Love Is for Losers Read online

  Saturday, March 3 #TheCancerShop

  Pat was back at work today. She sat on her usual chair by the big table pricing bric-a-brac, and I swear she looked me up and down, like, three times. I only glared at her. I wish I knew why she hates me.

  My first job was sorting the Easter card spinner, because apparently people are

  a) too blind and

  b) too stupid to put the cards back into their correct slots.

  And, of course, the whole time I was trying to sort them, people were spinning the spinner round and round, taking out cards, and putting those back incorrectly, too.

  I was literally like: Please ask for assistance if this is beyond you.

  Afterwards I had a lesson in how to use the steamer, which is basically a massive industrial-strength iron. It boils water like a kettle, and then blows it out through a nozzle that you use to run over the clothes to take the creases out. Sadly, it doesn’t make anything smell better, but Emma was just like: “For tough jobs, there’s this,” and she spritzed Febreze. “Fragrant floral freshness.”

  I was just like: “Now it smells of public toilet,” and Emma went: “Hmmmmmm, delicious,” and smelled the crusty armpit of the shirt we were steaming, and we laughed.

  Pat didn’t speak all morning, and she seemed genuinely inconvenienced Emma and I were having a nice time. When she finally snapped out of it, she was like: “Phoebe, I hear your mother is in Syria at the moment.”

  Me: Yes.

  Pat: Kate says she’s helping to build a hospital?

  Me (thinking: Why are you asking me this when you already know the answer?): Yes.

  Pat: She’s ever so brave.

  Me:…

  Pat: And your father was ever so brave, too. You must miss him.

  Me: Not really.

  Pat (jaw literally hitting the table):…

  I’m sorry, but I really hate it when people say shit like that. It’s like saying: Oh, it must be so difficult living without that third arm you never had.

  I’m really annoyed that Kate can tell the whole world about my life, but when I ask one thing about Emma, she’s all like: Oh, sorry, I can’t possibly open my big Scottish mouth.

  Maybe I should tell Kate I don’t want to work for her after all.

  You know what they say: Don’t shit where you eat.

  Sunday, March 4 #www.hell.com

  Still no posts from Emma I could like. A post I chose not to like was Polly’s: “Lazy Sunday with the boy,” and a picture of their feet sticking out from under a fluffy blanket. I can’t even.

  I spent an hour trying to WhatsApp Mum, but the connection was so bad we had to give up.

  Kate was like: “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” but I was like: “It’s not your fault. Plus, I don’t actually care.”

  Kate looked at me, and she was like: “You do care, Phoebe. Amelia’s your mum.”

  I really don’t, though. Mum only calls because she loves to hear the sound of her own voice. I get it, the whole ticking-boxes-at-work thing, but ticking boxes at home? Forcing conversation with people just because you’re related? I don’t think so.

  Teacher training day tomorrow, so I’m going to the thrift shop.

  Monday, March 5 #Revelations

  If you’re rubbish at telling lies, you shouldn’t do it.

  Polly 100 percent never lies to me because

  a) she knows I can always tell immediately, because her left eyelid twitches, and her voice changes, and

  b) she’s always like: “Lying to you would be like lying to myself.”

  Also, if you insist on being all hush-hush about something but it’s making you feel guilty and you have therefore decided to rid yourself of that guilt at one point in the future by telling the truth, why aren’t you just being honest in the first place?

  People are pathetic.

  So today I found out that Mum has never told me the whole truth about Dad.

  And, of course, just like every other vital fact about life, like periods, penises, and how to assemble IKEA furniture, I had to learn it from Kate. Because my mother sucks at being a mother.

  Apparently, and rather disappointingly if I’m honest, not sharing details of my father’s demise with his child (!) was a joint decision between my crap mother and my crap godmother.

  But, of course, they were going to tell me one day …

  They just figured that finding out I’ve been lied to since always would be so much less disappointing than having known the truth from day one.

  My life is literally one of those talk shows where people find out family members/loved ones have been keeping secrets from them, and at first everyone’s shouting, but in the end everyone’s crying. Or leaving.

  So this morning Kate and I had to go to the thrift shop early, because someone was coming to service the fire alarms.

  We stopped at Starbucks to get coffee.

  Kate (yawning): Remind me why I’ve chosen to run a thrift shop?

  Me: Because you didn’t want to be a trauma nurse anymore?

  Kate (rubbing her eyes): Oh yes. Of course.

  Me: Why did you give it up?

  Kate (shrugs): Many reasons.

  Me: Name one.

  Kate: I couldn’t do it anymore.

  Me: Why?

  Kate: I couldn’t do it anymore.

  Me: What, you woke up one day and were like: Okay, that’s it?

  Kate: Yes. I woke up and was like: Okay, that’s it.

  Me: You’re lying.

  Kate: And what if I am? It’s seven in the bloody morning.

  Me: So something happened.

  Kate: Phoebe. Things always happen when you’re a trauma nurse. And they’re never good. Especially in a war.

  Me: So tell me.

  Kate (looking at me like it’s on the tip of her tongue, then breathing out and in again): I’ll tell you one day, Phoebe.

  Starbucks person (shouting, even though we were the only customers, and standing right there): One black Americano, and a soy chai latte for Kate.

  Kate: Thanks.

  Me (holding the door open for her): Have you noticed that you don’t treat me in a consistent manner?

  Kate: What’y’a’onaboutnow?

  Me: One minute you talk to me about ticking boxes and cat sex, and the next minute you’re like: Oh, no, Phoebe, I can’t possibly share this information with you.

  Kate (stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, then pulling me into the alleyway that always smells of piss just between the pet shop and the pound shop): Okay, Phoebe, so first of all, not everything is about you. Maybe, on this occasion, I’m not ready to share information with you, because even though I am an adult, I am a person with feelings. And second of all—fine, I’ll bloody well tell ya.

  Me:…

  Kate: I watched your father die.

  Me:…

  Kate: I’ve watched many people die, but this was different, because he was my friend. And your mum loved him, and I couldn’t save him.

  Me (piss alley literally spinning):…

  Kate: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything …

  Me (piss alley still spinning):…

  Kate: I’m so sorry, Phoebe, I …

  Me (Kate also spinning):…

  Kate (reaching for my free hand): I suck, I’m sorry.

  Me (pulling away my free hand): Don’t touch me.

  Kate: Phoebe—

  Me: And don’t talk to me.

  I left her standing in Piss Alley, and walked on ahead to the shop where I waited for her to come and open up. I think I was too confused to throw a tantrum. Or run away. It was totally pathetic.

  Kate eventually caught up with me and unlocked the door, and I went straight to the back and started sorting clothes. When the fire alarm guy came and was like: “Hiya, you all right?” I was just like: “Not really.”

  Later on, Pat was like: “Have you fallen out with Kate?” And I was like: “Yep.” And I swear she looked pleased.

  I can’t believe n
obody has ever said anything.

  The one good thing about it is that there’s genuinely no one left who could disappoint me now.

  10:36 P.M.

  Kate just told me the whole story.

  She was outside my locked door like: “I’m sorry we never told you, and I’m sorry I blurted it out like that. It was a very difficult time, and we don’t like to talk about it. Please don’t tell your mother I behaved like a five-year-old. I’ll do that myself. I’ll email her in a minute. Phoebe?”

  I was like: “Fine,” and I opened the door.

  I knew Dad died when he worked at a hospital in Iraq and it got bombed, but I never knew Kate and Mum were there, too.

  Kate said she was still in the building the doctors and nurses lived in, and my dad had just left to go across to the hospital where Mum was already working.

  Kate said the thing with bombs is that you don’t hear them because of the speed they are dropping with. So suddenly there was this insane explosion, buildings were shaking and collapsing, and everyone was thrown to the ground.

  Kate said that she ran out into the courtyard, and that most of the hospital building opposite had been flattened, and that people were screaming and running, and apparently all she could think was: “Shit, Amelia’s in the hospital.”

  She ran across, and then she saw my dad lying on the ground.

  She said a big piece of roof had blown straight into his stomach and that he was bleeding out so fast that he was already lying in a puddle of his own blood by the time she got to him.

  She said that she thinks that he knew he was going to die.

  And she said that he probably knew that she knew, and so she just knelt down beside him and held his hand.

  Kate said it was the most horrendous moment of her life, and that the whole thing was over in less than thirty seconds, but that she remembers it like it was hours and hours.

  Me: Why did they bomb a hospital?

  Kate (shaking her head): Wars, Phoebe. You can’t imagine what it’s like, you just can’t. People become evil.

  Me: Did Dad say anything before he died?

  Kate (shaking her head again): No, pet, he didn’t.

  Me: What did you say to him?

  Kate (shrugging): I … Gosh. I think I told him not to worry about anything.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Kate (hugging me): No, I’m sorry, Phoebe. He was your dad. And he was a wonderful human. Just like you. And it’s not fair.

  Kate said fifteen people died in the bombing.

  Mum was knocked out and suffered a head injury. She was evacuated to Cyprus, and Kate went with her. That’s where they told her she was pregnant with me.

  Kate resigned as soon as they returned to London.

  Dad’s body was flown to his family in Tel Aviv, where he was from. Kate said that Mum didn’t speak to anyone or do anything for five months. When I was born, she decided to say my father was unknown, because she couldn’t deal with it.

  I’ve thought about this, and it’s such a typical Mum thing to have done, isn’t it? Just like always, it was all about her. She didn’t even consider that maybe Dad’s parents would have liked to have known about me, because to be honest, that probably would have been a pretty big deal when your own child’s just died. And Mum obviously didn’t care at all about me either (standard), and the fact that I actually deserved better than to have an anonymous dead father.

  I asked Kate if she thinks Dad’s family might want to know about me, and she said that she doesn’t know how Mum would feel about trying to contact them, but that she’d back me up all the way if I wanted to.

  She told me my dad was the funniest person she’d ever met, and that I’ve inherited his “crazy” and sense of humor. She said he was very warm and welcoming, but that I hadn’t inherited that trait at all (rude).

  I was never really interested in my dad.

  I suppose because I never saw him as an actual person.

  But now I do.

  I’m glad that he was funny.

  I wonder if he’d like me.

  Imagine if he’d had a Facebook account. I could be stalking him right now.

  According to the internet, approximately twenty million dead people are still on Facebook. Not literally, obviously, because they’re dead. But just imagine I could see pictures of Dad, befriend his family, check what he liked to eat for lunch, what films he watched at the cinema, where he went on holiday …

  PS: I never thought about it before, but I’m actually really sorry he died.

  Tuesday, March 6 #

  Tonight Kate and Mum WhatsApped, and Kate told her about telling me about Dad.

  I’m glad it’s all out now.

  I’m glad because, in a way, people only become real people when we hear a story that features them. All my life I’ve been like: My dad’s dead. He worked as a war doctor, and he got killed before I was born.

  And now I think I’ll be more like: My dad was called Ilan, and he was from Tel Aviv. He was a war doctor and died when a hospital near Mosul he was working at was bombed. We never met, but apparently I’m just like him. Without the beard.

  Kate was like: “Phoebe, ask me anything you like about him. I’m sorry we’ve been so weird all these years.”

  Me: So my dad was Jewish?

  Kate: Yes.

  Me: But I’m not.

  Kate: I don’t know, you tell me.

  Me: Ha ha.

  Kate: Not by birth, no. Jewishness is passed down by the mother. So I suppose you’re only half Jewish.

  Me: And he spoke Hebrew?

  Kate (looking at me like I’m an idiot): Yes. Him being an Israeli person who was born and raised in Israel and went to medical school at the University of Tel Aviv, he did in fact speak Hebrew.

  Me: I think I should learn Hebrew.

  Kate: Phoebe, if you want to learn Hebrew, I will personally finance your studies.

  But then I Googled it, and, oh man, have you seen the writing?

  “Hello” is also “goodbye,” but you wouldn’t know it, because it’s spelled like this: .

  Me: Am I more like Mum or Dad?

  Kate: You, pet, are the best of both.

  Me: Hashtag cliché.

  Kate: All right, stroppy. Let me tell ya. Your beautiful eyes are your dad’s, as are your quick wit and often questionable sense of humor. From Amelia you’ve inherited the ability to take no shit. But, your clever brain is all me. As are your good looks. And your luscious hair. And—

  Me: Oh, shut up, Kate, I was being serious.

  Kate (clutching her chest): I’m being very serious. Nature, nurture, Phoebe.

  Then she grabbed me and kissed my face, like, a thousand times.

  Kate: You, my darling, are the perfect combination of those two.

  Me: Why did we never talk about Dad?

  Kate: Sometimes things happen that are so big that it becomes impossible to find the right words. And it’s not that your mum doesn’t want to speak about it. I honestly think she can’t.

  Me:…

  Kate: But let me tell you, Phoebe, your dad was a wonderful man.

  Me: I’m sorry you lost your friend.

  Kate: Not as sorry as I am that you two never got to meet each other.

  Me:…

  Kate (kissing my face again, then holding me too tight, laughing into my hair): His English was perfect, but it was never hello, it was always shalom.

  Me: Maybe I should greet people like that. Being half Israeli and all.

  Kate: But warn your mum before you say it to her.

  Me:…

  Kate: She loved him. Maybe she still does.

  9:32 P.M.

  Shalom: Exclamation. Used as salutation by Jews at meeting or parting, meaning “peace.”

  10:00 P.M.

  I think I may want to find Dad’s family.

  I mean, it’ll probably give them a heart attack, but wouldn’t you want to know if your dead son/brother/BFF had a child somewhere? I get that Mum
’s upset, but not everything can be about her.

  Wednesday, March 7 #ThatsGreatPhoebe

  When I saw Polly at school, I was like: “Shalom,” and she was like WTF? So I told her that, since Dad was Israeli, I’m going to find out a lot more about their culture, and that I was thinking of learning Hebrew (which is bullshit, because I’ve already decided that I won’t actually be doing that).

  Polly was just like: “That’s great, Phoebe.”

  I don’t know what I expected her to say to that, but this was such a nonreaction. I swear if I’d been like: I’m thinking of throwing myself under a bus, she’d have been like: That’s great, Phoebe.

  She just doesn’t care, and I hate that, and I hate that I hate it, because I want to not care as well.

  The fact that Miriam Patel is still basically ignoring me because of me calling her a fuckwit totally doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, it’s making my life a hundred times better, but Polly’s indifference is making me want to be sick.

  How can a boyfriend replace a best friend?

  PS: I just Googled above question, and the answer is: A boyfriend cannot replace a best friend, because:

  a) You need your best friend to talk to about your boyfriend.

  b) Your best friend is objective when you are not.

  c) Boyfriends are temporary; best friends are for life.

  Doesn’t Polly realize any of this?

  PS: Life would be so much easier if we didn’t have feelings. Like Mr. Data in Star Trek. I know he’s not an actual person, but an android, but he’s a proper genius until Geordi installs the emotion chip, at which point Data basically breaks.

  I’m really trying to not have feelings, but when I look at Polly and I think that I don’t know her anymore, some fragments of emotion literally eat their way through the iron shield around my soul. Like acid, all burning and sting-y.

  Thursday, March 8 #MiddleClassProblems

  This afternoon a customer complained to me that our selection of Easter cards lacked those featuring Jesus on the cross. She then went on ranting about how even Easter eggs don’t say “Easter” anymore, but are now labeled “chocolate” eggs, and how political correctness has gone too far, because at the end of the day, this is still “our” country.