Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

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 labor.

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