I shake my fists in the air. ‘Nooo!’ Why did I sleep so late?
I dash around the property searching for him. I cannot lose Dillon! He could be the answer to everything!
There is a low rumbling of an engine idling in the driveway. I run past the self-serve breakfast where people sit at plastic tables eating banana pancakes, baguettes and jam. He’s not there. I run around the office and see a bus; the driver is slamming the luggage hatch shut. I scan the windows. There! Dillon sits alone, shoving headphones in his ears.
I wave my arms about. ‘Dillon!’
The bus door shuts. The engine rattles into gear. Damn it, I should have got on!
‘Dillon!’
He looks up. Smiles when he sees me.
‘Dillon!’
He stands, wrenches open the top window. ‘Hello there.’
‘Can you get off?’
‘What?’
‘Please! Get off!’
But he can’t hear me. The bus pulls away. ‘I won’t lip-sync again, promise,’ he yells. Then he gives me a jaunty little salute as he disappears down the road. Lost to me. Forever.
I plod back into the hostel grounds with less life than a zombie.
‘Was that the bus to Hanoi?’ I hear one backpacker ask another.
‘Uh-huh.’
It’s something, I suppose.
Later that night, Jordan and I are in a hammock, lying head to toe, drinking mugs of tea. The stars are out but most of the people are in the hostel common room watching Apocalypse Now on the big TV screen. They have videos (yes, the technology is ancient) of all the Vietnam War movies: Good Morning, Vietnam, Platoon, Full Metal Jacket. It’s kind of insensitive when villagers are still struggling with the aftereffects of napalm bombing just a few miles away.
‘Maybe they’re drug runners?’ I say. ‘Have you seen Simon’s luggage? Does it have big empty hidden compartments?’
‘They were just travelling together. It’s really not that sinister, Ol.’
‘Then what about Phil? The money? It’s got to be drugs …’
Jordan rolls her eyes at me. ‘Simon’s just finished at Oxford. He’s hardly going to risk everything for life in some Vietnamese prison.’
‘Maybe he’s the deal maker? Here to sort out the supply while Dillon’s doing a run to Hanoi?’
‘Come on!’
‘What if they’re murderers? Have you thought about that?’
‘You think the second guy to see you in the whole world is a murderer. That’s pretty shitty luck.’
‘Yeah but just about right.’
Jordan pinches my toes. ‘You just want to end up on Mobster Wives.’
We both laugh. ‘You could too. You’ll need a really great suit for the televised court cases. And big sunglasses.’
‘Nah. You’ll bust the boys out of prison before the case begins.’
We’re both laughing madly and the hammock swings. ‘Hey, careful! My tea!’ I say, trying to steady it.
Jordan goes quiet. ‘Hey, can I talk to you about something?’
Dread seeps through me. I know this voice. I’m not going to like what she says. Be reasonable, I warn myself. Do not say anything rash.
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘It’s just, Simon’s going to the Himalayas …’
‘Good opiates in that region?’
Jordan ignores my comment. ‘The thing is …’ She hesitates.
‘What?’
‘The thing is, he asked me to go with him.’
I didn’t see this coming.
‘And you want to go?’
‘Only if you come too.’
I feel better at this—but not a lot. ‘Um, that’s kind of impossible …’
‘No. We could do it.’ She looks at me sheepishly. ‘I told him I have a neurological disorder.’
‘You what?’
‘I told him my doctor recommended travelling with my imaginary friend because it makes me feel safe.’
I laugh once. ‘He thinks you’re mad?’
She covers her grin with her hand and nods. ‘I said it before I thought it through, but he bought it.’
‘And he still wants to travel with you?’
‘He finds it interesting.’
‘Um, yeah!’ I dig my foot into her ribcage. I can’t believe she’s declared herself insane for me!
‘Do you really like him that much?’
Her lips twist like she’s embarrassed. ‘I don’t know. I want to find out.’
‘Urgh. But he’s so hideously pretentious.’
‘I know.’
‘Nobody should be that up themselves.’
‘What about Narcissistic Ape Guy?’
‘Dillon,’ I correct her. ‘And that’s totally different. Dillon’s like some celestial heavenly body. Simon has oversized kneecaps.’
‘I really wish you didn’t hate him.’
‘Look, I don’t loathe him.’
Jordan rolls her eyes. ‘He’s open-minded enough to accept an imaginary friend. That’s pretty impressive.’
‘Maybe he just likes the idea of a threesome. Even if it is with an imaginary girl.’
‘Olive!’
I laugh and she narrows her eyes. ‘We’d need to go to Hanoi first for visas.’
‘Hanoi!’ I gasp. Dillon. ‘When do we leave?’
CHAPTER
6
On the bus to Hanoi, I steal Simon’s phone to look for Dillon’s number. It’s listed under Dillon O’Reilly. Seriously, the dude is Irish. I copy it into my phone and stash Simon’s phone back in his bag.
A few hours later, the bus slows and pulls over. In Australia, the driver would probably tell you why he’s stopped but not in Vietnam—this guy just opens the door and gets out.
‘There’s a shop outside,’ I tell Jordan, peering through the window. ‘People are buying drinks and things.’
A few of the passengers are getting off to stretch their legs so we join them, leaving Simon asleep on the seat behind us. We’re in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing but a field and a tiny shack selling drinks and cigarettes. The bus driver is peeing in the field.
While Jordan buys supplies I walk off to call Dillon. I don’t have a plan, I’m just going to wing it.
Dillon picks up after two rings. ‘Hello?’
I panic. Freeze. What was I thinking, having no plan? I don’t know how to ask someone out. I don’t have a clue what to say.
‘Hi.’
‘Who is this?’ he asks.
God. This is awful. I wish we could just run into each other. Yes! That’s far less desperate. I have a plan now—I just need to find out where he’s staying.
I switch to a Vietnamese accent, which I admit is supremely poor. ‘This is Lin of Lay-Zee hostel. Is this Mr Dillon?’
‘Aye. It is.’
I can’t help having fun with it.
‘Friend of Mr Simon, Mr Dillon O’Really?’
‘It’s Dillon O’Reilly.’
‘O’Really?’
‘O’Reilly,’ he repeats.
‘O’Really! That is what I say!’
Dillon sighs and I have to shove my hand over my mouth to stop the giggles.
‘Fine. Whatever,’ he says. ‘Has something happened? Is Simon all right?’
‘I have his passport. Very important. Mr Simon gone. No number for Mr Simon, but number for Mr Dillon. Can we send to you?’
‘His passport? Shite.’ He sighs again. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Which hostel?’
‘Green Banyan in Hanoi.’
Bam! There it is.
‘But look, can’t ya just call him? I can give ya his number?’
‘Okay. Thank you, Mr O’Really.’ Pause. ‘It is Mr O’Really?’
‘No. Jaysus!’ he snaps. ‘It doesn’t matter. Whatever is fine. Look. I’m going to text ya the number. I’m sure he’ll sort it out.’
Then he hangs up.
I walk back to the store, giggling. That was the b
est fun I’ve had in a while. I peruse the strange array of Vietnamese cigarettes and nab a pack called ‘Craven’. I love that word. I leave money on the counter to cover the pack and a box of matches.
‘Hey Pins, other side of the bus,’ I whisper to Jordan who has bought three Cokes.
We walk around to where none of the passengers will see us. Jordan cracks open her Coke and takes a chug, while I light a cigarette.
‘Are you … smoking?’
‘Celebrating,’ I say. ‘I was cravin’ a Craven.’
I show her the box and she takes it, laughing. ‘But you hate cigarettes.’
‘I haven’t done anything stupid in hours—I’m overdue.’
I inhale and start coughing. Which makes her laugh more. ‘So not cool. Give me some.’
She inhales and starts coughing too. Which makes us laugh harder.
‘God. We’re useless.’
‘Complete hacks.’
We lean our backs against the bus and look up at the sky, washing away the filthy taste with our Cokes.
‘So what are we celebrating?’
‘I know where Dillon’s staying in Hanoi.’
‘How did you …?’
‘Just call me Sherlock, Dr Watson,’ I say, grinning, until I notice Simon walking around the side of the bus.
‘Your imaginary friend smokes I presume?’
Jordan laughs but I have to hold mine in, because, you know, imaginary friends can’t actually be heard by strangers.
‘She was cravin’ a Craven,’ Jordan tells him.
He plucks the cigarette from her fingers and I think he’s going to throw it on the ground and stamp it out with disgust—no, actually he’d stow it in a little recycling bag somewhere. But instead he places the cigarette lightly against his lips and has a drag.
‘I didn’t know you smoke,’ Jordan says.
‘I don’t. But anyone who spends any time in France simply must at times,’ says Simon. ‘That’s how it is on the Continent.’
I gag silently, wishing Jordan could see me. What a pretentious ass. He blows smoke rings into the air and I swipe them away with my hand, making him frown in confusion. If he’s going to spoil things for me, I’m going to spoil things for him.
But Simon surprises me in Hanoi. He arranges a guesthouse with two rooms, organises a tuk-tuk instead of a boring taxi, he even carries my bag. A part of me suspects he’s relishing the strangeness of the situation and will be referencing ‘this girl and her imaginary friend’ stories for the rest of his life. But part of me admits, maybe, just maybe, he’s the ‘good guy’ Jordan so desperately wants him to be.
But he’s still a pompous git.
While Jordan and Simon go off to see about visas, I set off to find Dillon’s hostel. Hanoi is a difficult city for an invisible girl. There is zero way of crossing the road safely, you just have to dive straight into the horde of motorbikes and hope for the best. Motorbikes carry everything here: double bed mattresses, construction materials, even whole families sitting on the one bike. Dad driving, mum sitting side-saddle behind holding a baby, a kid or two perched on the handlebars.
Despite the obvious danger, I’m strangely envious. I’d like to think I’d be as cool as those women, casually regarding the world with a newborn on my lap. In reality, I’d be clinging to my husband’s back yelling, ‘Careful!’ ‘Can you see that truck up there?’ ‘Watch out!’ ‘We’re all going to die!’
I dash through the traffic, glued to the elbows of the locals, vehicles speeding inches from my heels. I could never relax in a city like this. A motorbike can’t steer around you if it doesn’t see you.
The Green Banyan Hostel is on an alley lined with barbecues and food stalls that smell ridiculously good, offering duck, squid, noodles, dumplings, pork broth, pickled bamboo shoots and sugar cane juice. I nab a stick of barbecue meat and stand at the hostel door chewing and contemplating.
It’s a gorgeous old French colonial building that has been converted into a grubby Westerner-friendly dive. The bar on the ground floor is packed with backpackers swilling cheap beer under green lights. I’m scanning the crowd for Dillon when from behind me I hear, ‘Hey Irish!’
Dillon has pulled into the hostel with two other guys—they’re all on motorbikes. God he looks good. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt that reads ‘Killers’. Cac, I hope it’s referring to the band not his occupation. His face could vaporise a girl’s sense of judgement.
‘What are ya doing here?’
I can hardly say anything in front of the guys, so I just shrug. I’m beyond surprised. Yes, it was my plan to find Dillon. But I didn’t think it would be this easy.
‘Do ya want to go for a ride?’
‘Who are you talking to, man?’ one of the guys asks him.
‘My girl, Irish here.’
‘Who?’
I can’t let this continue. As scared as I am, I hike up my skirt and get on his bike.
‘Let’s go,’ I whisper in his ear.
He looks over his shoulder at me. I’m super nervous, not just because I’ve never ridden on a motorbike before but because I don’t know where to put my hands. I rest them on my knees and try to control my thudding heart.
‘Ya have to hold on tighter than that.’
I clutch his waist with my hands but hold my body away from his. Hell. This is so awkward.
‘Where are you going?’ one of the boys calls as Dillon backs the bike onto the street.
‘Meet ya lads later,’ he calls back.
Dillon takes off at speed. He sweeps through the traffic, weaving left then right, dipping us at frightening angles.
Screw the awkwardness, I think, and cling to him savagely. I thought I’d be freaking out. I thought I’d be screaming, ‘Get me the hell off this death device!’ But there’s something about Dillon that puts me at ease. It’s thrilling to relax against him and feel the thrum of the engine and the twist of our movements.
We turn a corner and miraculously there is a long stretch of road that’s straight and almost empty. Dillon kicks the bike into a higher gear and I feel the force of the acceleration press against me. My hair whips my face, stinging my skin, and I cry out, ‘Woo Hoo!’ like a wild thing and toss my arms in the air, holding Dillon tight with my thighs.
I can hear Dillon chuckle. It’s a satisfying sound. It makes me feel clear as day. I want to hear that sound again. I want to know this guy.
Dillon pulls up beside a shaved ice stand. He turns around to me, that tantalising brow of his lifting. ‘Can I tempt ya?’
‘Tempt me?’
‘Aye.’ His grin is so audacious I have conflicting instincts to slap him and kiss him. It’s kind of ridiculous.
‘You so need to work on your lines,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Just get me lemon.’
Dillon chuckles. ‘Grand. I like my girls sour.’ He turns and orders loudly, pointing at the cups. ‘One coconut. One lemon.’
‘You know people don’t understand English just because you shout it at them, right?’
‘Yeah. Just trying to keep the dumb tourist stereotype alive.’
‘It’s working for you.’
‘Brilliant.’ He pays and hands me two plastic cups with tiny coloured spoons. ‘Think ya can hold this while I drive?’
‘Um. I seriously doubt it.’
‘Give it a try.’ He kicks the bike into gear and we take off. I’m balancing the shaved ice on his thighs.
Grace and poise, I remind myself. Think of the local women. But Dillon swerves to avoid a man with a barrow of empty tin cans and the coconut ice slams into his lap. The plastic bowl rolls away onto the road. Dillon howls with the cold. He slams on the brakes, kicks down the foot stand and leaps off the bike.
‘Sorry!’ I say but there’s no way it comes off as genuine because I’m laughing too hard.
‘Oh you’ll be sorry,’ he says. In a flash he grabs the lemon ice off me. ‘Get off the bike.’
‘You get off the bike.’
‘I am off the bike.’
‘Well,’ I say, my mind coming up blank. ‘No.’
‘All right then.’ There is a devilish glint in his eyes. ‘I really didn’t want to have to do this. I paid a decent deposit on this bike.’ He dips his finger in the ice, scooping some out.
I get off the bike. ‘You should really get that deposit back.’
I retreat and he follows me, sucking the lemon ice off his finger. ‘Mmm. Good choice—lemon ice. Ya need to try this.’
‘It’s sweet of you, but no.’ I step back into a wall. ‘Consider it a thank you gift.’
We’re both grinning. He dips his finger into the ice again. ‘I insist.’
He smears the ice across my cheek and his freezing fingers graze my lips. My mind is in overdrive thinking, this is hot, right? It’s not just gross? His eyes are burning intensity and I think—yes! He’s going to kiss me. But he laughs and flips the cup of ice on my head.
I scream.
Ice slides down the back of my neck so I bend forward to try and stop it. The syrup runs through my hair, dripping onto the street. It’s everywhere. I’m furious.
Dillon knows he’s gone too far. ‘Shite. Sorry!’ He grabs the hem of his shirt and tries to wipe the gooey mess off my head.
‘It’s not going to reach!’ I snap.
‘Sorry.’ He pulls his shirt clean off and swipes at my head with it. ‘I’m a right eegit.’
Any other time I would appreciate the fact he’s standing there shirtless but I’m too busy bending over watching lemon ice dripping off me onto the dirty street. ‘You most certainly are.’ I snatch the shirt off him and try to arrange it over my sticky hair as elegantly as possible, wrapping it around my head like some kind of turban.
‘Brilliant. All fixed,’ he says brightly when I right myself.
I glower at him. It’s my dumb luck that the one time I’m standing in front of a gorgeous guy who 1, is half naked and 2, can actually see me, I’m looking ridiculous.
Dillon grins. ‘I have to tell ya, that style—it really suits ya.’
The smug bastard.
‘Oh shut up, you ill-mannered oaf. Who on earth raised you? The village idiots?’
‘Excuse me?’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 4