Jordan and I don’t move.
‘What an idiot.’
‘Totally.’
But we’re the idiots, standing there gaping. At least nobody can see me. Jordan on the other hand …
‘Are you going to stop staring anytime soon?’
Jordan turns defensive. ‘What? He was funny, taking the piss …’
‘Funny.’ I snort. ‘More like …’
But I can’t think of anything to say. It’s a calamity. There’s a whole dictionary of words floating around in my head but none of them fit together.
Jordan’s jaw drops. ‘You like him!’
‘I do not.’
‘But you can’t think of an insult! That’s never happened in the whole history of Olive.’
I make an annoyed sound in my throat. ‘I called him an idiot.’
‘You call everyone an idiot.’
I can’t deny it.
‘I challenge you!’ Jordan says. ‘Come up with an insult for him.’
‘Easy!’ I retort. I turn to look at him but my thoughts scramble. ‘Umm …’
‘I knew it!’ Jordan gloats.
‘He’s a narcissistic ape,’ I shoot back. ‘Did you see those eyebrows? He has so much forehead he’d be more at home in the Stone Age.’
But the forehead really doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’d jump into a time machine to go back to the Stone Age without hesitation, if they were all as hot as him.
Jordan wraps her arm around me. ‘There’s my girl.’
I lean forward and take a sip from her drink, careful to choose the yellow straw my monkey boy had sucked.
I’m an embarrassment to myself. Who would have thought I’d fall for Neanderthal Man?
After Dieber’s performance I give Jordan some time to socialise with the norms. She’s told me it’s isolating travelling with an invisible friend, so I try to be accommodating. (Even though that makes travelling with a visible friend pretty damn isolating for me.)
I wander around the hostel. The deck above the beach is lit by candles wedged in glass jars half-filled with beach sand. It’s so simple and pretty I wonder why we bother with electricity.
I peruse the communal bookshelf with disappointment. There’s no poetry and definitely none of my favourite, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, so I do a few laps of the party and spot Jordan sharing a faded couch with a guy.
I sweep past to check him out. He’s early twenties, I guess, white and freckly with that pale blond hair you know will be super soft and fine. If I got closer, I’m positive he’d have pale-blue watery eyes. Allergies too, no doubt. And big kneecaps. He’s a big kneecap kind of guy. I can tell.
There’s no way Jordan could be interested.
Like a good girl, I walk on by. Jordan hates it when I interrupt her talking to a boy.
She hates it even more when I don’t interrupt—when I just go over and listen in, the better to point out all the ridiculous parts of their conversation when the boy’s gone. That makes her really mad.
So I go dutifully to the opposite end of the deck and listen to a group talking about some movie they’ve seen. It’s so boring I’d rather deodorise my armpits with liquid nitrogen than listen to them but I wait a full five minutes before I walk back over to Jordan. She can’t blame me, I tried.
As I approach, I notice Jordan is twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she listens to him. Damn. Maybe she does like him. I perch on the rickety table Jordan has her bare feet resting on and watch them. Okay, I was wrong about the guy, he has brown eyes. They look warm and golden in the lamplight and yes, okay, he is a tiny bit cute. A tiny bit. It’s something about the way he holds himself or maybe his nose: it’s large and a classic Grecian shape which lends an air of nobility (which I’m sure he doesn’t deserve) … but it is peeling from sunburn. And sure enough, his skinny legs have undeniably oversized kneecaps. I knew it!
His voice is the worst; he’s got one of those pompous, stuck-up British accents. ‘I only go to places recommended by locals,’ he tells Jordan. ‘I won’t use my phone for anything except photography and calling friends and family.’
‘That must be pretty hard,’ Jordan says. ‘I’ve had some great advice from other backpackers.’
And Google, I want to add. How did people travel before the internet?
‘I like to think of myself as a traveller or a journeyman, not a backpacker,’ he continues. ‘Staying at places Westerners are rating five stars online is like editing a country. It’s robbing me of experiences, good and bad, which could nurture my soul.’
Urgh. This guy is so pretentious I want to stick my finger down my throat so I can throw up on his Birkenstocks. I make a gagging sound. Jordan knows it’s me.
‘Sorry,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘I just forgot I need to take care of something.’
He scrambles to his feet, as if he’s going to bow or something. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
Jordan looks as unnerved as I am by his manners. ‘You too …’
I follow her off the deck down onto the sand. ‘Wow. What a nutcase. Are you going to thank me?’
‘He wasn’t that bad.’
‘Seriously?’ I mimic his stuck-up accent, ‘I’m a journeyman here to nurture my soul.’
Jordan points to the bar. ‘You prefer these guys who just want to get wasted and laid in as many cities as they can?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe.’
Jordan shakes her head. ‘You’d be trouble if you were visible.’
‘Absolutely.’ I grin. ‘Hey, I’m going to play in the sand. Wanna come?’
‘Nah. I’m going to dance some more.’
She takes off so I walk towards the water. Playing in the sand is near impossible for me during the day—people don’t like to see sandcastles appear out of nowhere—so I take advantage of the dark and kneel by the water’s edge and start digging a deep hole. After a few minutes I hear Jordan’s whistle. I whistle back so she knows where I am. She comes over, spotting the hole.
I dump a handful of sand on her feet. ‘That was quick.’
‘Getting away from a guy.’
As I said, everywhere we go, Jordan attracts them. It’s not that she’s gorgeous. She has that offbeat, indie kind of beauty: long oval face, long narrow nose, honey straight hair parted down the middle until it reaches her long scrawny legs. But it’s her vibe not appearance that makes her attractive to guys. It’s like she’s untouchable. She makes the bastards work and man, do they love it. Her look of disdain could drop a guy to his knees. If I actually saw her smile at one of them with genuine warmth, I’d put down a deposit on a bridesmaid frock.
I don’t know why she’s so hard on them but it doesn’t bother her so it doesn’t bother me. But, as I said, it does mean we have to deal with a lot of unwanted admirers.
Like now.
Some dude who has had way too much to drink is making his way over, carrying two bottles. ‘There you are!’ he calls. Australian.
‘Cac,’ she says, under her breath. ‘Let’s go.’
I get to my feet, dusting the sand from my knees. ‘Want me to take him out?’
Jordan giggles and he thinks she’s smiling at him.
‘Wondered where you’d run off to,’ he says, close enough that I can see something disgusting is spilled down the front of his Singha Beer singlet. Probably vomit from three nights ago.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Jordan says.
He rubs his sketchy attempt at a beard. ‘Is that an invitation?’
‘No.’
He steps close. Jordan can handle herself but I move closer just in case. An invisible friend is an excellent secret weapon. ‘I thought you were into it back there,’ he complains.
‘Into what? I was dancing.’
‘Yeah, but you looked all …’
‘What?’ She jerks up her chin. ‘Happy because I was having fun dancing by myself?’
He pushes the bottle at her chest. ‘Doesn’t matte
r. Here. Drink up.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I’m going.’
‘It’s not going to kill you.’
He pushes it at her again but Jordan steps away. ‘I said I don’t want it.’ He loses balance, stumbling forward into my hole, then face-plants in the sand. The bottles smash against rock.
‘Fark. You set me up, bitch!’
Jordan laughs. ‘No, that was all you, buddy.’
I’m just about to kick sand in his face when the journeyman appears. ‘Excuse the intrusion, but is everything all right?’
‘It’s fine,’ Jordan says. ‘I’m just leaving.’ She starts to walk away but steps on something and yelps. She drops to the ground, cradling her bare foot. I rush over and see blood oozing from her heel. ‘Stupid glass,’ she mutters, as she locates the shard and pulls it out.
The drunk guy laughs. I make note of his face so I can steal his wallet tomorrow.
Journeyman bends over Jordan, concerned. ‘That’s deep.’
I tug at Jordan, trying to help her up so we can go back to the hotel and try to stop the bleeding, but all Journeyman sees is Jordan struggling to get to her feet.
‘Let me help you,’ he says, and I have to step back. ‘I have a first aid kit.’
Of course he does.
‘Thanks,’ Jordan says, as she hops away with him supporting her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name before.’
‘Simon,’ he says. ‘And you are?’
‘Jordan.’
‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jordan.’
‘You too, Simon,’ she says. And then she smiles at him.
That’s right. Smiles. Damn it.
CHAPTER
3
The next morning, I’m startled awake by a shrill voice in the penthouse. A Vietnamese maid is standing over Jordan who is curled up on the far side of the bed. ‘Why you here? This room not for you! I get security!’
Cac. I thought we’d have at least a day or two to relax by our plunge pool before we were discovered.
Jordan jolts awake. ‘Olive?’ She sits up on her elbows. ‘Where are you?’
The maid frowns. ‘What is this Olive? I get security. You big trouble.’
The maid rushes from the room and I leap off the bed. ‘Come on, get up. We need to get out of here.’
‘What’s going on? Didn’t you check me in?’ Jordan pulls off her covers, flinching as she puts weight on her cut foot.
‘The system was in Vietnamese. I couldn’t figure it out. Are you okay? Can you run?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
I laugh. ‘No. Just pack.’ I can’t have her caught. ‘Come on!’
I start shoving clothes into my bag. We made a huge mess last night. Who would have thought clothes could end up in so many places? Jordan starts madly stuffing things in her backpack too, limping to the bathroom to grab her toiletries.
‘Get those little shampoos while you’re there,’ I yell at her.
‘Get them yourself!’ she yells back.
I hesitate for two seconds. They are those delicious-smelling organic aromatherapy coconut products. I admired the packaging earlier and was determined to nab them, but I suppose Jordan has a point.
Higher priorities, Olive! I tell myself.
‘Come on!’ Jordan says, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders. We jog down the stairs out into the garden.
‘This way!’ I yell. ‘Follow my voice.’
‘I know how to run!’
We pass the pool and reach the sand. Voices of the maid and a security guard waft our way from the front of the villa. They’ll be inside soon and will spot us—well, Jordan—on the beach. We need to keep running.
‘Go to where the party was,’ I call to Jordan and start running towards the hostel.
‘I can see your bag!’
A bag floating down the beach as if carried by the wind is not ideal, but fortunately it’s early morning and I can only see a few fishermen far up the sand. Still, I ask, ‘Do you want to take it?’
‘No!’ she snaps.
At the far end of the beach we come to the remnants of last night’s party.
Jordan collapses out of sight behind the bar. ‘They shouldn’t see us here.’
I’m about to point out they can’t see me anywhere but I don’t think she’ll appreciate it. She’s probably so mad with me I’m about to get a spanking. But then she giggles. And giggles some more. And soon we’re both snorting with laughter so bad my stomach is cramping.
This is why Jordan’s my friend. She doesn’t get upset with me for causing trouble. She revels in it.
‘That,’ Jordan says, ‘was scary.’
I put on the maid’s accent. ‘What is Olive? You big trouble!’
We laugh some more, until we calm down. ‘What should we do now?’ Jordan says.
I glance at the hostel and think of Dieber’s wink.
‘Why don’t we stay here for a bit?’ I suggest. ‘We could even pay?’
Jordan scrunches her nose. ‘Pay?’
‘A few days, tops.’
The only room we can afford is big enough for a wonky double bed and nothing else. My job in Sydney as social butterfly columnist Wynona Wyatt didn’t pay much and Jordan’s after-school waitressing job paid even worse, so we don’t have an option and suck it up.
The room is stifling. The fan has one speed set at deplorably slow. I would open the window but the fly-screen is ripped. Being hot or catching some horrendous tropical bug? Not much of a toss-up to be honest.
‘I’m going to get coffee and swim,’ Jordan tells me, excavating sunglasses and a bikini from her bag.
‘Good for you, Little Miss Sunshine,’ I say, crawling under the bedcovers. It’s way too early to be up.
Jordan is carefully brushing her hair at the end of our bed when I wake. It’s odd for her to be paying attention to her appearance.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Um, brushing my hair,’ she says like I’m a dumbass.
‘But why? Have you got plans?’
‘Simon invited me to go for a hike.’
‘A hike?’ Jordan never hiked in her life. ‘Do you know how to hike?’
She snaps a bangle onto her wrist. ‘I know how to walk, don’t I?’
‘What about your foot?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘But with Simon?’ I make a face I wish she could see. ‘He’s English.’
‘He’s also very considerate and—’
‘Considerate!’ I snort. ‘Like that makes him Bachelor of the Year.’
Jordan shakes her head. ‘I can’t talk to you about this.’ She hoists her day-pack onto her shoulders. ‘See you tonight?’
‘Say hi to Simple Simon,’ I trill.
Jordan frowns at me as she opens the door. ‘He’s not Simple Simon.’
I’m beginning to understand that, I think as she shuts the door behind her. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. Jordan is not supposed to like guys. Be friends, yes. Kiss them or whatever, sure, but not hike with them.
I pull out my phone and message Felix. He’ll understand how ridiculous this is.
Olive: You about?
It takes a few minutes for him to respond. Felix is blind so some app on his phone reads the text messages out loud.
Felix: Hey. What’s up?
Olive: Eh. You know how it is.
Felix: Still invisible and bitter?
Olive: Still unnaturally upbeat about living in the dark?
Felix: You’d have nothing to tease me about if I wasn’t.
Olive: Um, hello? Your haircut?
Felix: You haven’t seen my haircut.
Olive: Neither have you. Ba doom ba!
Felix: I give it a five out of ten.
Felix: BTW I saw Tom the other day.
No. Not Tom. I don’t want to think about him. But I can’t contain my curiosity.
Olive: What? How?
Felix: On campus. He’s back a
t uni.
That’s a surprise, although I don’t know why it should be. Tom always insisted he wanted to go back to geology after he quit first year.
Olive: He’s lecturing on how to break hearts?
Felix: Come on. Really? Where’s Jordan? You’re on your own aren’t you?
Olive: She found a guy. He’s English.
Felix: The horror!
He’s being sarcastic of course. Felix would never be that judgemental. The guy has been dealt a rough hand; being born blind and losing your dad would destroy most people, but Felix uses tragedy like mortar, to make himself stronger instead of crumbling. I’m grateful for it. Felix is generous with his strength and I’m not too proud for a handout.
Olive: He’s taking her hiking.
Felix doesn’t respond right away. I don’t even know what time it is in Sydney. Maybe he’s in the middle of a romantic dinner with his idiot girlfriend Wallace.
Then up it pops.
Felix: Sorry. I was laughing and it made the app go mental. Did you really just say Jordan is hiking?
Olive: Ridiculous I know.
Felix: You’re spending time apart then? That sounds very mature.
Olive: Not half as mature as you and boring Gromit.
Felix: Wallace and I broke up.
Oops. I wasn’t expecting that.
Felix: Don’t worry, I’m not counting on you for comforting words of condolence.
Olive: Good, because you’re not getting any. What happened?
Please don’t say the usual.
Felix: The usual.
Damn it! I’m so sick of these girls. They start off all sweet, making the right noises about how it doesn’t matter that Felix is blind. They say they think he’s brilliant and funny—which he is. But when things get a little challenging, like when he can’t comment on their latest Instagram post—it’s over.
Wallace lasted longer than most. I thought they had a chance, considering he chose her over me one misguided time last year, when I humiliated myself by busting him out of a lecture on Mendel and proclaiming we were destined to be together.
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 2