We were absolutely dying laughing, and Alex looked at Kate like: Well, they’ve proper lost it now.
Also, turns out Alex knows everything but says nothing. Which interestingly makes him the polar opposite of Miriam Patel, who knows nothing, but says everything.
He knew about Bradley and never said anything, never slipped up, nothing. I’m not saying this because he’s got Down syndrome. I just mean, people normally blurt out secrets like that all the time, because they want to feel important.
I asked him to come to my birthday party, but he said he’d have to ask his mum and dad, and I was just like: “They can come, too.”
I think I’m going to have to start writing things down, because it’s in ten days.
Friday, July 6 #Vinaigrette
I did nothing today apart from watch Love Island and cut up a page of The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management to make a poem for Emma:
Basic Vinaigrette Dressing Poem
1 part vinegar to 3 parts oil.
Your beauty is
Basic
Simple
Vary as you wish
I shall always
Add
Take
I follow
At the end
Or
Maybe
Since always
I think it’s rather profound. LOL.
PS: Obviously I’m never showing this to Emma. Or anyone.
PPS: I reckon the hardest thing about being an actual poet is having to share shit like this with real people and not die of complete shame and embarrassment at the same time.
Saturday, July 7 #ChaosAndKisses
Today at the thrift shop we had a crisis meeting regarding Bill.
Emma: I went to see him yesterday, and he wouldn’t even come to the door.
Kate: Bad, bad sign. That man adores you.
Emma: He seems to have fallen into himself. Physically.
Pat: He sits in front of the telly all day, and it’s not even on. Melanie always said that he was driving her potty, because he was usually reading up to ten books at a time and always left them lying around all over the house. I haven’t seen him read at all.
Emma: Maybe we should get him a gift certificate. Then he has to get out of the house and browse a bookshop.
Pat: But he doesn’t want to do anything. Oh, this isn’t at all like him.
Emma: Dad was like that after Bradley died.
(Room goes quiet, everyone looks at her.)
Emma: It’s weird, because at first there’s loads to do with all the paperwork and telling everyone and organizing the funeral. And then you have to send cards thanking everyone for their kind words, and then suddenly it all stops and goes so quiet, and you just want to drown in it.
Pat (weeping):…
Kate (taking Emma’s hand): But you didn’t drown.
Emma: But I had my mum and dad to think about.
Everyone:…
Emma: I know that Bradley felt guilty for dying and making them sad, and I thought the least I could do was to keep going.
Pat (weeping hysterically now, snotty nose, tears):…
Kate: Oh, Pat, I know you’ve been trying so hard with Bill. And you’re still coming to terms with your own loss.
Pat: I don’t know what more I can do, Kate. I want to shake him.
Emma: Maybe we should do that.
Everyone:?
Emma: Not physically, obviously. But what about we give him something to do that he can’t say no to?
Everyone:…
Emma: We could say customers have been asking about him. Or we could say that Melanie would be so disappointed if she knew he was neglecting his duties.
Everyone:…
Me: Or we could give him a kitten.
Everyone (except Kate): Oooooooooooh!!!
Kate: Phoebe, you need to stop giving those bloody kittens away for free.
Emma: Why? Who’s gone already?
Me: No one, she’s joking.
Kate:…
Pat: He wouldn’t want a kitten.
Emma: Who doesn’t love kittens?
Me: It’ll be like a therapy cat.
Pat: He did enjoy going on safari. I suppose it’s worth a try.
(Everyone just looks at Kate.)
Kate: Oh, all right, ye total fuckwits. We’ll take a kitten across to him when we shut tonight. But ye’re all coming, and if this goes tits up, Pat’s having the bloody kitten.
Pat: Kate, no, really, I’m not a c—
Kate: I have spoken.
In the afternoon Kate made me go to the pet shop and get a kitten starter pack. You don’t need much, really, only kitten food, a litter tray, and cat litter, which weighs, like, a ton and took me ten minutes to carry fifty yards to the shop.
We all piled into Kate’s car, and I got the giggles, because if you’d told me I’d ever end up in a bashed-up Mazda with Kate, Emma, and Pat on a Saturday night, taking a kitten to an old guy’s home in Putney so that he can have a reason to live, I would have told you you were totally crazy.
Emma was holding the kitten (one of the nondesigner ones, obviously, and possibly the one that had bonded with Bill that one time), and I was holding its accessories.
Before we got out of the car, Pat checked her face in the mirror and put some more apricot-colored lipstick on. I didn’t know at the time that it was her war paint, and so I may have rolled my eyes.
When we got to the front door, Kate rang the doorbell.
Then she rang it again.
And again.
And again.
Kate (knocking like a crazy person): Fer goodness’ sake, open yer bloody door, ye stubborn old man.
Emma (eyes wide, looking at me):…
Me (whispering): So Scottish.
Kate: Excuse me, are you making fun of me? Because I’m not in the mood. Bill. I’m gonna kick yer door in.
Emma, Pat, and I:…
Kate: Of course I’m not going to kick a door in, don’t be ridiculous.
Pat (knocking): Bill, we’re all here. It’s rude to ignore people who are calling to check on you.
Emma: Maybe he’s out.
Pat: He’s not out. He’s ignoring us. Melanie would be so disappointed. Well, there’s nothing for it …
And then she started rummaging around her handbag, got out her wallet, opened the change compartment, pulled out a tiny screwdriver, and shoved it into the lock.
Emma: How do you know how to—
Pat: You think because I’m old I’m incapable?
Emma: No, it’s just … Never mind.
Pat was rattling the door like mad, poking at the lock, and suddenly there was a click, and the door opened. At the exact same moment, Bill appeared just behind it.
Bill: You would break into my house?
Pat: I did break into your house.
Bill: I will call the police.
Pat: You will do no such thing.
Half-designer kitten: Meowwwwwwwwweeeeeee.
Emma (holding it up and into Bill’s face):…
Kate: And before you say no, let me tell you that I have neither the time nor the patience, let alone the money, to look after any more cats, and this one I can’t get rid of, because it’s not a pure breed, and it’s a cranky little shit, and since you’ve decided to never leave your house again, I’m giving it to you.
Bill: I can’t have animals.
Kate: Don’t be ridiculous, this is your house, you can do whatever ye like.
Kitten: Meeeeowwwwweeeee.
Emma: Please, Bill, look, she’s so sweet.
Me: And if you don’t like her, you can always drown her. But don’t tell Emma.
Pat: Are you going to invite us in, Bill? Or shall we leave the kitten on your doorstep?
Me: Like baby Jesus.
Emma: I think that was Moses.
Pat: It was neither.
Bill: You mean Mowgli. From The Jungle Book. He was an orphaned human and raised by a different sp
ecies.
Kate: Great. There you go, then. This is Mowgli, but she’s a girl. Mowgli, this is Bill. We’ve brought cat litter and food. Phoebe, put all that down right here. Any questions, just give me a call. Let’s go, team.
Emma put the tiny kitten into Bill’s ginormous hand, I put down the litter and the food, and then we all turned around and walked towards the car.
Before I got in, I looked back at Bill holding the kitten, and I could hear it meowing. It was like the opening of The Lion King: epic.
Kate dropped off Pat first, and then she was like: “Emma, do you want to come in for a cup of tea? See Richard?” And Emma was like: “Sure. If that’s okay.”
But I was thinking: Remember the list, remember the list, remember the list. Emma at the house means total disregard of four points out of five.
Unfortunately it was out of my hands, and so I thought: Well, the only thing I can do is stay on guard.
Richard galloped towards Emma when he saw her/heard her voice, and she picked him up and kissed his squashed-up little face.
I went into the kitchen to make tea.
Kate (whispering): You know you’re going to have to work for me all next year, too, to pay off Richard if you want to give him to Emma.
Me: I won’t have time. I’ll have school.
Kate: You had school this year.
Me: Do you think I can ask Mum to give me Russian lessons for my birthday?
Kate: Are you changing the subject?
Me: No. I was just thinking about when I’m back at home.
Kate: Don’t go back home, Phoebe. I’ll miss you. Why don’t you just live with me?
Me: Mum probably wouldn’t even notice.
Kate: Phoebe.
Me: What? It’s the truth.
Kate (hugging me, squeezing me, kissing my face): It isn’t, but just so you know, I love it when you’re here, and I always hate it when you go back home, because I looooooove you, you wonderful, wonderful human. (then, whispering again) When are you going to tell Emma you fancy her?
Me (extracting myself from her iron clasp): Shut up. Never.
Kate: Phoebe, I know you’re a bit awkward, but you’re not a coward.
Me (whispering): Oh my God, thanks for the compliment. She wouldn’t fancy me back anyway.
Kate (eyebrows up):…
Me (whispering): What?
Kate (whispering): She clearly fancies you.
Me (heart beating totally out of control): Fuck off.
Kate (whispering): I’ve known her longer than you.
Me (whispering): And that’s why you can read her mind?
Kate (whispering): Fer goodness’ sake, Phoebe, stop being such a fuckwit.
Me (whispering): Besides, even if she did fancy me, which she doesn’t, I don’t do all that. Because I can’t.
So I walked back into the living room, head throbbing, with our cups of tea, and when I looked at Emma, she looked at me with her beautiful eyes, all smiling and happy and perfect, and all I could think was: All things aside; I couldn’t be with you, because I couldn’t be without you after that.
Emma: Are you okay?
Me: Yes, fine.
Kate made me walk Emma home at nine as usual, and when we were outside her house, Emma hugged me, but I was all physically awkward again, like “Argh!” but with my limbs.
Emma: Have I done anything to upset you?
Me: No, why?
Emma: Because you’ve gone all quiet.
Me: I’m always quiet.
Emma: Okay.
Me: Okay. See you next week.
Emma: Yes, see you.
And as I turned to walk away, she went: “Phoebe, wait.”
And then she kissed me.
On the lips.
For one, two, three seconds.
Just like that.
I ran all the way home.
PS: Now what?
PPS: I just researched kissing on the internet, which was difficult, because it appears Emma’s quick peck on the lips has literally left me visually impaired.
But anyway, there’s no evidence that ancient humans (hunter-gatherers/the Egyptians) kissed.
Apparently modern hunter-gatherer tribes even find it revolting.
The most recent kissing-related evidence goes back to an old Hindu text that describes it as inhaling each other’s souls.
I mean, that’s definitely what Tristan does to Polly. Except he doesn’t do it in a deep and meaningful Hindu-style sort of way, but more in an entirely horrific Harry Potter Dementor-style kind of way.
The internet reckons humans kiss because our sense of smell is shit, whereas animals can smell each other’s pheromones without having to stick their tongues down each other’s throats.
Interestingly, apparently women prefer the smell of men who are genetically different from them, which explains so much about Polly and Tristan.
Polly:
brilliant
gorgeous
funny
Tristan:
stupid
gross
dull
Here’s what I want to know, though: Why do Emma and I want to kiss each other? Because it’s not that we could enrich the gene pool.
How does it all make sense?
Like, biologically?
PPPS: One kiss could pass eighty million bacteria.
Sunday, July 8 #PatheticPoetry
I didn’t know what to do with myself today.
I think if you add it all up, I spent about thirty minutes standing on my head. I know it’s not good for me, but the discomfort makes me think about important things like breathing, rather than confusing things like Emma.
When my arms got tired, I hung upside down from the sofa.
Kate was like: “Phoebe, if you’re bored, I have a lawn that needs cutting out back.”
So I went to my room and cut up that ridiculous soufflé chapter from The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management instead, and turned it into poetry.
a)
Sweet, light, airy.
Skin is milk.
Soft, delicate, shiny.
Lips are heat.
Maybe I’m too bland?
Maybe she’s too vanilla.
To do this right,
Follow the master recipe.
b)
You need to have no qualms about perfection.
Already you’re everybody’s favorite.
Perfect for luncheon or supper,
In fancy food language.
I’m ready.
To spoon.
To blend.
To hold.
c)
This I demand of you:
Of course, it’s different,
Quick and hot.
But essential, necessary.
I’m rapidly beginning to subside.
Give me little space, cover me.
Finish me off.
Watch me
As I fall
To pieces.
Do you think there’s a chance people wrote poetry because they were in love with people, but didn’t want to be?
I wonder if it worked for them.
They’d probably proper roll their eyes at us analyzing it for GCSEs. In fact, they’re probably glad they’re dead, so they don’t have to witness it.
7:35 P.M.
Mum called to say that she’s getting her itinerary tomorrow.
Not sure I’m ready for her to come back, and I honestly don’t know what to do about my birthday.
8:45 P.M.
I just realized that the second soufflé poem is shaped like a triangle, which, to the untrained eye/literary critic, may look like a vagina.
If I was to accidentally become a famous poet, schoolchildren would forever have to go on and on and on about whether or not this was a conscious choice made by the poet who was, at the time of writing it, a bit of a lesbian.
And the reality is, I’m not even a poet, and these are just words cut from a shitty soufflé
recipe and then glued back together in a different order with Pritt Stick.
9:10 P.M.
I haven’t heard from Emma.
And I don’t know what to say to her.
Maybe it’s good Mum’s coming back after all, because I’ll move back to Kingston, and then I’ll never really have to see Emma again. We’ll be like Romeo and Juliet. Eternally without each other, except in life, not in death.
Monday, July 9 #Snogging
I didn’t go to the thrift shop today, despite the fact that I had fuck-all to do.
When I told Kate I’d cleaned the bathroom and hoovered, she looked at me like I was unwell, which I suppose I am.
I think Emma and I only exchanged twenty million bacteria, and now I wish it had been eighty million.
I want to kiss her again so much that I feel like my insides are going to explode if I’m left wanting it for much longer. But I don’t want to want it.
Maybe I want it so much because Emma and I are so genetically different that we don’t even make sense.
7:45 P.M.
I finally sent everyone invites via Instagram to my birthday, because Kate was like: “Get on with this!”
I think I’m proper broken in the brain, because I sent an invite to Miriam Patel “plus one.”
She confirmed immediately, of course.
If she wasn’t so secretly clever, I’d say she should give up school and be a full-time socialite.
I told Kate that I actually have no idea how to organize everything I need to organize in my life right now, and she was just like: “Don’t worry, pet. It’s all in hand.”
But is it?
Because the last thing I saw her doing was inhaling James’s soul in the kitchen.
Emma still hasn’t texted me.
I don’t know what that means. Maybe she regrets having kissed me. That happened to Polly once after she kissed Pete Abbot, because he thought they were literally married, and Polly was like: “Oh my God, I can’t believe I did that, I don’t even fancy him that much.” And then she had to have a super awkward conversation, which broke his heart.
Maybe I should text Emma and tell her to just forget about the kiss.
PS: In other news: Kate says that Pat says that Bill is obsessed with his new kitten. Apparently he’s finally left the house and walked to the pet shop to buy Mowgli a collar and get her a tag with his phone number on.
Result.
Tuesday, July 10 #Sorry
Love Is for Losers Page 22