Kate: You need to do something for me, but no one can ever know about it.
Me: I’m not buying drugs.
Kate: Don’t be ridiculous. Can you come to the shop?
Me: I’ll be there in ten minutes.
When I got there, Kate pulled me behind the till.
Kate (whispering): I need you to go to the Goat.
Me (thinking: This is a made-up James-related mission.): No.
Kate (giving me a look):…
Me: Sorry, go on.
Kate: It’s about Pat.
Me (looking around, noticing she’s not in):…
Kate: You need to go to the Goat and collect her and then take her home. I can’t close the shop. And no one can know about this. Ever.
Me: Why is she there?
Kate: Apparently she’s been drinking. Look, Phoebe, can you just do this for me now? We can talk about it later.
Me: Okay, okay, fine. Where does she live?
Kate gave me a piece of till roll she’d written the address on, and twenty pounds so I could take a taxi there and back.
Kate: Don’t just drop her off, though, Phoebe. Make sure she gets into her house.
Looking back, I should have realized at that point what was going on, but I didn’t. Probably because I tend to only see the best in people.
At the Goat, James was like: “Hi, Phoebs.”
(I was thinking: Just because you’re having sex with Kate doesn’t mean I’m now Phoebs to you.)
James: Thank you so much. I’d take her home myself, but my manager wants her gone now, and I don’t finish until ten, so I called Kate.
Me: I don’t understand.
James (pointing to one of the booths, where Pat was asleep with her head on the table): She’s had one too many.
Me: Oh my God.
Pat: Zzhhhhhhhhhhhh.
James was like: “Come on, Pat, my darling, let’s get you home.” He hoisted her up, and together we dragged her to the taxi rank out front.
The whole time Pat was holding on to her little-old-lady shopping trolley, and when she wouldn’t let go, we had to push it into the back seat on top of her. I ended up sitting in the front with the driver, who was like: “Your nan?” And I was like: “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
Why do I say these things?
The driver didn’t speak to me again until we arrived at Pat’s.
She lives in a ground floor flat in a really ugly building just by Haydons Road station.
I tried to get her out of the taxi by myself, but turns out even smallish people weigh an absolute ton when they’re smashed. And then her trolley got its wheel wedged under one of the seats, and in the end the driver had to help, and together we managed to get Pat inside and plop her onto the sofa.
The flat was in an absolute state. I was embarrassed even though it’s got nothing to do with me.
It smelled of damp and cold baked beans, and I knew the driver was judging.
At one point she looked at me like: How can you let her live in such a total shithole?
I didn’t say anything about the flat or Pat, but I must have thanked the driver, like, a million times, which probably made me look guilty.
Back in the taxi, I texted Kate:
Mission accomplished. She was totally drunk.
Kate was just like:
Thank you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
At home I took a long shower, but I swear I can still smell Pat’s flat on me.
I’m trying to study, but I can’t get over it all.
I made a study timetable, but because it took me forty minutes longer than anticipated to make it, I’m already behind.
Fuck off, Miriam.
And I know Pat is horrendous, and opinionated, and probably racist, and I hate her, but no one should have to live like that.
7:40 P.M.
According to the internet, six thousand deadly accidents occur in the home every year, and having seen how Pat lives, I can totally see why.
a) Sink overflowing with dishes: risk of E. coli.
b) Floor littered with ten years’ worth of recycling: risk of trip/fall and consequent broken neck.
c) Rats congregating after dark, eating leftovers, spreading diseases: risk of bubonic plague.
9:15 P.M.
I went downstairs and talked to Kate about the state of Pat’s flat.
She’s proper shocked.
She said that Pat’s husband died of cancer a few years ago and that Pat still hasn’t come to terms with it. Apparently she particularly struggles when it’s birthdays or anniversaries or Christmas, and Kate suspects that today may have been one of those (obviously not Christmas). Apparently she usually doesn’t drink. Maybe that’s why she was so pissed. Maybe she only had one pint and was out cold.
The thing is, you wouldn’t know she’s in such a state from just looking at her. Her clothes are horrendous stylewise, but they’re not dirty, her hair looks neat, and she doesn’t smell. Except today, of course, when she reeked of booze.
Kate was like: “You mustn’t tell anyone else. Pat’s a very private person, and she’d be mortified if she knew this was common knowledge.”
Too late.
I’ve already texted Emma. Not because I wanted to gossip, but because I’m actually proper shocked. We’re meeting at Starbucks tomorrow so I can tell her everything.
PS: I’m still itchy from being in that flat for, like, two minutes.
Saturday, May 5 #ToTheRescue
We’re going over to Pat’s house tomorrow to clean.
Kate is hiring a van, and it’ll be me, her, James, and Emma, who now has time this weekend after all …
When I got to Starbucks this morning, Emma was already waiting. She smiled at me from across the room, and it felt like everything was fine. Like, everything.
I told her about my trip to Pat’s, and she was just like: “We need to find out if she’s a hoarder, or if she’s physically not able to do cleaning, or if there’s something else going on.”
I was like: “How can we know without looking inside her head?”
Emma was like: “You were there. What does your gut instinct tell you?”
I don’t believe in gut instinct but facts, but I didn’t say that to Emma. I told her that I reckon things got out of hand, and the problem now is that even if Pat decided to tidy a bit, it would make zero difference, because the place is basically a landfill.
Emma was just like: “We’re going to have to go over there and tidy her house.”
I was like: “We can’t. We’d need a dumpster and heavy machinery.” But Emma was like: “You can’t tell me a story like that and expect me not to act on it. Phoebe, honestly, what sort of world do we live in where people like us can’t help an elderly person who’s having a hard time at the moment?”
I swear Emma’s the real-life Jesus.
Or maybe more like a knight in shining armor?
Kitten: dead. Emma: giving it mouth-to-mouth.
Old lady: drowning in rubbish. Emma: going in armed with garbage bags and bleach.
Later at the shop, Emma spoke to Kate, who spoke to Pat, who then immediately left the shop in a hurry but called two hours later, and Kate was like: “I’m glad. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Emma: We’re on?
Kate (thumbs-up): We’re on.
Kate told us again that we can’t tell anyone, but the only people who don’t know already are Alex, Bill, and Melanie, and none of them were at the shop today, because Alex is staying with his grandparents over the bank holiday, and Bill and Melanie are in Scotland. By the time they get back, it’ll be done and dusted (literally).
Don’t know how I feel about tomorrow. Last night I had nightmares about rats eating my face.
Sunday, May 6 #Hardwork.com
Today I:
a) decluttered Pat’s house,
b) had a fight with Emma, and
c) spent an hour in the bath trying to name every muscle that hurt from all the manual la
bor.
This morning we picked up the van at eight thirty and arrived at Pat’s at nine.
The flat was even worse than I remembered, and it was obvious that Pat was totally embarrassed. I actually felt sorry for her when she was like: “Would anybody like a cup of tea?” And we were just like: No thanks, we’ve seen your kitchen.
Kate was definitely shocked and all like: “Pat, why did you never come to me? We could have sorted this a long time ago.”
Kate and James volunteered to clean the kitchen, Pat said she wanted to do her bedroom, and Emma and I were assigned to clear the living room, which is where we had the argument.
I was like: “It’s bad enough we all die alone, but do we have to die in a pile of our own rubbish?”
Emma was all defensive, like: “We don’t all die alone, Phoebe,” but I was like: “No, we actually do.”
Emma:…
Me: What I mean is, when you’re dying, you’re the only person in your body doing the dying.
Emma: But you don’t have to be alone with it. Someone can be there when your body does the dying.
Me (thinking: Why am I such a dick?): I’m sorry.
Emma:…
Me: I’m an idiot, okay?
Emma: No, it’s fine. It’s your opinion, and you promised you wouldn’t hold back because of me, so it’s fine.
I continued to scoop piles of newspapers, magazines, and takeaway menus into a recycling bag for a bit, but I felt that I should say something else, because Emma looked all annoyed and sad, and so I was like: “Kate was with my dad when he died.”
I looked at Emma to see her reaction, but apart from her eyebrows going up for a millisecond, there wasn’t one. She didn’t look at me, either, just kept collecting the gazillion empty bottles of sparkling water, but in the end, she said: “I didn’t know that.”
Me: They worked at a hospital that got bombed. Mum, Dad, and Kate. I only found out recently. Did you know?
Emma: Why would I have known about that?
Me: Just wondering.
She stopped with the binning of the bottles, and the room went all quiet because there was no more rustling or clinking, and she finally looked at me. Dust particles danced in a ray of sunshine.
Emma: What was his name?
Me: Ilan. He was from Israel.
Emma: Isn’t it nice to know he wasn’t alone?
Me: I guess.
Emma (all aggressive): No. Not I guess, Phoebe.
Me:…
Emma: Admit it. It’s a nice thought.
Me: Are you telling me off?
Emma: Yes, because sometimes you don’t seem to realize what you’re saying.
Me: What am I saying?
Emma (shaking her head at me):…
Me: No, tell me.
Emma: I’m not having this conversation with you.
Me: What conversation?
Emma (exasperated now, back to throwing empty glass bottles into a bag for life): Any conversation, Phoebe.
Me: Fuck off, w—
Emma (leaving the room): Fucking off.
Me: I didn’t mean literally.
Emma (returning for a second): I don’t think you can literally fuck off. Fucking off literally doesn’t mean anything.
She went into the kitchen, where I heard her speaking to Kate and James, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and then I heard the front door opening and shutting, and I watched her through the living room window as she walked down the path to the road, and I was just like: WTF? Because I didn’t think I had offended her to the point of her actually leaving.
I felt panicky pins and needles all over my body, and so I got out my phone and called her, and she answered after two rings.
Emma: Yes?
Me: I’m sorry if I offended you.
Emma: I’m not offended.
Me: Then I’m sorry for upsetting you.
Emma: I’m not upset.
Me: You walked out.
Emma:…
Me:…
Emma: I’m usually more mature.
Me: Are you actually leaving?
Emma:…
Me: Because you forgot your backpack.
Emma (laughing a bit): No. I’m getting some air. And I’m getting snacks. Bye.
And then she hung up on me.
I sat down on Pat’s sofa and watched the dust slowly settle until the ray of sunshine carried nothing but sunshine.
Emma returned twenty minutes later and gave me a packet of ready salted crisps and a Dr Pepper.
I don’t know how she knew those are my favorite snacks, and it made me feel fizzy on the inside. That could have been the Dr Pepper, though.
For the rest of the day all I could think was that I wouldn’t have known what to get for Emma. She bought herself a bottle of Lucozade Original and a small packet of Minstrels. I’ve obviously now made a mental note.
James and I took one load of rubbish to the dump at lunchtime, which took, like, an hour, because apparently every single person in Wimbledon was clearing out their flat/house/garden/shed, too.
I asked James if he thought that everybody dies alone, but he just laughed and was like: “You’re so random, Phoebe. The things you come out with.”
At four we were literally starving, and so we ordered Domino’s, which we ate outside, sitting on the too-low garden wall. Emma took a selfie of her and Pat, which I think should win the picture of the year competition under the title: “South London: Where past and present shape the future.”
I sat down on the other side of Emma, and she smiled at me.
She took a big bite of her pizza, and I watched a string of cheese getting longer and longer, and when Emma pulled a really silly face, I helped and pulled the cheesy, gooey string with my finger until it finally snapped. Then we both laughed.
Me: I thought you were studying this weekend.
Emma: Real life tops studying on the pyramid of priorities.
Me: GCSEs are real life.
Emma: Are they?
Me: Ha ha.
Emma: What do you think you’ll remember when you’re eighty? Studying for GCSEs that Sunday, or helping Pat, and eating pizza, and being with friends?
Me: Fair enough.
Emma (chewing):…
Me: Are you worried, though? About GCSEs?
Emma (with her mouth full): Shitting it, actually.
And we really laughed.
Emma: I’m terrible at math. No, I lie, I’m okay at it, but I can’t remember formulas very well, so I’m doomed.
Me: I know it’s, like, last minute, but I can help you if you like, because I’m actually really good at math, and I can show you how the formulas are totally self-explanatory.
Emma: Show-off.
Me: No, I didn’t mean it like that, all I’m say—
Emma: Oh my God, Phoebe, I’m joking. Thank you. I may take you up on it.
Me: Okay.
When we left, Pat was like: “Thank you so much, I don’t know how I can ever repay you.” Kate was just like: “Och, don’t be ridiculous now. We’re all here for each other. But you can try to look after yourself a bit better.”
Pat: Sometimes I don’t bother because it’s just me, you know?
Kate: Well, we need you, Pat. Remember that.
PS: Kate and James are literally inseparable now. I think they even had a shower together.
PPS: Pat’s flat looked amazing when we left. All you could smell was bleach, and I hope she leaves the windows open overnight so she doesn’t die from toxic fumes.
Monday, May 7 #MuscleAcheMonday
I am so sore from all the house clearing, I can barely lift my arms.
It’s a bank holiday today, and so I studied for English, but I’d had enough at lunchtime, and so I went to the thrift shop. Pat was there, so she isn’t dead. Phew! She bought Kate an orchid from M&S to say thank you, and I now wonder if she used Emma’s voucher for it.
My stomach pain is driving me absolutely insane.
&
nbsp; Maybe I’m allergic to dairy? There was a lot of cheese on that pizza yesterday.
I spoke to Mum this evening, and it was all about GCSEs.
She was like: “Make sure you get a really good night’s sleep beforehand, and prepare your clothes the night before as well, and make sure you take the earlier bus just in case.”
Whatever, Mum.
If she was really all that concerned, she’d be here. I lied to her about the amount of studying I’ve been doing, because I just can’t have that conversation. She was like: “And remember to breathe, Phoebe.” But I literally don’t know how to at the moment.
9:03 P.M.
I spent thirty-five minutes studying geography and the cost of a regular banana versus a fair-trade banana. The regular banana producer (i.e., grower) gets 7 percent of the price; a fair-trade producer (i.e., grower) gets 14 percent, which is double. But double of 0.01 pennies per banana is still shit. And if they get 0.01 pennies for a banana, how much can the person harvesting it possibly earn?
I’m going to have to read something less depressing before bed. Something science-y.
Tuesday, May 8 #DrGoogle
Last night I had crazy dreams about leaves and radioactive rocks and fair-trade bananas and trying to say numbers in French.
My brain is trying so hard to hold on to information, it fails to process it in any way, shape, or form, and so I’m left with this saturated cloud of knowledge where nothing means anything at all.
In other news, Miriam Patel was back at school today. She looked like shit, and she pretty much kept her gob shut, which means there must be something seriously wrong with her.
Polly was like: “I think we should talk to her.”
But I reminded her that Miriam Patel may be feeling a bit delicate after her hospitalization, but that she’s still two-faced, and should therefore not be pitied. And you know what Polly said to me? “Grow up, Phoebe.”
What have I ever done to anyone?
I’m 100 percent the only person I know who doesn’t talk shit all day.
I don’t choose my friends according to who is the most socially interesting, I don’t jump on every single bandwagon, and I most certainly would never settle for god-awful sex with my loser boyfriend just because I’m too worried about hurting his feelings.
Love Is for Losers Page 14