Love Is for Losers Read online

  Everyone loved the timetable, of course, and I bet they’re all sitting at home right now making one.

  I can’t be bothered.

  I really wanted to text Emma today to ask if her parents were mad about Sunday night, but then I don’t want her to think I’m a weird stalker who needs to know every detail of her life. Even though I clearly am, and I clearly do.

  I’ve just spent an hour on her Instagram again, looking for that boy.

  I also checked Snapchat, but she doesn’t seem to be on it (and who can blame her?). The last time I was on it, Steve O’Reilly had posted a picture of his erect penis. And I know that posts delete themselves, but there are things you can’t unsee.

  PS: I totally thought for all those days that Emma may be an alcoholic and that her secret meetings were AA meetings, but that clearly isn’t the case because she said that she’d never had a drink … Unless that was a massive lie, and we’ve accidentally fed her addiction.

  PPS: No, she’s definitely not an alcoholic, because Bill definitely knows about the meetings Emma goes to, and he therefore would definitely not have brought a whole box of Champagne.

  PPPS: Why is life so confusing?

  PPPPS: I should talk to Polly.

  PPPPPS: Mum WhatsApped tonight. She looks like she’s living in a war zone. Oh, wait, she is living in a war zone.

  She asked me a gazillion questions about GCSEs.

  I reckon she’s feeling guilty about not being here to do all the parenty stuff it says to do in the brochures, like: Make sure your teenager has a hearty breakfast. They may not feel like eating, as nerves often manifest as feeling queasy or having an upset stomach, but eating even a slice of dry toast is advisable.

  Kate’s going to be like: “Eat yer breakfast, ye total drama queen.”

  I secretly totally love her.

  I don’t understand how I’m not her child. We’re so much better together than Mum and me.

  Tuesday, April 17 #InvoluntaryBirthingPartner

  When I got home from school, the second designer cat was having kittens in the kitchen.

  There was half a kitten hanging out of its vagina, and one was already lying on the tiles and twitching, and I proper panicked.

  I called Kate’s mobile, but of course she didn’t answer. Then I called the shop, and Pat answered.

  Me: Where’s Kate?

  Pat: Oh. It’s you.

  Me: Where’s Kate?

  Pat: She’s popped out to do a change run.

  Me: When will she be back?

  Pat: How long is a piece of string?

  Me: Ask her to call me immediately, because it’s an emergency.

  Pat: I’ll let her know as soon as she gets back.

  At this point, the cat was licking the half of the kitten that was hanging out, and I was just like: “OMG!”

  I didn’t know what else to do, and so I called Emma, who answered straightaway.

  Me: The designer cat is having kittens in the kitchen, and I think one is stuck.

  Emma (laughing, and I totally get it, because it must be hilarious if someone calls you about that, but it wasn’t funny):…

  Me: Can you come and help?

  Emma: Where’s Kate?

  Me: I don’t know, but seriously, what do I do? I can’t exactly call 999.

  Emma (laughing again): I’m on my way.

  And then time stopped, and it was 4:49 for literally an hour.

  I kept watching the cat, and suddenly the stuck kitten plopped out and onto the tiles just like the other one, and then the designer cat was all like: Okay, let me lick this clean for a moment.

  I tried to edge closer to see if it was breathing, but then my phone rang. It was Kate.

  Me: The cat’s having kittens in the kitchen. There’s two.

  Kate: Does she seem distressed?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Kate: Are you sure there’s only two?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Kate: Check under all the furniture for me.

  Me (checking under all the furniture): Nothing. I think.

  Then, finally, the doorbell rang.

  Me: Emma’s here.

  Kate: Okay. I think it’s best to leave the cat for now, because they don’t like being disturbed. It’s her second litter, so she should be absolutely fine, but keep an eye on her for me, and if she seems distressed, just give me a call back, and I’ll be right there.

  Me: Okay. Bye.

  Emma was just like: “Oh my God, how tiny are those kittens?” But all I could think was: Why me? I didn’t sign up for this.

  After a few minutes, the designer cat carried one designer kitten by the scruff of its neck into the living room to the kitten box, and when she came back to get the other one, I was like: “What the hell?” Because there was a third kitten coming out of her.

  I was like: “This is so stressful.”

  Emma and I watched it emerge slowly, and when it was out, the designer cat quickly gave it a few licks to get all the gross membrany stuff off of it, but the kitten didn’t move at all, unlike the other two, and I was like: “What’s happening?” and then Emma went: “I don’t think it’s breathing.”

  I felt like I was going to be sick, but I went to have a closer look, and Emma was right, the kitten was just on the floor, like: dead.

  I didn’t do anything, I just sat there on my feet, not moving. Emma knelt down on the floor, touched the tiny kitten with her finger, and started rubbing it a bit, but then she was like: “Phoebe, seriously, it’s not breathing.” I was like: “I don’t know what to do.” And then Emma bent down and put her mouth over its face and literally gave it mouth-to-mouth! And the dead kitten came back to life, all twitchy and pulling faces.

  I was like: OMFG.

  No one is ever going to believe any of this, but the bloody designer kitten lived, and the designer cat just looked at us like: Okay, cheers, I guess I’d better look after this one, too, then.

  When Kate got home, Emma and I were so hyper we were literally bouncing off the walls, and Kate was like: “Okay, I think we need to leave Mum and her babies in peace for a while,” and so she took us out to Pizza Hut.

  On the way back in the car, she was like: “I’m sorry you’re missing your meeting tonight, Emma.” And I swear there was suddenly this massive proverbial elephant in the room/car, and you’ve never heard a more quiet silence. But instead of me being like: Oh, what meetings are they, then? I said nothing. And instead of Emma being like: Oh yeah, I go to these meetings about blah blah blah, she just went: “I can’t believe I resurrected a kitten. It was one hundred percent DOA.”

  And then we all laughed, because the funny temporarily outweighed the awkward.

  11:17 P.M.

  The designer cats and all seven kittens are doing well now.

  What a day.

  Wednesday, April 18 #TheRuntOfTheLitter

  Today in religious studies, Mrs. Turner went through the GCSE marking hoo-ha with us “just to reiterate.”

  You get zero points if there’s “nothing worthy of credit” in your answers/if there are no answers.

  Polly looked at me, pointed at herself, and mouthed: “Math!”

  I just rolled my eyes at her, because I find it hard to believe you’d know nothing, but at the same time, I can imagine Polly just looking at the paper and her brain being like: Tristan. Tristan. Tristan.

  In order to get seven to nine points, you have to “show reasoned consideration of different points of view with clear reference to religion”—i.e., Blahblahblahblah, but with Jesus/Allah/Buddha.

  I think the teachers are more stressed about all this than we are. They’re getting proper aggressive when they catch you not listening.

  PS: The designer kitten that Emma brought back to life is definitely the runt of the litter.

  It’s really small compared to its two brothers/sisters, and I swear it looks like it doesn’t quite get life. It’s full-on ginger, except for its feet, which are white, so it looks like
it’s got fluffy socks on. The other two are white with beigey ginger all over.

  I took a picture of it and sent it to Emma.

  She replied straightaway and suggested we call it either Elizabeth or Richard, because giving animals people names is cool.

  Thursday, April 19 #Result

  The buy-one-get-one-half-price promotion has finally finished. Thank God.

  I was literally starting to lose my mind over stupid people.

  Alex brought in a whole coconut cake he baked, and I ate at least four slices because it was delicious. And apparently you have to use coconut milk instead of actual milk like it says in the recipe, because that makes the cake

  a) super sweet,

  b) super fresh, and

  c) super moist (which is 100 percent the most awful word ever, especially when uttered by everyone, but especially Pat).

  Alex is honestly such a nice person, and he makes me want to be a nice person, too, but then someone’ll walk in like: “What does ‘Buy One Get One Half Price’ mean?” And I’m just like: I hate you.

  So today, spurred on by the unprecedented success of the Star Wars poster, Emma and I were on a mission to find the next big moneymaker. We thought we found a genuine Louis Vuitton handbag for a minute, but it was only a cheap replica, probably from Tooting Market. We still made it the donation of the week and put a sign on it saying ORIGINAL FAKE.

  I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but we need more sci-fi fans to kick the bucket, because all that vintage Star Wars shit and Doctor Who and even Battlestar Galactica is making proper money on eBay.

  Kate said since I’m not really a people person, I can be in charge of the shop’s eBay account.

  PS: I’m not not a people person.

  People just don’t like to hear that they’re idiots.

  Friday, April 20 #Catstagram

  Emma came over tonight, and we finally had a photo session with the nondesigner kittens.

  You know that saying about herding cats? You don’t fully understand its meaning until you’ve actually had to do it.

  When we’d arranged one, another one had escaped, and when they were finally all sitting together and kind of looking into the camera, one fell asleep.

  It took an hour to get a decent picture.

  Because they are half-designer cats, Kate reckons we may still get half the pure-breed designer cat money for them.

  Emma and I made an Instagram account for Kate and posted the pictures. The text is:

  Four kittens, half Persian. £250 each, all shots included. #catsofinstagram #persian #halfpersian #kittens #cats #Wimbledon #allshotsincluded #cutekittens

  It’s quite stressful, all this cat-selling business.

  Also, two of the kittens look identical, so we’re going to have to put tiny little different-colored collars on them to tell them apart.

  Emma and I put it on our accounts, too, so maybe we’ll get results from that.

  I haven’t posted anything in months, and Polly liked it straightaway. She was all like: “Aw. They’re so cute.”

  I hope she noticed that Emma was tagged in the picture.

  PS: Why do I even care about what Polly thinks when I know she doesn’t care about me?

  PPS: Mum just liked my Instagram post. Is she checking up on me from within a war zone? Why did I think it was a good idea to allow my mother to follow me?

  PPPS: I wonder if Emma will still want to come over once the kittens have moved out. I wonder if she likes spending time with me when I’m definitely not as fun as badminton-playing, topless James.

  Saturday, April 21 #SalsaForSeniors

  Bill and Melanie signed up for Salsa for Seniors a few weeks ago, and are proper into it.

  We were given a little taster of what that looks like in the stockroom, and it wasn’t funny because they’re old but because Bill was so serious. He did the face and everything while gyrating his pelvis. I was crying. And then he was like: “Come on, Patricia, my darling, dance with me,” but Pat was all like: “Oh, Bill, you know I’ve got two left feet.” But he pulled her off her chair, and senior salsa-ed her up and down the stockroom, dodging books and bags and bins.

  We all laughed and clapped, and for the first time since I’ve known her, Pat actually cracked a smile.

  Emma was like: “We should all go,” and then she winked at me, and I think I was pulling a really stupid face at the time.

  Why am I like this? Every time I feel like I’m getting more natural when I’m talking to Emma, something like that happens. I’m literally a car crash.

  9:03 P.M.

  Maybe Emma only winked at me because James wasn’t in today, so she couldn’t wink at him.

  Maybe it’s a nervous tic.

  Maybe I’m overthinking it.

  Sunday, April 22 #HeatWaveTakeTwo

  The heat wave is real, and I stayed indoors all day.

  Loads of comments on Instagram on the half-designer kittens, but no one has asked to visit, and no one has made an offer.

  I just looked at a sociology GCSE example sheet. Get this:

  “Describe what sociologists mean by a same-sex family.”

  Sweet Lord Jesus.

  What could anyone possibly mean by a same-sex family?

  Same.

  Sex.

  Family.

  Why is the government wasting my time with this?

  It’s Sunday, and Mum hasn’t called. She must have more important things to do. I honestly don’t care if she never calls again.

  Monday, April 23 #DontTellMe

  Kate got a “courtesy call” from Médecins Internationale today informing her that “Dr. Davis and her team haven’t been in contact for thirty-two hours” but that there was “no immediate reason for concern.”

  This has never happened.

  Kate says it’s protocol to contact next of kin.

  I wish they wouldn’t, because what’s the point? It:

  a) doesn’t locate the missing and

  b) worries people who can’t do anything about it.

  Once, when Mum and I were on our way to visit Nan and Granddad in Hong Kong, due to a “technical fault with the aircraft,” the flight was delayed by two hours, and the whole time I was thinking: Why would you tell us the plane we’re about to get on is currently broken? Say anything, make something up, but don’t say that.

  I think a good lie is hugely underrated.

  I was like: “Mum’s okay, isn’t she?” and Kate was like: “Of course she’s okay,” but later I caught her stroking two cats simultaneously, and that’s not a good sign at all.

  I wish I could call Polly, but there’s no way I’m going to beg for her time or friendship.

  PS: I just searched online for people like Mum going missing (war doctors, journalists, aid workers, nurses, etc.), and the fact is that most of them are never found. And if they are found, they’re usually dead.

  I’m so angry with Mum I can’t even.

  Tuesday, April 24 #48Hours

  Dear Miss Anderson,

  This is a courtesy communication to inform you that despite our best efforts, we have not been able to make contact with Dr. Amelia Davis and her team in forty-eight hours.

  Please rest assured that we are using all available resources to establish contact.

  I would like to stress to you that we have no reason to believe Dr. Davis and her team have come to harm, or are in any immediate danger.

  As per our procedures, we are going to keep circulating a courtesy email every twenty-four hours.

  In the meantime, should there be any developments, we will contact you immediately via telephone on the emergency number you have provided. Please make sure to update your contact details should these have changed.

  Sincerely, Anneke Stromberg, MÉDECINS INTERNATIONALE London

  When Kate read me the email, she didn’t sound Scottish at all, which is, like, the worst sign ever.

  I’ve tried WhatsApping Mum a million times, but I can’t get through.
She’s going to have a heart attack when she sees the number of missed calls.

  I once read that spy satellites are so brilliant they can find a match lying on the ground anywhere on planet Earth and tell if it’s been lit or not.

  a) How amazing is that?

  b) Don’t tell me you can’t zoom in on a field hospital in Syria that’s run by an international aid agency.

  8:30 P.M.

  I could fly out of Gatwick tomorrow at 12:20 with Ukraine International Airways (via Kiev) for, like, £329.61. That would get me to Ankara at 10:10 P.M.

  Kate caught me looking at flights, and she was just like: “You listen to me now, Phoebe. Your mother is okay.”

  But the truth is, Kate doesn’t know that. Nobody knows that.

  I don’t even know why I care, because it’s not that Mum didn’t have it coming. And because Mum had it coming, I had it coming. We all had it coming.

  9:05 P.M.

  I just know she’s dead.

  9:20 P.M.

  I wonder what kind of a funeral Mum would want.

  We never talked about that, which seems really odd to me right now, considering I always knew deep down it would come to this.

  Maybe Kate knows, but I don’t want to ask her about it yet. She’s still all like: “We must stay positive.”

  But must we? How could our attitude possibly have any influence on Mum’s situation?

  I don’t think Mum’s religious, so I don’t think we’d go to a church or anything. I reckon she’d want to be cremated. That way we could scatter her ashes all across the globe; take a spoonful to each of the places she loved.

  Actually, knowing Mum, she’d probably want to use her remains to feed the hungry. I know that sounds disgusting, but she totally thinks she’s all that.

  I don’t want to be shipped off to Hong Kong to live with Nan and Granddad. Mum better not be dead.

  10:00 P.M.

  I wonder what Dad’s funeral was like.

  I wonder if Mum has been to Israel.

  I wonder if she still misses him.

  I wonder if there’s an afterlife, and if so, what would Dad say to her if she showed up now?