Love Is for Losers Read online

  Emma: Oh, I know. Rowing takes over your life. And your weekends are busier than your week.

  Why is she suddenly a rowing expert?

  I also don’t understand why it’s so easy for everyone else to talk to Emma, and I’m just like: I think we need to allow for the kittens’ personalities to come through a bit more, ’k?

  I hate myself.

  I swear I want to crawl out of my skin and be like James, all cool, calm, and collected.

  And I’m feeling like I’m running out of days with Emma, because we’re back at school this time next week, and then I only get to see her twice a week again, if that, because GCSEs are getting real.

  8:30 P.M.

  I’m going to text Emma and ask if she wants to come around and take those pictures.

  I know the kittens haven’t opened their eyes, but I want to see if she prefers my kittens to James’s rowing arms.

  PS: I know that’s immature.

  PPS: I know they’re not my kittens.

  PPPS: I know it’s not a competition.

  9:58 P.M.

  Emma texted to say she can’t come tomorrow.

  Here’s what she says:

  Would love to, but I’m not free Tuesday evenings. Another time?

  Maybe. But I don’t want to text her now.

  Tuesday, April 10 #CardiganGate

  The funniest thing happened today, and now Emma is my favorite person in the whole world.

  She was pricing clothes all day, which involves taking steamed items off the rail/pile and shooting a price tag through the label.

  In her defense, the stockroom is in an absolute state, despite our efforts to tidy it. Anyway, so Emma is happily pricing away, and when Pat gets up from her chair to have her tea break, she’s like: “Has anyone seen my cardigan?”

  Turned out, Emma accidentally priced it and put it on a hanger, and Kate took it out to the shop to be sold.

  LOL.

  We checked every hanger but couldn’t find it anywhere, so it appears that we sold Pat’s cardigan in the buy-one-get-one-half-price deal.

  She was furious, Emma was mortified, and I wanted to never stop laughing.

  Kate told her to choose another one from the shop, but of course that wasn’t good enough for Pat, because she wanted that one.

  I didn’t say anything to Emma all day about the text message, but just as we were leaving, she kind of nudged my shoulder and was like: “Do you want to take kitten pictures on Sunday maybe?”

  I nudged her back and was like: “Yeah, okay.”

  Wednesday, April 11 #MindBlown

  Here’s why people think the moon landing was a hoax:

  The average customer at our shop is too stupid to comprehend the buy-one-get-one-half-price offer.

  Here’s what the signs say:

  BUY ONE GET ONE HALF PRICE ON ALL CLOTHING

  And here’s what happened:

  Customer 1: The sign says “Buy One Get One Half Price on All Clothing.”

  Me: Yes.

  Customer 1: I’m just a bit confused as to what that means.

  Me: Buy one, get one half price on all clothing.

  Customer 1: Even the jackets?

  Me: On all clothing.

  Customer 2: What does your sign mean?

  Me: That it’s buy one, get one half price on all clothing.

  Customer 2: Even books?

  Me: On all cloooothinnng.

  Customer 3: So when I buy one, I get another one half price?

  Me:…

  Minds are literally blown. Not to mention the number of people who come to the till and haven’t realized.

  All day Kate’s been going: “And just to let you know, it’s buy one, get one half price on all clothing.” And the customers are like: “Is it?” When there are signs EVERYWHERE.

  * * *

  So yes, with scenes like this playing out before my very eyes, do I believe we put a man on the moon? Absolutely not.

  Thursday, April 12 #Surprise

  Polly and Tristan came to the thrift shop today, which was weird.

  Kate completely overreacted to their arrival, all like: “Gosh, pet, look at you, I miss you.”

  Whatever.

  They were like: “We just wanted to say hi to Phoebe.”

  Why?

  To rub their relationship in my face?

  The situation exponentially improved the moment they did say hello to me, because when they walked into the stockroom, I was just passing books to James, who was up a ladder, his “delicious” denim-clad bum right in my face.

  Polly’s eyes literally rolled out of her head, and I swear she was thinking: Why can’t I have an attractive boyfriend?

  Tristan looked like such a child next to James.

  I introduced Emma, and Polly was all like: “Hi, I’ve heard so much about you,” which is a total lie, because I swear I’ve mentioned her maybe once.

  Polly and Tristan said they were on their way to some festival on Wimbledon Common, and I was like: “It’s so nice when you don’t have to have a job.”

  I know that was

  a) bitchy and

  b) a lie.

  I know I’m actually just as privileged as them and don’t have to have a job.

  But I was just like: Why are you all in my face with your new life?

  Also, does she think she can just ignore the fact that we clearly fell out over the clitoris?

  I’m still mad at her for being mad at me when all I did was say what needed to be said.

  I mean, of course I could have been like: Don’t worry about it, Polly, just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’m sure one day an orgasm is going to happen to you that will make the twenty-five years of no-orgasm sex with Tristan so worth it.

  I was Polly’s best friend, so I think not only should she expect my honesty, she should demand it.

  But what do I know?

  When she was leaving, she was all like: “Text me, Phoebe, if you have a day off over the weekend and want to get coffee or something. Or I’ll see you Monday.”

  I was like: “Okay.”

  Now the ball’s in my court again.

  I hate that.

  What does she want me to say to her?

  Also, I don’t actually have time.

  So I’ll see her Monday.

  PS: I hope it bothers Polly that I’ve moved on.

  PPS: I’ve just reread this entry, and I clearly haven’t moved on.

  PPPS: I wish so much that I didn’t care.

  PPPPS: I just Googled “how not to care,” but the articles are all rubbish, because they’re all about how not to care about what other people think about you, but I don’t care what people think about me, I just want to feel nothing.

  I can’t believe the internet is letting me down with something so basic.

  PPPPPS: I just messaged Polly, and she messaged right back.

  Me: It was nice to see you today.

  Polly: And you. Miss you. xxx

  Friday, April 13 #GoingGoingGone

  Friday the thirteenth is our lucky day, because the Star Wars poster sold for £530.

  It was insane.

  Seriously, all those people “watching” suddenly crawled out of the woodwork, and for the last two minutes, it just went up and up and up.

  We knew this afternoon that it would sell for at least £470, and even Pat was eating her words about us better not branching out to sell things online.

  I reckon it would’ve been even better for the auction to have ended on a Sunday (statistically, auctions that end on a Sunday night are the most lucrative), but I guess £530 is pretty decent.

  I told Kate I’d go to my room to finally do some studying, but instead I messaged Emma about the £530.

  She couldn’t believe it.

  I wonder if she’s studying.

  It’s a month until our first exam, and I’m not going to lie, I feel a bit sick.

  Saturday, April 14 #HeatWave

  Today James was lik
e: “We should all meet up and watch Return of the Jedi,” and instead of going: Why would I want to see you people on my one day off? Kate was like: “That’s such a brilliant idea. We really should celebrate.”

  So now everyone’s invited to ours tomorrow, which is so annoying, because Emma and I had planned on taking the kitten pictures.

  I swear James is ruining my life.

  It was so hot in the stockroom today, it was disgusting.

  Emma wore a floral summer dress and brown Doc Martens. She was like: “I need sturdy footwear in this shithole. You never know what you’re going to step into next.”

  I really wish I could be stylish like her.

  Also: Bill and Melanie are back from Morocco.

  Melanie usually does the books, and they’ve only been in such a state because she’s been away a lot, and today she was all like: “Kate, your James is a gem. He’s done this beautifully. He’s even separated the hardbacks. I think it’s time that I retire.”

  Then they all laughed, because apparently Melanie retired from the shop once before when she turned eighty, but three weeks later, she was so bored at home that she demanded to be reinstated.

  I’m going to be exactly like that when I’m her age.

  After work Kate and I went into Morrison’s to get food and drinks for tomorrow. We bought so much that she ended up having to get the car, because we couldn’t carry it all.

  Me: Who’s going to eat all this?

  Kate: You.

  Me: And who’s going to cook all this?

  Kate (looking at me, smiling, fluttering her eyelashes):…

  Me: Oh man.

  So I’m going to have to get up early to make salads and stuff.

  The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management would not approve of such an impromptu get-together. It suggests starting with the preparation for a Christmas dinner in September.

  We’re also having to cordon off the designer cats and kittens so that they don’t get distressed. It’ll be like a zoo.

  Sunday, April 15 #SummerAfternoonsAndEvenings

  I’m so unbelievably tired, I’m almost hysterical.

  Forget The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management, Kate and I rocked the catering. We made garlic bread, two quiches, mini sausage rolls, potato salad, mixed green salad, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, a massive pot of chili con carne, and a smaller pot of chili sin carne (because James loves the animals so much that he could never eat one). I was like: “If he gets a vegetarian option, can I have a kosher one?” But Kate just looked at me.

  Most of the food obviously didn’t need making, but simply taking out of a packet and heating up or pouring into a nice bowl, but still, it all had to be prepared.

  The only person who couldn’t come was Alex, who always spends Sundays with his family.

  Bill and Melanie brought a whole box of actual Champagne. They were like: “You must always celebrate in style.”

  They are so posh it’s hilarious.

  Bill was wearing shorts, a cricket jacket, and a pink cravat. He looked totally LOL sitting on one of Kate’s old plastic garden chairs. And Melanie looked like a movie star from the 1920s. She had on huge Gucci sunglasses that pretty much covered her entire face.

  Pat, of course, looked horrendous in a floaty floral knee-length skirt, comfortable old-lady shoes, and yet another beige cardigan.

  I was thinking, you know, she’s only sixty-five, and Melanie is eighty-six, so she’s young enough to be Melanie’s daughter, and yet she looks like Melanie’s grandmother.

  Emma arrived together with James, which didn’t put me in the best of moods straightaway, obviously. She’d bought a card and a five-pound M&S voucher for Pat to say “sorry for selling your cardigan in the buy-one-get-one-half-price deal,” and I think Pat finally felt bad for having been so vile about it, and she was like: “Don’t be silly, Emma. And take that voucher back.” But Melanie grabbed the voucher and shoved it into the pocket of Pat’s cardigan, going: “Nonsense, Pat. Have the voucher. Emma wants to do something nice for you, so accept it.” And then Pat hugged Emma for, like, a whole minute, saying thank you.

  She wouldn’t have forgiven me that easily.

  Everyone had a glass of Champagne to say well done for raising all that money for the Star Wars poster.

  I spoke to Bill and Melanie loads about their travels. I reckon they’re doing it right. They’re going everywhere but are staying at hotels—not like Mum going to all these exotic places and having to build her own shelter and then dig a hole half a mile away for a toilet.

  Because it was so hot, everyone was in our tiny garden pretty much all day, and we didn’t watch Return of the Jedi after all.

  Kate found a badminton set she’d bought when I was little, and Emma and James played for hours until they got so hot that James simply had to take his shirt off.

  They were proper laughing and high-fiving and everything, and when Kate and I were taking stuff back to the kitchen, I was like: “Do you think James fancies Emma?” But Kate was just like: “What makes you say that?” Like she hadn’t noticed they’d arrived together, sat next to each other on the grass when we were eating, and been playing badminton together with James literally in the nude. If I fancied him, and I know Kate fancies him, I would have been bilious.

  Anyway, luckily James had to go to work at five, and Pat decided to leave as well, and then Bill and Melanie said they were going, too, and so it was just Kate, Emma, and me.

  Emma was sunbathing and followed the little patch of sun across the garden until it disappeared over the fence. Kate was like: “Just knock next door, pet. They’ve got sun for another five minutes at least.”

  Kate went inside at, like, seven, then came back outside and threw a big blanket at us, telling me to walk Emma home no later than nine.

  I’d completely forgotten we’re back at school tomorrow, and I’m not going to lie, all the GCSE studying that didn’t happen is making me feel nauseous.

  Emma and I sat on the towel on the grass under the big blanket, and you know that feeling you get when the sky turns orange and purple, and it’s Sunday night in London, and everything seems to just stop?

  We watched the planes coming into Heathrow, and we didn’t actually talk very much, which was so nice, because you don’t have to be constantly talking in order to have a nice time with someone. I also wondered if Emma and James could be silent together like that.

  Suddenly it was nine, and we were still sitting there.

  Me: I better walk you home.

  Emma: You don’t have to come with me.

  Me: I said I would.

  Emma: Okay.

  And then she smiled at me and winked.

  We didn’t talk much on the way home, either, and when we did, we whispered, which was odd, but maybe that’s what people do in the dark.

  When we got to hers, all the lights were on.

  Me (blinking): Wow.

  Emma (exasperating): My parents stress so much when I’m out. I’m surprised they haven’t called.

  Me: But you were at Kate’s. It’s not like you’re out clubbing and drinking.

  Emma: We were drinking.

  Me: Half a glass of Champagne.

  Emma (all reluctant): I’ve never had a drink.

  Me: Are you actually being serious?

  Emma (shrugs):…

  Me: There’s no way Kate would have allowed us to get pissed or anything.

  Emma: I know.

  Me: You’ve seriously never had alcohol? Not even at Christmas?

  Emma: My parents don’t drink.

  Me: What about when you’re out with your friends?

  Emma: I don’t really go out.

  Me: Not even to house parties?

  Emma (shrugs):…

  Me: Wow.

  Emma: Wow what?

  Me: It’s just that people like you usually have busy social lives.

  Emma: People like me?

  Me: Hockey-playing people.
>
  Emma (looking at me like: WTF?):…

  Me: Pretty people.

  And I swear that came out before I’d finished thinking it, which shouldn’t be possible but happened, and suddenly I was literally dying on the inside.

  Emma (not socially inept like me, and making light of my hasty comment): You need glasses.

  Then we laughed, and I leaned right into her face, pretending to try to look at her, and then I could feel her breath on me and her laughter moving my hair, and she smelled of SPF 30, and I honestly don’t know why that smell made me feel all funny, but my stomach was fluttering like crazy.

  Me: Bye.

  Emma: Bye.

  Me: See you Thursday? We need another donation of the week.

  Emma (nodding then): Thursday. And I had fun this holiday.

  Me: Me too.

  Emma: Okay.

  Me: Okay.

  Emma: Bye.

  Me: Bye.

  10:30 P.M.

  I don’t want to go back to school tomorrow.

  I don’t want to do GCSEs.

  I don’t want to do anything.

  Monday, April 16 #GCSEHell

  I will never be a friend of early mornings, and I will never be a friend of having to take the bus, and I will never be a friend of people making out outside the school gates.

  Blech!

  Judging by Instagram, Polly and Tristan can’t have spent a single moment apart during the Easter break, and yet there they were, at it again, pretending the sex is so great that they literally can’t stop having it.

  Polly has become the victim of the lies she tells herself.

  I seriously need to talk to her about the vaginal orgasm, but I don’t want to open with it.

  Also, Polly and I are really not okay, but we’ve established some weird state of “we used to be friends but now we’re not” relationship.

  I wonder if that’s what it’s like when people get divorced.

  That sense of a person being both familiar but also awkwardly unknown at the same time.

  Miriam Patel showed everyone her study timetable. It’s literally a nightmare. Every day is broken up into hourly slots that are color coded: math is red, English language is dark green, English literature is lime green, etc., etc. She’s even scheduled in sleep (baby blue). I hope for her sake she feels tired between 11:55 P.M. and 6:15 A.M., because that’s literally the only chance she gets.