The Dr Pepper Prophecies Read Free

but it’s a quick ‘I guess I’ll have to’ kiss, not a ‘I’m so glad you’re back’ kiss.
    Then he starts pushing my trolley towards the exit. 'Chop chop, can’t waste time,' he says, running a hand through his hair.  Or, really, running a hand across his scalp, because the hair that was floppy is now about half an inch long. 
    'You cut your hair,' I say.  He never told me he was getting it cut.  It’s all spiky.  He looks like a pre-teen hedgehog.
    He finally smiles. 'More professional image,' he says proudly. 'Can’t go around looking like a hippy now I’m management.'
    I look him up and down.  His shoes are polished.  He’s wearing smart trousers instead of jeans.  He’s taken out his earring and I swear the hole’s already closed up.
    'I didn’t think you looked like a hippy,' I say, as I hurry along beside him.  These shoes are hell to walk in.
    'No,' he says, giving me the most pat ronising smile I have ever seen, 'but then, you’re not exactly qualified to judge, are you?'
    Not qualified?  I have eyes.  I’ve seen hippies.  I’ve seen him before he let Edward Scissorhands loose on his hair.  What more qualifications do I need?
    'What?' I ask uncertainly.
    'Well, what I mean is, you don’t exactly present the most professional image yourself.'
    I stare at him.  He sees me.
    'I mean that in a nice way,' he says.
    A nice way?  He’s just told me I dress like a slob.  What next?  You look like the child of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker-Bowles (i.e. Dumbo) but in a nice way?
    'It’s fine for you with your typing,' Martin’s saying.  I can’t tell if he doesn’t know he’s insulted me, or doesn’t care, 'but I have a career to think about.  It’s imperative that I look the part.  In business,' he says, puffing up his chest like a penguin, 'you dress for the job you want, not the job you have.  Everything I do, every thing I have – clothes, car, friends, girlfriend – must say ‘winner!’. '
    Alarm bells are ringing.  In fact it’s like being right next to Big Ben at midday.  Girlfriend?
    'I suppose a clerical o fficer girlfriend doesn’t fit that image?' I say.
    It’s not like I haven’t tried to get a new job.  Everywhere’s downsizing, it’s tough.  He should know, he wouldn’t have this job if I hadn’t told him about it.
    He stops.  We’re almost at the exit.  He puts his hand on my arm.  His hazel eyes meet mine, radiating gratitude.
    'I’m so glad you realised that,' he says, patting me like I’m a cocker spaniel. 'It makes it much easier that you understand why this has to happen.'
    I stand stock still and stare at him.  Is he saying…?
    'After all,' Martin says, 'intra-office relationships are forbidden, surely you know that?'
    I’m in shock. 'Everyone breaks that rule,' I say. 'Half the office is in couples.  I helped set up one of them.'
    'I have to set an example,' he says.  A Stepford boyfriend. 'You understand, don’t you?  You’ve been so supportive, but it’s time that we both move on.'
    I want to scream.  I want to cry.  I want to kill him.  But, most of all, I want to wake up from this nightmare.
    He looks at his watch again. 'We’ve got exactly five minutes before the parking fee goes up.  Astronomical, the prices they charge.  We’d better hurry.'
    He starts pushing the trolley again.  I grab it. 'I’m not going home with you,' I hear myself say.
    Martin looks at me like he can’t fathom why I would object to this. 'Of course you are,' he says. 'I promised to drive you home and I’m a man who always keeps his word.'
    Oh God, now he’s doing his interview sales pitch on me.
    'I’m not going home with you,' I repeat.  My voice is stronger this time.  I do have some pride left.  Not a whole lot, but some.
    'Don’t be silly.'
    'I’m not going,' I insist.
    He gives a long-suffering sigh.
    'Get out before your precious parking fee goes up,' I say.
    He looks at me. 'Very well,' he says, 'if you insist on being