Not Quite Perfect Boyfriend (18 page)

‘Mum, wait!' I yell, and follow her down the corridor. She's standing by the front door.

‘What is it?' she asks.

‘You're wrong,' I tell her. ‘About being patient. About waiting for my knight in shining armour to turn up.'

Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘What?'

I laugh. ‘Don't worry,' I say. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

She shakes her head, smiling, and walks out the door.

18
par·rhe·si·a

–noun; freedom or boldness of speech: outspokenness.

– The Wordsmith's Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words

George's mother opens the door. She's wearing a different apron, and she's carrying a wooden spoon. The biscuity smell is stronger than ever and makes me hungry and happy and nervous all at the same time.

‘Ah! Giorgos's friend,' she says, smiling broadly.

‘Hi, Mrs Papadopoulos,' I say. I'm about to ask her if George is home, but it doesn't quite happen, and before I know it, I'm sitting at her kitchen table again, drinking thick black coffee and eating crescent moon biscuits. Not that I'm complaining. The biscuits are good, really good.

‘Um, is George home?' I ask, after my third biscuit. I feel a bit stupid for waiting so long to ask.

‘No,' says Mrs Papadopoulos. ‘He is out all day today.'

I bite my lip. ‘Do you know where I can find him? I really need to talk to him.'

Mrs Papadopoulos shakes her head. ‘Sorry,
matia mou
.'

‘You don't know? Or you're not going to tell me?'

‘Giorgos is busy today. He has a special hobby and he is very dedicated. But he doesn't like me to boast about his hobby.'

‘But why not?'

She opens the oven and the delicious, garlicky smell nearly knocks me to the floor. ‘Some people, they don't understand. They make fun of my Giorgos.'

‘I do,' I tell her. ‘I totally understand.'

She shakes her head again.

‘Please, Mrs Papadopoulos,' I say. ‘I need to see George. I need to tell him something. It's important.'

She is bent over the open oven, but she turns her head and looks up at me. I can tell she's considering it.

‘Please,' I say. ‘I did something stupid. Actually, I did a whole lot of things that were stupid. And I need to apologise to George, and tell him . . .'

I'm not quite sure I can say it in front of his
mother
.

‘. . . tell him the truth.' I finish lamely.

She closes the oven door and stands up.

‘You're a very pretty girl,' she says. ‘My Giorgos is special.'

‘I know,' I tell her. ‘That's why I need to talk to him.'

She nods. ‘He has a class,' she says. ‘In the city.'

She writes down the address. Her handwriting is exactly the same as George's.

‘Thank you,' I say, standing up. ‘And thanks for the coffee. Your biscuits are amazing.'

I catch a train into the city. It's busy, with lots of people running around with shopping bags and pointy elbows. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, even the people sitting outside cafés seem to be chugging down espressos like it's a race to see who can consume the most caffeine in under a minute.

The address Mrs Papadopoulos gave me turns out to be a building in the financial district. It's one of those old art-deco buildings with a crazy lift that's operated by a real person and has a cage door that rattles and clangs closed before the lift can go up or down. The foyer is musty and dimly lit – it feels like a movie set. I check the information board that lists the building's occupants. I don't even know what I'm looking for. There're so many strange names – the Victorian Spiritualist Investigator's League, Kanzen Kimono Fabrics & Accessories, the Australia China Friendship Society, Buttonmania, University of the Third Age – it could be any of them.

I consider the possibility of the Victorian Drama Association, then I see: L8 LARP Battle Workshop Training Hall, and I get a strange trembling feeling in my stomach. Although that might just be from Mrs Papadopoulos's coffee.

I press the call button for the lift. Nothing happens for a moment, then there's a terrible clanking and groaning noise, and a good five minutes later, the lift arrives.

The operator is a middle-aged man with a ginger beard perched on a high stool. He wears a proper bellboy hat, and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. The walls of the lift are covered in flyers and photos and ticket stubs.

‘Buttons?' he says.

I blink. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Are you here for buttons?' he says. ‘Most young ladies are.'

‘Um, no,' I reply. ‘Level eight, please.'

He nods, and cranks the big metal lever. The lift shutters and squeals, and we slowly start to rise. I wonder if I will get out of here alive.

‘Frockfairies,' says the ginger man suddenly.

‘Sorry?'

He shakes his head. ‘Fan Fiction Writers of Victoria? Lupus Australia Association? Not the Asbestos Information Service?'

‘No,' I say. ‘I'm going to the Battle Workshop Training Hall.'

Ginger raises his eyebrows, then looks me up and down, taking in my jeans and T-shirt.

‘Interesting,' he says. ‘I wouldn't have picked that. Not in a million years.'

Which is about how long this lift ride is taking.

‘You're a Larper?' he asks, a suspicious edge to his tone.

‘No,' I say, although I have no idea what a Larper is, and could well be one without knowing. I doubt it though. It sounds like a disease. ‘I'm just looking for someone.'

He frowns. ‘I don't like your chances today,' he says. ‘It's dead quiet up there.'

Good. George and I will have some privacy.

‘Looking for your boyfriend?'

What is he, a mind-reader? ‘Um, sort of.'

Ginger nods. ‘Right. Not your boyfriend yet. You need to tell him how you feel. An
Ain't no Mountain High Enough
moment.'

I stare at him. Is he crazy?

‘Like in
Bridget Jones
,' he explains. ‘Where she runs through the snow with no pants on to tell Mr Darcy she loves him.'

Okay. Now I'm terrified. I'm trapped in a small metal cage of dubious construction, with a ginger-bearded, Bridget-Jones-loving mind-reader. I want to get out now.

‘Make sure you've got the right person,' Ginger says. ‘It's hard to tell with that lot, once they've got their gear on. And while a hilarious mistaken-identity moment would be a great beginning for a romantic comedy of errors, I suspect you'd rather that this was the end of the movie, not the beginning.'

I wish this was the end of this elevator-ride, I can tell you that much.

The lift finally squeals to a halt, and Ginger pulls the wire cage door open. ‘Good luck,' he says.

When I step out into the corridor, I know something is amiss. Mostly because the lights are off, and it's pitch black. I turn to ask Ginger if I'm on the right floor, but the lift has already sunk down out of sight with suspicious speed and silence.

I can't see a thing. I grope my way forward, and feel wood panelling. A wall. Good start. I feel along the wall, until I reach a door. I try the handle, but it's locked. I keep going. The third door I come to opens. There must be a window somewhere in the room, because dim light vaguely illuminates strange shapes lining the walls. Suits of armour. My heart beats faster. I'm in the right place.

I finally locate a light switch, and flick it. The fluorescent lights
plink
on, and I have to close my eyes for a moment, because it's so bright.

When I open them, I keep blinking to make sure what I see is real. There are racks of armour on one wall. An armoury of swords and spears and other weapons on another. A huge banner hangs over them. It says
LARP
Battle Workshop Training Hall
. It smells dusty and sweaty, a bit like the gym at school.

But there's no one here. No George. No knights. No dragons. No anyone.

So much for my
Ain't No Mountain High Enough
moment. I switch off the light, and fumble my way back to the lift.

‘No luck?' says Ginger.

I shake my head. Typical. This is just typical. I go for the grand gesture, and what do I get? Nothing. A lift-ride with a crazy redhead.

‘Oh well,' says Ginger. ‘Plenty more armour-plated fantasists in the sea.'

The lift rattles and shakes down to the ground floor, and I try not to cry. Ginger hops off his stool and drags the lift door open.

‘Hey,' he says, ripping a flyer down from the wall and handing it to me. ‘Say hi to Mr Darcy for me.'

On the flyer is a picture of a knight holding a sword, and a wizard with a staff. I recognise the drawings – they're just like the ones George doodles at school.

19
con·quest

–noun; the overcoming of a problem or weakness –a person whose affection has been won.

– The Wordsmith's Dictionary of Hard-to-spell Words

The train takes forever to get to Diamond Valley. I feel like I must be at the edge of the universe (I hope the universe is in a good mood, we haven't exactly been getting on lately).

A huge banner hangs above the carpark outside the Diamond Valley Football Oval. It reads
Neverquest: the Ultimate
Battle.
I take a deep breath.

The Diamond Valley Football Oval is teeming with . . . I want to say weirdos, but here, in my jeans and T-shirt – I'm the weirdo. There're about a hundred people, dressed in the strangest outfits I've ever seen. Knights and wizards and princesses and . . . other strange creatures that might be orcs.

There are plenty of Gandalf/Dumbledore look-alikes, with pointy hats and flowing cloaks that are muddy around the hem. Two wizards are holding hands. The words
Wizard
Love: Out and Proud
are embroidered in silver on their cloaks. I grin, but then I notice one of them is wearing Nikes underneath his cloak, and am strangely disappointed.

A few outfits are simply woeful. Knitted jumpers spray-painted silver to look like chain mail, teamed with tracksuit pants. Over this is what I can only guess is supposed to be armour, but it looks so totally and utterly lame that I can't believe they're allowed to join in. It looks like cardboard. One guy is wearing a cape that's just a piece of cheap leopard-print fabric, and has decorated his shield with an airbrush fantasy picture of a snow leopard. I feel really sorry for these guys. I mean, if they can't fit in
here
, there isn't much hope for them.

A gaggle of women congregate around a Mr Whippy ice-cream van. They're wearing long flowing medieval dresses with drooping sleeves and silly hats. Some costumes are amazing, with intricate gold embroidery and little pearls and feathers. Others look like they came straight from the bargain basement at a discount fabric store.

There are some women in combat costume as well. A little troupe of girls my age are dressed in Robin Hood-style outfits, with bows and arrows and tights and pointy boots and cute little caps.