Love Is for Losers Page 8

  Wednesday, March 21 #KillMeNow

  Gastroporn James from the Goat is on Easter break from uni and apparently has promised Kate to help at the thrift shop every day next week.

  Oh God. It’ll be like the saga of Polly and Tristan all over again, except this time with grown-ups.

  Thursday, March 22 #SilenceIsGoldenExceptWhenItsNot

  I now know why it’s so difficult to find out things about Emma. Apart from her seemingly inactive Instagram.

  It’s a clever little thing she does, and I basically hadn’t noticed it until today when I was listening to her talking to a customer. By the time he left the shop, Emma had learned the following:

  He’s called Ian.

  He used to work for National Rail.

  He has three children who all still live locally; one is a teacher, one drives a black cab, and one is a radiologist at St. George’s.

  He has four grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way.

  He supports Tottenham and holds a season ticket.

  He’s been divorced for eighteen years, but is hoping to find love again (blech!).

  And here’s what Ian learned about Emma:

  She’s called Emma.

  How is this possible?

  Is it rocket science?

  No, but it is genius: Emma conducts a conversation. She’s in charge of it, she’s the puppetmaster. So, note to self: If you don’t want people to know anything about you, you have to be the one with all the questions.

  Seriously, Emma’s so brilliant at it you don’t even realize she’s doing it.

  I’m going to try her own trick on her on Saturday.

  PS: I really hope the casual racist comes back to the shop, because we received the most brilliant donation possibly ever, which meant it got immediately fast-tracked to donation of the week. It’s Jesus on the cross. And because it’s really good quality, we’re asking for twenty-five pounds, which I think is fair.

  So guess what happened at the till?

  Alex: Can we tempt you with Jesus on the cross?

  Friday, March 23 #EasterBreak

  Today was the last day of school before the Easter break, and I was just like: Okay, I’m going to have to talk to Polly about the clitoris, because I’m not going to see her for, like, three weeks, and then the topic will have totally lost its momentum. Also, I wanted to prove to her that I was listening, and that I do still care about her and want her to be happy, even though I despise her boyfriend and she’s erased me from her life like it’s nothing.

  So at lunch I walked over to her and Tristan, and I was like: “Can I talk to you for five minutes?”

  Tristan looked proper put out, but I was just like: “Sorry, mate,” and then I led Polly away by her elbow.

  Polly: What is it? Are you okay?

  Me: You need to tell him about the clitoris.

  Polly: Excuse me?

  Me: You have to tell Tristan about the clitoris. He’s clearly missing it. And I don’t think the penis is designed to do much with it, or to it, and so you have to show him something else.

  Polly: Are you insane?

  Me: What? No, honestly, him finding the clitoris will help.

  Polly: Fuck off, Phoebe, this isn’t about the clitoris. Besides, that’s not the only way to make a woman come.

  Me:…

  Polly: Why do you have to be so condescending all the time? You act like everyone is stupid apart from you. Maybe I didn’t want an instruction manual. And maybe I know about the clitoris. But maybe I just wanted someone to talk to.

  And then she just left me standing there.

  In an ideal world, I would have shouted: “Don’t be pissed off with me, I’m not the one who’s shit in bed.”

  But obviously I’m not a bitch.

  PS: It’s clearly about the clitoris.

  Saturday, March 24 #BillAndMelanie

  I was at the thrift shop all day today.

  Emma and I got so much done, and at one point she was like: “I think we should come in every day over the Easter break and properly sort this place out,” and I was like: “I’m up for it. That’s such a good idea.”

  Except, of course, it’s a terrible idea, because:

  a) It means spending a whole week with Kate and James, which is basically the one thing I wanted to avoid at all costs.

  b) If I’m at the shop five hours every day, that’s five hours of GCSE studying I’m not doing.

  Oh man.

  And yes, I agree the stockroom needs a good clear out, but part of me is absolutely horrified about what might be lurking under all those bin bags.

  Who actually knows how long some of them have been there? It could be twenty years, because what seems to be happening at the moment is us just going through the new stuff that’s on the top. There could be bodies under there.

  The other week there was an article in the Metro about an actual dead cat that was found in a donated sofa.

  Bill and Melanie brought in pictures of their trip to the Middle East today. They hate Christmas, but instead of complaining about it, they always go away somewhere it doesn’t exist.

  I obviously love them.

  It’s also really cute that they went to Boots to physically print off pictures, because who still does that?

  Bill (taking off his hat, then taking Pat’s hand and kissing it): Patricia, my darling. I’m always so delighted to see you.

  Pat: Oh, Bill, stop it.

  Bill: I’ve brought you a picture of myself floating in the Dead Sea. I know you’ve been curious to see what I look like in my swimming trunks ever since we first met.

  Pat: Bill, really.

  Melanie: Careful, Bill, or I’ll replace your head with that of Batman.

  Then Bill passed the pictures around, and Emma was all like: “Bill, you’re the cutest.” And admittedly, he looked hilarious in his little yellow bathing shorts and straw hat.

  He says it’s all true about the Dead Sea.

  You can’t sink.

  He says it feels like the water itself is trying to spit you back out. Apparently as soon as you try to go under, you pop back up again.

  And then Melanie was like: “But don’t let them fool you into thinking it’s salt water.” Apparently she licked her own arm and was nearly sick. Bill reckons it tastes like battery fluid.

  With all that Easter malarkey recently, and my rather delayed realization that my father was an actual human being who was Jewish, I’ve been asking myself the odd question about religion and Jesus, who was obviously also Jewish (oh, and FYI, Jesus on the cross sold), and I have thoughts: According to the Bible, Jesus walked on the Sea of Galilee that time he walked on water. But the Holy Land (i.e. Israel) is tiny, and the Sea of Galilee runs into the Dead Sea, so it’s probably more likely for them to have gotten their geography slightly wrong than for Jesus to have actually walked on regular water. And if Bill, who is not a small man, can stay afloat in the Dead Sea, I’m sure someone like Jesus could have walked on it.

  Just saying.

  I really think I should go to Israel one day. Maybe I’ll even find a god, since I wasn’t assigned one at birth.

  * * *

  When we closed up the shop tonight, Emma was like: “Are you still up for Monday?” And I was like: “Yes, of course.” And then Emma was like: “Let me give you my number. You can text me so I’ll have yours. Maybe we can get Starbucks on our way in?”

  I was like: “’K.”

  What’s wrong with me?

  Suddenly I can’t speak in full sentences? Or say actual words?

  I should have texted her straightaway, because it’s now two hours later and I’m reliving the Instagram-follow-request anxiety.

  10:05 P.M.

  I still haven’t texted her. I’ll do it now.

  10:10 P.M.

  What do I say?

  10:13 P.M.

  I’ll just ask her to meet at Starbucks on Monday because we’ve sort of agreed we wanted to do that anyway.

  10:15
P.M.

  When I say we’ve “sort of agreed” I mean that I basically said “’K,” which doesn’t actually mean anything and is a guttural croak at best.

  Losing my mind.

  10:17 P.M.

  Why is this so awkward?

  10:25 P.M.

  I said:

  Hi, do you want to meet at Starbucks at ten on Monday?

  Done.

  Phew.

  OMG.

  Get a grip.

  10:28 P.M.

  Emma texted back:

  Looking forward to it. Good night. Sleep well. See you Monday. x

  X!

  What does that mean?

  Are we x-ing?

  Should I have x-ed?

  11:10 P.M.

  Melanie’s wrong, and it is actually salt in the Dead Sea.

  According to the internet, it’s got a salinity of 34.2 percent and is one of the world’s saltiest bodies of water, apart from Lake Vanda in Antarctica (35 percent), Lake Assal in Djibouti (34.8 percent), Lagoon Garabogazköl in the Caspian Sea (up to 35 percent), and some hypersaline ponds and lakes of the McMurdo Dry Valleys in Antarctica such as Don Juan Pond (44 percent).

  Sunday, March 25 #TheVaginalOrgasm

  My search for Polly’s orgasm continues, and I’m going the extra mile.

  When she said it wasn’t about the clitoris, she was talking about the vaginal orgasm.

  And just like the “small, erectile organ,” a.k.a., the clitoris, this is yet another horrendous term that probably puts people right off getting into vaginas—like, literally.

  I couldn’t find anything in the Medical Dictionary, so I looked online, and there’s loads.

  So, apparently some people believe there’s no such thing as the G-spot, because what it is is basically just an extension of the clitoris, but many sexperts (not Tristan, LOL) say it’s definitely a thing, and the easiest way for a woman to achieve a vaginal orgasm is for her to lie down flat on her back, and tilt her hips upwards. That way the penis (regardless of size, apparently) can hit the right area inside the vagina.

  Now, I could forward this article to Polly, but then she’d probably be all like: Don’t be so condescending, Phoebe; it’s not about the vaginal orgasm. (Even though it definitely is this time.)

  I swear some people need to take more responsibility for their lives.

  It’s all well and good Polly just wanting to talk to me about it, but that’s not going to solve her problem.

  Also, if you have a conversation with someone, and a conversation being a two-way-sort-of-thing, why would you be offended when the other person gives you their opinion? I mean, did she just expect me to sit there and nod? Seriously, next time go and talk to a wall or something.

  PS: I’m so dreading tomorrow.

  I mean, I’m looking forward to Starbucks, even though, note to self, I’m going to have to remember not to order a soy chai latte, but a vanilla latte. Else Emma may think I’m a weird stalker.

  But then I’m going to have to face the Kate and James show. Blech!

  PPS: I spoke to Mum tonight, and I told her about working at the thrift shop, like, every day now, and she was just like: “That’s such an epic thing to be doing, Phoebe. I’m so proud of you.” But then she launched straight into: “Don’t forget you need to make a lot of time for studying as well. So if it gets too much, you’ll have to tell Kate no, okay? She’ll understand.”

  I think her comments ticked at least two parenting-goal boxes. Well done, Mum. Excellent work.

  Monday, March 26 #ItchyCentral

  Emma and I met at Starbucks at ten, got drinks to go, and then we conquered Donation Bag Mountain.

  We pulled out all the bin bags and hoovered underneath, where you can still see the original color of the carpet.

  The thing about tidying is that at first it looks even worse than before you started, and for a moment, we were like: What have we done?

  We checked for quality stuff in the older donations, and Kate was like: “If it’s completely unsalvageable, just put it in the rag bin.”

  We chucked a lot. Here’s a list of some of the shit we found:

  a sports bag full of tighty-whities (not new ones)

  sheer tights, used and laddered

  one yellow flipper with a picture of Donald Duck on it

  Totally Plantbased eyeshadow palette with actual mold on it

  a wallet with actual mold on it

  The Ten Best Walks on the Isle of Wight with actual mold on it

  Needless to say, none of these items qualified to become the new donation of the week. We’re still to decide on one.

  James was mainly on the shop floor today, reorganizing the entire books and media section. I watched him for a while, all biceps and dimples, and then I imagined kissing him, but literally nothing happened to my insides.

  Tuesday, March 27 #EasterCardHell

  Emma and I had breakfast at Starbucks this morning. It was brilliant. We both had croissants. At the shop, the Easter card situation was getting out of hand. I wrote a long email to Mum about it, and I told her that she’s so lucky she’s in a country that doesn’t believe in Easter.

  At one point today there was a queue to the door of people wanting to buy cards, and one woman was getting proper aggressive when someone was like: “Excuse me, can I please get past you and leave the shop?”

  Isn’t it funny how it’s always the old people, who have all day every day to do things, who end up waiting until the very last minute and then complain that they have to queue? I mean, we’ve had Easter cards for weeks. Why do you need to buy them three days before Easter? And we all know when Easter is, because it says it in all the calendars, very much unlike Eid, which is only ever in the posh ones you get at, like, Paperchase or John Lewis.

  PS: Kate says the runaway designer cat is due to have kittens this week.

  Turns out cats are only pregnant for nine weeks. Who knew?

  9:04 P.M.

  I just Googled animal pregnancies, and dogs are on average pregnant for only 8.5 weeks.

  Tristan grew inside his mother for nine months. And yet I’ve seen a dog ride a bicycle. Just saying …

  PS again: Polly hasn’t texted me, or called, or anything.

  Today she posted a picture on Instagram of her and Tristan kissing, titled “So much love.”

  I didn’t comment, because apparently when you haven’t got anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.

  Wednesday, March 28 #DonationOfTheCentury

  Emma and I made the discovery of the century.

  We pulled a Return of the Jedi movie poster out of a fungus-riddled Nike golf bag, and I was like: “Cool.”

  Then we rolled it out on the big table to have a proper look, greatly inconveniencing Pat and her bric-a-brac in the process, and I saw that it’s got MARK HAMILL’s actual real-life signature on it.

  People are selling things like that for hundreds and hundreds of pounds online.

  I told Kate to set up an account straightaway, because we can’t have some retired person spending, like, £1.25 on something so totally brilliant.

  Alex was like: “The Force is with us.”

  When we were all standing around the table, I was next to James, who was like: “Wow, Phoebe, what a find. This is something special,” and then Kate pushed in, so she was literally on top of us, and I had no choice but to migrate to my left until I was practically sitting on Pat’s lap, who went: “Phoebe, mind yourself.”

  Oh, and get this: As we were talking about Star Wars, I went to Emma: “You must be a fan. I mean, because you know, your Instagram picture.” But she was just like: “How much do you think we’ll be able to get for the poster?”

  I said to Kate that we should probably compare similar items online. Imagine us getting something like £300 for it. That would be immense. An average book at the thrift shop costs £2, and an average top, maybe £3.50. We’d have to sell 150 books to make that money. Or 85.7 tops.

 
I’m totally psyched about our find.

  Thursday, March 29 #HappyBirthday

  7:15 A.M.

  The runaway designer cat had her kittens underneath my wardrobe.

  I honestly can’t believe it.

  Kate even made a kitten box in the living room with blankets and everything, but it must have thought: Hmmmm, where in this house would be the most annoying place to have my kittens? Oh, I know, in Phoebe’s room, under her wardrobe, where people can’t get to me.

  Kate was under there for, like, an hour.

  She was like: “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good mama? Look at your lovely babies.”

  Apparently there are four.

  I now have a designer cat and her illegitimate kittens living under my wardrobe.

  I texted Emma about it, and she was all excited and asked when she can come and visit them.

  I told her she’s going to have to crawl under the wardrobe if she wants to see them, but she was like: “Okay.” And when I told Kate, she was like: “Just ask Emma round for dinner. I can drop her home after.”

  Now Emma’s coming straight after the thrift shop tomorrow, and we’re going to make pizza and salad.

  9:00 P.M.

  All we talked about at the thrift shop today were the kittens.

  Suddenly everyone wants to come to our house, and I swear Kate was one millisecond from inviting James, too.

  He went up in my estimation today, because he and Alex had a proper bonding session, with Alex explaining to him how to work the till, and when Alex had to go get his bus, James was all like: “Thanks for today, man. I really appreciate that,” and they high-fived.

  Should I tidy my room before Emma comes tomorrow?

  I don’t want to get the hoover out in case I suck up a kitten by accident.

  Why do they have to be under my wardrobe?

  Friday, March 30 #GoodFriday

  I hardly slept, because those bloody kittens were making rustling and suckling noises all night. And suddenly I couldn’t hear them at all, and I was like: Oh no, they can’t die before Emma has seen them, and so I crawled under the wardrobe with my phone for a torch to check, but turned out they were just asleep; except then they woke up.