.'

Have you ever wanted to choke a total stranger?

I hobble down to the back of the bus, nearly being thrown to the floor by the maniac behind the wheel.  Why is it that all bus drivers seem to have secret ambitions to be Formula 1 drivers?

Once I’m safely installed in a seat, I take stock.  I’ve got about thirty minutes on this bus to turn myself into the Infamous Interview Acer.

No problem.  Better get started.

I unzip my bag.  I see my purse, keys, phone, an old hairbrush with a frayed purple hair-band (entirely devoid of elastic) wrapped round the handle, an old bottle of styling spray and a single tissue.  That’s it.

Where’s my map?  Where’s my make-up?  Where’s my list of questions?  Where’s my tights?

I think it’s obvious what’s happened.

Gremlins.

Or maybe pixies.

Leprechauns on vacation from Ireland are also a possibility.

I look at my bag again.

Or, it could be that I picked up the wrong bag.

Which is quite easy to do, since the two are very similar.

So, a tiny little hitch in the plan.

Still, all is not lost.  I have the essentials.  I can repair this.

As nonchalantly as I can, I bend down and take my shoes off, keeping my head up and looking around innocently.  Then I conduct a series of movements that are a cross between callisthenics, pelvic floor exercises and the shimmy shake, as I try to get my mangled tights off without anyone noticing.  Fortunately there are only two other people down here.  A middle-aged guy who looks like an intellectual Homer Simpson and a truanting teenager with a face that belongs in the ‘before’ part of a Clearasil advert. If he saw me taking my tights off, he’d probably try to buy them off me.

I put my shoes back on in the same way and stuff my tights into my bag.  Bare legs may not be traditional, but I don’t have a lot of choice.  Maybe I can tell them I’m allergic to Lycra.

I get my solitary tissue and wipe off the bird poo as best I can without a mirror.  God knows if it’s working or not.  I need to hide it somehow.  Change my parting.

Except, as the saying goes, you can create a new parting, but you can’t make it stay.  At least, not if you have my hair.

But I have styling spray.  I haven’t used it in quite a while, but I’m pretty sure it worked okay.  And I have a brush.  This is doable.

I get the brush and spray from my bag and brush my hair right back.  Then I part it on the other side.  So far, so good.  Then I pick up the bottle and spray ‘super-hold’ all over my hair, holding my breath like I always do.  Once it’s done, I breathe again.

God, what is that smell?

It smells almost like…

My styling spray has fermented.  As in turned into alcohol.  My head smells like I’ve bathed in wine.

I’m actually…sort of beyond words now.  I have dog crap on my shoe, goose-pimples on my legs, bird crap and now L’Oreal’s finest label wine on my hair.  There’s no make-up on my face, no food in my stomach and no hope in my heart.  Let’s face it, I have about as much chance of getting this job as I do of being simultaneously struck by lighting, hit by a falling meteor and abducted by aliens.  I should just get off the bus, buy a metric ton of mint choc-chip ice cream and go home.  And then wash my hair.

Except that we’re actually here.  And I’ve still got ten minutes.  So I might as well give it a shot.

I mean, it’s not like it could get any worse.

**

'Excuse me,' I say politely, trying to stay as far away from the reception desk as I reasonably can, 'could you tell me where the Ladies is, please?'

The receptionist, who bears a striking resemblance to a grown-up Marsha Brady, looks up.  Then she looks down to my shoes and back up again.

'Do you have an appointment?' she asks.

Or have you just crawled away from your park bench?

'Yes,' I say, trying a professional tone that I know clashes spectacularly with the rest of me. 'Mr. Andrews, 10 a.m.'

Let me go, you bitch.  I’ve got major damage to repair and not enough time to do it in.

The fact that it would take a short ice age to fix myself up properly is irrelevant.

'Four Star Recruitment?' she asks dubiously.

'Uh, huh,' I say, nodding, trying to look all happy and confident.

'He’s on the third floor,' she says, just a hint of a raised eyebrow. 'The Ladies is on the left, right by the lifts.'

'Thank you,' I say, in a dignified voice.  As if I don’t smell like I badly need to go to an AA meeting.

'Good luck,' she calls after me, as I stride briskly to the lifts.

I think I may have become psychic in the last ten minutes, because I know exactly what she’s thinking.

It’s ‘Heh heh, not a chance in hell.’.

How not to get the job you want.  I could run workshops.

I pity anyone who gets in this lift with me, since it now has the air quality of a gas chamber.  I will the lift to go faster.  Thank God it doesn’t have mirrors.

The second the doors open on floor three, I bolt across the hall and into the Ladies. I check my watch.  I have six minutes to make myself over.  Time to see exactly what I’m up against.

I turn the corner and face the mirror.

As far as I can actually describe the Halloween monster that’s staring back at me, I look like a cross between the Abominable Snowman, Mo Mowlam and a Tribble.  A Tribble is pretty much a ball of fluff.  That’s me, only without the cute factor.

Okay.  Easy stuff first.

I hike my leg up onto the sink and undo my shoe.  Then I balance precariously on the other one while I wash off dog crap.  It works quite well and I start feeling a good deal more optimistic about my chances of pulling this off.  I put my shoe back on.  Now my foot feels a little damp, but nothing I can’t handle.  I'm being interviewed, I'm not supposed to be comfortable.

Right.  I have no make-up and no way to acquire some in the next few minutes other than going back downstairs and providing the receptionist with some more free entertainment.  That’s a lost cause.  What I have to do is fix my hair.  Or, at least, lessen its impact.

Well, I don’t have shampoo, but I have a sink, soap and a hand drier.  What’s the worst that could happen?

Actually, this whole experience is beginning to feel like a Dr Pepper advert.  Fifteen more minutes and I’ll probably be standing over my potential boss holding a poker.

I strip off my jacket and tuck it and my bag where they can’t get splattered.  Then I surrender whatever pride I had left and bend over the basin.

A few minutes later my hair has more or less ceased to smell of wine.  Now it smells like lily of the valley.  I’m not entirely sure that’s an improvement, although I hear sperm love that scent.

Yes, you heard that right.  Makes you look at Granny in a whole new way, doesn't it?

I check my watch again.  I don’t have time to get it properly dry.  All I can do is stop it dripping and then tie it back.  The ancient purple hair-band will revisit its former glory days.

The only trouble with hand-dryers is that they’re meant for drying hands, not hair.  If I remember, I might just make a complaint about that.  Surely it makes sense in a country this wet for all appliances to double-up as hair-dryers?  It’s a conspiracy by the male-dominated government to discredit professional women by making them appear with frizzy hair.

So, really, the only way to do it is to put my back against the (fortunately clean) wall and bend my knees until my head is under the right bit.  And lay paper towels on my shoulders to catch drips.

Beadle’s law states that, when one looks just the tiniest bit ridiculous, one must have a witness.  Ideally clutching a video camera.

The poster-girl of professionalism walks past me on her way in, stops and slowly pivots on one spotless designer heel.  She doesn’t speak, she just looks, canting her head as she does it.

'It’s a long story,' I say, still looking like I’m one half of a practical demonstration of The World’s Most Uncomfortable Sex Positions.  My knees are killing me.

Poster Girl nods. 'Evidently,' she says dryly and continues on her way.

I pull myself up with difficulty, yank my brush through my hair with even more difficulty and tie it back in a style Houdini couldn’t get out of.  I look in the mirror.  I look almost presentable.  Maybe I’m still in with a shot.

Which is good.  Because time has just run out.

**

'Melanie Parker.'

Cool, I’m being announced.  I fix what I hope is a winning yet not over-familiar smile on my face and step into the room.  The door is closed behind me.

Interviewer Guy has highlighted hair and teeth straight out of a Colgate advert.  And he’s staring at my feet.

Is this one of those You-can-tell-everything-you-need-to-know-about-a-person-by… things?  But my shoes are the most inoffensive in the world.  And it’s not like I’m being interviewed for a job where shoes will matter.  I look down at them, trying to see what he’s seeing.

And I do.

How?  How?

Somehow I have managed to put on two different shoes.  But that’s not the incredible part.  The incredible part is that I have got through the whole of the last hour, including taking both of them off, and not noticed.

Did I have a blackout?  Was my mind taken over by aliens?  How, in God’s name, could I have managed this?

Interviewer Guy’s eyes slowly travel up my bare legs, past my suit, up to my face.  I give an embarrassed smile. 'I’ve…had sort of a bad day,' I say, in a small voice.

He looks at me. 'It’s not over yet,' his expression says.

I know.  Believe me, I know.

'Come and sit down,' he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his.  His whole manner screams ‘Don’t get comfortable’.

I sit obediently.  Actually, I’ve started to feel pretty good.  I’ve quietly accepted that I won’t get this job, so this can just be practise.  In case I actually get another interview ever.

'I assume your manager doesn’t object to you missing work,' Interviewer Guy says, running a finger down my CV.

'I called in sick,' I say automatically.

Ooops.  Number three on Will’s list of things not to say.

'I see,' he says slowly. 'There were a few things I wanted to clear up about your CV, as a starting point.'

'Fire away,' I say.

That probably wasn’t quite what I should have said either.  He gives me another look over the top of the paper.

'Indeed,' he says. 'Your CV.  You don’t appear to have listed your degree class?'

If it wasn’t hopeless before, it is now.

'I got a third,' I say honestly. 'I picked the wrong subject.  But I did get through all three years, so that must count for something.'

He grunts.  He doesn’t sound convinced.

'I did well at A-level,' I offer.

I was rather proud of my grades actually.  Even Dad pronounced them 'quite respectable'.  Although he did rather ruin the effect by bemoaning the lack of courses in husband-catching, which apparently was what I needed.

'Indeed you did,' he says, tapping his finger against my results. 'Which leads me to conclude that you are capable of a high level of achievement...'

I smile.  Finally something positive.

'…but you require constant help and supervision to reach it.'

Okay, I was wrong.

'I need people who can work to the high standards I set without being constantly supervised,' he continues, starting to sound horribly like my adviser at university. 'And, quite honestly, your record doesn’t encourage me to believe that of you.'

In other words, I’m not good enough for a job that pays in raisins and could be done by a lobotomised squirrel.

'Can you tell me anything that might convince me otherwise?'

Great technique.  Tell an already emotionally vulnerable person with a small but persistent inferiority complex that they’re useless and ask them to defend themselves.  What chance have I got?  Besides, he’s right, my record is crap from start to finish.  Martin will be my boss for the rest of my life.

'Nothing really springs to mind,' I say quietly.

He studies me for a few seconds.

'Well then,' he says, laying my CV aside. 'If that's the case, I suppose we’re done.  Good day, Ms Parker.'

'Good day,' a subdued person says back.

I need chocolate.

And, more important even than that, I need Will.

Chapter 16

The only slight hitch in that plan is that Will is, of course, at work.  Busy doing whatever it is that accountants do.  Which is why I’m in search of chocolate instead.

'What are you having, love?' the café woman says, smoothing down her apron which is covered in little embroidered rainbows.  Stupid rainbows.

I meet her eyes. 'Whatever has the largest amount of chocolate in it,' I say miserably.

She clucks sympathetically. 'Had a bad day, love?' she asks. 'Not much can of gone wrong yet, surely?'

'You’d think that,' I say dolefully. 'But more has gone wrong in the last hour and a half than in the last year.  And that’s including being dumped by my boyfriend cum boss.'

'One extra special chocolate explosion coming up,' she says comfortingly. 'Don’t worry, love, it can only get better.'

I dredge up a smile from my puddle of untapped acting talent and trudge over to a suitably good table for moping at.  In the corner, where no one will notice me.

Of course, it being 10:30a.m. on a Friday morning, business is not exactly booming.

I open one of the packets of sugar sitting in a bowl on the table and pour the contents straight into my mouth.  Adding it to a drink would lessen the effect of the medication.  It doesn’t work fast enough, so I have another.  Then I sit, slowly shredding my napkin, while I contemplate the broken mirror that is my life.

What have I done to deserve this?  I may not be winning employee of the year awards, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m not even worth the admin equivalent of a paper round.  I am a good person.  I deserve good luck.  Or, at least, break-even luck.

'Here you are, love.'

Rainbow Lady places a masterpiece of all that is chocolate on the tablecloth of shredded napkin I’ve created.  It makes death by chocolate cake look like it was made by Slimfast.  I have a new guardian angel, which is just as well since the Tooth Fairy disowned me.

'That is beautiful,' I say reverently, as I pick up my spoon and lovingly caress a mound of triple-choc ice-cream topped with chocolate sauce, sprinkles, flake pieces, dairy milk chunks and matchmaker sticks.  Anticipation of pure ecstasy.

I don’t think I realised, until this moment, quite how much I need to get laid.

Rainbow Lady laughs. 'Enjoy it.  Chocolate is God’s way of saying sorry to women for giving them men.'

I grin.  Obviously sexism against men is every bit as unacceptable as sexism against women.  It's funnier, though.

As of the first mouthful, God is forgiven.  This is unquestionably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

But, even though the sugar high is helping, I still don’t feel good.  Not even when I’ve finished the whole delicious concoction.

Which is when it occurs to me that I could conceivably go to see Will at his work.

If I buy some more tights.  And perhaps another pair of shoes.

Ten minutes wouldn’t hurt anyone.  And there must be some perks involved in having a private office.

And Will gets so bored at work that I’d practically be doing him a favour by coming to visit.

I mean hey, what’s the worst that could happen?

Note to self: stop saying that.

**

I’ve never actually been to Will’s work before.  All the way here I had this nice idea that I’d just walk in and see him.  Another illusion shattered.  This place is absolutely massive!

And fancy.  There’s gold everywhere and I’m pretty sure the receptionist didn’t buy her suit in Primark.

'Can I help you?' she asks, a Lady Bracknell in training.  I’m beginning to think that being a smug, superior bitch is in receptionists’ job descriptions.

Her eyes find my shoes before I find my voice.  In the end, I decided against buying new ones, for the simple reasons that one, Will won’t care and two, I can’t afford any that would actually impress people.

She looks back up to my face and raises one perfectly waxed eyebrow.

'It’s very fashionable,' I tell her, attempting to imply that everyone knows that but her.  I don’t think it worked.

'Right,' she says, with distinct Dr. Evil overtones. 'Whom are you here to see?'

'William Knightley,' I say.

'Is he expecting you?'

If I say no, two burly bodyguards with arms like clubs are going to appear from behind a pot plant and throw me out.  I just know it.

'Yes,' I say, not quite making eye contact. 'We arranged a meeting.  Very last minute though, you wouldn’t have any record of it.'

That perfectly waxed eyebrow now appears to be feeling the moon’s gravitational pull.  She picks up her phone. 'I’ll just phone Mr. Knightley and see if he’s available.'

I can’t think of Will as Mr. Knightley.  To me, Mr. Knightley means Jeremy Northam in Emma, parading around in tight trousers and talking in that delicious voice.  Will is a whole new tennis game.

She hangs up. 'His line is engaged at present.'

'He won’t mind me going up.  We have very important business,' I say, trying to role-play an accountant.  Maybe I should have bought a briefcase.

'He may still be in conference,' she says. 'He had another visitor not long ago, also on important business.'

At first I don’t understand the look she has in her eyes as she italicises those words.  Then it hits me – she thinks I’m a hooker, doesn’t she?  She thinks I’m going to go up there and…and…

What does she think we’re going to do?  Have a threesome – me, Will and this other girl?  If it is a girl.  Oh God, I wish I hadn’t thought that.

Does this sort of thing happen a lot here?  Is that the real perk of having your own office?

Oh my God, what if the other girl really is a hooker?  What if Will has this whole other life that I know nothing about?  An alter ego?  Like Superman: the porno version?  I could walk up there and…

What am I talking about?  This is Will.  Wonderful, honest, morally upstanding Will.  That was just the sugar overload talking.

'Thank you for alerting me,' I say, a little stiffly.

'Fifth floor, along the left hand wall, third down,' she says, looking knowingly at me. 'His name is on the door.  It’s Knightley with a K.'

I blink at her. 'I know,' I say.  Then, probably because of the sugar demon again, 'he spelt it when he called the massage parlour.'

Then I stroll off to the lifts, trying to walk as a hooker might.

One thing's for sure, she’s never going to look at Will the same way again.

**

Even the lift is fancy.  Mirrors that you can’t avoid seeing yourself in, weird red wallpaper that looks like carved velvet.  It even has a carpet.  I can’t believe Will actually works here.  I can’t believe they hired Will to work here.  Mr. ‘a couch is just a couch’ himself.

The colour of the office just emphasises the colourlessness of the employees.  There aren’t that many, granted, but they all look like someone took their last Rolo.  I was right before, this is not a healthy place for Will to be.  This is not a healthy place for a cockroach to be.

I reach Will’s door and stare at the gold lettering on his frosted window.  Will’s name has been given to a hunk of wood with an unfriendly door handle.  The rewards of corporate culture.

I knock.  No answer.

Oh well, he’s probably stepped out for a few minutes.  The other girl must have left already.  I’ll just go inside and wait.

So I open the door and step in.

Have you ever seen a dead animal by the side of the road?  A rabbit perhaps.  Its guts are torn out, its eyes have been pecked out and flies are colonising its bloody remains. It’s horrible, it's disgusting and yet…you can’t seem to look away.

Picture that, only magnified by a lens the strength of 1000 proof vodka, and you will have some idea of what I am experiencing right now.

Will.  Natalie.  On his desk.  Very busy.

'Oh my God.'

I think that was my voice.  I choose to believe that was my voice.  And, given that they’ve both snapped their heads round to look at me, I think it was.

'Mel!' Will exclaims.

'You!' Natalie growls.

The trance is broken and I regain control over my limbs.

'I am just so incredibly sorry,' I say, backing out of the door.  I shut it on their frozen faces and scuttle out of there as fast as I can.

And I thought his animations were disturbing.  They were nothing compared to the reality.  The image of Will entwined with that snake will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Yes, I am sorry.  I’m sorry for me.

This is the worst moment of my entire life.

**

'I mean, I’m traumatised for life,' I say, pacing up and down, wearing a groove in Beth’s bedroom carpet. 'It’s like walking in on your parents having sex, only worse.  Like…'

I break off.  I can’t think of a comparison.

'Like walking in on one of your parents having sex with someone else?' Beth suggests in a weird voice.

'Worse even than that,' I say. 'It was just…I wanted to be blind.  I had a hard enough time dealing with the idea of them having sex, let alone having the reality right in front of me.  Audio and visual.  This is horrible, it’s unbearable, it’s…'

'None of your business?' Beth finishes.

'Exactly,' I say, looking dejectedly at her. 'That’s the worst bit.  And how am I going to look Will in the eye the next time I see him?  That’s assuming he isn’t traumatised too and still wants to see me.'

Beth picks up a towel and folds it neatly before adding it to her suitcase.

'I’m sure he will,' she says composedly. 'At most it’ll take a couple of days of reflection, so you can deal with this, and then you’ll get past it.'

'I don’t want to deal with this,' I say, throwing up my hands. 'I want to forget this.  I want the memory buried so deep that anyone attempting to retrieve it would be burned alive by the Earth’s molten core.' I slump down on the bed, very nearly crushing Beth’s alarm clock. 'I wish this had never happened.'

Why did I have to go to see Will right then?  If I'd only gone a little later.  I should have had another chocolate sundae.  I was tempted, but no – I decided to be good.

Note to self: healthy eating is bad for mental health.

Beth rescues her alarm clock and sits down beside me, putting a comforting arm around me and squeezing my shoulder. 'I know you’ve had a terrible day,' she says sympathetically, 'but they happen.  You should try not to take it personally.'

'How can I not take it personally?' I say morosely. 'Everything I touch falls apart.  I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop.  I can’t do anything right.'

'Of course you can,' Beth says.

'How can you say that?' I ask, turning dejected eyes to her. 'Look at what I did to you.  I fixed you up with the winner and runner up of ‘Man most likely to destroy our belief in a benevolent God’.'

Beth’s trying not to smile, which is interfering with my wallowing in self-pity.  I've had a lousy day, I don't think a brief wallow is too much to ask for.

'I’m sure there’s much worse out there, if you look for them,' she says. 'It was just bad luck.  It’s quite possible that there are nice men who answer personal advertisements, we just didn’t meet any.  Maybe we would if we tried again.'

'I thought you said you wouldn’t go on anymore blind dates, ever?' I say.

Beth smiles kindly. 'Perhaps I could try it once more,' she offers. 'As you said, third time lucky.  Maybe that will convince you that you’re not cursed.'

I perk up a little. 'Great,' I say. 'I’ll…fix one up.  When’s a good day?'

'Wednesday would be fine.'

I sit up straight, new purpose in my life.  Beth's right, it was just bad luck.  This time, it’ll go perfectly.  Anyway, it'll be something to help me keep my mind off Will.

'And now,' Beth says, letting me go, 'I have to finish packing.  My train will be long gone by the time I finish otherwise.'

'Have a nice weekend at your mother’s,' I say.

Which is where she told me she was going.  However, about three hours later, her mother called.  Just for a chat.

Which makes me wonder where she’s really gone.

Just healthy, friendly concern, that’s all.

Honest.

Chapter 17

'Are you still seeing Han Solo?' I ask, in a half-hearted attempt to contribute to the conversation I’m having in person at the same time as the one I’m having via computer.

'No,' Cynthia says airily, inspecting the nails that are fuchsia today to match her outfit.  It’s not so much clashing with her hair as trying to exterminate it. 'One date was enough.  I can’t imagine why his other half has put up with him for so long.  He’s all talk.  Parental issues, I should think.'

Less a case of the pot calling the kettle black than Hitler describing Mussolini as a fascist dictator.

I turn my attention back to the computer screen and Susan.

Traumatised!!! says:

‘That’s fantastic!!!’

NY Alien says:

‘I know.  He bought ‘NY by night’ and ‘Liberty X’, only I can’t call it that now because of the pop group.’

One day, someone will start patenting first names.  You won’t be able to just pick a name you like anymore, you’ll have to have one computer generated.  Totally at random.  Jqzkwrk – quite a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Traumatised!!! says:

‘So, how does it feel to be living the American Dream?'

NY Alien says:

‘This isn’t the American Dream.  That’s a seven-figure salary and a sofa too valuable to sit on.  With optional movie deal and affair with A-list celebrity.  This is…well, something else.’

Traumatised!!! says:

‘In a good way, right?’

NY Alien says:

‘Course.  Painting full-time, it’s what I always wished for.’

'Hey, Mel!' Cynthia says, turning Cosmopolitan sideways like she’s looking at a centrefold. ‘Take the Cosmo quiz.  Is your love life hot enough?'

I turn back to her and look her straight in the eye. 'Cynthia,' I say humourlessly, 'I do not have a love life, hot or otherwise.  And I don’t want to take a Cosmo quiz, because their sole effect on me is to convince me that I’m abnormal, because I agree with none of the above.'

Cynthia tosses the magazine onto my desk.

'Take the erotic fiction section to the toilet,' she advises. 'It’ll improve your mood.'

I can’t believe she just said that.

'I can manage,' I say.

Cynthia shrugs. 'Works for me,' she says casually.

On balance, it would have been nicer not to have that image planted in my mind.

Cynthia picks up the magazine again and flicks through it, a thoughtful expression on her face. 'You know,' she says, tapping a finger against her lips, 'I bet I could write something like this.  Maybe I could even get into erotic novels.' She gives a lewd grin. 'After I’ve done a bit more research, that is.'

This conversation is throwing up images from Friday’s accidental voyeuristic experience.  Like the ones I had all weekend.  The long, lonely weekend when Beth was away on some secret mission and I stayed out as long as possible in case Will came round.  The long, lonely weekend that culminated in two entire Vienettas inexplicably vanishing from the freezer.

I look at Cynthia.  Her make-up isn't hiding the dark circles under her eyes.  It looks like she’s applied eye-shadow to the wrong bit of them.  I’d love to know her hangover cure though.  Not that I’m much of a heavy drinker, but every now and again…

Like I would have been last night.  Except that the nearest off-license was closed and I was too depressed to go in search of alcohol.  Which is less serious than it sounds.  You’d only need to worry if I was too depressed to go in search of chocolate.

'With Underwear Guy?' I ask listlessly. 'Or has madam seen something else she prefers?'

Cynthia laughs like one of those irritating door chimes you get in new age shops. 'Oh, he’s still around,' she says coyly. 'But there are plenty more fish in the sea and I’ve only just discovered the joy of fishing.  Sweet though, I still mean to keep hold of him.  But look!' she digs into her bag and comes up with a little red and black notebook with a cartoon devil on the front, 'I have a little black book!'

The only thing I could do with a list of the names and phone numbers of my previous boyfriends is set up a loser website, so others would know who to avoid.  Type in your new love’s name and get a profile compiled by his exes.  Picture, description, skill in bed, bad habits.  Phrase book – what he says and what he actually means.  Plus the vital statistics that actually count.  It would get more hits than a Las Vegas blackjack table.

Of course it might also spell the end for the human race.

Which is, in its way, a slight drawback.

'Wonderful,' I say, bemused. 'But is it really worth it?  It’s only been two weeks.  How many guys could you pick up in two weeks?'

Cynthia winks. 'It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you really set your mind to something,' she says.

Great, everyone's getting it except me.

I go back to the computer.

Traumatised!!! says:

‘Susan, how about we talk when I’m home?  The serial dater requires my attention.’

NY Alien says:

‘Something always does.  Talk later xx.’

I shut down Messenger just in time.

'It is now 11a.m.,' Martin says, brandishing his clipboard and pen like they’re a sword and shield. 'Have either of you accomplished anything at all this morning?'

Short answer: no.

Except I can’t really say that, can I?

We both stare at him silently, waiting for him to answer his own question.

'You’ve done nothing!' he says.

There you go.

He fixes us with what I think is supposed to be an intimidating glare.  He can't pull it off.  He just doesn't have an intimidating face.

'You have a choice,' he says, gesturing with his pen. 'Start doing the jobs you are paid to do, quit, or be fired.  Pick one, and quickly.'

And then he marches out again.

Cynthia and I exchange glances. 'Would it really be so bad to be sacked?' Cynthia poses.

I shrug.

'Frankly,' I say, 'we might even make more on the dole.'

**

'Afternoon,' Matt says to me lightly, as he comes into the staff room.

I pause, a can of cola halfway to my mouth.  Then I take a swig and put it down again. 'Afternoon,' I say back.

What with one thing and another, Matt and I have barely seen each other over the last week.  We’ve been doing the smiling thing.  You know, when you exchange smiles every time you see each other, but don’t actually talk.

'I dropped by your desk on Friday,' Matt says, going to the fridge and removing something in a paper bag. 'But Cynthia said you were off sick.' He smiles. 'Actually, she said you were off sick, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.  How did your interview go?'

I take another mouthful of cola to fortify myself against the memory.  I wish I hadn’t bought diet.  Once again, healthy eating backfires.

'Don’t ask,' I say, shaking my head. 'It’s enough to say that ants will have taken over before I get that job.'

Matt gives me a level two sympathetic smile.  The kind reserved for not-quite-friends.

'Listen,' I say, on the spur of the moment. 'Beth and I are going on a third blind date on Wednesday.  Would you like to come?  If you’re not doing anything, that is.'

Matt avoids answering with a bite of ham sandwich.

'You’re…not going with Will?' he asks, when he’s finished.

'He’s already sat through two that didn’t go so well,' I say, shifting my weight a little. 'Plus…things are a little awkward right now.'

I can tell Matt really wants to know why, but doesn’t feel that he can ask.

'I went by his office after the infernal interview and walked in on him and Natalie having sex,' I say, matter-of-factly.

Matt’s eyes widen just a little.

'Which threw me a bit,' I add, tossing back more cola like it’s vodka.  I wish it was.  Or maybe liquid Cadbury's. 'I mean, your best friend having sex usually isn’t something you want to think about, let alone see.  Particularly when you’ve known that friend since his greatest ambition in life was to replace Scott Tracy as the pilot of Thunderbird 1.'

Matt takes another bite of his sandwich and chews thoughtfully.

'So, we haven’t actually talked since then,' I finish. 'And, since he won’t want to come anyway, I thought…well, it was an idea.'

'I’d love to come,' Matt says, as soon as his mouth is empty.

'Great,' I say.

So, Matt and I are going on a date.

Which is a good thing.

So why aren’t I feeling better?

Must be the diet cola.

**

The doorbell rings and I don’t have to answer it to know who it is.  I just have a sixth sense about these things.  Plus it’s now Monday evening and three days is our standard cooling off period for major upsets.  Although it’s usually me coming to find Will.

I open the door.  Will is wearing my favourite cream shirt and an embarrassed smile.  A part of me actually wants to laugh, but another part has the bizarre urge to cry.

'Hi,' Will says awkwardly.

'You stole my opening line,' I say, holding onto the door.

God, this is weird.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this uncomfortable around Will before.

Will doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.  He puts them in his pockets and takes them out again, then tries holding them behind his back.  That’s a sure sign that he’s nervous.

'Just so you know,' he says, looking at his battered Nikes, 'that’s not what I usually do at work.'

He blushes bright pink.  It’s like sunset-on-face.

'It was a one-off.  She turned up, we had a disagreement and then we…' He coughs. '…we made up.  She had this fantasy…anyway.'

I can’t think of anything to say.  Quick, find something.

'Your receptionist thought I was a hooker,' I blurt out.

Will’s head jerks up and he stares at me.

'Why?!' he exclaims.

I move back from the doorway and let Will in.

'I’d guess someone in your office has a lot of visitors for last-minute meetings,' I explain, 'and now she thinks you’ve joined the club.'

Will looks intrigued. 'I should pay more attention to the office grapevine,' he says. 'I had absolutely no idea.'

We look at each other.  At least we’re making eye-contact now.

'Are we okay?' Will asks suddenly. 'I mean, has this…changed anything?'

'Of course not,' I say.

Of course it hasn’t.

It hasn't changed a thing.  Barely a ripple in the fabric of life.  Like…nuclear war, for example.

'It was just a bit of a…surprise, that’s all,' I add. 'I mean, why should it change anything?  This isn’t a big deal, it’s…something to laugh about, really.  The look on your face!'

I force a laugh.

Will is nodding.  Doesn’t he know it was forced?

'You’re right,' he says.  He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.  The sparkle in them is missing. 'We should laugh about this.'

We look at each other again.

'Or,' I say eventually, 'we could not talk about it and try to forget it ever happened.'

Will considers this for a second.  Then he nods emphatically. 'I like that idea,' he says.

I breathe a sigh of relief.  All this stuff about how you should talk about things is crap.  I personally believe that repression is a vital part of any long-standing friendship.  Particularly with members of the opposite sex.

Maybe now things can get back to normal.

**

Denial can be a wonderful thing.  I switched the topic to Beth and now we’re arguing away like nothing has happened.

'Are you insane?' Will says, settling down opposite me on the sofa with his coffee. 'Come to think of it, is she insane?  I can’t believe she agreed to a third date.'

'She wanted to cheer me up after…my interview,' I say, just catching myself in time.

I draw my knees up so Will has a little more leg room.

'I take it things didn’t go quite as you hoped?' Will says, sipping his coffee.

'Understatement of the millennium,' I say, rolling my eyes.

I do a quick recap of the worst bits.  Like a You’ve Been Framed montage.  By the end, Will’s coffee cup is shaking as he tries not to laugh.

'I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,' he says, when it’s over.

'You should’ve been,' I agree, blowing on my hot chocolate and nursing my burnt tongue. 'And you should’ve brought a video camera.  We could’ve made some extra cash.'

'No,' Will says, shaking his head. 'I mean, I’m sorry I wasn’t there afterwards.'

'That’s okay,' I say lightly. 'It’s not like your life revolves around me.'

Why doesn't his life revolve around me?

We have a quiet moment.  The kind that, when you’ve known each other as long as Will and I have, you stop thinking you need to fill.

'So, when are we going to see what’s behind door number three?' Will jokes.

I’m about to tell him, when a thought occurs to me.  Oh yeah, I asked Matt, didn’t I?

'Actually,' I say, feeling guilty for no logical reason, 'I’m going with Matt.'

Will pauses, his cup at his lips.  Then he takes a mouthful, swirls it around thoughtfully in his mouth and swallows. 'Right,' he says. 'Obviously.'

'You did say you didn’t want to go on anymore blind dates,' I say, feeling some bizarre need to justify myself.

'No.  I mean, yes.  It’s fine.  No reason why you shouldn’t.' Will contemplates the contents of his mug. 'Matt’s a nice guy.  Could be exactly what you need.'

No, he’s not! comes a surprisingly vehement voice in my head.

Ignore the little voices, I say to myself.  The little voices are not a friend.

'You have to hear about Cynthia,' I say brightly.

Or, more accurately, you have to stop talking about Matt so that the little voices will leave me alone.

'What now?' Will says, frowning.  He doesn’t seem as keen on the saga as I am.

I run over the latest instalment, black book and all.

Will frowns more. 'Mel, maybe you should encourage her to slow things down a bit,' he says.

Even though I know quite well that I’ve thought that myself on numerous occasions, I suddenly get all defensive.

'Why?' I say. 'She’s having a great time.'

'I know,' Will says carefully, 'but she’s been a virtual Miss Havisham all her life and this seems like too much too soon.  She doesn’t have the experience to realise that risks don’t always work out and, the way you tell the story, it sounds like she’s heading towards being fired.  Does she even want to do all this stuff, or is it all some kind of shock reaction to her mother’s death?'

'She’s fine,' I say soothingly. 'She’s just having a little taste of forbidden fruit.  Once the novelty wears off, she’ll calm down.'

'I’m sure she will,' Will says seriously. 'The problem is how long the novelty will take to wear off and what happens in the meantime.  Just…don’t get too excited over her exploits.  Be a calming influence, like Beth.'

A calming influence?  I don’t have a calming bone in my body.  That’s why I need Will.

'I’m nothing like Beth,' I point out.

Will pauses.

'You’re quite right,' he admits. 'Okay then…just try not to give her any more pushes, she’s rolling along fast enough as it is.'

'Okay,' I agree. 'But you’re worried about nothing.  Cynthia is happy.  Susan is happy.  Julie is happy.  And I’m absolutely positive that, after this next date, Beth will be too.'

Will takes a sip of coffee.  And says nothing.

Chapter 18

'Are you okay?'

This has to be at least the sixth time blind date number three has asked Beth that question.  If she had red eyes from crying I could understand it, but she looks perfectly normal.

'Yes, thank you,' Beth says again, smiling politely.  The smile is getting more and more forced.  We’ve been in the restaurant almost an hour and she’s cracking.

'Are you sure you’re not cold?  You can have my jacket.'

'I’m fine,' Beth says, the tiniest edge of tension creeping into her voice.

'Are you absolutely positive?'

Beth gives up. 'I am a little.  Thank you.'

As he puts it around her shoulders, he gives her a look.  I can put that look into words.  They are ‘See, sweetheart, Daddy knows best.’.

This guy’s name is Kevin.  He’s a teacher.  He has a small bald spot right at the back of his head and a permanent concerned look in his eyes.  And if he makes one more helpful suggestion, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

He is evidently from the school of men – a very poorly-performing school, I might add – who believe that women should be treated like princesses.  Sounds good in theory, doesn’t it?  However, the catch is that they consider that princess to be five years of age, terminally ill and practically brain dead.

He has already suggested that white wine is better than red, that the candles are dangerous, that the wallpaper is conducive to eye-strain, that the napkins should be folded ‘just so’ and that shell fish – Beth’s favourite food in the whole world – carry a terrible risk of food poisoning and should be avoided at all costs.  Which is why Beth is eating smoked salmon and trying to like it and Matt and I are afraid to talk.

'How’s the website going?' I ask Matt desperately.

'Good,' Matt says, jumping on my opener. 'We’ve added a couple of new sections and we’re starting to get other contributors adding to the site.  We’re going to make mysmilies.com look like a mobile library, with us as the Bodleian.'

I love how excited they get over this.  Sometimes I think that’s what I’m missing in my life – a purpose, a passion.

Other times I just think how cute they are.

I don’t tell them that, obviously.

'Sounds great,' I say. 'I’ll have to check back and take a look.'

And then I wait.

There are two kinds of guys.  The good kind, of which Will is one, realise that when you say stuff like that, you’re happy for them and that’s it.  The bad kind, of which I have dated more than my fair share, assume that you’re fascinated by stamp collecting or whatever it is and start trying to involve you in it.

Of course the same goes for some women I know.  My Aunt Freda – who apparently didn't have many marbles as a child and has lost a good deal since then – always used to try and get Brittany and I interested in collecting old postcards.  Now, pictures of stunning scenery or bronzed surfer hunks I could understand, but why she wanted to keep any of hers was a mystery to me.  'Bridges of Wiltshire' was probably her most fascinating collection.

She's still my favourite relative though.  No one else at school had an aunt who bought them a vibrator for their sixteenth birthday.  I really must go and visit her.

'Look at the ‘For Women’ section,' Matt says. 'But leave it a couple of days so we can get them all up.  My sister’s a computer nut too and she gave us her whole collection.  Even I laughed at them.' He grins sheepishly. 'Although I felt like a traitor to my gender afterwards.'

Sexism.  Not big, not clever, but sometimes very funny.

And he didn’t even try to get me into it.

'Have you ever done them?' Matt asks.

Spoke too soon.

'I’ve never been any good at design,' I say, in what I hope is a discouraging, yet friendly tone. 'Mum used up several generations’ worth of artistic talent, I think.'

'But this is a totally new form of design,' Matt says encouragingly. 'I’m sure you’d be great at it.  And I’d love to teach you.'

I almost give in.  Surely it can’t be so bad?  But then I remember.  Jeremy.  Jeremy and his horses.  Hour upon hour at Ascot, wearing a stupid dress and a hat that kept poking people in the eye, trying with all my might not to imitate Eliza Doolittle and scream at the horses to move their bleedin’ arses.  No, not happening.  Never again.

'I’m really not interested,' I say, a little blunter than I’d intended. 'It’s not for me.  I’ve spent twenty-five years with a computer geek and avoided learning how to be a webmaster, so I don’t intend to start now.'

There’s an awkward silence.

'Fair enough,' Matt says.

I'm crap at being assertive.

I’m just about to soften it a little by explaining about Jeremy when Kevin looks up from his pasta primavera and says, 'Melanie, I think you should be a little nicer to Matthew and take the time to consider his offer in a less emotional state.'.

There is nothing I hate more than being told I’m too emotional.  It’s my cue to become half-insane with fury.  My shoulders rise towards my ears and my spine curves like it’s a full moon and I’m morphing into a werewolf.

This of course is Will’s usual cue to take my little finger and squeeze, our old signal for ‘cool it’.  After all these years, I do it on reflex.  Will’s touch is my tranquilliser.

I suddenly feel unreasonably annoyed at Matt for not knowing me like Will does.  In fact, for not being Will.

Kevin is waiting expectantly.

'I’m sorry, Matt,' I say sincerely.  I can do that part. 'Thank you for the offer.  I know you meant well.'

Kevin looks all satisfied.  It’s the last straw.

'However,' I say, turning to him, 'I do not need to consider his offer further.  I know that I am an Internet junkie, not a computer fiend and that I am simply not interested in learning how to create smiley faces.  And the reason I know, Kevin, is because I am a grown woman, not a pre-schooler, and I do not appreciate being treated otherwise.  Is that absolutely clear?'

My voice has got louder with every word and other diners are now staring at us.  Kevin gives them apologetic smiles.  Then he turns back to me. 'We are in a public place,' he hisses between clenched teeth. 'This is not the time for tantrums.'

I cannot survive this.  I want to stab those infuriating eyes out with my fork.

'I will be back shortly,' he says, setting his napkin neatly by his plate, 'by which time I hope you will have calmed down.'

He gets up and walks over to the toilets.  All three of us watch him until he goes in.

'Run for it,' Beth says, a split second before I do.

I can’t believe she’s actually suggesting such a thing.  I must be rubbing off on her.

We grab our bags, leaving our dinners half-eaten, scurry over to the door, yank our coats off the rack and scarper.

'My date is picking up the cheque,' Beth says to the seating host on the way past. 'We have an emergency.'

They let us go, thank God.

We rush out before he can return.  I almost collide with someone coming in.  Beth literally does.  She hurriedly pulls away, shoots him a smile and an apology and we carry on.

Except, I swear that I heard him call Beth’s name.

**

'Beth!'

Obviously I was right.

Beth stops, so Matt and I do too.  As one, we turn around.

Nice suit, I think, but well worn.  Public school boy accent even in that one word.  Friendly, open face.  Nice hair.

Beth doesn’t look as pleased to see him as I would be, though.

'Beth!' he says, reaching us. 'Beth Davidson, I haven’t seen you in years.  How are you?'

He immediately makes me smile.  He’s so…I have to say stereotypical.  He’s everything I thought ex-publics couldn’t really be.

'I’m well,' Beth says, shooting a glance back at the restaurant doors. 'You?'

'Can’t complain, can’t complain.  What are you doing here?  Have you finished your dinner already?'

'Yes,' Beth says, already turning away, 'and we really need to be getting home.  It was very nice to see you again, Patrick.'

I can’t believe she’s just going to leave.  This is exactly the type of guy I was trying to find for her.

Well, maybe not exactly, but close enough.

'Actually, we never finished dinner,' I say, before Beth can escape. 'We ran out on the blind date from hell.'

I can’t tell whether he’s naturally friendly or is just quick to recognise a potential ally, but his face lights up like a lighthouse.

'I don’t think we’ve met,' he says, holding out his hand to me and Matt in turn. 'Patrick Carrington-Laine.  I knew Beth from school.'

'Mel Parker.'

'Matt March.'

He smiles broadly. 'Maybe you can convince Beth to let me take you all for some extra sustenance,' he says. 'I didn’t bring my car tonight, but I know a lovely place a few minutes down the road.'

'Great,' I say.

I admit I'm not acting only in Beth's interests.  Kevin aside, I didn’t really like my dinner and I'm hungry.

Beside me, Beth seems to stiffen slightly.  I don’t know why she’s nervous.  This guy is like a much-loved teddy bear.

'Beth?  Matt?' Patrick asks, looking from one to the other.

'Fine by me,' Matt says. 'I’m still hungry.'

Beth nods, just the tiniest bit reluctantly.

'Wonderful!' Patrick says. 'Let’s go!'

**

'What was Beth like at school?' I ask curiously, as we settle down to the feast of Italian pasta we’ve been presented with.

'Wonderfully fun,' Patrick says enthusiastically. 'Bit of a rebel, like the whole crowd.'

I stare at him and then at Beth, who avoids my gaze.  Beth was a rebel?  How does a schoolgirl rebel become a librarian?  He’s got to be thinking of someone else.

'Beth?' I say. 'You can’t be serious.'

Patrick laughs. 'We had a great time, back in the old days.  We were all devastated when you left, old girl.'

Beth gives rather a weak smile. 'I needed a change of scenery,' she says. 'It just got a bit much, I didn’t want to board anymore.'

'And now you spend your life surrounded by books.' Patrick shakes his head in mock sadness. 'Terrible waste.  I’ll have to bring you to one of our parties, get you back in with the fast set.'

Beth’s gone pale.  What on Earth is she afraid of?

'I don’t have that much free time,' she says.

Beth volunteers to do other people’s work.  Need I say more?

'Sure you do,' I say.  Then, to Patrick, 'She’s just shy.'

'Goodness,' Patrick says, 'she has changed.'

He produces a minute notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and scribbles on it.

'Here’s my number,' he says, handing a tiny page to Beth. 'Don’t be upset if the bloody thing cuts out on you.  Endless trouble it’s giving me.'

Beth takes it and stuffs it into her handbag without even glancing at it. 'Thank you,' she says.  Politely, but not encouragingly.

She’s so not going to call.

'Are you still in touch with any of the old crowd?' Patrick asks Beth.

'No,' she says. 'Not really.  We…grew apart.'

Patrick considers this. 'Well…truth be told I don’t see a lot of them either these days.  Still get together with Harry and Colin from time to time though.'

Beth doesn’t even say ‘Oh yes?’. She is just making no effort at all to keep the conversation going.

'So, Patrick,' Matt says from beside me. 'What exactly do you do?'

'Family business,' Patrick says, pouring himself more white wine. 'Art collections, terribly dull.  Gives me a chance to get around, though.  Just came back from Italy last week.'

'I’ve never been to Italy,' I say. 'Is it nice?'

'Pleasant enough, pleasant enough.  If you know where to go.  Not the same as it was though.  Too many bloody tourists.'

'Aren’t you a tourist when you go?' Matt asks mildly.  I have a slight suspicion that he doesn’t like Patrick.

'Maybe, maybe,' Patrick says, not looking in the least offended. 'But we have a charming little villa a quick stroll from Rome, so I like to think of myself as a native.  Not that I’d want to live there permanently, that is.  Food’s good, but half the people don’t speak English.'

Hmm, I think.  Handsome, friendly and, by the sound of it, loaded.  Now this is what Beth needs.

Matt is now looking vaguely amused, but in a dangerous way.

'That might be because they’re Italian,' he says.

'Yes, but everyone speaks English now.  Most used language in the world.'

'Actually, that’s Mandarin Chinese,' Beth says quietly.

Patrick pulls a face. 'Can’t believe that, who’d want to speak Mandarin Chinese?  Ridiculously complicated.  English is the only one that makes sense to have as an international language.'

'How is your sister?' Beth asks suddenly, years of practise in preventing fights between little boys coming in handy.

'Celia is very well,' Patrick says, with an air that suggests that the whole last part of the conversation has been wiped from his mind by the introduction of a new topic. 'Married now, to a delightful old fellow with an estate on the Somerset border.  And a couple of little horrors to go with it.'

Horrors?  Like a poltergeist in the cellar?

'Horrors?' I ask.  It’s going to bug me all night otherwise.

'Dear little Jemima and Jeremy – named after Beatrix Potter characters, would you believe it?'

Ah, children.  Obviously.

'How old are they?' I ask.

'Just a couple of months.'

'Oh, still in nappies.  What fun.'

Patrick blinks at me for a few seconds. 'Dogs,' he says, when light dawns. 'Jeremy and Jemima are the guard dogs.'

Okay, not children.

'Oh right,' I say. 'Sorry.'

'Easy mistake to make, easy mistake,' Patrick replies, waving off my last words. 'God forbid those two actually do breed.  Charming fellow, but not exactly well endowed in the looks department.  Not that Celia is a stunner herself, although she does have a very fine set of teeth on her.'

Celia was the sister, right?  Not another dog?

Patrick turns to Beth, obviously bored by this subject. 'So tell me,' he says cheerfully, 'what have a pile of books and a pack of screaming ankle-biters got that’s made you abandon your old set?'

**

We get home later than I expected but earlier than I wanted, since I sensed Matt had had enough.  Personally, I could have sat and listened to Patrick for hours, but I have to get up in the morning too.

I wish I was one of those people who can stay awake all night and still function in the morning, but I’m not.  I got no end of stick for it at university.  I once tried to stay up until three and then go to a 9a.m. lecture, but I fell asleep in the middle of it.  Which would have been fine if I hadn't then had an erotic dream about the lecturer and started moaning and calling his name.

I couldn't face him again after that.  Considering he was my supervisor, perhaps it's not surprising that I ended up with a third.

Beth goes right to her bedroom as soon as she gets her coat off.  She throws the piece of paper with Patrick’s phone number on it in the sitting room bin as she walks past it.

I go to my room, dump my stuff, yank on my pyjamas and wait.

As soon as I hear water running and know Beth’s safely in the shower, I sneak back out of my room and rescue the scrap of paper from the bin.  Then I sneak back into my room and hide it in my battered jewellery box.

Because, after all, you shouldn’t burn your bridges.

This is absolutely in her best interests.

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

I really have to stop saying that.

Chapter 19

Making covert phone calls from the office isn’t something I’ve done that much of.  Just the odd call to Will – because I’m about to phone one of the new claimants, who wants £20 for an eyelash curler they left in a hotel three years ago, and scream at them to get a life – and to my mother, as it gives me built in excuses to get off the phone.  The filing cabinet’s come alive and started eating someone’s tie, that sort of thing.

But now I’m making a call so that I can’t be overheard.  It’s like Beth’s my wife and I’m having an affair.  I’m getting the same vaguely ridiculous feeling I get whenever she gets home before I do and I’m greeted with ‘How was work?  Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes.'.

Cynthia is staring at her computer screen like one of those cartoon kids whose eyes have gone square from too much TV.  Ever since the transformation, she’s managed to generate the impression that her wonderfully creative soul is being tortured and imprisoned here.  I keep expecting her to start wearing a beret and a hang-dog expression.  Although hopefully she won't cut her ear off.

'For whom does this bell toll?' comes the cheery voice.

I sternly order back a laugh. 'Hi, Patrick,' I say. 'This is Mel, Beth’s flatmate.'

'Wonderful,' he says. 'How are you?'

'Fine,' I say. 'Listen, do you still want to get together with Beth?'

'Of course.'

'I can fix it up,' I tell him, looking around for eavesdroppers and then feeling ridiculous for doing it. 'I’ll talk her into it, no problem.  She’s just shy.  The blind dates rather put her off.'

'That would be excellent.'

'Call back in a couple of days,' I suggest. 'And I bet she’ll be thrilled to hear from you.'

'Is she there now?'

I look at the clock.  It’s 10 a.m.  Who’s home at that time on a Friday?

'No, we’re both at work,' I say.

'Ah yes, of course.  A few days you say?  That’s perfect.  Thank you, Mel.'

'No problem,' I say, feeling a rush of kudos, and hang up.

'Who was that?'

I jump about a foot in the air and then feel guilty for no reason.  Fortunately, it’s Matt, not Martin.

'Just Patrick,' I say, trying to look unruffled. 'I’m helping him fix up a date with Beth.'

'Really?' Matt says doubtfully. 'Can’t say I thought much of him actually.  I don’t like that type, never have.'

'Oh,' I say.

I'm a little tired of all this pessimism.  Patrick is friendly, polite and wealthy and well-connected to boot.  What is there to object to?  And he's known Beth for years.  Alright she doesn't seem to have wholly fond memories, but they were school kids for God's sake!  They probably fell out over a lost pencil case.

'Christ, I’m bored,' Cynthia announces suddenly, shoving herself back from her desk. 'This is positively inhuman.  Being shut up in a badly air-conditioned box, surrounded by a small rainforest of paper, doing a job that would’ve made Mother Theresa into an alcoholic.  When I think I could be here for the rest of my life…'

An appalled expression appears on her face.  I’m pretty sure there’s a matching one on my own.  The rest of my life in this place.  I may as well commit suicide.  Hell would be a step up.

'It’s not that bad,' Matt says, with the easy acceptance that comes from a) still having novelty on your side and b) knowing that your escape route is soon to be accessible.

'It is if you’ve already wasted the best years of your life in it,' Cynthia declares, with just a touch of melodrama. 'With your heart drying up a little more everyday.  Not to mention other very important body parts.'

Another image I could have done without.

Matt looks a little disturbed. 'You have a point,' he admits.

'Of course I have a point,' Cynthia says, with more passion than she’s shown all day.  Possibly all her life. 'A steady, secure job – that’s what we’re told real life is.  Well if this is real life then I can’t see that it’s worth our while keeping the human species going.  Another day, another tree’s worth of pointless forms.  What, precisely, are we contributing?'

I’m sure Martin has an answer to that one, but I’m damned if I do.

'Cynthia,' I ask, feeling more depressed by the second, 'do you have anymore chocolate?'

Cynthia digs in her side drawer and produces a virtual selection box, which she lays out on her desk.  I grab a Boost.  I figure I could use one.

Cynthia sighs, contemplating a fruit and nut bar. 'Chocolate,' she says despairingly. 'Safer than cocaine, easier to get hold of than Prozac.  The government’s most effective way to prevent revolution.'

'You don’t think you’re exaggerating slightly?' Matt asks in amusement.

'No,' Cynthia and I say in unison.

'If free supplies of chocolate were in any political party’s platform,' Cynthia continues, 'they’d win by a landslide.  There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t vote for them.  But it doesn’t matter anyhow,' she says despondently. 'It will never happen.  All the politicians are either men who don’t have a clue what women are about, or women who’ve forgotten where their loyalties lie.  No wonder the country’s so screwed up.'

Matt is staring at her in fascination.

'Have you ever considered applying to be on Big Brother?' he asks. 'I bet you wouldn’t get voted out.'

Cynthia seems to consider this a compliment.  That is worrying.

I've watched some pretty crap TV, but I will go on record that I have never seen a single episode of Big Brother.  Hard as it is sometimes, I try to maintain some faith in human nature and I've always suspected that that show would destroy it forever.

'You know,' she says thoughtfully, 'that’s not such a bad idea.  Maybe I'll look into it.'

Now I’m definitely having second thoughts about what I’ve created.

'At the very least, it would be better than being here.'

Debatable.

'Anyway,' she says, cheering up. 'Tonight I have the greatest night planned.  I’m going to this great new club and, come alcohol poisoning or foot cramps, I’m not sleeping at home tonight.'

I guess since Matt’s standing right beside me, it would be a bit insensitive to ask if I can go with her.

'Have fun,' I say lamely.

Cynthia grins. 'Oh, don’t worry,' she says, winking at me. 'I will.'

**

Beth and I are having a quiet, girly night in tonight.  Which is to say that we’re watching Notting Hill and pretending that the mountain of Chinese takeaway, pizza and chocolate we’ve got spread out is really a perfectly reasonable amount of food for two people.

'Would you ever want to go out with a celebrity?' I ask lazily, debating with myself over whether I can find space for the last slice of pizza.  I don't think I can.  Not unless I cut out a vital organ.

'No,' Beth says, equally lazily, from her chair. 'The film makes it look very romantic, but it would be terribly difficult in real life.  Imagine having photographers follow you everywhere you went.'

The closest I ever got to fame was having my photo taken at a school fête when I was seven, with my face made up like a butterfly.  Sometimes I think it would be nice.  You know, being recognised and signing autographs and doing interviews.  But then, doing it when you feel great is one thing.  Doing it when you feel like something from the bottom of a cesspit is something else.

'Mmmm,' I say nodding slowly. 'Plus, in that movie it’s a guy going out with a famous girl.  I think it would be way harder for a girl to go out with a famous guy.'

There’s a comfortable silence.

'Can you pass the lemonade?' Beth asks, not moving.

'No,' I say, not moving either. 'I’m too full to move.  You get it.'

Beth groans. 'My stomach doesn’t bend anymore,' she says.

We lie there, doing nothing, moving nothing except our necks.  Post-Christmas dinner paralysis, only in spring.

The doorbell rings.

Why is it that people never come round when you want them to and do when you don’t?  How do they know?  It’s like their brains are remote-controlled and someone’s triggered an alarm.  Mel is comatose, must go see her.

Beth and I meet each other’s eyes.  It’s a silent battle of wills.  One of us must get up and answer the door.

Neither of us moves.

The doorbell goes again.  And again.  This better not be that encyclopaedia salesman again.

'Mel!' I hear.  Sounds like Cynthia.  Crap, that means I have to get up.

I heave myself out of my chair like I’m eight months pregnant and pad over to the door in my thick, comfy bed socks.

It is Cynthia.  She looks terrible.  Her face is pale and mascara is water-skiing down her cheeks.

I’m guessing that her big night out didn’t go quite as she’d planned.

'Hi,' she says uncertainly. 'I'm sorry to barge in on you.  Things didn't go so well.'

Don’t tell me, all the men there were gay.

'What happened?' I ask, in my best ‘crisis management’ tone of voice.  The best I can manage in my current stuffed and sleepy state anyway.

Cynthia kind of crumples right in front of my eyes. 'I was attacked,' she sobs. 'He tried to rape me.'

**

Ten minutes later and we have Cynthia on the sofa, drinking a huge mug of hot chocolate.  The door is locked and Hugh Grant’s voice no longer forms the soundtrack to our lives.

She's huddled into a ball and keeps trying to pull her skirt further down her legs.  It's leather, so it doesn't really stretch.  Her skimpy top does nothing to hide the bruises that are coming up on her shoulders.

'The place was really great and I was having such a good time,' Cynthia says, her voice all shaky. 'I met this really attractive guy.  He bought me a drink, we danced and then he suggested going to another place he knew that was quieter, so we could talk.  So we went and then we took this shortcut he knew down an alley...'

'You went into an alley with a total stranger?' I exclaim, before I can stop myself. 'Are you nuts?'

Cynthia starts to sob again and Beth comforts her, glaring at me.

'That won’t help her just now,' she says firmly.

'Sorry,' I say.  I hardly know what I’m saying anymore.  I’m in shock.  I can’t believe this happened.  I can’t believe I was so cynical when she showed up.

'I’d done it before,' Cynthia tries to explain. 'And he didn’t look dangerous to me.  He was polite and well-dressed and kind and he'd been the perfect gentleman.  It was only a five minute walk, it seemed silly not to agree.  But then he pushed me up against a wall and he…'

She chokes back more tears.

'I got away,' she gulps. 'I bit and I kicked and I punched him as hard as I could, wherever I could.'

The tiniest smile creeps out from behind the general cloud.

'I think I broke his tooth,' she says, proud in a small way. 'And possibly his nose.  Plus I don’t think he’ll feel up to it for a few days.  I kicked him pretty hard in the crotch.'

Will swears being kicked in the balls is more painful than childbirth.  I suppose that's one debate that will never be resolved.

'Good for you,' I say, for want of something better.

'Are you hurt?' Beth asks, concerned.

Cynthia shakes her head.

'No,' she says, her voice steadying out now. 'I’m fine.  I managed to get away and run – and then I realised how close I was to your place so I just came here.  I don’t think he tried to follow me.  It was just the shock.'

'Would you like to stay here?' Beth asks. 'I could make up the sofa.'

'No, I'll be fine at home,' Cynthia says positively, wiping her eyes with a tissue.  'I just don't want to walk back, that’s all.'

'I’ll call you a cab,' Beth says, heading into her bedroom for her address book.

'The guy at the cab company has a crush on Beth,' I tell Cynthia once Beth’s bedroom door is closed. 'She can get a cab anytime.  I think he’d actually hire a car from somewhere else if they didn’t have one free.'

Cynthia smiles weakly.  She’s calmed down, which I take to be a good sign.

'Listen,' I say, 'take some time off.  You must have stacks of holiday saved up still.  I’ll tell Martin for you.  You need to recuperate.'

'I think I will,' Cynthia says slowly. 'More holiday is always good.  And I need to think about things.'

I don’t even have time to answer before a fresh wave of shock rises up out of nowhere.

'I don’t know what I’ve been doing these last few weeks,' she says despairingly. 'I don’t know who I’ve been.  I’ve been so insane and careless and insensitive.  And look at what I’m wearing.'

She looks down at her anorexic skirt and tube-top.

'I don’t wear this sort of thing.  I would never wear this sort of thing,' she says, half amazed. 'I feel cheap and exposed and…cold.'

I almost want to laugh at that, but I don’t.

'I don’t want to go back to being what I was,' she continues, 'but I don’t want to be this person either.  I need to…figure out some sort of balance.'

Beth comes back in.

'He’ll be here a.s.a.p.,' she reports.

Which is good because, selfish as it may be, I can’t wait for her to leave.

**

'It’s all my fault,' I sob as soon as the door closes behind her.

Beth turns from the door and comes back to me. 'It’s not your fault,' she says firmly. 'It isn’t anyone’s fault except that bastard’s.'

A small part of my brain registers that Beth’s never used that word before, but the rest of it has more important things to think about.

'I’m the one who told her to go out and be wild,' I say in despair. 'I’m the one who didn’t tell her to slow down when I should’ve done.  I’m the one who laughed at Will for being cautious.  If I hadn’t encouraged her in the first place, this would never have happened.'

I knew she was going too far.  I thought it and I could have said it so many times.

I could have gone with her tonight.  I shouldn't have let her go alone.

I should have…

Beth crouches down beside me.

'Mel, she had a classic reaction,' she says gently. 'Her world was suddenly turned upside down and she responded by going off the rails.  It happens and she would have done it with or without you.  Blaming yourself will change nothing.'

What if she hadn't been able to get away?  What if she'd drunk more, or he'd put something in her drink?  What if he'd knocked her out, or tied her up?  What if he'd chased after her?

What if he'd had a knife, or a gun?  What if she was lying in that alley right now, bleeding?

What if she was dead?

'I should still do it,' I sob. 'I should have kept out of it, but instead I interfered.  The way I always do.  Why do I do that?'

'I don’t know,' Beth says, patting my shoulder. 'You need to figure that out for yourself.'

Since when am I any good at figuring out what I should do.

'It doesn’t matter,' I say, suddenly resolute. 'As of this moment, I am never interfering again.  No matter what.  It’s over.'

And I absolutely definitely mean that.

Chapter 20

God only knows why I agreed to visit my parents this weekend.  In fact, I don’t even know why I was invited.  I can only assume that they get some weird, perverse pleasure out of reminding themselves what a failure their elder daughter is.

On the way, I nearly turned back each time I changed buses.  In fact, I nearly got off one and went home.  My mind, needless to say, is fixed on Cynthia.  I called her this morning and she sounded perfectly fine.  More like the old Cynthia than the new.  But still, all I can think about is what might have happened.  Because of me.

Mother Nature has decided to mock me by making this day entirely devoid of all things one naturally associates with England.  Rain.  Mud.  Clouds.  Sheep – although admittedly they’re fairly rare in the back gardens of Greater London.  Umbrellas then.  Wellington boots.  I’m in a crappy mood and I expect weather to match it, not this sunshine extravaganza.

As a result of this I’m expected to sit on damp blankets in the garden, eating off a flimsy paper plate that’s determined to tip all my food onto the floor, and feel fat, ugly and clumsy next to Brittany – who looks like a sodding Flower Fairy.  Even James is quiet and clean for once.

I’ve been here one hour.  That’s one.  And already we’ve touched on my non-existent career, my foolishness in going to university and my apparently permanent place on the highest, most dusty shelf in the warehouse where men choose wives.  Still, I suppose it could be worse.

I don't know how, but I'm sure it could be.

'Pass the potato salad, please,' is my mum’s only response to this process of ritual humiliation.  Apparently God infinitely prefers sacrifices of human self-esteem to the more traditional goat.

'There are five double bedrooms,' Brittany says, 'two bathrooms, a charming balcony and a very superior garden.'

The house that she and Phillip are buying in Cornwall.  The one that is no doubt just down the road from the one I’ve tried to forget that my parents are buying.  When they casually abandon me and all my childhood memories.  From when they actually liked me.

At least, I used to think they did.  Now I'm not so sure.

'Have you found a house yet?' I ask dully.

'Looking, my girl, looking,' my dad says, rubbing his bulging stomach.  Can't get enough of Brittany's perfect cooking. 'Can’t rush these things.  Very important to find the right house if you’re buying.  Got to add value while you're there.  Not that you’ve ever had to do that, have you?'

'No,' I say dutifully.

'No,' Dad repeats, satisfied. 'And most likely never will.  Not much point in taking on a mortgage for a proper house if you don’t have a family to put in it, is there?  Or a husband with a secure income.  No, I predict you’ll just stay where you are.  Keep on living with Susan, two old maids together.  Maybe you could adopt a couple of cats.'

'Susan moved to New York,' I say shortly. 'I live with Beth now.  And I’m allergic to cats.'

'Since when?' he demands.

'Since my entire life.'

We cat-sat for Great Aunt Marion when I was eight.  My eyes puffed up so much I could hardly see.  You’d think a father would remember that.

'Don’t be ridiculous, girl.  You were fine when we took care of Marion’s cats.'

You’d be wrong.

I give up.  What’s the point?  They haven’t even moved yet and already they’ve forgotten me.  He can recite the play list from Brittany’s wedding, but he can’t remember me wheezing so much I almost lost consciousness.  Way to make you feel loved.

'Don’t want to end up in some ramshackle old place in a bad neighbourhood,' Dad says, returning to his earlier train of thought with no warning. 'We’ll be staying there the rest of our lives.  No reason to come back here.'

Whoever said blood is thicker than water never met my family.

'That reminds me,' Dad says, helping himself to more chicken drumsticks. 'George MacKensie’s going to call you.'

Two questions spring to mind.  One, how precisely was he reminded of that?  Two, who is this person?

'Who’s George MacKensie?' I ask warily.

'No need to say it like that,' Brittany says reproachfully, pausing in feeding James. 'He’s a delightful man.'

Brittany always, always makes me feel like I’m some ugly kid she’s stuck looking after.  I am not a child.  It’s enough to make me want to tip the bowl of potato salad over her head.

'The single one,' Dad booms, in case the people three roads over were unclear on that point. 'The son of that friend of mine from the gardening club.'

'Undertaker Guy?' I ask in disbelief.  They can’t be serious.  This is not My Girl, I am not dating a man who voluntarily works with corpses.

'It’s a very respectable profession,' Brittany says, looking innocently at me.

She’s loving this.  Every single minute of it.  So smug, like she’s a better person than me because she got a doctor to sign on the dotted line.  It’s not fair.  I mean, why did he have to be a surgeon?  Why couldn’t he at least have been a sodding gynaecologist or something?

'I’m sure it is,' I mutter.

'There’s no need for that tone.'

She’s going to need a stretcher in a minute if she doesn’t shut her trap.

'She always was ungrateful…'

'…only trying to help...'

'…never thought I’d see one of my girls left on the shelf...'

'…throwing it back in our faces…'

'…should’ve married that nice Alan Marshall, but no…'

'…no wonder he dumped her…'

'…shame on the family...'

The voices meld into one big ocean of noise and suddenly something snaps.

'Shut up!' I scream at the top of my lungs.

The ocean of noise dries up.  Or possibly freezes over.  Either way, it’s gone.  Dad and Brittany stare at me in shock.

'If you say one more word,' I shout, consciously trying to make the people three roads away clear on what’s going on, 'I will strangle you with my bare hands.  I’ve had it, I can’t take anymore.'

I turn to Dad, fairly breathing fire.  God, I feel good.

'Dad,' I say, 'I will not go out with an undertaker.  Ever.  Alan Marshall cheated on me with two other girls at the same time, one of whom was my best friend.  I got great A-levels and got into a damn good university and you should have been proud of me for it.  I only picked the subject I did to try and prove to you that you were wrong about how pathetic I am.  And the reason I have such trouble finding a decent boyfriend is because you convinced me that I wasn’t worth one.'

I take a deep breath.

'And you’re right, I am a failure.  I flunked my degree, I have no career, I have no boyfriend and I will probably never own a house with charming pine cupboards.  I know it, I accept it, you don’t have to keep telling me.  I am twenty-five years old and that must mean that the part of my life where I could actually achieve something is already over, even though I might well live another sixty years or even more.'

Tears start threatening to choke me.

'But none of that should ever matter to you, because once you sell this house and send my memories to the tip, you can just pretend that you only have one daughter.'

My dad stares at me like I’m some random nut case who’s just accosted him on the street.  I ignore him and turn to Brittany.

'Brittany,' I say, feeling strangely calm and in control, 'is there any way you could be less of a smug, stuck-up bitch?  You have exactly what you wanted and exactly what Dad wanted for you and instead of just enjoying it, so I can be happy for you, you have to torment me every chance you get because I don’t have it too.'

Adrenaline is flowing so fast I barely know what I’m saying anymore.

'I freely confess to being jealous as hell that you’re in love, that you live in a nice house, that you don’t have to spend forty hours a week bored out of your mind so you can afford to eat and knock a few pence off your student loan.  Your life is perfect, you achieved your dream and you made Dad proud.  I already have to live with the fact that I’ve done none of those things, so stop trying to make me feel worse.'

Brittany isn’t looking at me.  She’s looking at the grass.  James starts to whimper, but she doesn't move.  I turn to Mum.  She looks at me, quiet and sad.

'Mum,' I say, suddenly wanting to cry, 'I love you and I don’t want you to move.  But I want you to stop acting like your opinion doesn’t matter.  I’d almost rather have you criticising me like these two than always staying out of it.'

Then I get to my feet and stumble back up the garden to the house and out the front door.

**

I make it about a hundred yards up the road before I realise that I don’t have my bag.  I left it in the hall and I literally can’t survive without it.  No money equals no phone, no water, no electricity and finally, no home.  Although I guess Will wouldn’t allow me to starve.

I have no choice but to turn around and go back.

When I reach the door, I bend down and get the spare key from under the irritating gnome holding a sign saying ‘Jesus is watching’.  I hope Jesus is really enjoying the show.  My life, a divine soap opera.

I open the door as quietly as I can, meaning to grab my bag and get out again.  Instead I find my mother standing at the end of the hall.  She holds my bag out to me.

'I saw that you’d left it,' she says, suddenly small and frail, but no longer ghost-like. 'I knew you’d come back for it.'

I walk up to her and take it.

'I’d rather come back for a family who loves me,' I say, my voice cracking.

She hugs me.  Holds me the way she used to do when I was still a little girl.  Strokes my hair.

'I do,' she whispers. 'Depend upon it, I do.'

A tear falls onto her dress.  I pull away.

'I know,' I say, wiping away another one. 'But I want my whole family to love me.  Or at least, like me.  It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.'

And I leave that house, glancing back once to see my mother at the door, watching me walk away.

**

A bunch of yellow roses is at the door.  Then they’re pulled down and Will appears attached to them.

'Congratulations,' he says, handing them to me. 'These are for you, in honour of this momentous occasion.  I can’t believe you really said what you said you said.'

I take a deep breath with my nose buried in my flowers.  Heavenly.  There’s nothing worse than a flower without a scent.

'Neither can I,' I say, when I look up from them. 'I think I was possessed or something.  I was worried about Cynthia and I just…snapped.'

'How is Cynthia?' Will asks, heading to the kitchen in search of a vase.

'She’s fine,' I say, trying to think yellow rose thoughts instead of thistle ones. 'She seems stronger, if anything.  It’s me that’s not.  I just keep thinking about what might have happened.'

Will abandons the search, after checking every cupboard, and starts filling an empty milk bottle with water.  He doesn’t respond.

'You want to say it, don’t you?' I ask, watching him.

'Say what?' Will asks, removing the giant kitchen scissors from the wall and bringing them and the milk bottle over to the counter where I’m standing.

'I told you so,' I say, as Will gently takes my roses from me and amputates half the stems.

'I could say that,' he answers, threading the roses into the bottle, 'but it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that Cynthia’s not hurt, just had a scare.'

'It gets to you when I brush off your advice, doesn’t it?' I say, looking at my roses.

Will shrugs as he throws the cut-offs into the bin.

'If you started taking all my advice and didn’t go with your own instincts when you disagreed with it, you wouldn’t be you anymore,' he says lightly. 'Better you make a few bad choices than stop having a personality.  Besides, it’s not like I’m a flawless decision-maker either.  You’ve proved me wrong before now.'

'I’ve proved you right a lot more often,' I say.

Will laughs. 'Comes of being older and wiser,' he replies.

'Three years may have made a difference when I was in nappies and you’d already mastered talking,' I retort, 'but it’s nothing now.'

'Nothing’s an exaggeration,' Will amends. 'There’s still a difference between twenty-five and twenty-eight.  You’re still young, free and expected to enjoy it.  I’m supposed to be providing my parents with a charming daughter-in-law and lots of little brats to carry on the family name.  They spent the whole of Sunday drilling that into me.'

A little Will would be just too cute.  You don’t understand how cute until you’ve seen his baby pictures.  Including ‘Butlin’s Most Beautiful Baby’ three weeks in a row.  Oops, forgot, I'm not supposed to mention that.

'You’ve got stacks of time,' I say dismissively. 'That’s the one real advantage of being a man – no ticking biological clock.  It would be nice to have a few more years before I have to start worrying about time running out.'

'Time won’t run out,' Will says comfortingly. 'Worst comes to worst, you can always be artificially inseminated.'

I’ve always been deeply suspicious of any method of conception that doesn’t involve having sex.  It just seems like such a raw deal.

'By who?' I ask, just for the hell of it.

Will shrugs. 'Me?' he suggests.

My emotions are just a tad mixed about that one.  I’m torn between ‘what a great idea’, ‘what a disturbing idea’ and ‘I think we’re turning into Will and Grace’.  I definitely wouldn’t mind having Debra Messing’s hair.

'Weird idea, isn’t it?' Will says lightly, no doubt in response to what is probably a rather glazed expression on my face. 'Kind of a Will and Grace thing.  Without the gay bit, obviously.'

'I was just thinking that,' I say, smiling.

Forget my parents, forget Brittany.  Will is my real family.

Chapter 21

Job-hunting has to be the most depressing thing in the world.  It’s actually worse than unemployment.  Admittedly the novelty of all that free time does wear off after a while, but it does entail certain privileges.  Such as, if you have the patriotic(ish) desire to stay up until 5a.m. watching Carry On Camping, you don’t then have to go to work on two hours’ sleep.  Or you could go out and paint the town red, obviously.  Or green, for that matter.  Never quite understood that expression.

Plus, all this self-promotion ritual is crap.  You’re supposed to show them how devoted you are to their company and how obviously you’d continue to come bouncing into work like a cross between Tigger and a lobotomised cheerleader, even if your Great Aunt were to die and leave you a hundred million.  What a load of crap!  I work because I have to, I don’t give a rat’s ass about their company and I only want to work there because it wouldn’t be quite as bad as working for Martin for the rest of my life.  Plain, unvarnished truth.  And there’s no way that I’m the only one.

But here I am, printing out yet more copies of my CV to send in for jobs I won’t get, that pay nothing and that anyone who’s learned to breathe is overqualified for.

I loathe my life.

It’s times like this when you find yourself thinking, was women’s liberation such a good thing?

And then you think, for every Elizabeth Bennett who managed to get love and money, there were stacks of women who got neither.  And then you conclude that it was a good thing.

Or you start fantasising about Colin Firth looking all damp and dishevelled and forget what the original question was.

Anyway, it’s Monday evening.  I’ve survived another day in the hamster cage and I think I may actually have done more work with Cynthia not there than we usually accomplish both together.  I really must have been bored.

'Anything interesting?' Beth asks, bringing over my third mug of hot chocolate.  Forget crystals or colours, I am a great believer in the healing power of chocolate.

I jab my finger at the paper on the computer desk and the advert I’ve circled messily in black biro.

'Admin job,' I say. 'Low salary, unexciting tasks, zero promotion prospects.  Only the desperate need apply.  So I am.'

Beth’s face takes on an expression that strongly reminds me of Piglet, as she struggles to find something encouraging to say.

'Isn’t there anything else you could do?' she asks finally.

Evidently, she failed.

I reach silently round the edge of the computer and hold up a handful of lottery tickets.  Then I hold up my other hand.  My fingers are crossed.

Beth does at least look suitably sympathetic.

'Anything else?' she asks wryly.

'My options,' I say, laying my six (no doubt useless) lottery tickets back down on the desk, 'as far as I can see, are as follows.  One, marry money – no chance.  Two, win money – slim chance.  Three, steal money – better chance, but don’t want to spend ten years wearing an outfit with little arrows on it.  Four…I’m told escort work pays very well.'

Beth stares at me.  I shrug. 'Well,' I say, 'I’ve already slept with more than a few men who no sane woman would touch with a cattle prod.  Might as well consider getting paid to date bastards.  Using your talents, as it were.'

'Yes…but…' Beth struggles for a response, obviously not quite certain if I’m serious or not, '…surely you have other talents.'

I consider this. 'Well,' I say, 'I can juggle, I can roll my tongue and I can tolerate stunningly high blood sugar levels.  That’s about it.  So I suppose I could try to get a job sampling chocolates at Cadbury’s, although it wouldn’t do my figure a lot of good.'

It's always amazed me that I'm not the size of a house, considering the amount of chocolate I eat.  One of these days I know it's going to catch up with me and I'll balloon overnight.  Then I might actually have to give up chocolate.

That thought is just too horrible to contemplate.

'Oh,' Beth says helplessly.

'I might as well give up on this,' I say, looking despondently at the stack of addressed envelopes on my desk. 'I’m not convinced half of them even get opened, let alone read.'

I turn to her.

'What’s your dream?' I ask suddenly. 'Are you going to stay in the library all your life?  And what about romance?  When you were young, before you actually started dating and shed the first layer of your fairy tale delusions, what was your vision of the future?'

'I like the library,' Beth says, without hesitation, a contented smile coming to her face. 'I work surrounded by children and books, my two favourite things.  I do hope to have children of my own one day, but I think I’ll be fine even if it doesn’t happen.  There are other goals I haven't achieved yet, but I'm working towards them slowly.  I may not be one hundred percent happy all the time, but I’m quite satisfied with my life.'

I wish I could hate her, I really do.  Or be her.  Either one would be good.

'I wish I was like you,' I say quietly. 'I wish I was satisfied with what I have, but I’m not.  Life is supposed to be more than paying the bills and buying tubs of ice cream for a treat.  What happened to beauty, what happened to wonder?  Surely there must be some purpose to my being here.  Something I'm meant to be doing.  Some special contribution only I can make.'

I slump down in my seat.

'I don’t know what I want,' I say despondently. 'I only know that I don’t have it.'

I look back to her.

'What about Patrick?' I ask. 'You don’t have to fall in love with him to take a quick mini-break from everyday life with him you know.'

'I just think it’s better this way,' Beth says, light in an almost deliberate-sounding way. 'Not to say that I don’t like him, but I prefer not to get into dating him.'

Beth smiles, almost shyly, as if she’s not sure whether or not she’s going to say the next thing.

'Although,' she says, still in that contrived tone. 'If Will ever breaks up with Natalie, I wouldn’t mind a date with him.'

**

It’s midnight.  In fact it’s now 00:01.  Beth's words have been playing through my head like a ‘learn while you sleep’ CD.  Which is probably why I haven’t gotten any sleep.

I’m sitting up in bed, eating mint matchmakers end-to-end, barely even noticing the taste.

I am having a nervous breakdown.

I can’t honestly tell you why I’m having it, but I know that I am.  My worldview has been tossed into the air like a pancake and has stuck to the ceiling.  I don’t even want to know what it’ll look like when it unsticks itself and falls to the floor.  Holes, ridges, fluff.  My once smooth surface is deformed.  This is worse than the moment when I first realised that my parents must have had sex.

I know I'm an adult now, but that thought still really disturbs me.

There are two ideas competing for precedence in the game of ‘who can make Mel throw up her matchmakers first?’.

The first is the realisation that Will and Natalie might not break up.

I realise that this must sound completely insane, but I never truly grasped this concept before. I mean, when Will was eighteen it didn’t matter how much I hated his girlfriends.  Who gets married at eighteen?  They were temporary and I was permanent.  Therefore, my position was unquestioned.  Now…he was only saying the other day how he’s thinking about a Mrs Will and lots of little Wills.  What if Natalie was Mrs Will?  Next to wife, old friend fades into insignificance.  Not to mention the fact that Natalie would probably get a restraining order put on me.

The second is the idea of Beth going out with him, assuming the first is just paranoia.  Beth simply cannot be Will’s girlfriend.  Ever.  No ifs, buts or maybes.

Will, leaving messages for Beth on our answer machine and reducing me to a ‘Hi, Mel’ afterthought.  Will, coming here to see her, not me.  Will, staying for breakfast and talking to her, not me.

It’s like having a montage of the worst, most disturbing moments from every horror movie ever made, playing on a continuous loop, and not being able to close my eyes.  It’s the only thing that would make life unbearable.

And there’s one more tiny thing.  Beth can’t go out with Will, because I don’t think I can hate the person who doesn’t even yell when I put empty milk cartons back in the fridge.

And I have to hate Will’s girlfriend.

I don’t know why, okay!

**

'He was just unbelievable,' Matt says, sitting down next to me in the staff room so we can rehash the third hellish blind date over lunch, although in all honesty it's faded into insignificance for me. 'I’m not surprised Beth wouldn’t stick it out until the end.'

Actually, I still am.  Her ability to tolerate irritation is phenomenal.  I’ve yet to hear her yell at anyone.  Ever.

'Melanie,' Matt continues, imitating Mr Mom, 'are you sure your sandwich contains the right chicken to mayo ratio?  Too much mayonnaise is directly linked with death by car accident, you know.'

Normally I’d have choked on my sandwich at that, but today I seem to be lacking a sense of humour.  I’m still thinking about last night’s revelations.

'Is there something wrong?' Matt asks, obviously surprised that he’s not being called on to do the Heimlich manoeuvre.

It doesn’t seem tactful to tell the guy I’ve been on two sort-of-dates with that my mind is rather occupied by another man.  Even if that man is just a friend.  I’ve noticed that, on the whole, men tend to have a problem with accepting that other guys can be just good friends.

Bizarre, isn’t it?

'Nothing,' I say. 'I was just thinking about Beth and how she’s going to find a decent guy.  They seem to be in such short supply.'

'She’s lucky,' Matt says meaningfully, 'to have someone who wants to help her with that.  So many people just flounder around on their own.  You’re doing a great thing.'

I give what is doubtlessly a very unattractive snort.

'Even when I set her up with social rejects with serious psychological problems?' I ask.

'Bad luck,' Matt says, dismissing it as someone who didn’t sit through the other two disasters can. 'It’s the thought that counts.'

That is true.  I mean, it could be worse.  I could be trying to sabotage her life instead of improve it.

Although the effect would probably be much the same.

'I wish I had someone trying to do that for me,' Matt says casually. 'The dating game seems more like a gladiator fight sometimes.  Innocents falling at the wayside.  It’s hard to find someone you want to spend a full day with, let alone the rest of your life.'

'Tell me about it,' I agree. 'I feel like I’m only alive in the game because the emperor has given the thumbs up every time I’ve lost the fight.  It gets to the point where you start to wonder if the chance of winning is worth the risk of being thrown to the lions.'

'I think the trick is to find someone you want to team up with, not fight,' Matt says.

'Definitely,' I say, sighing. 'The problem is how?'

Matt looks me in the eyes. 'I was thinking maybe we could figure that out together,' he says.

I should have expected that.  Normally I don’t find it difficult to work out when a guy’s about to ask me out.  This just proves how distracted I am.

I have a tiny little problem.  I have absolutely no idea what to say.

'Ummm…'

No, I don’t think I can leave it at that either.

'It’s just,' I say, inspiration coming, 'I’m not sure about dating colleagues.  After Martin, you know.  So…could I just think about it for a few days?'

He looks disappointed and, if I’m honest, a little taken aback.  Obviously he expected me to say yes.

Which, when you think about it, is quite reasonable.  I mean, I expected me to say yes.

'That’s fine,' he says, in the voice that tells you that it’s really not. 'I’ll be around, so you can find me when you’re ready.'

'Thanks,' I say, as he gets up and disappears back to his own section.

Why on Earth did I say that?

By the time I’ve finished my sandwich, I still don’t know.

Do I think he’s handsome?  Yes.

Am I actually attracted to him?  Yes.

Do I like him?  Yes.

Do all these things make him already superior to every other guy I have ever dated?  Yes.

And yet, I effectively turned him down.  Everyone knows that ‘I’ll think about it’ almost always equals no.

So why did I do that?

Chapter 22

My mum’s called.  There was a message on the machine when I got home from work.  No one else, just Mum.  At least she loves me, although I haven’t got up the nerve to call her back yet.

I’m standing by the phone, trying to decide if I’m up to calling home and getting Dad on the phone, when it rings.

I dither while it rings four times and then chicken out and let the answer phone pick it up.

'Hi, this is Mel and Beth.  If you’re listening to this message, Beth is out and I don’t feel like coming to the phone.  Leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you.'

God, I hate listening to myself.  I really should change that message.  I should have Beth do it.   'Good day, this is the Parker/Davidson residence’.  Inviting.

'This is Patr…' starts the familiar voice.

I snatch up the receiver.

'Patrick?' I say. 'Hi, it’s Mel.'

'Obviously you really didn’t feel like answering,' he says.

The message is stupid, but accurate.

'Have you talked to Beth?' he asks.

Well, not exactly.

In fact, not at all.  Except for her mentioning that she didn’t want to go out with him.

'Uh-huh,' I say brightly. 'I think she’s coming round to the idea.'

Liar, liar, pants on fire, the little voices say.

Little voices should be seen and not heard.

No, that doesn’t quite work, does it?

'Wonderful,' Patrick says cheerfully. 'Should I call back and speak to her?'

Well, she might speak to him.  Or she might hang up and try to strangle me with the telephone cord.

Stranger things have happened.

'She’s working really late for a few days,' I lie, clutching the telephone cord as if Beth may be able to strangle me with it via telekinesis. 'But I know she’s free Friday night.  You could just leave the details with me and I’ll pass them onto her.  It’ll be pretty hard to get hold of her otherwise.  She never takes personal calls at work and she doesn’t have a mobile.'

That part’s true at least.

'If you think that would be best,' Patrick says amiably.

He’s so trusting.  What a wonderful quality in a man.

'I know a charming little place with excellent service that I think she’d love,' Patrick continues cheerfully. 'Sort of a gathering place for my circle, as it were.  Do you think Beth would mind getting in with my set for the evening?'

Even better.

'I’m positive that she’d love it,' I say, genuinely pleased. 'Beth doesn’t have a circle.  In fact, she doesn’t even really have a line.  It would be great for her to meet some new people, especially the kind she went to school with.  She doesn't seem to be in touch with anyone from her old home except her mother.'

'Excellent,' Patrick says. 'The place is called La Tempête.  I’ll give you the address.  Shouldn’t be too hard to find.  Very popular place, trés connue.'

I grab the phone pad and pen and scribble down the address.  I’m pretty sure that I spelt the name of the place wrong.  Five years of French and I can’t even remember how to say hello, let alone ‘Where can I buy some Belgian chocolates?’.  Still, I’m sure Beth can figure it out.  I think she actually speaks French properly, little lines in the right places above the words and everything.

'That’s great,' I say, crossing my fingers. 'She’ll see you there.'

'Cheers,' Patrick says, and hangs up.

The little voices have created bodies for themselves like those little aliens in Toy Story.  They’re standing in a row, staring disapprovingly at me.

What?  So I bent the truth a little.  Matt was right, it is hard to find a decent guy.  And she can make some new friends too.  She must miss hanging out with other people who played croquet and walked around with books on their head at school.

I mean, one date.  What’s the…?

See, I caught myself that time.  No jinx.

It’ll go great.

**

My mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to get Beth to meet Patrick by any means necessary.  It’s delayed somewhat, however, by the atrocious smell that accompanies Beth back into the flat.

I hold my nose.  I can’t help it.

'What’s that?' I ask, in the stupid buzzing voice that results from this.

Beth glances at a dark patch on her sweatshirt. 'Baby sick,' she says matter-of-factly.

And here I was thinking someone throwing up on you was something to get upset about.

'It smells disgusting,' I say, releasing my nose all the same. 'Anyway, why are there babies at the library?  They can’t read.'

'Because they have big brothers and sisters who can,' Beth answers. 'I had to hold one while the mother sorted out his big brother’s accident.'

'Accident?' I ask, then realise and pull a face. 'Forget I asked.'

Sometimes, motherhood just sounds gross.

'I’ll just go rinse this off and change,' Beth says, pulling her sweatshirt over her head as she heads off to her bedroom.

I open my third can of cola and settle down at the table.

Okay, what is the plan?

Answer, don’t have one.

Think.

Well…if I tell her she’ll be seeing Patrick, she won’t go.  Nerves, obviously.

So I need to make her think she’s meeting someone else.  Someone she trusts.

Which narrows it down to…me.  And Will.

And I’m not going to pretend to her that she’s meeting Will.

So, me.

The beginnings of a plan.

Except that…she lives with me.  Why would she go out to meet me?

Hmmm.

'One of the perks of the job,' Beth says, coming back in wearing a clean sweatshirt.

She can’t have got back so fast.  I’m not ready!

'Beth,' I say, figuring that it’s now or never, 'I’ve been thinking.'

Beth heads into the kitchen and pulls the dish of lasagne out of the fridge.

'What about?' she asks, as she starts levering a couple of slices out and onto a plate.

Good question, to which I have no immediate answer.

I have to say something.

I’ve been thinking about…

'About all the disastrous dates I set you up on,' I say, the clichéd light-bulb lighting up above my head.

Beth puts the plate in the microwave and goes back to the fridge for the bowl of salad she made earlier. 'Forget about them,' she says charitably. 'They were rather funny really.  Something I could tell my grandchildren perhaps.' She pauses. 'When they’re old enough, anyway.'

'I can’t,' I say, adopting a more subdued tone on the off chance that it’ll help my case. 'I feel bad about them and I wanted to make it up to you.  I heard about this really nice place in town.  I thought we could get dressed up and go, just the two of us.  A real girly night out.  We could even bring home a couple of waiters.'

Beth laughs as she starts serving up dinner. 'I don’t know about that last part,' she says. 'But otherwise, fine.'

'I thought you’d say that,' I begin, 'but…'

I pause.  I run her response through my head once again.

'Really?' I ask, amazed. 'I thought you’d try to get out of it.  I mean, you never go anywhere except work.  Apart from that weekend at your…'

I break off. 'Beth?' I say curiously. 'Where did you go that weekend you were away?'

'I went to my mother’s,' Beth says, normally enough, but there’s a touch of a pink hue to the skin on her neck.

She brings over our plates to the table I’ve already set and sits down opposite me.

'No, really,' I press her. 'I know you didn’t go to see her, because she called Friday night after you left.  And don’t even think about telling me she’s got amnesia or some soap opera excuse like that.  Where did you really go?'

Beth pauses, fork in hand. 'You’re right,' she admits. 'I wasn’t at my mother’s.'

And then she starts calmly eating her lasagne.

I watch her for a few minutes.  Not eating, even with the gorgeous smell of my dinner tempting me to abandon all conversation.

'You’re not going to tell me where you were, are you?' I say finally, when my stomach demands immediate clarification of the position.

'No,' Beth says, kindly but firmly, 'I’m not.' She pauses. 'At least, not yet.'

And I thought waiting for results day was bad.

I can’t believe she’s not going to tell me.

**

A full thirty-six hours later, Beth still hasn’t told me.  I’ve told Patrick that Beth will be there tomorrow and I’ve nearly called home six times.  Cynthia is still on vacation, Matt is obviously giving me ‘space’, I’d swear Julie was avoiding me if I could think of any reason why she would be doing that and Martin has taken to popping by for ‘spot-checks’.  Otherwise known as those surprise inspections they used to do at guide camp.  He’s dying to give me another verbal warning but, unfortunately for him, having no friends means I’m getting stacks of work done.  I’m beginning to wish I was paid by the piece.

It’s a sad day really, when you realise you have nothing better to do at work than work.

I sit there, doing an impressively efficient job of data-inputting, not even misspelling Mr Focker’s name as I usually would, when I become aware of someone watching me.

Usually when I feel like this, Martin is watching me.  I steel myself for a ‘nice little quiz’ on underwriters (the people who word your insurance policy so precisely that you end up not being able to claim for anything) and office procedures and look up.

It isn’t Martin.  It’s my mother.

There is a distinct possibility that I may be hallucinating.

A couple of stressed negotiators head for the filing cabinets, staring at her as they go past, which knocks that idea on the head.

It’s as if someone has cut her out of a magazine and pasted her onto the background of my office.  In her could-never-be-fashionable blue dress and cream cardigan, her hair all pinned back, she fits in like a pigeon amongst bats.  It’s bizarre, almost surreal, that she’s actually here.

She approaches me, clutching her skirt.  She’s nervous, I realise.  My own mother is nervous about speaking to me.

'Hello, darling,' she says awkwardly, when she reaches my desk. 'I just thought I’d pop in to visit you.'

My parents don’t have a car anymore.  My dad refused even to let my mother learn to drive.  Just popping in requires a two-hour bus trip.

'I suppose you’re very busy,' she says, looking at the pile of claim forms on my desk.

'I do have a lot to do,' I say awkwardly. 'But I’d love a reason not to do it.'

The ice doesn’t quite break, but it melts a little.  Mum smiles weakly.

'We could go to the staff room,' I suggest.  I check my watch.  It’s eleven-thirty.  Diet Coke Break. 'There shouldn’t be anyone in there at this time.'

Mum nods in acquiescence, disturbingly in the same way as she does to my Dad, and follows me without further comment as I get up and lead the way.

She has a good look round the staffroom while I busy myself making coffee, a rather pained expression on her face.  It's certainly not an inviting place.  They spent thousands on a fancy conference room and pennies on this.  The furniture is battered and stained and everything is in some shade of grey.  There may even be fifty.

I bring two mugs of coffee over and we sit together.  'I’m sorry I didn’t call back,' I say, before the ice between us has a chance to re-harden. 'I knew Dad would probably answer.  And I didn't know what to say.'

My mother has her hands folded neatly in her lap and she’s sitting up perfectly straight, the way she would always softly encourage me and Brittany to do when we were young.  The way we always didn’t.  I find myself trying to force my now-lazy spine to copy hers.

'I don’t think that there’s anything you need to say to us,' Mum says, in her low, soft voice. 'I think that there are things we…or I, at least…should say to you.'

Typical that it's Mum trying to fix things.

'You don’t have to…' I try to say.

Mum shakes her head. 'There are things that I want you to know.'

She takes a deep breath. 'When I was young,' she begins, slowly and carefully, 'I was taught that my future was not something I should worry about.  I should go to school until I could leave, work in an office and then marry the first suitable man who made me an offer.  All of which I did.'

She pauses.  Her eyes look almost sad. 'I am now forty-five years old,' she continues, her voice wavering a tiny bit, 'and I have been nothing in my life but a wife and mother.  I love my family, but now you're grown and there is really little for me to do with my time.'

'You have choices I would never have dreamed of when I was a girl.  Brittany has made my choices again.  I think that your father and I have discouraged you both from adventuring.  Your father intentionally, me by accident.'

She squeezes my hand. 'I expected you to marry Alan Marshall,' she says, 'although I never truly liked him.  When you applied for university, I believed you would change your mind.  But you didn’t. You have made your own decisions and taken risks I would never have had the courage to take.  And for that, and countless other things, I’m very proud to call you my daughter.'

I feel suddenly lighter.  Like I did on the Duke of Edinburgh Award expedition when I finally took my backpack off.  I’m not a total failure.  I have done something with my life.

'Do you really want to move?' I ask.  Deep down, I think I already know the answer.

Mum shakes her head. 'No,' she says resignedly. 'I don't.'

'Well then say so,' I say, impassioned. 'Put your foot down.  It’s not too late to start affecting your own life.'

I can see Mum shying away from the idea.

'I couldn’t,' she says. 'If your father decides to sell, I’ll go along with it.'

'But the house is half yours,' I insist. 'And he’d be lost without you.  He doesn’t even know where the towels are kept.'

'The man is the head…' my mother starts to say.

'That’s crap,' I say flatly, almost forgetting that I’m talking to my mother. 'You own half the house, you’re half the marriage so you get half the say.  Tell him you want to stay and make him listen.'

My mother smiles wryly. 'You still have much to learn about men, my darling,' she says.

'I know about Will,' I shoot back. 'He understands the concept of equals.  What more proof do you need that a Y chromosome doesn’t eliminate the ability to compromise?  It’s completely unreasonable of Dad to expect you to casually pull up your roots and replant yourself in an area where you know no one and you need to make him see that.'

'Had I known political posturing was part of your job description,' comes Martin’s irritated voice from the door, 'I would have issued you with a regulation soap box.  Please save your ideologies for designated break times and return to work.'

He disappears again, face like a weasel’s.

'Charming man,' my mother says. 'Your boss, I take it?'

I nod. 'And my ex,' I explain. 'He dumped me as soon as he got the job here and he’s been victimising me ever since.'

'That doesn’t seem right,' Mum says, frowning. 'Isn’t there anyone you could speak to about his behaviour?'

'Yeah,' I say grimly, 'him.  I’m trying to find a new job, but no luck so far.'

Mum looks surprised and concerned. 'And is he representative of the kind of man you usually see?' she asks.

'Oh no,' I say cynically, 'I’ve dated much worse.  It’s not easy to find the good guys.  Hunting grounds have stopped being offices and starting being reality TV shows.'

'I think you can be sure you are better off without that one,' Mum says, returning to Martin, 'but I suppose I should let you get back to work so we don’t antagonise him any further.'

'That’s probably a good idea,' I admit reluctantly.

Mum picks up her coat, tipping her bag over as she stands up.  And envelope falls out of it and I bend down to pick it up.

It’s an official one, I notice, but I don’t think it’s a bill.  N.A.I.D. it says on the logo.  What’s that?  And why is she carrying it around in her bag?

Mum takes it from me quickly and shoves it in her bag. 'Just a letter from a friend,' she says quickly.

Mmm, a friend who writes on company stationery.

Wonderful, more mysteries.

**

I’m wondering about it again when I get home from pretending to meet Beth on Friday.  I told her I’d had to go straight up to town after work to get a present for Mum's birthday (which isn't until November, but she doesn't know that) and I’d meet her there.  By now she should be meeting Patrick.  Beth will have a great time and I will have a nice quiet evening all to myself.

Perfection.

Perfection lasts about an hour.  Maybe less.  I’m just settling down on the sofa with a Blackadder DVD and a fresh batch of Angel Delight when the door is unlocked and thrown open.

For the record, I mean thrown.  The door handle nearly punctures the wall.

It’s Beth and yet not Beth.  Beth’s psychotic twin sister.  The angel has fallen from grace.  Her hair is wild, her expression savage and I am seriously scared.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' she screams, at such a high pitch I half expect the light bulb to shatter. 'Why can’t you understand plain English?'

She advances on me and I instinctively shrink back against the far arm of the sofa.

'I don’t want to go out with Patrick,' she shouts. 'How can that mean I want you to set me up with him?  Why the hell can’t you just leave me alone?'

God, what on Earth happened?

'Are you okay?' I ask tentatively, the dormouse facing the lion.

'No, I am not fucking okay!' Beth screams at me, kicking over the coffee table.  A chocolate puddle spreads slowly over the carpet.

She’s drunk, I’m sure of it.  Seriously, frighteningly drunk.

'And you know what?' she says, now close enough for me to smell her breath and know for sure, 'you can no longer ask me that question.  I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to speak to you and I’m sure as hell not going to keep living with you.  Get out!'

She jabs her finger at the door.  When I don’t move, she grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet.

'Get out!' she repeats, shoving me over to the door.  She pushes me outside and slams the door behind me.

'And stay out!' I hear through the door.

I stare at the door from the wrong side of it.  The paint is peeling a bit round the edges and the metal number has lost a screw.  I don’t know how to react.

That's Beth in there.  Beth.  Beth who, until this moment, I thought was the embodiment of The Seven Deadly Virtues.  Calm, sensible, teetotal Beth.

I’m locked out.  I have no money.  I’ve just been thrown out of my own home.  I’m wearing fluffy elephant slippers on my feet.

What do I do?  Where do I go?

I’m having a crisis.  And there's only one thing I can do in a crisis.

Me and my elephant friends take the first step towards Will.

Chapter 23

Needless to say I get some rather strange looks on the way, although a group of glittery teenagers seem to think I’m making some anti-convention statement and yell out a few encouraging-sounding words that, before now, I didn’t know formed part of the English language.

With summer limping towards us, it's still quite light.  It's amazing how…normal the world looks.  It doesn't seem right that my life can be turned upside down and yet everyone else's is unchanged.

Did you ever see The Truman Show?  The only guy the world really did revolve around.  For the rest of us…we're just not that important, I guess.

The further I get from home, the more real the situation becomes.  And the more afraid I get of what’s going to happen next.  I mean, I live there.  I can’t exactly never go back.

Although I suppose I could send Will round for my stuff.

And I’m sure he’d let me stay with him.

Of course, then I’d have to lie in bed at night knowing that Will and Natalie were in his room together.

God, what am I going to do?

Will’s caretaker (well, his building's caretaker) recognises me and pauses in mending the outside light to let me in, barely raising an eyebrow at my slippers.  Which is probably because I turned up dressed as a carrot last Halloween.  And a goblin the one before that.  I mutter a thank you and trudge up the stairs.

Which is when it first occurs to me that Will might not be there.  Or that he might be there with Natalie.

What would I do then?

I reach his door and ring the bell.  Not once, not twice, but six times.  I wait, concentrating on visualising Will answering the door.

Although I suppose visualisation can’t help much if he’s not there.

Even when I’ve waited long enough for a tortoise to reach the door, I refuse to give up.  He could be in the shower, or be wearing earplugs, and be not quite sure if the bell has rung or not.

So I ring it again.  Six more times.

The minutes tick by.  No Will.  Not even any sounds of movement inside.

After watching five long minutes on my watch, I admit it to myself.  Will is not here.

I slump to the floor outside his door and lean back on it.  Suddenly my legs can’t hold me up anymore.  Reality has just bitten and the blood loss has left me too weak to stand.

I’m homeless.  I’m alone.  I have no place to go and no one to turn to.

I pull off my elephants and hug them to my chest the way I usually do with my pillow when I’m upset and Will isn’t there.  And I start to cry.

Tears drip uselessly down my face and onto the carpet.

I’m homeless and alone.

I’m homeless and alone.

I’m home…

The lift wirrs up to my floor and the little number at the top lights up as it shudders to a halt.  The doors jerk open and Will steps out.

He might as well be dressed in shining armour instead of battered jeans and a Galaxy Quest t-shirt.  I have never been so utterly grateful to see anyone in my entire life.

'Mel,' Will exclaims, startled to say the least. 'What on Earth…?'

That’s as far as he gets before I, having scrambled to my feet the moment I saw him, throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.  On the mouth.  And…he kind of kisses me back.

Crap, why did I do that?

I suddenly feel all nervous and panicky.  I’ve never kissed Will like that before.  I don’t know what to do with myself.

And I never imagined that it would make me feel like that.

I mean, I never imagined it full stop.

And I can’t read Will’s expression and that’s even scarier to me.

'What happened?' Will asks, sounding concerned but more-or-less natural, while I put my slippers back on as something to occupy myself with.

'Beth threw me out of the flat,' I say, daring to look up at him in the hope that the enormity of my statement will render the awkwardness obsolete.

Will looks as though I’ve told him that aliens have landed in Leicester Square.

Although, if I really did say that he’d probably get all excited and want to go there and see.

'Beth?  Threw you out?' Will repeats.

I nod.

Will rakes a hand through his hair. 'Frell,' he says confusedly. 'What…I mean, why…are you okay?  How long have you been here?'

'I just got here,' I say, rubbing my eyes on my sleeve. 'And you weren’t here and I didn’t know where else to go.'

Will hugs me and holds me close. 'I’m here now,' he murmurs into my hair. 'Come in and get cleaned up and I’ll find you something to wear.' He frowns. 'I’m sure I have something somewhere that won’t fall off you.'

Maybe I should have mentioned that I’m also wearing my pyjamas with flying pigs on them.  I’m not even wearing a bra.

Which is probably another reason why the caretaker was so pleased to see me.

He unlocks the door and I pad into the flat in my elephants, Will’s hand resting lightly on the small of my back.  I’m getting that warm feeling again.

What does this mean?

**

I’m lying in Will’s absolutely massive bathtub, enjoying the mountain of bubbles – in a delightfully childish way – that I’ve created with half a bottle of extremely expensive-looking foam bath that must belong to Natalie.

Share and share alike.  Her fault for leaving it there.

Although I’m trying not to let it, Will’s kiss is on instant replay in my mind.  I can’t get it out of my head.

Will and I are friends.  We always have been.  Nothing else.  We’ve never lost a dare, or got drunk and depressed, or won each other at spin the bottle.  It just hasn’t been an issue.

But I’ve never felt that way when anyone else kissed me.

There’s that little voice again.

I lie back and soak my hair.  I'll have an afro later, but I don't care.

Being a good kisser doesn’t make him boyfriend material, does it?  Enjoying one little kiss doesn’t mean I fancy him.

What does it mean then?

Crap, I’m so confused.

Okay, check list.

Do I think that Will is handsome?  Yes.

Well…it’s not a matter for debate, is it?  Comparatively speaking, he is good-looking.  It’s a simple fact, no personal feelings in it at all.

Am I attracted to him?  Ummm…

That’s too hard.  Find an easier one.

Do I like him? Yes.

I like him better than anyone else I’ve ever met.  That’s why we’ve been friends for so long.  But surely the only reason I’ve liked him better than any guy I’ve ever dated is because he’s great and they were all losers.  See, no worrying implications there at all.

So, I don’t fancy him.

Or, maybe…

I need to do the flower-petal thing.  I fancy him, I fancy him not.  But, obviously, no flowers in Will’s bathroom.

I suppose I could pick bristles out of his nail-brush.

But then, he might object to that.

I’m sure I read somewhere that if your feelings are confusing you, you should put them aside and tell yourself firmly that you’ll come back to them tomorrow.

So, I’ll do that.

Easy peasy.

Although that still leaves the question of what to do tonight.

**

I pad into the living room, nicely clean and smelling of lavender, wearing a pair of Will’s sweatpants, which fortunately have a drawstring waist, and an old jumper that shrunk in the wash.  I must look bizarre, but of course the beauty of being just friends with a guy is that you don’t need to get all paranoid about looking less than perfect.

Which is good, because I don't think I've ever looked perfect in my life.

Will isn’t here, which throws me.  Where could he have gone?

I go to the sofa and settle on it to wait for him to come back.  Which he does, very quickly.

He holds up a plastic bag as he comes through the door. 'Chocolate,' he says. 'I thought you’d be needing some.'

'I love you,' I say gratefully.

I must have said that to him a million times and yet, post kiss, it suddenly has implications that it never had before.

'I mean, thanks for getting it for me,' I say hurriedly, feeling like my hands are too big and my body’s all bent in two.

'You’re welcome,' Will says, just as awkwardly, as he brings the bag to me.

God, what have I done?

Will settles into his chair and we both get very interested in the carpet.

'So,' I say, and it’s testament to how desperate I am for something to say that I’m introducing this element, 'aren’t you seeing Natalie tonight?  Friday night, date night?'

'Well I was,' Will says, still looking at the carpet, 'but I came home early.'

Will’s carpet has this weird swirly pattern that has no beginning or end and…

Oh, this is ridiculous.  I can’t live like this.

I take a bite of Snickers, just to calm my nerves. 'So,' I say, 'I’m homeless.'

God, aren’t I just the sparkling conversationalist?

It kind of works though.  A topic makes it safe to stop looking at the vertigo-inducing carpet.

'I just can’t believe that Beth would do that,' Will says, shaking his head. 'What did she say exactly?'

I repeat the words she used as best I can, unintentionally mimicking her expressions as well.  Will looks gob-smacked.

'I don’t believe it,' he says. 'I mean, Beth?  It’s like trying to picture Mother Theresa as an axe murderer.'

'I know,' I say, now chain-eating the contents of my goody bag. 'But what am I going to do?'

Will is still shaking his head in disbelief. 'There’s no way she’d be serious about this,' he says. 'You must have just hit a nerve somehow.  Stay here tonight and I’ll come with you tomorrow and get it sorted out.'

'What if she won’t let me in?' I ask, having visions of barbed wire and anti-Mel missiles.

'I still have the spare key you gave me for emergencies,' Will says. 'Although I didn’t ever expect something like this would happen.  I’ll dig it out for you later.  It’s not like she’d barricade the door.'

Crap, what if she barricades the door?

'Don’t be ridiculous, Mel, she won’t do that.'

I swear I didn’t say that out loud.

'You didn’t say it out loud,' Will says. 'I just…' he suddenly looks embarrassed, '…knew what you were thinking.'

Suddenly it’s a bad thing.

God, now things are all weird between us.

Maybe we should have a little drink.

Chapter 24

Mmmm.  I love Saturday mornings.  Waking up at my own pace, no alarm screeching in my ear, next to…

Hold on a minute.

Where am I?

I don’t recognise that lamp.

Or that table.

Or this bedcover.

But I do recognise this arm around my waist.

Oh, God, no.

Very, very slowly I turn my head, so as not to disturb the warm, comfortable lump in the bed next to me.

Crap, it really is Will.  I’m not imagining it.

Very carefully, I pinch myself firmly on the leg.  I don’t wake up.  I pinch every accessible body part until I have no choice but to admit to myself that this is not a dream.  I am in bed with Will.

I mean, this has happened before.  But last time Will was wearing Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas.  It’s not quite the same thing.

I turn back, very slowly, and lie there, the picture of tranquillity, while my mind lets loose.

Did we do it?  Was I good?  Was he good?  Did we use condoms?  What about Natalie?  Would he notice if I left?  What do I say when he wakes up?  What did I drink last night?  This is like Friends.  God, what if I got pregnant?  What the hell am I going to do?

Okay.  Deep, calming breaths, like I learnt at that stress-management course Susan dragged me to.

I can’t manage deep, calming breaths.  My world has just been turned upside down and I don’t exactly have sticker pads attached to my hands.  The second Will wakes up I’ll lose my grip on the bed and fall to my death.

Still, try to think rationally.  I’m dressed and so is he.  It’s perfectly possible that we were just spooning.

And I can’t have been that drunk, because I don’t even have a hangover.

In fact, now I’ve stopped panicking, I do remember what happened.

We definitely didn’t have sex.

Which is good, obviously.  Just as it should be.  We’re just friends.  Aren’t we?

Now I’m confused.

You know, waking up next to Will is very, very nice.  I like the way he smells.  Half the guys I’ve dated didn’t stay the night with me even though we did have sex.

Of course, Will does live here.

But I’m not dating Will.  Obviously.

I wonder if I should get up?

Will stirs beside me and hugs me closer to him.  His cheek is sort of nuzzling my neck.

God, he’s thinking of Natalie, isn’t he?  I’m the substitute, aren’t I?  Me, the substitute in Will’s life.  And for that bitch, no less.

I should definitely get up.

Very, very carefully, I lift Will’s arm up, trying to remove it from my waist without him waking up.  I can’t look at his face.

'Morning,' Will’s sleepy voice says without warning.  I jump and his arm drops and slaps my waist.

'How are you feeling?' he asks.

Scared, confused, but wonderful at the same time.  Mystified as to why I’ve never noticed before what a sexy voice Will has.  Especially when it’s all rough and scratchy from just waking up.

'Fine,' I say, my whole body rigid with tension.

'You don’t feel fine,' Will says, starting to rub the muscles in my shoulder.

This is getting weirder by the minute.  I shift round so I’m facing him and he can’t reach them anymore.

'Well, I’m not used to waking up with you,' I say awkwardly, wanting to be closer to him and far away at the same time. 'I don’t know how to act.'

'Nothing happened,' Will assures me, picking up on my earlier worry, as he pushes a stray curl off my face.  It feels wonderful and yet too intimate right now.

'I know,' I say, smoothing it back myself as if I want to undo his work. 'I remember.  I just freaked out a little when I first woke up.'

'Is waking up with me really freaky?' Will asks, his forehead creasing into a frown.

'Yes!' I say instantly, then regret it. 'I mean no, I mean… You have a girlfriend, you shouldn’t be spending the night with another woman.'

'You hate Natalie,' Will says, his expression unreadable. 'And…'

'Of course I do, that’s not the point,' I interrupt, strangely hurt.  I never knew Will was so casual about this. 'I may be old-fashioned, but I believe in one girl, one guy – or at least one somebody, one somebody-else.  I mean, you can’t tell me that Natalie wouldn’t freak if she walked in on this.'

Will shifts his position slightly, subtly increasing the gap between us. 'I’ve never been unfaithful,' he says. 'You were upset, we cuddled, we fell asleep.  It could be misinterpreted, that’s true, but that isn’t an issue in this case.'

His eyes meet mine and there’s a strange intensity in them. 'Unless you think there is some reason why this would be more that it seems?' he says, his tone neutral. 'Something between us other than friendship?'

Good question.

'Of course not,' I say. 'Of course not.  We’re friends, we always have been.   You’re right, it meant nothing.'

If it meant something then I’m the other woman.  And no, I don’t find that appealing.  I’m a romantic, so shoot me.

Although…

'I didn’t think so,' Will says, still in that neutral tone.  He sits up and climbs off the bed. 'I’m going to make breakfast,' he says, now sounding much, much too distant. 'You can use the bathroom first.'

I flop onto my back as he leaves the room and stare up at the ceiling and the weird mini-chandelier that the old owners must have thought was chic.

Just like Friends?  Who am I kidding?  That’s a TV show.  They get together, have a few token problems, which get sorted out in an episode, and then have a sweet wedding to thrill the fans.  This is real life.  I think the best thing in my life has just been given one battering too many.

I don’t think Will and I are best friends anymore.

And, if I’m right, nothing will ever be the same again.

**

'Can I do anything?' I ask, hovering around the entrance to Will’s kitchen.

'No,' Will says, politely but not encouragingly, his head in the fridge.

'Right,' I say, suddenly feeling like I might cry. 'I’ll just…I’ll just keep out of your way then.'

I turn and walk slowly into the living room, waiting for Will to say something else, to call after me.  Nothing.

I always thought that Will didn’t belong in this apartment.  It’s too fancy, too pretentious.  It looks like Frasier Crane’s, only with a computer and desk where the piano would be.  Will only has an affinity with one type of keyboard.

Now it’s me who doesn’t belong.

I never know what to do with myself when I’m waiting.  I always feel like I should be doing something, even when there’s nothing to do.

I go to the sofa, sit down and stare at the table.  Then I pick up the TV guide and flick through it, with as much concentration as an hyperactive five-year-old high on e-numbers.  I don’t think I even register one tag line.

Then I put it down, get up and walk over to the balcony doors.  At the very least, the weather is not mocking me today.  The sky is cloudy and there’s a steady mist of rain – rather as if God has left his sprinklers on.  Finally, a little understanding.

I stand there, feeling vindicated, for about a minute.  Then God realises he’s left his sprinklers on and switches them off.  The rain stops.  Then he sets up his electric fan and the clouds waft away.  The spring sunshine shines its hardest and a rainbow appears.  A sodding rainbow.  A huge, whole rainbow, in which all seven colours are identifiable if you look hard enough.

I am not amused.

I resolutely turn my back on it and step down into the main room.  I wander past the fireplace, which Will – no doubt to Natalie’s horror – seems to have started using as a bookcase for his Star Trek novels since the last time I was here.  I look up at the mantelpiece and my eye catches a photo in a frame.  Will’s copy of us at my graduation ball, when he came all that way so I wouldn’t be dateless.

We look so happy and young.  Blissfully unaware that there would one day be a rift between us.  There am I, wearing the most hideous dress imaginable, my hair making Medusa’s look like it’s been styled by Trevor Sorbie, about two stone heavier than I am now thanks to massive panic-eating around my finals and yet I’m beaming.  I’m beaming because I’m with my best friend who’s just told me that I’m the most beautiful girl there.

I’m not sure whether or not I should try to swallow this lump in my throat.  I might choke on it.

'Toast’ll be done soon,' Will says, like I’m a guest, as he puts a couple of boxes of cereal on the table along with two bowls.  I keep my back to him, pretending to be fascinated by the china-blue tiling around the fireplace, so that I don’t have to look at him and he won’t notice the moistness of my eyes.

'Great,' I say.

It’s not great, how could it be great?  But there’s nothing else I can say.

I hear Will return to the kitchen and I head to the table.  Then I change my mind and step up to where the computer is, settling down in Will’s chair.

I right click on the Messenger icon, for want of anything else to do.  His inbox shows three new messages.  I click on the link.

I won’t read them, obviously.  It won’t do any harm just to see who they’re from.  One might be important and I could tell him about it.  Maybe that’ll break the ice on the door that’s frozen shut between us.

Matt ‘Re: I had an idea’, Lucy Knightley (Will's mum) ‘Further to our discussion’, Natalie ‘Arrangements’.  Nothing that screams ‘urgent’.

I close the window, get up and then take my seat at the table.  I rub my spoon against the bottom of my bowl sadly, wondering if Will would notice if I wore a hole in it.

Will comes in, sets down jars of honey and apricot jam on the table and then plants a kitchen-towel-covered pile of toast in the centre.

'There’s more if you want it,' he says and sits down.

Would he notice if I didn’t eat anything?

Would he care?

What’s happened to us?  One minute we’re fine, then I tell him that waking up next to him is really freaky and he goes all silent and distant on me.  I mean, why should that even make a difference to anything?  He must have known what I meant.

'So,' I say, like this is another one of Beth’s blind dates and I’m trying desperately to make conversation. 'How are your parents?'

'Fine,' Will says, buttering a piece of toast.

A little help would be nice.

'Did you find much to talk about on Sunday?' I try again.

'The usual,' Will says, unhelpfully. 'My future, the next generation of Knightleys.  This and that.'

He adds a layer of honey to his toast.  Silently.

I start pouring myself a bowl of cornflakes.  Halfway through I stop and put the box down.

'What about the website?' I ask desperately.  I’d rather have a lecture on the finer points of HTML coding than this.  'How’s that going?'

'Fine,' Will says and takes a bite of his toast.

'Right,' I whisper and finish pouring.

Several ice ages pass.  During which I add milk and force a spoonful of cornflakes down my throat.  They taste of straw.  But then I suppose they always do.

This is hell, this is torture, this is…

This is stupid.

'Will,' I say, dropping my spoon onto the table with a clatter, 'why are you being so quiet?  We don’t play games, you and I, we never have done.  That’s the greatest thing about being friends with you.  I don’t want to lose that now.  Tell me what I’ve done, so I can apologise and do whatever I need to do to make it up to you.'

Will has stopped with his mouth open, just about to crunch down on his toast.  He closes his mouth, opens it again and seems about to speak.  Then he gives a tiny shake of his head and puts his toast down.  He does speak, but I’m not absolutely convinced that he’s saying what he meant to say at first.

'You’re right,' he says, finally looking at me properly. 'I’m acting like an idiot.  You haven’t done anything wrong and you’ve got nothing to apologise for.'

I haven’t?  That’s new.  Making mistakes is practically my reason for being.

'I must have done,' I say, frankly a little bewildered. 'I said waking up with you was freaky and you went all weird.'

Will pauses.  One of those pauses politicians use while they try to figure how not to answer your question.

'It’s nothing,' he says and I know he’s lying. 'It’s…okay, tired old cliché time…it’s not you, it’s me.  I’ve…got some stuff on my mind right now, that’s all.  Trying to figure a few things out.'

'Tell me,' I say, seeing my chance to be helpful and repair things a little. 'I’m sure I can help somehow.'

Will shakes his head. 'It’s not really the sort of thing you can help with,' he says. 'Or anyone, not just you.  I’m just…having a mid-life crisis, I suppose.'

'You’re about fifteen years too young for that,' I say, cheering up considerably now that we’re talking again.

Will laughs, thank God.

'I’m exaggerating,' he says. 'I’m just…trying to make a few decisions.  Change some stuff.  Think about where I’m going.'

I have a bad feeling about this.

'You’re not turning into Big Five Accountant Guy, are you?' I ask anxiously. 'Becoming a member of the undead, the people who care who made their furniture?'

Will’s smile is weird.  It’s like he’s amused, affectionate and sad all at once.

'No,' he says. 'I think I can safely promise you never to do that.'

'No matter how hard Natalie tries to convince you?' I press.  Bad idea, but I have to ask.

Will pauses again. 'Actually…' he begins.

The phone rings and we both jump.  Since Will’s nearest, he reaches over to the counter behind him and answers it.

'Knightley,' he says, running his fingers through his hair. 'Oh, Brittany.  What a nice surprise.'

My head, which had sunk as I checked the sogginess of my cornflakes, snaps up.  Why is Brittany calling Will?

'How’s the family?' Will’s saying. 'Good.  Yes, Mel said.  Yes, she is here.  I’ll just pass you over.'

Will holds out the phone to me.  I eye it like it’s a wasp’s nest, but take it reluctantly.

'Brittany,' I say, in the most civil tone I can muster.  There may also be a touch of apprehension in my voice.  I haven’t spoken to her since my outburst at our parents’ house.

'Hello, Mel,' she says.

Weird on two counts.  She used my nickname and the voice that was syrupy is now…I don’t know, jammy maybe.  I’m fairly fond of jam, actually.

Musn’t be taken in though.  Mustn’t be caught off guard.

'I was wondering,' Brittany says, a little hesitantly. 'If you’re not too busy…'

She’s good.  She sounds really awkward.  I almost trust her.

Almost.

'What?' I ask, squaring my shoulders for the attack.

'I was wondering,' she says again, 'if…maybe you could help me with something.'

Unbelievable.  The nerve.  No apology, no mention of anything I said before.  Nothing.  And yet she expects me to drop everything to help her.

'No,' I say shortly. 'I don’t think so.  In fact…' I smile to myself.  This telling off thing gets easier the more I do it, '…in fact, I’d really prefer it if you’d just leave me alone.'

And then I hang up.

God, it feels good.

I hand the phone back to Will, flushed with triumph.

'What did she say?' he asks curiously, as he puts the phone back on the counter.

'She wanted me to help her with something,' I say scornfully. 'Can you believe that?'

Will shrugs. 'What?' he asks.

'It doesn’t matter what,' I say, a little flustered. 'The point is her asking, after all she’s done, after the way she’s treated me.'

'So you didn’t actually ask?' Will says, returning to his toast.

I stare at him. 'Of course I didn’t ask,' I say in disbelief. 'You’re completely missing the point.'

'She is your sister,' Will points out, composedly. 'Surely it couldn’t have hurt to hear her out?'

'She didn’t even try to apologise,' I protest hotly. 'Why should I?'

'Maybe she was trying to apologise,' Will says, starting to butter another piece of toast, 'but finding it hard to start.  Making a small peace offering by admitting she has something she can’t fix alone.'

That is, of course, a possibility.  But I don’t believe it.

What?  I know her way better than Will does.

'It’s a trick,' I say resolutely. 'She’ll get me in the middle of something and then laugh at me when I can’t get out of it.'

Will says nothing.

'Well, she will,' I insist, now getting worked up. 'She’s sneaky and she loves to hurt me and I don’t see why I should make it easier for her.  Give me one good reason why I should help her?'

'You’ve ‘helped’ a lot of others who didn’t want your help and didn’t exactly benefit from it,' Will says mildly. 'Maybe you could finally do some real good.'

Inside my heart is the emotional equivalent of a nuclear launch button.  Will just pressed it.

'Oh, that’s right,' I choke, shoving my chair back from the table and heading for the door. 'Poor Mel, failure Mel, laughing-stock Mel who nearly gets her colleague raped and then gets thrown out by her psycho flat-mate.'

I yank on my elephant slippers and turn back towards Will.

'It’s fine,' I say. 'Laugh, enjoy it.  Why not?  You and Brittany can form a club to talk about how crap I am.'

Will gets up from the table and strides over to the door, as I fumble with the dead-lock chain, wiping my eyes on my sleeve, and pull the door open.

'Mel,' Will says, chasing me as I start running down the stairs. 'Mel!  Come back!  What the frell are you doing?'

'I’m going home,' I yell over my shoulder, as I reach the bottom. 'I’m going to go find out if I’m going to be murdered by Beth.  Because right now that sounds pretty great.'

'Mel,' Will says, catching up to me and slamming the door that I’ve half-opened. 'Mel.  I’m sorry, okay.  I shouldn’t have said that.  Don’t go home like this.'

I look up at him, my eyes streaming, and I sniff. 'You were always the one person I thought I could count on to be on my side,' I choke, 'but I guess even that isn’t true anymore.  So fine.  I’ll get out of your life and you won’t have to bother with your screw-up friend anymore.  Have a nice life.  I hope you figure out whatever’s on your mind.'

Will looks as if I’ve slapped him, so I grab the opportunity to yank the door open and get outside.  Then I start to run.  As fast as I can.  Until my lungs start to burn and, when I look up to see where I am, I realise I’m home.

Where lurks the evil within.

Chapter 25

It’s sort of the reverse of Christmas morning when I was little.  Then I tried to creep downstairs from my bedroom without my parents hearing.  Now I’m trying to creep upstairs to the flat without Beth hearing.  I have Will’s spare key in my pocket, so if I’m really quiet…

I forget about the creaky stair and it makes an agonisingly loud noise.  I freeze, one foot in the air, like I’m in some stupid movie trying to break into a museum to steal a rare diamond or something.

No alarms go off, no burly security guards appear out of nowhere to arrest me (shame) and no terrifying monster appears at the top of the stairs.  So, very, very slowly, I proceed.

Even the door seems to make an almighty clunk as I unlock it.  It suddenly occurs to me that Beth could have the chain on, thus rendering my key useless, unless I suddenly turn myself into flubber and squeeze through the keyhole or something.  But she doesn’t seem to have thought of that.

I think I’m safe.

I push open the door and tiptoe inside.

'Hello,' Beth says.  She’s sitting on the sofa.

I very nearly dart outside, slam the door behind me and scuttle back down the stairs into the street.

But then what would I do?  Where would I go?

'Hello,' I reply, still holding onto the door.  Worst case scenario, I could use it as a shield.

She looks perfectly calm.  Like normal Beth, except she must be pretty hungover.  But after her dual-personality thing, I’m a little sceptical.

'Come a little closer.'

Said the spider to the fly.

I take a step the length of an ant.

'Seriously,' Beth says. 'Come here.  I won’t bite.'

I move towards her slowly, body poised for the fight or flight reaction.

I perch gingerly on the edge of the sofa, the furthest possible distance away from Beth.  Then, with the odd sense of calmness that seems to accompany certain death, I turn to her.

'I’m sorry.'

Weird, that didn’t sound like my voice.

Which could be because it wasn’t.

Beth is apologising to me.

'Ummm…that’s okay,' I say awkwardly, feeling rather wrong-footed.  This wasn’t quite what I pictured.

'Really,' Beth says.  She sounds sincere. 'I think I need to explain a few things.'

I shift the tiniest bit closer. 'Uh…okay,' I say.  And wait.

Beth takes a deep breath. 'I’m an alcoholic,' she says.

What?

No, scrap that.  I mean WHAT?

She can’t be serious.

'I’m also an ex-drug-addict,' Beth continues.

Huh?

'I’ve had sex with over a hundred men.'

I don’t even think I’ve met a hundred men.

'And at one point I thought I had HIV.'

I just…don’t know what to say.

'Uh…okay,' I say again, just the slightest bit mind-blown.

'Obviously I need to elaborate on that a little,' Beth says composedly, like we’re discussing the best colour carpet to buy.

'Uh huh,' I say, nodding insanely.  A couple of years and I might understand what she’s telling me.  A couple more and I might believe it.

'You know that my parents are divorced?'

I nod.

'Well,' Beth says, her hands folded neatly in her lap. 'When that happened, I went a little off the rails.  I was already part of a group, of which Patrick was one, who were party people.  We drank too much, we experimented with drugs, we very nearly got ourselves expelled.  With me so far?'

I nod again.  I’m with the words, I’m just having the tiniest bit of difficulty believing that she’s talking about herself.

'We were young and we were stupid,' Beth continues, looking down at her hands. 'We thought it was all good fun and that all the horror stories in the news had nothing to do with us.  We didn’t take it seriously at all.  Then my father left and I crossed the line.  I started drinking alone at home instead of just when I was out with my friends.  I stopped having the odd cannabis cigarette and got into harder stuff.  I started sleeping around, with men twice my age.  Total strangers.  Eventually my mother pulled me out of school and sent me to a clinic to be dried out.'

I nod some more.  It sounds like we're talking about some celebrity gone off the rails.  I could believe it if we were.

'When I got cleaned up I cut all ties,' Beth says earnestly. 'I stopped seeing all my old friends.  Fortunately my home was in Yorkshire and school was in Scotland, so it wasn’t too hard.  Until Patrick showed up only my mother even knew I was in Surrey.'

'And that’s,' I clear my throat, 'that’s why you didn’t want to see Patrick.'

'Exactly,' Beth says. 'And why ‘exciting’ men aren’t the kind I go for.  I’ve seen the ugly side of that lifestyle and I’m not going back to it.'

'What made you stop?' I ask dumbly.

Beth pauses. 'Family,' she says.

I really don’t know how to deal with all this.

'What…happened last night?' I ask hesitantly.

Do I want to know?

'Well, I went to meet you at the restaurant,' Beth says lightly, 'and I found Patrick instead.  Which seemed like quite a coincidence.'

I clear my throat. 'Sorry,' I mutter. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'

'I expect it did,' Beth says calmly. 'Anyway, he was there with a few of his friends and against my better judgement I agreed to stay for one drink.  In all honesty, you weren't entirely wrong about Patrick.  He has many good qualities and he was very welcoming.'

She purses her lips. 'I asked for an orange juice,' she says, 'and he brought back a vodka and orange.  I can't tell you if he did it deliberately.  Most likely he just assumed that was what I meant.  I thought it tasted a bit odd, but unfortunately I was distracted and didn't realise why.  After that it gets a bit hazy.'

She smiles wryly. 'On balance,' she says. 'I think perhaps I should stay on the wagon after this.'

I nod in agreement before I realise she's trying to make a joke.

Beth looks at her watch. 'I have to go to work now,' she says, as if this whole conversation never happened. 'I’ll see you later.'

'Okay,' I say.  It’s about all I’m capable of.

Beth?

**

The whole weekend I keep stopping suddenly in the middle of doing things and thinking ‘Beth?’  I just cannot get my head round this.

And when I’m not thinking about Beth, I’m thinking about Will.

NY Alien says:

‘You kissed Will?!  Fantastic!’

Confused!!! says:

‘Not fantastic.  I kissed him, woke up next to him, told him it was freaky, made him go weird, then sorted it out only to blow up at him and storm out of his flat.  I don’t think we’re even speaking anymore.’

NY Alien says:

‘May I respectfully point out that you’ve done that more than a few times before?’

Confused!!! says:

‘I know, but this is different.’

NY Alien says:

‘Don’t tell me, because when he kissed you, you went all gooey inside?’

Confused!!! says:

‘YES!  So what do I do about it?’

NY Alien says:

‘Depends.  What do you want to do?’

Confused!!! says:

‘I don’t know.  That’s the whole point.’

NY Alien says:

‘Do you want to kiss him again?’

Confused!!! says:

‘No.  Yes.  Maybe.’

NY Alien says:

‘LOL.  Do you still want to be friends with him?’

Confused!!! says:

‘Of course I do.’

NY Alien says:

‘Do you want to be more?’

Confused!!! says:

‘More?'

NY Alien says:

‘Yes, more.  As in do-you-want-to-be-his-girlfriend?’

Confused!!! says:

‘He already has a girlfriend.’

NY Alien says:

‘You’re avoiding the question.’

Confused!!! says:

‘I know.’

NY Alien says:

‘Well, do you?’

Confused!!! says:

‘It’s too weird to actually say it.’

NY Alien says:

‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a yes!  After twenty-five years, Mel has finally realised her true feelings for her best friend.  Tune in for next week’s exciting episode and find out if those feelings are returned.’

Is she serious?

Confused!!! says:

‘I can’t tell Will.  Not in a million years.  He’s not even single, for one thing.’

NY Alien says:

‘I bet he’d break up with her in a heartbeat if he thought he could have you.’

Yeah right, because I’m every man’s idea of the perfect woman.

Confused!!! says:

‘Susan, this is doomed.  He doesn’t fancy me.  I’m more like his little sister.’

I flash back to waking up with him.  Will doesn’t have a sister, but if he did I'm pretty sure he wouldn't spoon with her.

Confused!!! says:

‘Well, not exactly, but it’s platonic.  That I’m sure about.  I’ll just have to spend my life being his kind and supportive friend, giving way to whatever lucky bitch becomes Mrs Knightley, holding my love forever inside me.’

NY Alien says:

‘Man, that sounds depressing.’

Confused!!! says:

‘I know. <sigh>.’

Despondently, I look around.  Still no Cynthia.  A pile of inputting very nearly interfering with the ceiling fans.  One solitary Twix between me and desperation.

Confused!!! says:

‘I have to get back to work and practise being resigned to the trials in my life.’

NY Alien says:

‘So do I actually.  My boss’ll go mad if he finds me playing on Messenger while I’m supposed to be working.’

Huh?

Confused!!! says:

‘You’re your own boss.’

NY Alien says:

‘That’s just how I like to talk.  Too used to working for someone else, I guess.’

Confused!!! says:

‘Right.  I think your boss wants you to eat chocolate.  Talk to you later.’

I shut down Messenger and stare into space.

Well, I’ve sort of made it official.  I’m in love with Will.

There’s just a few things I’m not clear about.  When did this happen?  How did this happen?

And, most importantly, what on Earth do I do next?

**

A few hours later, the ceiling scraper pile has diminished very slightly and the prospect of another fifty years on the planet living with an unrequited love as well as the rest of my rather less than inspired life has not exactly enhanced my mood.  There must be people out there who do this, but how?

My phone rings and I leap up like the chair is suddenly covered in upturned drawing pins.  Crap, what if it’s Will?  What do I say?

Trembling, I pick up the receiver.

'Hello,' I say. 'Melanie Parker.'

There’s a short silence, during which I conclude that it’s either Will or I’ve acquired myself a stalker.

'Should hope so too,' a gruff voice says. 'Wouldn’t like to think one of my girls was skiving.'

It’s my dad.  I feel a rush of relief.

There's a first time for everything.

'We just thought we’d call to see how you were,' Mum chimes in suddenly, making me jump.  She must be listening in on the kitchen phone.

How am I?  So many possible answers, most of which are probably better left unsaid.

'I’m fine,' I say, twirling the telephone cord around my finger.

'We…uh…have some news for you,' Dad says.  He sounds weird.  Almost like he’s…nervous.

'What?' I ask.  There may be the tiniest hint of suspicion in my voice.

'Well,' Dad clears his throat. 'What…what with one thing and another – the state of the property market and all that – we’ve…had a rethink.  Which is to say, we…uh…'

'We’re not moving,' Mum says warmly.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard her finish one of Dad’s sentences before.

'Really?  You’re not?' I ask, feeling a flush of warmth like someone’s just turned on my own personal central heating.

'I thought…that is, we both thought…that perhaps we’d been a little hasty.’

We?  It was his idea alone and he knows it.

I’m not going to remind him of that though.  I don’t want to ruin it.

'There are certain advantages to staying here,' Dad offers uncomfortably.

'Say it,' my mum prompts him gently.

Dad clears his throat loudly.  It’s not the most pleasant of sounds.

'We thought that perhaps…we should spend a little more time with you,' he says slowly. 'Maybe we haven’t kept in touch as much as we should have.  Might…get to know you a little better.'

'Just me?' I ask. 'Even though I haven’t given you any grandchildren, or a rich son-in-law or anything?'

Maybe I have a few trust issues surfacing.

'We…uh…' Dad pauses like he’s checking his notes. 'We respect your choices as an adult and release you from any obligation to act according to our wishes for you.'

Actually, I think he must have read it straight from the paper.  That was not Dad, it was one of those pop-psych people.

'Uh…thanks,' I say.

'What that means,' my dad adds, 'as I understand it, is that we’ll…I’ll…try not to talk so much about you still being single.'

That was Dad.  Still not quite getting it right.

But at least he’s trying now.

'I read this article,' Dad says hastily. I can hear rustling in the background, so he must have got a whole stack of stuff to read from, 'that says lots of women get married later in life these days.  When they’re thirty or so.  So I suppose it’s not as late as I thought for you.'

He came so close to making that sound good.

'What your father means, Melanie,' Mum says, in a display of involvement which (for her) is incredible, 'is that it’s your business and we’re not going to interfere.'

Forgive me if I’m a little sceptical.

'You really mean that?' I say doubtfully.

'He does,' Mum says firmly.

'We do,' Dad says meekly.

Dad, meek?

There’s a slight pause.

'Absolutely no more talk about weddings?' I press.

'No.' For the first time Mum’s the voice and Dad’s the echo.

I relax a little. 'Great,' I say.

'Except…' Mum says.

I close my eyes.  I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

'What?' I say.

'Are other people’s weddings acceptable?'

I suppose I can’t expect them to go cold turkey.

'That’s fine,' I agree. 'In moderation.'

'I just wondered if you knew if Will and Natalie are engaged?' Mum asks.

Not this again.

'They’re not,' I say flatly.

'Lucy seems to think they soon will be,' Mum ventures. 'I was thinking what a shame it was that you two never got together.  It would have been so nice if you were marrying him.  Lucy and I used to discuss it when you were kids.'

Silence, because I don’t think I can talk.

'I didn’t mean that in a pressure way,' Mum says quickly. 'Obviously, it’s…'

'I get it,' I say.  I have a horrible feeling that I might start to cry. 'Listen, I’m really busy, so can we talk later?  I call you tonight…I promise.'

For once, I actually mean that.

After we’ve rung off, I think about Mum's words all day.  They knew all along that Will was perfect for me, didn’t they?

So why on Earth didn’t they tell me?

I suppose I wouldn't have listened.

I can be really stupid sometimes.

**

The next day, Will and I still haven’t made up.  Which is probably because on all but one of the occasions when I tried to phone him, I chickened out.  The final time I got a wrong number, which my nervous brain insisted was a sign that I shouldn’t call.

Even so, I’ve nearly picked up the phone seventeen times this morning.  I’ve been keeping count.

I did manage a nice chat with Mum and Dad last night though.  Dad still hasn't quite mastered the art of being supportive, but I’m pretty certain his suggestion of freezing my eggs for later use was intended to be.

'And where is Ms. Burnett today?' Martin’s voice penetrates the picture of Will that’s been sitting in front of my eyes since I walked out of his building.  The stunned, hurt look.

'She’s on holiday,' I say, prodding randomly at my keyboard with my pen.

Martin makes a tutting noise in the back of his throat.

'She is supposed to be returning today,' he says, making a note on his clipboard. 'Although not for much longer, given her recent performance.'

That snaps me out of my fog.

'You mean you’re going to fire her?' I ask, aghast.

Martin looks pointedly at me. 'It’s a serious possibility for several people,' he says haughtily.

'But you can’t!' I protest.  It’s my fault she stopped being Super Employee in the first place.  I can’t let her get fired.

'I think you’ll find I can,' Martin says, in his most superior tone.  It usually infuriates me, but today I barely notice.

'But she’s got a really good reason for being late,' I say desperately. 'And taking time off and not working quite at her best.'

Understatement of the year.

'And what’s that?' Martin asks, looking expectant.

'She…' I start to say, then stop.  I can’t exactly tell her boss that she was attacked, can I?  The last thing she needs is everybody knowing.

Plus, I have a very strong feeling that Martin would turn out to be one of those beyond-belief guys who say ‘She was asking for it.’.  I mean, I know she may have been a little foolish, but no one asks for that to happen to them.  It would be like asking to get trapped in a lift with an axe-murderer.

'She lost her mother,' I finish lamely. 'She’s grieving.  I’m sure she just needs a little time and…'

'The mental health of my employees is hardly my primary concern,' Martin says.  A man whose feelings run about as deep as a finger bowl. 'I have to do what is best for the company and that is obviously to get rid of those who are not pulling their weight.  And don’t think that doesn’t include you, Melanie.'

I have just about had it with this guy.

'Half the people here don’t pull their weight,' I say tensely. 'It’s an insurance claims office.  You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone actually devoted to their job.  Except you, the new and improved model of Ass-kisser Ken.'

Martin’s face goes a bizarre mixture of red and white.  Obviously one colour is oil paint and the other water-based, because they won’t blend.

'I shall have to add that to your record,' he says. 'Verbal abuse.'

'That was not verbal abuse,' I say, now devoid of nerves for him to get on, 'but I’m sure I can manage some.  Let’s see…'

I take a deep breath.

'You’re a pompous, self-important twerp with no charm, kindness or actual talent,' I say, for a first attempt.

I think I could get to like this.

'Everyone in the office either hates you or laughs at you.  Not one single person respects you,' I add, warming up. 'Your haircut makes you look like an army reject.  You can’t carry off that suit, you look like a ten-year-old who’s borrowed his father’s clothes.  There’s a betting pool going over how long you could stay alive without your clipboard, since you act like it’s your life-support machine.'

I do like this.  I’m on a roll.  My voice has gotten louder and there’s a small group of spectators pretending to need things from the filing cabinets.

'You were a terrible boyfriend,' I say, before I even wonder if I should stop this. 'You’re selfish, you have no consideration, you’re rude, you’re terrible in bed…'

I pause for breath as the crowd quickly turns laughs into coughs.

'And finally,' I say, looking him straight in the eye, 'you should really think about surgery, because you’re hung like a baby carrot.'

There’s a small explosion of (quickly smothered) laughter in the crowd and, for one moment, I feel good.  Very therapeutic, this.

Then it crashes.

'That would be your last warning,' Martin says, a vein twitching in his neck. 'Be thankful I’m a reasonable man.  But one more word, one more toe out of line, and I’ll fire you on the spot.  And her too.'  He jabs a finger at Cynthia’s deserted desk.

Then he turns and tries to make a dignified exit, while everyone who was in earshot for my little attack sniggers.

I really, really need a new job.

Chapter 26

Five minutes later, Cynthia walks in the door.  Her hemline has sunk and her neckline has ascended.  The hair is still raspberry.

'Morning,' she says cheerfully, as she settles down at her desk. 'Don’t tell me, Martin’s already made his daily visitation.'

'Yeah,' I say.

'The verdict?'

'One more toe out of line and we’re both fired.'

Cynthia smiles as she switches on her computer. 'Obviously I didn’t miss much,' she says.

I keep looking at her and then looking away.  I really want to ask if she's alright, but I keep chickening out.

'What?' Cynthia asks finally, noticing it.

'Well, you know,' I say awkwardly, looking at my desk. 'I just wanted to know if you’re okay.'

'I’m fine,' Cynthia says. 'Pass me some new claims, would you?'

'Are you sure?' I ask, as I hand them over. 'I mean, you’ve been off more than a week.'

Cynthia shrugs nonchalantly. 'I’ve got a lot of holiday that I want to use up.  Now seemed as good a time as any.'

A few moments’ silence.

'Yes, but are you really okay?' I burst out. 'Or have you stopped speaking to me?  I don’t mind if you have, because I deserve it, but could you tell me so that I don’t have to wonder?'

'Of course I haven’t stopped speaking to you,' Cynthia says, in something like the no-nonsense tone she used to use (when she spoke at all). 'And you don’t deserve to.  I’m fine.  If anything, this has done me good.'

'How can you say that?' I say, aghast.

Cynthia looks thoughtful for a moment. 'I didn’t say that it was good in itself,' she explains. 'I just mean…  I needed something to shock me out of this.  Mother’s death knocked me out of my old life and made me loosen up, but too much.  I needed a push back the other way and this worked.  No permanent damage done.'

'I still,' I wind my arms around myself, 'I still shouldn’t have interfered with all this.  I was wrong and I’m sorry.'

'You don’t have to…' Cynthia starts to say.

'Yes, I do,' I break in. 'I was wrong.  I see it, I admit it.  Let me feel it.'

'Fine,' Cynthia says, holding up her hands. 'Beat yourself up about it.  You can have one hour.' She checks her watch. 'And then you have to stop and forget about it.  Okay?'

I smile, now feeling silly. 'Okay.'

'So wallow in a pit of self-loathing while I try to look busy,' Cynthia says, picking up the first claim on her pile and starting to input it.

It’s very hard to wallow in self-loathing on demand.  Even though I was paddling in it on my way to deeper waters, the lake now seems to have dried up a little.  Must have been a hot day in hell.  Maybe if I lay down…

The telephone rings, interrupting my march towards insanity.

'Mel Parker,' I say automatically as I pick it up, still picturing lakes.

'Ms Parker, you applied for the post of administration assistant at Paua Shell PR, did you not?' a dry, oddly familiar voice says without preamble.

'What?' I say, caught off guard. 'I mean yes, I did.'

I think I did anyway.  I sent so many applications I rather lost track.

'Good to know that we’re clear on that.'

The slightest hint of sarcasm perhaps.

'I’m in the middle of a very important piece of work,' I say, crossing my fingers. 'I was a little distracted.  So, how can I help you?'

'I can interview you in one week, i.e. on Tuesday next at 1p.m. sharp.  Be late and I’ll deny all knowledge of your existence.'

Uh…kay.

'Who should I ask for?' I ask, since I still can't actually remember which job we’re talking about.

'Helen Murray.  1p.m. Tuesday.  Goodbye.'

She hung up.

Just like that.

Is this really someone I want to work for?

Nevertheless, I scribble down the details.  Beggars can’t be choosers and the alternative is Martin.  That’s assuming he doesn’t fire me.

A part of me can’t believe he hasn’t, actually.  I mean, I'd probably have fired me by now.

'Who was it?' Cynthia asks, obviously interested by my bemused expression.

'I’ve got another interview,' I say slowly. 'With someone very weird.'

'Fantastic!' Cynthia says. 'Wallowing in self-loathing is hereby postponed.  You can do it later, after we celebrate.'

I could.  Or I could just not do it at all.

**

At home time I shut my computer down and breathe a sigh of relief that another day is over.

I'm putting on my coat when Matt slowly approaches. 'Hi,' he says awkwardly.

I pause for a moment and then carry on.

'Hi,' I say, flipping my hair out from under the collar. 'I haven’t seen you around much lately.'

'Well, I’ve been pretty busy,' Matt says casually. 'Filling in piles of mindless forms, that sort of thing.'

'Me too,' I say, picking up my bag.

A slight pause.  Cynthia pauses in putting on her own coat to pay close attention.

'Listen,' Matt says, 'could I walk you home?  So I could tell you about the… forms?'

'Sure,' I say. 'It’s very important to keep up-to-date on what’s happening in the world of…forms.'

Cynthia gives me a thumbs up sign as we walk out of the office and I wave absently back.  We make it out of the door and about two steps down the stairs when Martin’s voice comes out of nowhere.

'Melanie, Matthew,' he says sharply, 'don’t you remember that little chat we had about…'

'We’re discussing forms,' Matt and I chorus.

'Co-ordinating between departments,' Matt adds quickly.

We both attempt the difficult task of looking innocent, respectful and sincere all at once.  The question is, did it work?

Martin looks concerned, in a suspicious way.  Any moment now he’s going to pull a thermometer out and take our temperatures.

'Very well,' he says slowly, studying us intently like he expects us to go delirious any second. 'Forms.  Very…commendable.'

And he disappears back up the stairs to his office.

'You actually dated that guy?' Matt asks, as soon as we hear Martin’s door slam shut above us.

'I can hardly believe it either,' I say, as we start walking downstairs again. 'I sure know how to pick them.'

Why didn't I just pick Will at the start?

'Your luck could easily change,' Matt says casually and I know for sure that he’s going to ask me out again.

Trouble is, I don’t know quite what I’m going to say.

**

Whoever it was who first decreed that the innocent ‘Would you like to come up for coffee?' should mean ‘Would you like to come up, screw my brains out and stay for breakfast?’ should be shot.  They have made it impossible for women everywhere to propose a simple conversation over drinks without the man in question getting the wrong idea.

Nevertheless, I have spoken the magic words (in the least suggestive tone I could manage, without actually sounding rude – very difficult) and invited him into the flat.  I am now prepared to mentally toss a coin.  Heads I go out with Matt, tails I don’t.  Unfortunately, the coin has rolled under my mental sofa and I can’t quite see what it says.

'Beth at work?' Matt asks, looking around from his place on the real sofa.

'Yes,' I say, hunting in the fridge for a couple of cans of cola (since we don't actually have any coffee, which only makes it worse). 'We’re…giving each other space.  Lots of it.  And she’s trying to organise a Harry Potter party for the kids.  You know, hats, broomsticks, wizard food.  Keeps them out of the way so their parents can stay home and read the books.'

'Great,' Matt says.

He’s doing that thing where you try to get the conversation to peter out so that you can introduce the topic you want to talk about.  Since you’re really nervous about it and want to get it over with.  I’ve done it so many times…

'She bought a Hedwig puppet and everything,' I babble, avoiding the inevitable. 'And she made herself a Hogwarts uniform.  They’ve never had so many fathers bringing their kids to the library.  And she…'

'Mel,' Matt breaks in, 'we both know what we’re really here to talk about.'

Damn, stalling technique has failed.  I bring the cans of cola over to the sofa and sit down next to Matt.

'Yeah,' I say nervously. 'I guess we do.'

I love Will, but he doesn’t love me and we’re not actually speaking still.  I do like Matt, but I don’t think I could love him like I do Will.  On the other hand maybe I would if I tried, but Matt is Will’s friend now which makes it more complicated and…

I actually used to think this was easy.  Dating’s so much simpler when the men show up in single file.

'Don’t look so scared,' Matt says, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. 'I’m not that frightening, am I?'

'Of course not,' I say, with what was supposed to be a relaxed little laugh but comes out as more of a nervous giggle. 'There’s just been so much going on lately.  I’m a little on edge.'

'I do a great line in massages,' Matt offers. 'Shoulder or…anywhere else you want it.'

Is there a nice way of saying ‘That’s a great idea.  I’d really love a full body massage.  I just don’t want you to give it to me.’?

Probably not.

'No, thanks,' I say, 'I…don’t really like massages.'

I cross my fingers behind my back.

'Okay,' Matt says slowly, obviously disappointed. 'That’s fine.'

I find myself studying the sofa cushion in minute detail.

'So,' Matt says, his casual tone gone since I’m not exactly making it easy for him. 'Have you thought anymore about my idea?'

I could play dumb.  But I’ve never liked that.

'I have,' I say, 'but things have been so up and down lately, that I just don’t know if…'

Matt, probably anticipating rejection, pulls me to him and kisses me.

He’s a good kisser.  Soft and not sloppy and…

Who am I kidding?  I feel nothing.  Less than nothing.  It’s like I have anaesthetic in my lips.

I wish he was Will.

I can’t believe I just thought that.

'Does that help you decide?' Matt asks, when he pulls away.  He’s expecting me to say yes now, I can tell.

I run my fingers through my hair.  They get stuck in a tangle. 'Um…' I start.

The doorbell rings.

Whoever that is, I love them.

'I’ll just get that,' I say brightly, fairly leaping up from the sofa.  Then I deliberately try to walk composedly to the door.

I open it, ready to greet the person like a long-lost brother.  Gas man, insurance salesman or Jehovah’s witness – whatever.

It’s Will.

He’s wearing his cream shirt again.  He looks nervous.  He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

I want them on me.

I’m so glad neither of them can read my mind.

'Hi,' he says awkwardly. 'I was hoping we could…'

Matt knocks over his empty coffee mug, accidentally on purpose.  Will’s eyes snap over to him.  Then he looks back to me, staring intently.

'Sorry to interrupt,' he says quietly. 'I’ll…come back some other time.'

He starts to turn, but then stops.  My heart leaps.

'Your lipstick is a little smudged,' he says, even more quietly.  My heart crashes to the floor and breaks a leg.

Then he starts to leave.

I want to run after him.  I want to yell ‘Will!' at the top of my lungs and throw myself on him so he can’t go.  Then I want to tell him exactly how I feel about him and he’ll tell me that he’s dumped Natalie and realised that I’m the only one for him and…

Hollywood should be sued for misleading impressionable young women.  He’d just think I’d gone mad.

I close the door very slowly and turn around.

'Bad timing,' Matt remarks.

Yes, it is.  If he wasn’t here, me and Will would be sitting down and getting things sorted out.

But I guess that isn’t quite what he meant.

'Matt,' I say, still standing by the door, 'I have thought and I’m sorry, but I don’t think we should date.  I’m…'

In love with our mutual friend.

'…not sure that we’re right for each other.  I think we’re better just as friends.'

That was…easier than I thought it would be.

Matt’s sitting very still on the sofa. 'Oh,' he says, nodding. 'Right.' He pauses.' To be honest, I kind of expected you to say yes.'

'I probably would’ve done,' I say honestly, 'if you’d asked me when we first met.  But…I suppose my ideas about things have changed.'

Matt gets up from the sofa and comes to join me.  For a second, I think that he’s just going to leave.  Then he turns to me and says 'There’s someone else, isn’t there?'.

'No!' I say automatically. 'Of course not!'

Why do people ask that question?  Has anyone ever said yes?

Matt’s eyes narrow. 'Are you sure?' he asks suspiciously.

Another stupid question.  I don’t know, maybe I’m sleeping with someone else, but I might not be.  Let me just think…

'I’m not seeing anyone else,' I say, probably more convincingly now I’m actually telling the truth. 'I promise.'

Matt’s still giving me the x-ray stare. 'But you’re thinking of someone, aren’t you?' he says.

He’s just going to keep pushing if I say no.

'You’re right,' I admit. 'I am.'

I think he was expecting another denial.

'Who?' he asks.

'I don’t want to say,' I say. 'He doesn’t feel the same way and it will never go anywhere, but he’s still my first choice.  It’s not fair to date someone else until I can figure out what to do about that.'

Matt straightens himself up. 'Fine,' he says, offhandedly. 'Maybe you can give me a call when you’re finished with that.  If you ever are.  See you at work.'

He lets himself out and I don’t stop him.

I’ve no desire to run after him.

Chapter 27

The next morning, while I’m in the shower, I decide to call Brittany.  I question this decision while I’m getting dressed, while I eat breakfast, on the way to work and roughly every other minute from then on.  Finally, five minutes before work is out for the day, I take action.

Naturally, I get the answer machine.

'Brittany,' I say, making a lightening decision. 'I’m coming to see you.  Tonight.  Unless you phone me and tell me that you’re busy.  My mobile number is…'

There’s a click as someone picks up the phone.

'Mel?' Brittany’s voice asks warily.

'Yes,' I say, trying to sound all calm and adult.  Even though half of me really wants to hang up.

'You want to…come here?' she asks, the tiniest hint of disbelief in her voice.

'Yes,' I say again, very positively.  Maybe if I act well enough, I’ll convince myself as well as her.

Silence.

'Okay,' Brittany says eventually. 'Phillip is working late again, so I’ll try to get Mrs. Jaffer from next door to watch James.  I’ll make us some dinner.  You…like lasagne, don’t you?'

Wow, she actually remembers.

'Lasagne’s great,' I say, a little cheered that she actually seems to want to make something I’ll like. 'I’ll see you…whenever the bus gets there.'

'Okay,' Brittany says again, sounding uncertain.

'Okay,' I echo, sounding more uncertain.

Awkward moment.

'See you then,' I say. 'Bye.'

'Bye.'

I put the phone down.

It’s official, I’m going to go make it up with my sister.

I really need some chocolate.

**

She’s got flour on her cheek.  That’s the first thing I notice when she answers the door.  Brittany has always looked perfect at our family gatherings.  Every single time.

She’s wearing a God-awful flowered dress and an apron.  Not a huge, plastic, sensible apron – the kind you use to keep your clothes clean while you cook – but a little, frilly, delicate one – the kind you wear if you’re a 1950s housewife.  She looks ridiculous.

But insulting her outfit probably isn’t the greatest way to start off our reconciliation.  And, let’s face it, I’m no fashion plate myself.

'You look well,' I say politely. ‘You look nice’ being too much of a lie.

Actually, she doesn’t.  She looks tired.  Like a real new mother, as opposed to these perfectly manicured actresses in the dangerously misleading nappy adverts.

I don’t think she believes my platitude.

'So do you.  Come in,' she says wearily. 'Dinner’s nearly ready.'

I follow her obediently into the kitchen.  What with one thing and another – namely the damage done to my psyche by each visit – I’ve only been here once before.  That was when they first moved in and I had to buy a set of hand-woven coasters and spend three hours chatting to a bunch of strangers whose sole aim in life seemed to be to climb up someone else and get on the next rung of whatever ladder they happened to be on.

I’ve never been overly fond of ladders.  They have a way of falling over.

Everything’s very smart and polished, like this is some estate agent’s show home.  The kind nobody actually lives in.  I simply don’t understand how a house can be a home without clutter.

'I thought we could have dinner in here,' Brittany says, as we enter a shiny silver kitchen straight out of the IKEA catalogue. 'Since it’s just the two of us.'

'Sure,' I say, settling myself down at the table, which is stainless steel.  It looks more like an operating table than a kitchen one.  Maybe Phillip brought it home from work.

I really wish I hadn’t thought that.

I don’t dare put my elbows on it, so I fold my hands self-consciously in my lap and look around.  Everything’s neat, everything matches.  Even the floor-cloths are colour co-ordinated.

'You could set the table,' Brittany says, taking a pan from the cooker over to the sink to drain it. 'Over there, left-hand drawer.'

I go over and open it.  Someone has tidied this cutlery drawer.  There’s not a fork out of place.

God, I’m glad I don’t have that much free time.

I deliberately mess the drawer up as I get out the knives and forks.  I locate plates in the cupboard above and lay out the table.  The normal, roughly-in-the-right-place way, not the kitchen maid way.

Brittany bustles around, serving lasagne – which smells amazing – and matching vegetables, until finally there’s nothing to do but eat.

We sit down, ready to bond over a plate of lasagne.

We stare at each other.

What do I do now?

This stuff doesn’t look half so hard on Oprah.

**

Since eating doesn't require being as emotionally vulnerable as talking does, we do that instead.  The lasagne really is very, very good.  Almost better than Beth’s, although I won’t tell her that.

'It’s great,' I say, between mouthfuls. 'You’re a really good cook.'

'I know,' Brittany answers, in a way that could have sounded conceited if she looked happier about it. 'I’m a wonderful cook, a wonderful cleaner and a wonderful nursemaid.  The perfect wife and mother.'

Since when does she think that that’s a bad thing?

'And therefore the perfect daughter,' I say, perhaps slightly bitterly.  It’s hard to be anything else.

'Yes,' Brittany says, nodding her head in agreement. 'The perfect daughter.'

I take another forkful of lasagne.

'I’m bored,' Brittany says, matter-of-factly.

I stare at her, not quite knowing what to say.

'I’m so bored that I ordered a full set of encyclopaedias from the man who came last week and invited two Jehovah’s witnesses in for coffee and carrot cake.'

That's pretty bored.

Does she have anymore carrot cake?

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 unladylike.  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.

Chapter 28

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.'

God, I wish that would happen to me.

I don’t mean the parents dying part, obviously.  Just the being suddenly wealthy part.

'So, what are you going to do?' I ask, determined to enjoy this vicariously if nothing else, practising to play Miss Havisham in my old age.

'I,' Cynthia says triumphantly, 'am going travelling.  Round the world, or some of it at least.  India, South America, China.  All the places I’ve seen in the news without really believing in.'

'Wow,' I breathe. 'That sounds amazing.'

To be honest, I’ve never been much of a traveller myself.  The thought of being separated by seas from the nearest Cadbury’s factory gives me heart palpitations.  But I can’t deny that the idea is appealing.  Months spent doing exactly whatever I want – bliss.

'I’ve got a house full of brochures,' Cynthia says. 'I had to give six weeks’ notice and I’m leaving one week later, come hell or an air-traffic controllers’ strike.  If I can’t fly, I’ll swim.  I’m starting in Brazil and going on from there.  No set plans, just wherever I want to go.'

'Wow,' I say again, vicariously nervous. 'Do you speak Spanish?  Or Portuguese?  What do they speak in Brazil anyway?'

'Not a word of either,' Cynthia says, cheerfully unconcerned. 'But I’ve bought a couple of phrasebooks.  I’m sure I’ll get along.  Best way to learn a language, I hear.'

Now I’m intimidated.  I’d no more go to a country like that with just a phrase book than I’d go into the lion enclosure at London Zoo with meat sewn into my jacket.

'How long are you going to be away?' I ask, trying to imagine staying out of England for longer than two weeks.  I'd miss fish and chips.  And I'd have to take my own personal supply of chocolate.

'I should think a year,' Cynthia says. 'That’s the usual time, I believe.  The money will run out eventually and I’d rather be back here, with a new job, before it does.'

'Definitely a good idea,' I agree. 'You can’t stay away too long or some things might not be here when you get back.'

A thought occurs to me. 'Cynthia,' I say, 'what happened to Underwear Guy?  Are you still seeing him?'

It could be my imagination, but I think Cynthia’s blushing under all that make-up.

'I am,' she says. 'We had a long talk and I told him everything that happened.  He was very understanding.  He’s a very nice guy.'

I can’t help smiling. 'You’ve said that a lot,' I say innocently.

'Well it’s true,' Cynthia says, a trifle defensively.

A trifle?  Where did that expression come from?  Why not a sundae?  Or a pavlova?

'And now I suppose you’re breaking up,' I say wryly. 'Pity.'

Now Cynthia is definitely blushing.  Either that or she’s seriously overloaded on blusher.

'Well…we sort of have an understanding,' she says awkwardly. 'When I get back I’m going to look him up and maybe we’ll try it for real.  You know, if both of us still want it.'

God, this is cute.  Her face is less of a picture and more of a valentine’s card.

'But you’re absolutely, definitely leaving?' I ask, curiously.

'I’m absolutely, definitely leaving,' Cynthia says decidedly. 'I have to.  This is probably my last chance to do this.  If I stay, before you know it I’ll be married with 2.4 kids and a steady job and the chance will be gone.  I have to go now.'

I smile wider.

'What?' Cynthia asks, seeing it.

'You’re marrying him now?' I say, thoroughly enjoying myself.

'I didn’t necessarily mean to him,' Cynthia protests, looking incredibly embarrassed.

'Of course not,' I say, keeping my smiles to myself this time.

I may not have met this guy, but I have a good feeling about the two of them.  After all, if a man can make you happy when you’re with him, make you even happier by letting you go so you can follow your dreams and welcome you back at the end of it, what more could you ask for?

I’m sure Will would do that for me.

If I was the one who was with him.

Sigh.

**

You know, I can’t help thinking that every office in England would grind to a halt if they outlawed sugar.  Forget coffee, sugar is what powers the workforce.  There may be the tiny little problems of obesity, diabetes and hyperactivity associated with it, but that’s no reason to dislike it.  Let us remember (alright, misquote) the sage words of the modern-day God us mortals call Homer Simpson: to sugar, the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems.

I take a moment to deliberate over my choice of chocolate bar – thus taking more care over this task than any I am actually paid for – punch in the familiar combination and am rewarded by the satisfying thud of my treat hitting the bottom of the machine.  I crouch down to get it out.

I hear the staff room door opening, but where I am there's a counter between me and it and I can’t see who's come in.

The pub-style bench along the side wall creaks as whoever it is slumps onto it.  After a few moments, a muffled sob penetrates the silence.

My chocolate bar not precisely forgotten, but for once not receiving my full attention as it starts to melt in my hand, I stand up.  It’s Julie, looking like a canary with conjunctivitis.

'What’s wrong?' I ask, momentarily forgetting that she doesn’t know I’m there.

Julie jumps so high she nearly goes into orbit.  Her head snaps up and then she looks down again in a pathetic attempt to pretend that she’s not crying.  The old ‘I have something in my eye’ routine, a blatant lie unless that something happens to be a small waterfall.

'Nothing,' she says, with one of those awful watercolour smiles. 'I just…'

She’s actually going to say it, isn’t she?  Someone has to invent a new excuse for this situation.  A medical condition maybe.  I mean, they can rationalise arse-squeezing now.  I saw it on Ally McBeal.

Julie’s face crumples like a crisp packet, halfway through her defensive cliché.

'I feel so humiliated,' she chokes out. 'I don’t think I can go back out there.'

God, these bloody callers.  It’s not Julie’s fault if they can’t get money back.  She doesn’t write the policies, anymore than they've read them.

'Forget about it,' I say sympathetically, coming over and sitting down beside her. 'These callers are failed human cloning experiments. You can’t pay any attention to what they say.'

'I know,' Julie says, nodding in agreement.

Two things.  One, she didn’t look at me when she said that.  Two, she paused just a fraction too long.  She’s not upset about a caller.

'You’re not upset about a caller,' I say.

'Yes, I am,' Julie protests. 'A really awful one.'

Now she’s trying to look more upset.  This doesn’t make sense.  Why would she not want to tell me what’s going on?  I want to help her.  It’s not like she'd upset me.

Ah.  I think I may be catching on.

'It’s Paul, isn’t it?' I say.

'Of course not,' Julie says, way too quickly but trying to look as if the possibility should never even have crossed my mind.

'Yes, it is,' I say flatly. 'It’s Paul.  Something has gone wrong between the two of you, but you’re afraid to tell me since I’m the one who set you up in the first place and I therefore have a vested interest in you two.'

'It’s not that at all,' Julie says feebly.

'Julie,' I say, patting her hand. 'I’ve recently learned that my matchmaking talents aren’t what I thought they were.  This won’t do anything to me, it’s all about you.  Tell me what’s wrong.'

Julie’s face is Loch Ness.  Calm, flat, still, until…the monster appears.

'He’s having an affair!' she wails.

That bastard.

'No!' I say, genuinely shocked.  I figured they just had a few couple issues.

'With two different women.'

I am in no way personally affected by this.  I am merely outraged on Julie’s behalf.

'At the same time.'

Okay, now I’m personally affected.  If you’re going to have a threesome, at least make your girlfriend part of it.

I’m sure there are a few things wrong with that sentence, which I’ll analyse at a later time.

I utter an extremely unflattering description of Paul in Klingon, which needless to say I picked up from Will.

Will.

No, now is not the time.  Anger trumps wistfulness.

'I can’t believe it,' I say, standing up and starting to pace.  I rip the wrapper off my chocolate bar and tear a bit off with my teeth in the manner of a lion.  Or possibly a female preying mantis.

Hmmm, yes.  Second one definitely more appropriate.

'He has the nerve to cheat on you, humiliate you, while making everyone else think he’s perfect so you look like the one with the problem.'

I am just outraged on her behalf.  I am not over-identifying.

Yes I am, dammit!

I march to the cola machine and thump it, purely as an act of mindless violence.  Amazingly, a can of cola appears.  The alarm it supposedly has doesn’t even go off.

Hmmm, good to know.

When I pick up the can, I suddenly feel like a chain-store version of Phoebe Halliwell out of Charmed, because I get a premonition of exactly what’s going to happen next.

I march back to the table, grab Julie’s hand and pull her to her feet. 'Come with me,' I say firmly. 'We're going to see Paul.  It’s time for a little in-house entertainment.'

For the record, yes I do realise what a spectacularly bad idea this is.

Chapter 29

I descend the stairs dramatically, feeling like some sort of warrior goddess – possibly Xena – holding my now open can of cola like it’s the Olympic Torch.  I will exact revenge on behalf of all womankind.

Fine, I’ll exact it on behalf of Julie and myself.  Quit trying to burst my bubble.

Julie scurries along nervously at my side. 'Is this a good idea?' she asks worriedly. 'I don’t want to cause a scene.'

'Don’t worry, Julie,' I say, in what is supposed to be a comforting, goddess-like tone. 'Leave everything to me.'

When I get downstairs and enter the main office, it’s like I’ve acquired a targeting system for my eyes.  Target is identified.  Pour at will.

Paul is, joy of joys, in the middle of a large group of people.  Popularity – all the better to humiliate you with, my dear.

I suddenly seem to have Superman’s faster-than-light speed, because I’m facing him before I even have time for a second thought.

'You bastard!' I scream at him.

The office suddenly falls silent as the mad banshee attacks.

Paul looks a little scared, but tries to laugh it off. 'Have I done something to you, Mel?' he asks, sharing a ‘hormones’ look with the guy next to him.

'Not to me,' I say, as loud as I can. 'To Julie.'

Paul shifts his weight and lowers his voice, leaning down to talk to me. 'Then don’t you think it’s between me and her?' he asks, casting a look at Julie who’s trying to blend into the background a safe distance away.

'No,' I say, feeling empowered.  That’s the sugar kicking in. 'I set up my friend with you because you tricked me into thinking that you’re a really nice guy and you cheated on her.  She may not be able to expose you in front of all these people, but I can.'

I spin round and address the whole office.  I think it’s the first time I’ve ever had an audience curled up in my lap.

'This man,' I say, jabbing my finger at Paul, too high on sugar and adrenaline to really consider how stupid I might look, 'is a liar and a cheat, who has only not broken my friend’s heart because she is too smart to fall for a pathetic loser like him.'

I brandish my can of cola dangerously. 'I also,' I say, inspiration appearing like Eve’s serpent, 'have it on good authority that he is hung like a guinea pig, has the staying power of a teenager and, generally, has all the sexual prowess of a rutting rhino.'

The female half of the office burst out laughing.  A ‘shit, I’m glad that’s not me’ look sweeps over the faces of the male half.  Paul's face has taken on an interesting blotchy red and white complexion, rather like a strawberry fruit corner that hasn’t been mixed properly.

'So,' I say triumphantly, really enjoying myself for the first time ever in this office, 'from Julie and me to you, here’s the only present you deserve.'

With that, I raise my can of cola and tip the contents down Paul’s very stylish, very expensive, very white shirt.

I can hear applause in the background, but I’m just enjoying the look on his face.  This is fantastic.  I feel good, I feel liberated, I feel…

'Melanie!'

I feel sick.  That’s Martin’s voice.

Of course there's no reason to believe that he witnessed all this.  I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

Especially since conclusions are practically on top of me already.

I turn around, very slowly.  Delaying the inevitable really, since I already know what’s going to happen.

Martin’s expression makes Paul’s look like a Cabbage Patch Doll’s.

'Assault,' he says, eyes gleaming with delight, 'on a colleague.'

He leaves a dramatic pause.

'Oh, just get on with it,' I say, when I realise I can’t be bothered to wait for the pause to end.

Martin glares and extends the pause beyond dramatic and into ‘Line!’ just to irritate me.  Of course it rather lessens the impact of his next words.

'You’re fired,' he says finally.

'Yes,' I say. 'I got that already.'

On a mad whim, I turn to everyone and hold my arms out wide. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' I say, 'I hope you all enjoyed the show.  You’ve been a wonderful audience, really.  Goodnight and God-bless.'

And then I stroll out and back to my desk.  I don’t even fall over anything.

God, it feels good.

**

The only real problem with getting fired in real life, as opposed to in the movies, is that you can’t cut straight from ‘You’re fired.’ to ‘Hi, honey, I’m home.  Guess what happened today?’.  Instead you have to spend about an hour sorting through your astonishingly large collection of junk.   To work out what you want to take home, what you should have thrown away long before it went that green colour and started to grow fur, and what is office property and must be left behind if you ever want to work again.

Or, rather, if you ever need to work again.

This all gives you plenty of time to get utterly terrified of impending unemployment and start seriously considering going down on your knees in front of your boss and offering to do absolutely anything to get your job back.

I really should have thought that sentence through a little more before I said it.

'Here,' Cynthia says, shoving something at me. 'Take these too.'

I look.  A Cadbury's selection box, a four-pack of Double Deckers and a Kit Kat Chunky.

Tears come to my eyes.

'Thanks, Cynthia,' I say, giving her a big hug. 'Just what I wanted.'

I think that's the first time I've ever meant those words.

'And take this', she says, giving me a piece of paper. 'My phone number.  Call me before I go away.  I'll bring my chocolate fountain round.'

God, I've always wanted one of those.

She lowers her voice. 'And if you need a loan, just ask.'

'Thanks,' I say again, 'but I can manage.'

I can't ask Cynthia for money.  Worse case scenario, I'll ask Will.

Julie comes over with a small cardboard box. 'A few extra cookies.  Chocolate chip.'

What's the saying?  The only thing better than a good friend is a good friend with chocolate.

She puts the box down and hugs me. 'I'll call if I hear about any jobs,' she says, then looks a little uncomfortable. 'And thanks for standing up for me.  I'm sorry I got you fired.'

'I got me fired,' I say firmly. 'And I don't regret it.  I'll find another job in no time.'

She's nodding.  She believes me.

I only wish I believed myself.

**

Once out of the office with your pathetic carrier bags of junk, you work very hard to remind yourself of all the wonderful parts of unemployment.  No early mornings, no work, no dress code to pretend to follow.  And you try even harder to forget the bad bits.  No money, no work, nothing to get up for.  I devoted all the time from Thursday (post-firing) to Sunday night to bouncing from pure happiness to utter despair and back again.

It is now Monday.  Unbelievably, the novelty of all this free time has already worn off and I am bored out of my tiny mind.  I am also sick of the sight of the flat, but can’t leave it because a) I still haven’t managed to call Will and b) if I go anywhere else, I’ll spend money that I don’t have.  I should of course be preparing for my interview, which is tomorrow, but now that I’ve been fired from my crappy job I figure I’ve got more chance of winning the 1500m backstroke at the Olympics than getting an offer.  Which would be rather unlikely even if I could swim.

NY Alien says:

‘Cheer up.  What do the Monty Python boys say?’

Fired!!! says:

‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.  This parrot is dead.  He’s a lumberjack and he’s okay.  Every sperm is sacred.  And now for something completely different.’

NY Alien says:

‘No.  Always look on the bright side of life.’

Fired!!! says:

‘There is no bright side.  I’m unemployed, I’ve fallen out with my oldest friend.  The man I love, who just happens to be the same guy, is probably shagging his Satan’s hell cow of a girlfriend in his office right now and, in a week or two, the bailiffs will be coming round to repossess my stack of kilogram Dairy Milk bars.’

NY Alien says:

‘I’m sure they won’t take your chocolate.’

Susan has her priorities straight.

Fired!!! says:

‘I’m a failure.  I should never have tried to help anyone.  I should have kept out of it.  All of it.’

NY Alien says:

‘You’re not a failure.  I’m sure you’ve helped people.’

Fired!!! says:

‘I have one question.’

And I have a distinct suspicion that I already know the answer to it.

NY Alien says:

‘What?'

Fired!!! says:

‘Have you, or have you not, gone back to work?  Truth!!!’

NY Alien says:

‘I went back to work.’

Fired!!! says:

‘Ha!  I knew it.  See, failure=me.’

NY Alien says:

‘No, it doesn’t.  It was a great idea.  I’m just not ready to paint full-time yet.  Maybe in five years I’ll give it another shot.  But I know that now, I’m not wondering.  So you talking me into it was a good thing.’

Fired!!! says:

‘Fine.’

NY Alien says:

‘So you’re not a failure and you’re going to go to that interview tomorrow and knock their socks off.  Is that clear?’

Fired!!! says:

‘Very.’

So easy to be optimistic when you don’t have to go.

**

At my last interview I began with a sense of optimism and everything went wrong from the moment I opened my eyes.  Today I began by being somewhat cynical – to say the least – about my chances and somehow everything has gone right.  I woke up early, I remembered everything I was supposed to, the mirror and my eyes concur that my shoes match and I don’t smell of wine.  But even as I make my way up to the office where I’m to be interviewed, looking almost like one of the models from ‘Winning that Job’ articles, I’m pessimistic.  Something is going to go wrong.  I know it.  It’s only a question of what and when.

The outside of this concrete coffin they call an office wasn't appealing, but I have to admit it's quite nice inside.  Clean, warm.  I'm not entirely sure about the green and yellow colour scheme, or the 'artistic' wallpaper, but all in all I think I could stand it.

That is, if a miracle occurred and I was actually offered this job.

The receptionist opens the office door and waves me inside.

'Melanie Parker.'

Now I’m all blasé about being announced.

I step across the threshold and into the room.  My potential future boss has her head behind the desk, searching for something in a drawer.  Probably looking for my CV in the ‘only if we’re desperate’ file.

Positive Mental Attitude.  I’m unemployed.  I need this job.

I paint a smile onto my face.  Sort of Mona Lisa, done by a five-year-old.

This room is all smart and cream-coloured.  The window looks out on a nice park area.  No harassed negotiators running around.  It’s a million miles away from what I’m used to.  There’s even a separate little desk, just waiting to be filled by me.  It’s been polished.  Nobody polished at my old job.

My potential future boss obviously was looking for my CV, because she sits up, places it in front of her and steeples her hands in front of it as she looks up at me and smiles.

For one millisecond, I smile back.  Then I go through the following thought process: she’s so smart, her hair’s all neat, she’s even crossing her legs at the ankle.  She looks just like the poster girl for professionalism.

Oh, crap.

It’s the woman from the toilet at my last interview.  My expression has now mutated into unmitigated horror.

'Poster Girl!' I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

She’s been looking carefully at me, like she recognised me too.  Now, thanks to my wonderfully unstudied exclamation, the penny drops.  Her eyes light up and she smiles properly.

'Hand-dryer Girl!' she replies, in that dry voice which I now realise was the one on the telephone.

I knew it.  I knew something would go wrong.

'I’ll just see myself out,' I say, my shoulders collapsing in a landslide as I start shrinking back towards the door.

'Don’t be an idiot,' Poster Girl says firmly. 'Come.  Sit.  Talk.  Now.  Are you a woman or a weevil?'

'Sometimes I wonder actually,' I find myself saying as I leave the relative safety of the doorway and settle myself in the chair opposite her.  It’s a misleadingly comfortable seat.  Like someone’s upholstered an electric chair.

There is something to be said for starting an interview knowing that there isn’t a chance in hell of you getting the job.  Removes uncertainty, which means you can relax.

'You know,' Poster Girl says, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms as she cants her head. 'I thought I recognised your voice on the phone, but I couldn’t place you.  Isn’t this a coincidence?'

Yes.  The kind that proves that, while God might be dead, Satan is certainly alive and kicking.  Satanic intervention.  If I ever meet Satan, I’ll…  What would I do?  How do you torture evil incarnate?  He must be into sadism, it stands to reason.

'I recognised your voice too,' I say honestly, 'but if I’d placed you I wouldn’t have come.'

'Why not?'

I can’t believe she actually asked me that question.

'Well, I made quite a memorable first impression,' I say wryly.

'Which is a good thing.  So, that’s cleared that up.  Onto the interview.'

I can’t believe she’s actually going to go through this with me.  They really must be desperate.

'I’m just a little disorganised today,' she says.  I glance around the catalogue-picture office in disbelief. 'Fired my third temp less than an hour ago.  Hopeless they are, all of them.  No common sense, the intelligence of a fruit fly and all the vision of a sonar-deaf bat.  Can’t wait until I find a perm again.  Last one’s gone off to have a baby.'  She pulls a face at me. 'And, between you and me, it’s virtually a crime against humanity for her to be passing on those genes.  Face like she’s spent a few hours being eaten alive by killer ants.'

I wince involuntarily.

'So,' Poster Girl says, with a smile, 'I haven’t read your CV.  But since most of them are dull bullshit anyway, I don’t think it matters.  And it doesn’t change my first question, which is ‘how did you come to be sitting under that hairdryer?’.  I want a full, detailed answer, no glossing over the good bits.  Begin.'

I start off slowly, but I soon get into it.  Which is when it finally stops being horrible and starts being incredibly funny.  By the time I reach the end of the story, Poster Girl is laughing so hard I’m half-afraid she’s going to have a seizure.  Which is quite gratifying, even if she is laughing at me.

'Oh, that is wonderful,' she says, pulling a tissue from the box on her desk and wiping her eyes.

'But I’m really much better organised than that usually,' I say hurriedly. 'I’m punctual and reliable and…'

'Funny!' Poster Girl interrupts. 'Have you ever considered doing stand up?'

Making a career out of being a laughing stock?

Hmmm…that’s not such a bad idea actually.

'I’d rather get this job,' I say, sounding as enthusiastic as you can possibly get over administration. 'I’ve got a degree and eighteen months’ experience in admin.'

'Personally,' Poster Girl says, 'I think degrees are irrelevant.  Half today’s graduates can barely write English and I’m not talking about the international students either.  And I have a degree in law and I still know bugger all about the legal system, other than the fact that it doesn’t work.'

'Which everybody knows,' I say wryly.

'Precisely,' she says, acknowledging me with a wave of her hand. 'Experience isn’t that useful really either, in my opinion.  It just means you have a stack of things to unlearn.  Besides, typing's not exactly on a par with quantum physics, is it?'

Nowhere in any of Will’s lessons was ‘how to deal with the renegade interviewer’ mentioned.

Will.

No, I can’t think about him.  Still.

'So, what are you looking for?' I ask, trying and failing to guess.

'I’m just the interviewer,' Poster Girl says, grimacing. 'The company is looking for all the crap you just mentioned.  What’s your degree?'

My heart sinks.

'Economics,' I say.

'From?'

'Bristol.'

'Class?'

'Third.'

'Yeah,' Poster Girl says, rolling her eyes. 'They like upper seconds at least.  The fact that anyone capable of that is massively overqualified for this job and will leave the first chance they get seems to have escaped them.  Anyway, you won’t get it.'

'I know,' I say dismally. 'Not this, not anything.  And I’m unemployed now to boot.'

'Really?' she says, perking up. 'Is there a story behind that?'

Fabulous.  Now I’m a performing monkey.

'I made the mistake of getting my boyfriend a job as my boss,' I start. 'Then he dumped me.  Then…'

I run through an edited version of the story, including the cola machine that launched a thousand ships, and soon she’s in tears again.

'I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much fun interviewing,' she says as she calms down. 'I’m so glad I kept this job.  I nearly went somewhere else, you know, which is why I was at the recruitment agency when we met.  But this is way more fun than I would’ve had if I’d left.'

'Always glad to be of service,' I say, unable to stop the sarcasm creeping into my voice.

'Don’t be like that,' Poster Girl says, sounding exactly like Kenneth Williams. 'I’ll stop laughing.  I just get precious little entertainment around here.'

'Well I need a job, not a slot on Live at the Apollo,' I say, trying not to sound as crabby as I feel.

Poster Girl looks thoughtful. 'Can you type?' she asks.

'Yes.'

'How fast?'

'60, 70.'

'Okay.  You know Word, Excel, Outlook, the Internet?'

'Of course.'

'Okay, this is very important,' Poster Girl says.  She seems to be having difficulty keeping a straight face. 'Are you willing to do things that other people might consider a bit bizarre or degrading?'

I stare back at her impassively. 'I think I can just about manage it,' I say.

'I still can’t offer you this job,' she says and I feel like giving up right now. 'You don’t fit the description.  Besides, I suspect you of having three figures in your IQ and a sense of humour, thus making you over-qualified for the position.'

'Then why did you bother asking?' I ask, now thoroughly fed up.

'I had a thought,' Poster Girl says uninformatively. 'Anyway, I suppose we’re done.  Give me a day or two and I’ll call and confirm that you haven’t got the job.'

'Thanks,' I say, the edge in my voice sharpening as I get up.

'You’re welcome,' she says, oblivious. 'Have a nice day.'

There are no good people left on this planet.  None.

**

Between getting back and Beth coming home, I try to work myself into the mood to be thoroughly melodramatic.  And since if you’re going to do it you might as well do it properly, I go all out.

Beth comes in, laden down with books as usual – the woman reads like a scanner and doesn’t even take ten minutes to warm up – and surveys the scene.  I’m wearing my black witch’s outfit from several Halloweens previously, when I was briefly obsessed with Charmed and wanted to revel in the ironic pointy hat.  Will and I went trick or treating and an old guy with a really worrying witch fetish tried to hit on me.

Will.

Still not the time.  I doubt it ever will be.

Anyway, I’ve turned off the lights, lit candles everywhere and there’s a frankly huge chocolate sundae sitting on the table beside me.  The fact that I’m not eating it illustrates my despair better than a carved dagger in my hand.

'I take it that it didn’t go well?' Beth says, in her ultra sensible voice, which means more now that I know it’s by choice.

'No,' I say, raising a limp hand to my brow as I recline weakly on the sofa.

You know, being melodramatic doesn’t work without the second half of your duo.

I sit up and grab my sundae.

'It was better than the last one,' I say, in my normal voice. 'But there’s still no way that I’m getting the job.  In fact, the interviewer was nice enough to assure me of that, although she’s calling in a day or two to confirm.'

'We’re actually looking for someone at the library,' Beth says helpfully, putting her pile of books on the counter and heading to the fruit bowl for her daily dose of Vitamin C.

She can’t be serious.

I mean, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but…

'Two things, Beth,' I say. 'One, do you really think I’d fit in there when the last book I read was Harry Potter and the one before that was See Spot Run?  Two, would you honestly want to work with me?'

Beth starts thoughtfully cutting open an orange.

'It’s great of you to suggest it,' I say quickly, 'but I don’t think us spending that much time together is a good idea.  I mean, remember how irritated you get when I leave my washing in the machine, then imagine that all day, everyday.  It would never work.'

Beth nods. 'You’re right,' she says. 'It’s a bad idea.'

'Although,' I add, completely switching out of melodramatic mode and into practical mode, 'unemployment benefits may force us to try it out.  Council Tax next month and I don’t think I can manage it.'

'I can carry it,' Beth says.

I stare at her.

'You earn less than I do.  Did,' I say. 'You can’t afford to support both of us.  Besides, there’s no reason why you should have to.'

'I have some in reserve,' Beth says complacently. 'And I’m sure you’ll find a job soon.'

'Yes, but your savings are yours,' I protest.

I live with an angel.  One who hasn’t quite realised that she’s become mortal.

'I’ve got some from my father,' Beth says, looking a little guilty. 'A sort of…trust fund, if you will.  For emergencies, you know.  A couple of hundred won’t matter.'

Hang on a minute.  Beth’s poor.

Although…that would explain how she could afford the new dating wardrobe.

'Just out of casual interest,' I say suspiciously, 'and obviously you don’t have to tell me, how much is in this trust fund?  Ball park?'

Beth’s neck glows like Rudolph’s nose.

'A couple,' she says cagily.

'A couple of hundred or a couple of thousand?'

'A couple of million.'

I am utterly speechless.  For about two seconds.

'That’s fantastic!' I exclaim. 'You lucky thing.  You’ll never have to worry about money, ever.'

Beth laughs wryly. 'It won’t last forever.  I can’t base my lifestyle on it.  I’ve seen too many others make that mistake.  I don’t live on it.  It’s for…special projects.  And sometimes I use a little of the interest for a treat.'

'Special projects like what?' I ask, my eyes narrowing suspiciously again.  I may not know Beth as well as I thought I did, but I saw that flash in her eyes when she said that.

'Oh, nothing,' Beth starts to say, before she’s interrupted by the telephone.  She scuttles to it and picks it up very quickly.  All the time she’s talking, she keeps looking nervously at me, until whoever it is on the other end says something important enough to distract her.

She’s smiling when she hangs up.  Not happy smiling, but so-happy-the-smile-keeps-breaking-out smiling.  She’s trying to control it and is failing utterly.

'What?' I ask, intrigued. 'And don’t tell me ‘Nothing.’.  Spill.'

Beth sort of bounds over and huddles onto the sofa with me like she’s going to tell me about her first ever date.  Or a movie-style first ever date, anyway.  Mine was bloody awful, but that’s another story.

'They're publishing my book!' she says ecstatically.

It’s very hard to get suitably excited when you have no idea what’s going on.

'That's fabulous!' I say. 'What book?'

'I've written a book,' Beth says, beaming.

How did I not know this?

'What?' I say. 'When?  What about?'

'Over the last year,' Beth says, looking slightly sheepish. 'It's a children's book.  It started as just a hobby, really.  I used to write stories all the time when I was a child.  Then I started reading it for storytime at the library and the kids loved it, so… I thought I might try sending it to an agent. '

Have you ever had the feeling that you’re Alice and you’ve gone through the looking glass?

'I can't believe you didn't tell me anything about it!' I say. 'That's amazing!'

'I never really thought anyone would want it,' Beth says apologetically. 'So I didn't say anything.  And then it never seemed like the right moment.'

Wow.

'So when's it coming out?  Are you going to be famous like J K Rowling?' I ask excitedly.

Beth laughs. 'It's aimed at pre-schoolers, so I don't think so.  It'll be out sometime next year I think.  And I'm working on another one now, for older kids.'

God, that's amazing.  My flatmate is an author.  I don't think I've ever voluntarily written anything longer than a Christmas card.

'That’s wonderful,' I say. 'I’m so happy for you.'

Beth's life is wonderful.   And my own is shit.

I start to cry.

But that’s okay.  She can only see tears of joy.

Chapter 30

I’ve acted so hard all afternoon that I’m emotionally drained by the evening.  I’m sick of pretending to be happy.  I mean, I am happy for Beth.  I am.  I’d just like to be happy for me as well.

I’m down to the dregs of my second chocolate extravaganza when the doorbell rings.  I close my eyes briefly while I debate whether or not to pretend I’m out.  Beth’s gone to meet some people from work – librarians do have a social life, what do you know?  So I could easily get away with it.

I should answer it.

The doorbell rings again.

Forget it, I’m not getting up.

'Mel?'

Will’s voice.

I’m off the sofa faster than if it had suddenly turned into a bed of hot coals and I wrench open the door.

Then I try to act composed and cool.

It was never going to work.

'Hi,' Will says.

I wonder briefly what would happen if I stood on my toes, grabbed him and kissed him.  He’d probably think I’d gone mad.

'Hi,' I say, not finding out.

'Can I come in?' he asks.

We’re being formal again, like after I walked in on him and Natalie.  I can’t handle formal with Will.  I’d rather he hated me out-right than treated me like an acquaintance.

I step back and let him in.  I start to wish that I wasn’t wearing my elephant slippers.  Maybe something small and black would be better.  Make him see me in a different light.

'So,' I say, 'what brings you here?'

I cringe as soon as I say that.  We sound as fake as one of those TV adverts for loan companies.

Will shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up by the door.

'Brittany called me,' he says awkwardly. 'She said you two have sorted things out a little.  I just thought I’d…let you know how happy I am for you.'

What I really want to hear is ‘Mel, you’re the only one I could ever be with.  I’ve been so stupid all my life, but now I’ve seen the light and know that you’re perfection in ironic slippers.’.

Okay, the last bit might be pushing it.

'That’s…nice,' I say lamely.

My secondary school English teacher banned us from using that adjective.  Nice, the word you use for something you don’t give a mushroom for.  And I hate mushrooms.

'And…to try again to apologise,' Will adds.

Oh God, I almost forgot why Will and I were all weird.

'I’m not going out with Matt,' I blurt out.

All in all, I could have introduced that a little more subtly.

'I know,' Will says. 'He said.'

We just look at each other.  I can’t bear awkward silences.  Not with Will.

'Can we stop being weird with each other,' I beg. 'I don’t want to be weird with you.  Can we just sit down and eat and argue and be honest with each other?'

Fairly honest, anyway.

Will’s face, which was all rigid and controlled like he’d had Botox, now softens.

'Sure,' he says. 'Of course.'

'Great,' I say, relieved.  I shove the door closed and start to follow him to the sofa.  Then I stop and go back towards the phone.

'I’ll order pizza,' I say, then pause. 'That is, if you don’t mind paying for it.  I’m a little low on funds.'

'I don’t mind,' Will says, as he settles himself down on the sofa.

We’re still doing it.  It’s still not normal.

I wonder what would happen if I told him I loved him.

He’d probably get one of those ‘Oh, that’s so sweet, but…’ expressions.

'You know,' he says from the sofa, in that fake casual tone you’re not supposed to use with your best friend, 'if it’s worth anything, I think you made the right decision.  About Matt, I mean.  Dating colleagues isn’t a good idea.'

Of course it’s worth something, I want to scream.  You mean everything to me, how could I not care what you think?

Even though I’ve ignored your advice more times than I can count.

Will is frowning. 'Of course, I suppose you don’t work there anymore,' he says. 'But, to be honest I don’t know if you’re right for each other anyway.  You need someone more…more like…'

'I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,' I interrupt, abandoning the phone. 'I could have done so much damage.  I should have listened to you from the start.  And I’ve given up interfering.  For good.'

Again, I need to learn the art of lead-up.

'It doesn’t matter,' Will says, brushing my apology off like it’s a piece of lint on his jacket.

'Yes, it does,' I say positively. 'We used to be so comfortable with each other and now things are so awkward.  If I hadn’t started this whole ‘let’s fix up everyone’s life’ project, we’d still be just like we’ve always been.'

Will pauses.  When he speaks, his tone sounds too heavy for his words.

'Maybe it’s better,' he says, 'that things between us should change.'

'No!' I say, appalled. 'I don’t want things to change.  Things are great just the way they are.  I just want you to always be my friend.'

No, I don’t.  I’m lying through my teeth.  I do want things to change.  But I want us to go from friends to lovers, which I know can’t happen.  I can live without that, but I can’t live without our friendship.

Okay, that’s silly.  I can live without it.  But I really, really don’t want to.

'Right,' Will says.  He almost sounds resigned, like being my friend has suddenly become a chore. 'Okay.'

I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?  It’ll never be the same again.

'I’ll order pizza,' I say and turn my back on him so that he can’t see the tear that’s slipping down my face.

**

Pizza doesn’t make it better.  We’re talking like friends, yes, but friends who haven’t seen each other since graduation and are trying to catch up on four years on the road of life.  Not friends who have shared every pothole on that road.

Well, almost every one.

'I have to get going,' Will says finally and I’m almost relieved.  Me, relieved that Will is leaving.  My world is officially a nightmare.

'Okay,' I mumble and get up far too quickly.

I see him out, like he’s a guest.  He isn’t a guest, this is practically his second home.

As soon as he’s gone, I make to get more chocolate.  Beth has been keeping the house well-stocked ever since I got fired.  If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to a woman’s is through Willy Wonker’s Chocolate Factory.

I lean against the counter, eating a Yorkie, contemplating the meaninglessness of human existence.  Which is when I notice that Will has left his jacket behind.

I abandon my chocolate, thus proving myself to be a lost cause, and go over to it.  I rub my hands over the soft material.  Then, and it even worries me, I bury my face in it, close my eyes, breathe in his scent and imagine that he’s really here with me.

Then I take it off the hook and hug it to me like it’s a baby blanket.  I feel an impulse to start sucking my thumb, but that would be too weird even for me.

I can feel something hard in one of the pockets, pressing against my rib.  I rummage in them until I find it and pull it out.

It’s a box.  A little, leather box that can only contain one thing.  I know that, but it’s still a shock when I open it.

It’s an engagement ring.  A large and, in my opinion, perfectly hideous engagement ring and it’s unmistakable.  It’s Will’s mother’s.  Her original one was stolen and, since they’d ‘gone up in the world’ by then, Will’s dad bought her one that cost six times as much to replace it.

You notice that I sound very calm about this.  It won’t last.  I mean, it’s a horrible shock and a sign that my world is about to be plunged into eternal darkness, lit only by the scorching fires of hell.  Will is going to marry Natalie and she will make sure that I lose him for life.

My body enters a state of just below breaking-stress.  Half of it tries to chase after Will and just plain beg him not to go through with this.  The other half has hardened, like my insides have been gutted and cement has been poured in to keep my skin in the right shape.  That half knows it’s over.

It’s the natural next step.  This is what everything’s been leading up to.  It’s all been some cosmic plan.  Drive a wedge – or a few dozen, might as well do it properly – in between Will and Mel, thus leaving a gap for Natalie to squeeze her Vogue-model frame into.  Then chop Mel out of the picture.  Time for a new era in the history of Will.

Soon Will will realise that he’s left it behind and come back.  I’ll have to hand it over calmly.  Gracefully accepting my fate.  Or I’ll go to him, magnanimous in defeat.  The perfect gentlewoman.  No begging involved.

I can’t do it yet.

I don't know if I can do it at all.

Chapter 31

Wednesday and Will still hasn’t missed it.  My heart wants to take this as a good sign, that he seems to be in the ‘just thinking about it’ phase as opposed to the ‘waiting for the right moment’ phase.  My paranoia, however, thinks that my heart is kidding itself.  It’s over.  She's won.

By this time I can’t stand being in the house all the time.  Less than a week and it already feels like a prison.  I’d forgotten this bit about unemployment.  You think ‘No money bad, but at least I’ll have stacks of free time.’.  Then you discover that, without spending money, you can’t fill it all.  Then you instantly forget all this when you start work again.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, as I said, I’m going crazy at home, so I decide to go and visit Beth.

Our local library is a large, colourless building with far too many sharp edges.  A while back they attempted to improve it with some hanging baskets, but then were made to take them down again after one fell on the mayor's head.  Instead they got some kids to paint a mural.  Did you know dragons lived in libraries?  They do now.

I don't find Beth in the children's library, so I trail up the very long, very lightweight spiral staircase to the staff room, wishing I could take the lift.  They have one, but only disabled people are allowed to use it.  Surely that’s discrimination?

I trudge over to the staff room door and discover the first tiny flaw in my ‘surprise visit’ plan.  The door’s locked and you need a code to get in.

Maybe if I can get her attention, she’ll open it for me.

I stand on tiptoe so I can see through the glass panel at the top of the door.  A second later I’m really glad I’m not standing on anything, because I would definitely have fallen off it.

Beth is in there.  With Andrew, the paperback version of Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years.  Kissing him.

And I don’t mean a little peck on the cheek either.

It’s sick, it’s disturbing, it’s…actually kind of sweet.

I cannot believe I just thought that.

But it is, in a way.

I mean, couple, together.  Not couple, torn apart by the vicious claws of fate.  One soon to be trapped in an unhappy marriage.  The other destined to live alone for the rest of her days.

I mean, not that I want Will to be unhappy, obviously.  I just want him to be happy with me.

Question, can I be glad that Will is happy with someone else?

Magic 8 ball says: ask again later.

Some questions are just too hard to answer.

I stay up on tiptoe again, leaning on the door, watching them.  I know I should walk discreetly away.  That’s the mature, adult thing to do.  But I’m depressed and I want some vicarious thrills.  It’s not like they’re having sex, they’re just kissing.  They don’t even know I’m here.  No harm in it at all.

They’re so cute.  Why didn’t I set up these guys?  They’re perfect for each other.

Oh, they stopped.

Beth glances towards the door, spots me and her face gets instantly whitewashed.  I wave perkily at her.  Andrew flushes and lets go of her.  He grabs a pile of books from the desk beside them and heads towards me, saying something to Beth that I can’t hear.  He opens the door and lets me in, not meeting my eyes, before bolting past me before I can say a word.  The door clicks shut behind me.

'So,' I say, advancing on Beth with a big smile on my face, 'when did this happen?  How long have the two of you been…' I let my voice trail off and wiggle my eyebrows up and down.

Beth’s neck goes the colour of an overripe strawberry.

'We’ve just had a couple of casual dates,' she says, in quite the most unconvincing attempt at denial that I’ve ever seen.

'Well, if you kiss like that after a casual date, you can’t have much left for the serious ones,' I tease, grinning at her.

Beth blushes still more and looks at the floor.

I have to hug her.

'It’s very new,' she tries to say. 'I don’t know how it’s going to go.'

'Beth,' I say earnestly, 'I think this is great.  Be happy, celebrate, boast about how in love you are.'

'You do?' Beth says, looking amazed. 'But I thought…'

'I know,' I cut her off. 'I said you shouldn’t date him.  And I’ll be honest with you, it wasn’t because you work together.  I thought he wasn’t good enough.  But I’ve changed my mind, I was wrong.  He may not be someone I'd go for, but he’s perfect for you and that’s all that matters.'

'Really?' Beth asks.

She’s still suspicious of me, but I guess I deserve it.

'Really,' I say firmly, sitting down on the desk. 'I’m thrilled for you.  I wish I had a guy like him.  Well not exactly like him, but as good a match for me as he seems to be for you.'

'I thought you already did, in Will,' Beth replies.

For a few glorious minutes, I’d actually forgotten about that.

'Well, I can’t have him,' I say.  There’s a lump in my throat the size of the Millennium Dome.  Which I suppose is as good a use for it as anything.

'Why ever not?' Beth asks, forgetting to blush now she’s concerned about my imminent breakdown.

'Because,' I say and I know that tears are inevitable so I don’t know why I’m bothering to try and dam them, 'he’s going to propose to Natalie.'

Beth looks horror-struck.  Even she doesn’t like Natalie much, which is saying something.

Or, at least, I used to think it was.  I guess now I have to find a new paragon of virtue.

'Are you sure?' she asks, like I’ve just announced that aliens are going to destroy all life on this planet.

'He came over last night, after you’d gone out,' I say miserably, tracing scratches on the desktop with my finger. 'He left his coat behind and when I picked it up to…' my mind clears briefly, '…hang it up, I found his mother’s engagement ring in one of the pockets.  I know I shouldn’t have looked in the first place, but I never imagined it would be anything like that.  I felt a lump and I thought it was a memory stick he’d forgotten about or something.  I just thought I could remind him about it and instead I find out he’s going to leave me forever.'

Tears are cascading down my face like Niagara Falls.  Crying’s supposed to be therapeutic, but all I’m getting from it is a headache.

'Maybe you’ve got this all wrong,' Beth says, trying to be encouraging about it.  It’s like trying to find the positive side of all-out nuclear war. 'Maybe it’s all a mistake.'

'He’s carrying around an engagement ring,' I sob. 'How can that be a mistake?  It’s over, she’s won.  Our friendship is over.'

'You have to go to him,' Beth says suddenly. 'Confront him.  Tell him what a massive mistake this is.  Make him see what he’s giving up.'

I stare at her and start to laugh through my tears.

'Yeah, I can just see his face,' I say. 'What a hard decision it would be; his model-dressed girlfriend, with money and a flashy job and a manicure, or me, unemployed, in battered trainers and scruffy jeans, with a face like puff pastry made with badly mixed food-colouring.  All I’d do is convince him that he’s got it right.'

'Will’s never seemed to care about clothes, or jobs,' Beth points out, sitting down next to me. 'And I don’t think he even knows what a manicure is.'

'But I’m his friend,' I say, 'not his girlfriend.  It’s different.  Bottom line is, the only thing I have to offer that she doesn’t is that I don’t want to change him.'

Beth laughs. 'That sounds like a pretty big thing to me,' she says.

'It’s not enough,' I say, defeated, 'and I have to accept that.'

'I still think you should go see him,' Beth says quietly, putting an arm around me.

'I will,' I say. 'I just need something to help me face it.  Some kind of boost.  Anything to make me feel like things aren’t completely shit.'

'How long will that take?' Beth asks tactfully.

My shoulders slump. 'Years, probably.'

**

By Thursday I actually physically need to get out of the house, even if it means spending money I don’t have.  I called Brittany last night to find out how housewives survive this.  Brittany said they have affairs with the postman.

I don't think she was talking from personal experience.

Our postman is actually kind of cute though.

I think I’ve just proved my point.

I sit at the back of the cinema, watching the latest Bond film and mentally putting the Bonds into order of preference while I cram Maltesers into my mouth.  I’m not going to tell you which one I think is best.  I’ve ended friendships with that debate.

The audience consists of me, two scabby teenagers who are blatantly playing truant (they both keep glancing at the exit nervously while pretending to the other that they’re not even remotely scared of getting caught) and a bored, middle-aged woman gazing in rapt adoration at Daniel Craig.

Kind of an ego boost to know that I’m not the saddest person in the world after all.

'Ahh!  I vould never ave sexe with you, Mr Bond,' the latest plastic Bond girl exclaims, her chest heaving indignantly under half a yard of strategically placed latex.

Why does she bother to say it?  Doesn’t she realise it’s inevitable?  He’s a secret agent, for God’s sake!  Hasn’t she seen Austin Powers?

I eat more Maltesers, deliberately not thinking about how I’m reducing my chances of ever having thighs like that.  Not that there’s really much chance of that anyway.

A mobile goes off.  Four sodding people in this whole cinema and one of them hasn’t turned theirs off.  It’s unbelievable, it’s inconsiderate and it’s unacceptable.

And it’s mine.

Oops.

I scuttle out quickly, nearly forgetting my bag.  At least the lack of people means that I don’t have to do the old ‘turn sideways, breathe in and squeeze’ thing.

'Hello,' I say, the second I get outside.

Please let it be Will, saying he’s seen the light and now knows I’m the only girl for him.

'Hand-drier Girl!' comes that dry, terribly familiar voice.

Fabulous, more rejection.  Just what I need.

'Hello…' I start to say, which is when it occurs to me that I can’t actually remember her name, '…Poster Girl,' I finish.  It doesn’t really matter what I call her, after all.

'Would you like the bad news, or the really bad news?'

Gee, let me think.

'Let’s go with the bad news,' I say, leaning against the wall for support.

'I can’t offer you the job in admin,' Poster Girl says.

'That’s not news,' I reply, closing my eyes.

'Don’t be so pedantic,' Poster Girl says dismissively. 'Don’t you want to hear the really bad news?'

'Frankly, no,' I say honestly. 'Surely really bad news is by definition something you don’t want to hear.'

'Good point,' Poster Girl says. 'But it’s moot in this case, because I’m going to tell you anyway.'

'Fine,' I say, waving my hand at no one.  Stupid that, the way you do the actions when you’re on the phone even though the person you’re talking to can’t see them.

'The really bad news is, I want to hire you to work for me.'

Is she serious?

'Are you serious?' I ask.

'I’m always serious,' Poster Girl replies. 'Though I may deny it later.  So, do you want the job?'

I stare at the cracks in the wall opposite me.

'What job?' I ask. 'I didn’t even know you were looking for someone.'

'I told you, the temps aren’t working out,' Poster Girl says impatiently, like this was five minutes ago. 'Brain-dead cretins, the lot of them.  I need a permanent PA.  One with no pride, who’s desperate to find a job.  You’re perfect for it.'

Does she actually realise she’s insulting me?

'Thanks,' I say sarcastically.

'You’re welcome,' Poster Girl says cheerfully.

Note to self: sarcasm wasted on this person.

'So, I take it that this job doesn’t pay much,' I say thoughtfully, twisting the bottom of my t-shirt round my fingers.

'More than unemployment.'

'In other words, beggars can’t be choosers.'

'Exactly.'

Could I really work for this person?

Although, she does have a point.

'I’ll take it,' I say, before I think about it too much.

Now you know I’m desperate.

'Great.  Monday, 9a.m., same place, dry your hair before you leave the house and double-check your shoes.  We’ll fix up the details then.  Bye.'

She hangs up.

Additional note to self: will never have last word with this person.

This is a very, very bad idea, isn’t it?

But, on the upside, I’m no longer unemployed.

So life has got a little bit better.

So I guess now I have to go face Will.

Gulp.

Chapter 32

Resolution: will be cool as a cucumber.

Except that, honestly, cucumbers aren’t really that cool, are they?  Surely cool as ice-cream would be more logical.  Or maybe cool as something that’s been in the fridge for ages.

Although not long enough to go mouldy, obviously.

I think I’m turning into the alcopop Bridget Jones.

I stand outside Will’s door, his jacket in my hand, the ring that is soon to change my life in its pocket.  I am not in a frenzy, I am perfectly still.

Which is mainly because of the stalemate between the half of me that wants to go in and the half that wants to run away.

Very, very slowly, the way you open credit card bills when you know you’ve overspent, I reach up and press the doorbell.

Will likes to call them door-chimes, like in one of his sci-fi shows.  I bet Natalie doesn’t know that.

Of course, he may not be there.  I couldn’t call before I came over for fear of having a meltdown on the line.  It would be a bit of an anti-climax if he were out.

I think there’s a lot to be said for anti-climaxes.

I hear footsteps and the sound of the door being opened.  No anti-climax.  This is it.  Houston, we have lift off.  Earth must be abandoned.  Life as we know it is over.

'Hi,' Will says, leaning on the door and smiling. 'Come in.'

At least he looks glad to see me.

'I brought this back,' I say, shoving his jacket at him a little less elegantly than I intended. 'You left it at my place when you came over.'

'Thanks,' Will says, as he closes the door behind me. 'I actually wanted to talk to you about that.  I know things have been awkward between us and I…'

'Can I go first?' I interrupt, already pacing the living room nervously.  I’m too high on adrenaline to wait.  I’m all psyched up to do the whole ‘I’m your friend and I’ll support your decision’ talk and if I wait I’ll lose my nerve.

Will hesitates.  He doesn’t move from the door. 'Okay,' he says.

'I found the ring,' I blurt out.  Somehow I’ve forgotten every line of my calm, understanding, talk-show psychologist speech.  Even after doing sixteen drafts and memorising it.

Will stares at me and opens his mouth.

'I know you’re going to propose to Natalie,' I say, before he can get a word out. 'And I came here to tell you that I want you to be happy, so I’ll support you and back out of your life and congratulate you, even though I haven’t always been as nice to her as I could have been.'

Will tries to speak again.

'But I can’t,' I interrupt, as my heart overrules my carefully prepared psychobabble. 'I hate Natalie.  She’s all wrong for you, she wants to change you and she’ll never make you happy.  This is a huge mistake and I can’t bear to stand by and watch you ruin your life.'

Somehow my tongue has been hijacked and is no longer attached to my brain.  The words are rushing out of my mouth like the evils from Pandora’s box.

'You should be with me,' I say passionately, even though my brain is trying to gag me by telekinesis. 'I love you, I always have.  I just didn’t know it until all this crap happened.  I don’t want to change you, I may try to direct your life but I fully expect you to tell me to quit it and I want you to be happy doing what you love.  I know that I can be insane and foolish and seriously overreact, but I can change and I will if you’ll just give me a chance to prove to you that we’re perfect for each other.'

I stop.  I’m emotionally drained.  Like I’m a wet t-shirt that someone’s just wrung out.

Crap, what have I done?

Will isn’t trying to speak now.  Actually, I’m not convinced that he’ll ever speak again.  He looks rather like he just got his back massaged by a dinosaur’s tongue.

'Haven’t I always told you,' he says, in this really thick voice, 'that I don’t want you to change?'

There’s this weird time lapse just then.  One minute we’re a mile apart and the next you couldn’t slide a fruit roll-up between us.  And, oh God, it’s even better than the last time.  Will is the most amazing kisser.  Now I’ve lost control of my knees, since my tongue is very busy.  And I'm running out of oxygen.

Personally, I think oxygen is overrated.

'You don’t need to ask, because I’ll tell you,' Will says, when my supply returns.

'Tell me what?' I ask dazedly.  I don’t remember anything I needed to ask him about.

'About Natalie,' Will says.

Less coming back to Earth with a bump than burning up on re-entry.  Oh my God, I’m the other woman.

I try to extract myself from Will’s embrace, but he’s not letting me go without a fight and I can’t seem to muster up enough strength to give him much of one.

'Will, I can’t…' I start to say, with only a hazy idea of how I mean to end that sentence.

'We broke up,' Will says, looking deep into my eyes.  God, his are gorgeous.

'When?' I ask, stopping my futile struggle in astonishment.

'The night you stayed over,' Will says, answering my real question as only he can.

'But…but…' I say, bewildered, '…the ring.  You have your mother’s engagement ring in your jacket pocket.'

'I know,' Will says, pulling me gently closer to him. 'That’s why we broke up.'

Now I’m not confused, just mystified.  She can’t have turned him down?

'You broke up because of a ring?' I ask, frowning up at him.

Will nods.

'Explain,' I say firmly.

Will sighs. 'You know how my parents have been laying on the pressure about this.  Well, my mother gave me the ring when I went to see them last time.' He tucks a stray curl behind my ear. 'So I thought about it.  And I realised I couldn’t ever give it to her.'

I love Will’s mother.  She’s my favourite person in the whole world.  After Will, obviously.  She's wonderful, even if she didn’t see through Natalie’s ‘perfect daughter-in-law’ act.

Will produces the ring box from his jacket pocket and flips it open.  Then he holds it up for me to see. 'What do you think of it?' he says, his tone neutral.

Oh.  My.  God.  Is he going to…?

Mel, get a grip.  This is not Pride & Prejudice.  He is not going to propose to you after a couple of kisses.

Not even really, really great kisses.

I look at the ring and try to like it.

I can’t.  It’s ghastly.  If I ever did get engaged to Will, it would have to get unfortunately stolen.

I look up at Will. 'It's vile,' I say.

Then I panic.  What if that was a metaphorical question?  What if he was asking me if I really like him?

But then I already said I did, didn’t I?

Will snaps the box shut and throws it onto the sofa.  Then he strokes my cheek and gives me this loving look that almost makes me like the ring.

'I knew you’d say that,' he says and kisses me again.

Why did we wait so long to do this?

'Will,' I say, when necessity forces us to pause again. 'What happens now?  I mean, this isn’t exactly standard first date procedure.'

'True,' Will says slowly, his hands sliding from my head to my back. 'Normally we’d go out to dinner.'

'Which we’ve already done,' I point out.

'Find out all about each other,' Will continues.

'Which we’ve already done,' I say, smiling at him.

'And maybe kiss for the first time,' Will finishes, smiling back.

I smile even wider. 'Which we’ve already done,' I whisper.

Will’s hands slide lower, until they can only just be described as being on my lower back.

'Which really only leaves one thing I can think of that we haven’t done,' he says slowly.

'Definitely not something I would do on the first date,' I say.

'Me neither,' Will agrees.  His hands don’t move, but mine slide lower.

'But we’re effectively starting at about the fifteenth date,' I say thoughtfully.

At this point, I could rationalise anything.

'Meaning?' Will nudges gently.

I should probably go all coy and blush and pretend that he has to talk me into it and that I’d never do such a thing usually.

Forget it.

'Meaning,' I say, rejoicing in the fact that it doesn’t seem weird to be saying this to my best friend, 'that I think we should go to bed, right now, and catch up on all the years we’ve wasted.  Which is nine by my count, so we’ve got a lot of work to do.'

Will grins at me.  But it’s not a friend grin.  It’s a delicious, sexy grin that makes me want to eat him.

'You read my mind,' he says.

Chapter 33

I know you want to know about that night but there are no words in the English language for it, so I’m not even going to try.  Suffice to say, that night I discovered that there were a few things that I didn’t know about Will.  And, had I known them, it wouldn’t have taken us quite so long to get together.

My parents are thrilled, Will’s less so.  I really tried to show them what a good daughter-in-law I would be when I went to Sunday dinner with them, but I rather spoilt the effect by tipping gravy into my lap.  They’ll come around though.  They’ll have to, since my dad has already started training a bower in the garden to do the wedding photos under.

As for me, well…what can I say?  Yesterday I came out of a daydream and realised that I’d scribbled ‘Mrs. Melanie Knightley’ on my memo pad.  I swear it was only once.

Looked nice though.

Poster Girl is good to work for if you just remember a few simple rules.  Do not buy Nescafé, she won’t drink it despite what the adverts say.  Do not water her spider plant, she’s trying to kill it.  Never misuse the apostrophe.  All in all, it’s turning out well.  I won't say it's my dream, but there's time for that.  I’m earning more.  About a hundred pounds a year, but every little bit helps.  There’s even a few opportunities for advancement on offer.  I may build a career yet.

Brittany has acquired a nanny and a job.  She claims that Phillip is very supportive, but she says it in that bright voice that tells you she’s had to fight for every inch of ground to get her way.  She’s definitely happier though, so with luck he’ll come around.  They’ve moved, but Mum and Dad haven’t.

Beth and Andrew will be engaged by the end of the year.  At least they’d better be, because I have a bet on with Will that I’m anxious to lose.

I’m not matchmaking anymore.  Even though there are these people at my work who I know would be perfect for each other.  Will is really proud of me.  I think.  Either that or he’s just wondering how long it’s going to last.

Overall, I think things have turned out rather well.  Not Cinderella, more like the The 10th Kingdom.  But I can live with that.

Oh, almost forgot one thing.

When Harry Met Sally.

I definitely get that movie now.

THE END

Thank you very much for reading The Dr Pepper Prophecies.  I hope you enjoyed it.

Now you’ve finished, I would be extremely grateful if you could leave a quick review on Amazon.  As a self-published author (particularly a first-time one), your reviews and recommendations to friends are crucial to the success of this book.

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About the Author

Jennifer Gilby Roberts has a degree in physics, so writing fiction was inevitable really. She was born and grew up in Surrey/Greater London, but now lives in Richmond, North Yorkshire with her husband, small daughter and two cats.

Her job right now is taking care of her younger daughter, but previously she worked many thrilling jobs in administration, including one in an insurance claims office (wholly unrelated to the one in The Dr Pepper Prophecies...).

She's written two novels, both in the chick-lit genre, four novellas and a variety of short stories.