Free The Dr Pepper Prophecies by Jennifer Gilby Roberts Page B

here you are,' Dad finishes, looking at me pityingly. 'A spinster.'
    The average age of marriage for women i s 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 sa ys.  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.  Fo r 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 regretful ly, '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