Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (ebook pc reader .txt) 📗

Scottish that the BBC would have given her subtitles.

Then she said: “Might I suggest you think long and hard about how you would answer those questions?”

I sat there for, like, an hour, thinking: This is too extra.

When I stopped thinking, it was way too late for Primark, and I didn’t want to ask Kate to drive me over to Kingston.

Shit.

Saturday, February 10 #PhoebesGotNoTalent

8:00 A.M.

The internet says to dress “smart casual” for job interviews, which apparently means fancy trousers or skirt and a blouse. I don’t own anything like that, apart from my school uniform. Someone help me.

8:25 A.M.

I told Kate that I’ve got nothing to wear, and she was like: “You’re telling me this now?”

So I’m going to the thrift shop with her to see if we can find me something from a donation bag.

You know that saying “Life is hard, but it’s even harder when you’re stupid”?

Totally me right now.

7:14 P.M.

Things did not go well.

I ended up going to that ridiculous audition in a dead man’s skinny-fit lilac shirt from M&S and my school trousers. I looked like an absolute dick.

When I got to Dream Bear Factory, it turned out that I wasn’t the only person being “auditioned.” There were, like, twenty people there, and they all looked as if they’d been up for hours doing their hair and makeup.

The store manager, a horrendous woman called Sandra, spoke in one of those high-pitched voices old people put on when they talk to babies.

Sandra (forcing a smile that gave me sympathy face-ache): “Welcome, everyone, and thank you beary much (not even lying) for coming. There’s quite a few of you, and unfortunately I only have two weekend positions to give away, but I wish you all the best of luck. Now, let’s all introduce ourselves, using a word starting with the first letter of our name, followed by our name. That’s going to make it much easier for us to remember who we are. I’ll start, and I am Silly Sandra.”

In all my life I’ve never wanted for the ground to swallow me up more. I didn’t even listen to what anyone was saying, because I was trying to

a)  think of my word, and

b)  not think about how ridiculous that game was, because Phoebe may start with a P, but you say it like an F, so whatever P word I was going to choose would probably make it more difficult for people to remember my name.

When it was my turn, all I could come up with was Pointless Phoebe.

The guy next to me was Marvelous Max, then there was Terrific Tiffany, and one girl was Beary Enthusiastic Bella (a.k.a. Butt-kiss Bella).

Next we were given a guided tour of all the different stations of bear making.

It’s basically like a shit droid factory: Select the empty shell, take a handful of fluff, make a wish, shove it all in, sew it up, and that’s twenty-five pounds. Ka-ching!

FYI, isn’t it absurd that we live in a world where a child in Africa or India is starving, and at that precise moment, a brat in Wimbledon is spending thirty quid on a chaise longue and flip-flops for their stuffed Pikachu?

Anyway, after the stuffing malarkey, things escalated.

Silly Sandra: Now we’re going to take five minutes each outside to engage with potential customers and actively invite them into our store this afternoon. Our mission as a company is to bring a child’s imagination to life.

Me: And make money for your shareholders.

I only said it because it’s true, but Silly Sandra did not appreciate my insightful comment at all, and her face contorted into the most ridiculous grimace yet, her fake grin forever expanding outwards. She didn’t say anything, though, just clapped her hands together twice. Then she pulled a purple Easter Bunny on roller skates out from behind the till. She gave the leash to Terrific Tiffany, who tottered off outside in her six-inch heels.

I was temporarily positioned at the fluff-stuffing station, and my brain was like: Okay, you’ve been here thirty minutes, and already you want to kill yourself. But it could be worse; you could be Terrific Tiffany, looking like an absolute tit out there, interacting with a toy on roller skates, whilst people from school are walking past.

Next thing I know, Silly Sandra has called Terrific Tiffany back in and goes: “Your turn, Pointless Phoebe.”

I looked at Tiffany, at the leash, at the Easter Bunny, at Silly Sandra, and I was just like: “I don’t think so.”

Then I walked out.

Terrific Tiffany let out an outraged, high-pitched yelp, but I knew that deep down, she wanted to be me right then.

I left the shop quite casually, but as soon as I passed the juice bar, I ran. I ran out of the shopping center, down Broadway, and back to the thrift shop, where I collapsed into the flea-infested armchair.

Emma was in the process of tidying the mess I’d made earlier, when I’d emptied ten donation bags onto the floor looking for an outfit, and she looked at me like: What the hell have you come as? And I was just like: “This isn’t my shirt.”

Kate (totally in my face): Phoebe. Explain to me, precisely, what possessed you to apply for a job there in the first place, because I can’t think of a single place on Earth that’s less like you. Except, perhaps, Mothercare.

Me: It’s just a job.

Kate: But you do realize that once you get a job, you will actually have to do that job?

Me: Yes.

Kate: And you saw yourself stuffing teddy bears?

Me: Not really.

Kate: And what can you see yourself doing?

Me: Something where I don’t have to talk to people.

Kate: And this is why retail was your obvious choice? You think those people get paid just to stand around? You think this is a joke?

Me: The woman’s name was Silly Sandra.

Kate: And you think Silly Sandra has got nothing better to do than to conduct group interviews on the busiest shopping day of the week for people who don’t want to