Love Is for Losers Page 3

  Work Experience

  Cancer Thrift Shop, Wimbledon

  I have been a regular volunteer for many months. My duties include sorting through donation bags, steaming and tagging clothes behind the scenes, as well as customer service on the shop floor. I thoroughly enjoy working with such a diverse clientele and am always looking to build a positive rapport with my customers.

  References are available on request.

  Me: I thought you’re not supposed to lie on your CV.

  Kate: We’re stretching the truth, Phoebe. It’s not the same.

  Me: Always looking to build a positive rapport with my customers? I hate people.

  Kate: You’re the one who wants to venture out into the corporate world, pet, and let me tell you: There are rules. You need to walk the walk, you need to talk the talk. It may all be a big bucket of bullshit, but the only way to success is by ticking all their boxes.

  Me (looking at my CV): This ticks boxes?

  Kate (making ticks in the air): Tick, tick, and bloody tick.

  PS: I’m not sure I want to tick boxes.

  Saturday, January 27 #IncestAlert

  I tried to apply for jobs online today, but I ended up accidentally Instagram-stalking Emma. I’ve been thinking about her, but only because I basically don’t get why she’d want to volunteer at that place. First I thought she was doing the Duke of Edinburgh award program, but Kate told me Emma’s been there for months, and I think for the Duke of Edinburgh you only have to be there for a couple of hours.

  It took me ages to find her on Instagram.

  Annoyingly, her account is private, and all I can see is her picture, which is of her and what must be her boyfriend dressed up as Luke and Leia from Star Wars, which is a bit wrong, because Luke and Leia are actually brother and sister.

  I wonder how long they’ve been together.

  PS: Emma looks amazing as Princess Leia.

  PPS: I wonder who Luke is.

  Sunday, January 28 #MyOwnBestFriend

  I asked Kate if she thinks it’s okay Mum’s always dumping me at her house, and she was like: “I actually love it when you stay with me, Phoebs, so yes, it’s better than okay.”

  Then I asked if she thinks it’s okay that Mum’s currently en route to Syria, of all places, and she said: “Your mum’s my best friend in the whole wide world, and I may not always agree with her, but I’m always on her side. Do you know what I mean?”

  I don’t.

  And I’m not just saying that to be difficult.

  Monday, January 29 #InYourFace

  Miriam Patel invited me to Jacob’s party next weekend, and because I was standing with Polly and Training Wheels (who are now one singular entity because they are literally always attached) at the time, I was just like: “Thanks, I’d love to come.”

  Later Polly said she thought I hated parties, but I was like: “No, I don’t,” which is a blatant lie, because there’s literally nothing that repels me more.

  Tuesday, January 30 #SorryNotSorry

  Today at lunch, Miriam Patel went on and on about how her and Jacob are sleeping together but aren’t “official,” and that that’s totally okay for them.

  And I hate to admit she has a point, but she does, because why should she have to be like Polly, all: “I love you, I love you, I love you” like a crazy person? Maybe Miriam just enjoys having sex. Everyone is different.

  Then she got half a pine nut stuck in her braces, but I didn’t tell her and let her prance right into her geography presentation.

  Wednesday, January 31 #Falling

  Tonight Mum WhatsApped and was like: “How’s Polly?” and I was like: “Brain-dead and floating in an estrogen-induced delirium,” and Mum was like: “Oh, don’t be mean, Phoebs. It’s a nice thing for her. Just wait until you fall in love.”

  I was just like: “I will never fall in love.”

  And what a stupid expression that is in the first place: To fall in love.

  Like you fall into a ditch or something.

  Maybe people need to look where they’re going.

  Thursday, February 1 #WorstNightmare

  I told Kate I was invited to Jacob’s party, hoping she’d say I wasn’t allowed to go, but of course she was like: “Great. I can drop you off and collect you if you like.”

  I told her I’d take the bus because, let’s face it, it’s not like I’m going to be there for long.

  I have nothing to wear, and everything I do have is covered in cat fur.

  I hate my life.

  Friday, February 2 #consumerism.com

  Now that it’s February, everyone has jumped on the bandwagon that is the pointless frenzy about Valentine’s Day. I reckon Valentine’s Day was only invented so people don’t die of absolute boredom in winter.

  After the Christmas sales, everyone’s like: Now what?

  Enter Saint Valentine, and off we go again, spending money on meaningless crap, chocolates that now have hearts on them instead of Father Christmas, and stupidly overpriced cards.

  I actually saw a card that said: HAPPY VALENTINE’S TO A GREAT SISTER-IN-LAW.

  What does that have to do with anything?

  Oh, and because love is in the air, the much less horny mother designer cat of the very horny escapee daughter designer cat is going in for the shagfest.

  Kate’s decided to only take that one up to High Barnet now because the other one is most definitely already up the duff, and the dirty weekend costs like £500 per cat.

  I wonder if you can buy shares in designer cat sperm, because Kate should.

  In fact, I should.

  Saturday, February 3 #PartyHell

  I knew I’d have a terrible time at Jacob’s, and I did.

  If it’s at all possible, I hate parties more than ever now that people have turned them into communal make-out sessions.

  Tonight we played this game called Seven Minutes in Heaven, which is actually seven minutes in the toilet.

  Miriam Patel (dressed like she’s forgotten to put on actual clothes and looking at me specifically): I would just like to mention that not everyone in this room is sixteen and therefore old enough to be legally sexually active. That means intercourse. FYI.

  Me (dressed in actual clothes): Intercourse. LOL. (Because who says that?)

  Miriam Patel (giving me a death stare):…

  Me (considering her skyrocketing levels of phenylethylamine):…

  Anyway, I ended up spending seven minutes in the loo with James Monahan.

  I suppose it was okay. Not that I would EVER have sex with him, because I basically don’t even know him, and why would I want to snog a random person right next to a toilet? But we both like Doctor Who, so we talked about the latest series, and we agreed it was excellent.

  When we came out, it was clear that no snogging/sex had taken place, and the only person who spoke to me all night after that was Annie, who also has no friends, although I think she’s a bit more tragic, because she never had any to start with, and she only gets invited because she brings booze (and nobody knows where she gets it from, which adds mystery, and people love that).

  We sat on the sofa together and watched one happy couple after the other disappear into the toilet and reappear again seven minutes later.

  Yawn.

  Miriam Patel and Jacob went in together, and when they came back out, Miriam was all like: Look at me, don’t look at me, and then Annie went: “Miriam, come here.” And Miriam obviously thought that Annie wanted to hear details, but then Annie gently raised her hand to Miriam’s face and casually picked a pube off her cheek.

  I was like: “Ew, you have a pube on your face?” And you know what happened next? Instead of everyone going: That’s disgusting, a pube was stuck to your face, everyone went: “OMG, how amazing. Miriam Patel had an actual pube on her face.”

  I left thirty seconds later.

  On the bus I was thinking, you know, there I was, sitting with Annie, wishing for a millisecond that I was popular, but if I
was the popular girl, I’d be the girl with a pube on her face.

  Also: I can solve a complex mathematical equation, I know about the chemistry behind love and lust, and I have a deep understanding of the difference between there, their, and they’re. I don’t want a medal or anything, but why are people being idolized for having pubes on their face?

  Sunday, February 4 #MoreLies

  Polly texted to ask how the party was, and I was going to be all hateful like: Maybe you should have gone instead of joining Tristan’s family on a day trip to his grandparents’ house not even five weeks into your brand-new relationship. But I ended up telling her the party was actually really good.

  I don’t know why I’m lying. It’s not that I’m desperate to become best mates with Pube-Face Patel.

  Monday, February 5 #CrispGate

  Miriam Patel has turned into some sort of celebrity after getting the pube stuck to her face, and Polly is still wandering around like a zombie looking for Tristan if she’s not already latched on, so my goal today was to speak to no one at school.

  At lunch I went to the library to print off CVs again.

  Then I sat on the floor behind the classics (where nobody ever goes), trying to eat a packet of crisps, but Mrs. Day busted me straightaway.

  Mrs. Day: Phoebe Davis. Hiding?

  Me (swallowing a giant not-fully-chewed Kettle Chip, almost slicing open my trachea):…

  Mrs. Day: I was going to have a word with you anyway.

  Me (coughing): I’ve done nothing wrong.

  Mrs. Day: There’s no eating in the library.

  Me: Everyone does it.

  Mrs. Day: And if everyone jumps off a bridge, do you jump off a bridge, too?

  Me:…

  I honestly thought I was in trouble for a minute, but turned out she just wanted to tell me how pleased she was I decided to take “mathematics” (who says that?) for one of my A levels.

  Of course I’m going to do math. I mean, it’s easy, and I like that there’s only ever one answer, not like in English, where it’s all blah blah blah, and if you’re not a communist like Mr. Harris you get a shit grade.

  On my way to history, I ran straight into Polly and Training Wheels, who were entangled in a tight embrace just by the first-floor toilets. Polly had her back to me, but Training Wheels looked me straight in the eyes and pulled her just that little bit closer.

  I don’t even care anymore.

  PS: I wonder if Emma and Luke Skywalker are like that when they’re together. Emma seems too grown-up to be that basic. But to be fair, so did Polly until it all went wrong.

  Tuesday, February 6 #GoodNewsAtLast

  Yes! I got an email from Dream Bear Factory inviting me to an “audition” on Saturday.

  I suppose audition is their happy-clappy word for job interview.

  Bring it. Seriously, how hard can it be?

  PS: The designer cat’s back from High Barnet and has been asleep ever since, totally sexed out. I can’t even look at it.

  Wednesday, February 7 #LifeChoices

  Kate told me not to make fun of Dream Bear Factory, even though they call a job interview an “audition” and the email says “Thank you beary much for your interest in dreaming with us.”

  * * *

  Mum’s still in Turkey. I looked at a map, because I was like, how long can it take to drive to Syria? But Turkey is actually huge, three times the size of the UK, to be exact.

  Mum said they passed through a village today and the locals offered them goat udders to eat, and all I’m thinking is: You could work at any London hospital, eat Pret or itsu or Marks & Spencer’s for lunch every day, sleep in a nice warm house, in a nice soft bed, spend time with your nice only child, and yet here you are trekking through shitty Turkey in the middle of winter eating goat udders.

  I swear she thinks she’s the New Messiah.

  Thursday, February 8 #DesperateTimes

  I don’t know what to wear to the Dream Bear Factory audition.

  Kate told me to put on something “bright and cheerful, maybe with unicorns.” Now who’s taking the piss?

  Everything I own is black featuring designer cat hair. I could always put on my school jumper, but that’s just cringe.

  I suppose I should ask Kate to drive me home home so I can raid my closet. But to be honest, I don’t even know what I’ve got at home home anymore.

  I could also go to Primark and buy something, but I hate Primark. Not because of child labor, but because the average customer appears to lose control of all motor functions, and when you go in there after school, everything’s on the floor.

  PS: Child labor is also not okay. Obviously.

  Friday, February 9 #TickTickBoom

  Kate did a pretend audition with me earlier, in preparation for tomorrow. She’s totally serious about it being serious, and even though she’s usually crazy and scary, she got very crazy and very scary (and very Scottish).

  She pretended to be Miss Dream Bear Factory, thanking me “beary” much for my application. She even printed off my CV and had a pen at the ready.

  Kate: Is it Phoebe Alexandra or just Phoebe?

  Me: Just Phoebe.

  Kate: All right, Phoebe. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They’re all pretty standard, but you’re welcome to take your time answering them.

  Me: Okay.

  Kate (rolling every r in the most ridiculous way): Describe a time you had a disagreement with a fellow team member. What did you do to overcome it?

  Me: I’m at school, so I don’t really have team members.

  Kate (writing something down): Okay. Tell me about a time you went above and beyond to meet a customer’s expectations.

  Me: I’m at school. I don’t really have customers. I don’t know how to answer that.

  Kate (writing something): Would you consider yourself a team player, or do you prefer working on your own?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Kate: What are you most proud of? Please elaborate.

  Me: Oh my God, Kate, I don’t know. These are stupid questions. Seriously, what do you want me to say?

  Kate put her pen down and was like: “Fer goodness’ sake, Phoebe, just make something up. What did I tell you about ticking bloody boxes? Tick, tick, tick. Tell them what they want to hear. ‘How did you solve a disagreement with a fellow team member?’ ‘Well, Miss Dream Bear Factory, I think communication is at the heart of a functioning working relationship.’ ‘Are you a team player?’ ‘Yes, but I also enjoy working on my own.’ ‘What are you proud of?’ ‘That time I helped a blind person across the road.’ Jesus Christ, pet, pull yerself together.”

  At that point she’d gone so Scottish that the BBC would have given her subtitles.

  Then she said: “Might I suggest you think long and hard about how you would answer those questions?”

  I sat there for, like, an hour, thinking: This is too extra.

  When I stopped thinking, it was way too late for Primark, and I didn’t want to ask Kate to drive me over to Kingston.

  Shit.

  Saturday, February 10 #PhoebesGotNoTalent

  8:00 A.M.

  The internet says to dress “smart casual” for job interviews, which apparently means fancy trousers or skirt and a blouse. I don’t own anything like that, apart from my school uniform. Someone help me.

  8:25 A.M.

  I told Kate that I’ve got nothing to wear, and she was like: “You’re telling me this now?”

  So I’m going to the thrift shop with her to see if we can find me something from a donation bag.

  You know that saying “Life is hard, but it’s even harder when you’re stupid”?

  Totally me right now.

  7:14 P.M.

  Things did not go well.

  I ended up going to that ridiculous audition in a dead man’s skinny-fit lilac shirt from M&S and my school trousers. I looked like an absolute dick.

  When I got to Dream Bear Factory, it turned out that I wasn’t the on
ly person being “auditioned.” There were, like, twenty people there, and they all looked as if they’d been up for hours doing their hair and makeup.

  The store manager, a horrendous woman called Sandra, spoke in one of those high-pitched voices old people put on when they talk to babies.

  Sandra (forcing a smile that gave me sympathy face-ache): “Welcome, everyone, and thank you beary much (not even lying) for coming. There’s quite a few of you, and unfortunately I only have two weekend positions to give away, but I wish you all the best of luck. Now, let’s all introduce ourselves, using a word starting with the first letter of our name, followed by our name. That’s going to make it much easier for us to remember who we are. I’ll start, and I am Silly Sandra.”

  In all my life I’ve never wanted for the ground to swallow me up more. I didn’t even listen to what anyone was saying, because I was trying to

  a) think of my word, and

  b) not think about how ridiculous that game was, because Phoebe may start with a P, but you say it like an F, so whatever P word I was going to choose would probably make it more difficult for people to remember my name.

  When it was my turn, all I could come up with was Pointless Phoebe.

  The guy next to me was Marvelous Max, then there was Terrific Tiffany, and one girl was Beary Enthusiastic Bella (a.k.a. Butt-kiss Bella).

  Next we were given a guided tour of all the different stations of bear making.

  It’s basically like a shit droid factory: Select the empty shell, take a handful of fluff, make a wish, shove it all in, sew it up, and that’s twenty-five pounds. Ka-ching!

  FYI, isn’t it absurd that we live in a world where a child in Africa or India is starving, and at that precise moment, a brat in Wimbledon is spending thirty quid on a chaise longue and flip-flops for their stuffed Pikachu?

  Anyway, after the stuffing malarkey, things escalated.

  Silly Sandra: Now we’re going to take five minutes each outside to engage with potential customers and actively invite them into our store this afternoon. Our mission as a company is to bring a child’s imagination to life.