Stopping frequently. Deep breaths. Just keep looking at me.
I think by the end Arthur is even starting to enjoy himself. He looks a little bit…disappointed?…as our feet hit the ground. Even so, he immediately divests himself of the harness and ropes, desperate to be free of any association with the wall.
‘You know, we definitely learned something about you today,’ he says.
‘That I’m way better at rock climbing than you are?’
‘Okay, so two things.Thatand the fact that you’re who I want around anytime I’m having a crisis.’ He is hugging me. Not a polite hello hug; he is clutching me like I’m his liferaft. I’ve never been important enough to someone to feel like a liferaft before. I think I can lift the touching ban for something like this.
Arthur pulls away and stands alongside me, prompting me to turn around to see what he is looking at. William and Bianca are slowly rappelling down the wall, face to face. I’m not quite sure how they’re paying attention to the ropes during their staring contest. William says something. Bee laughs. They touch the ground gracefully, and Bee immediately throws her arms around William’s neck and launches in. Still a little too much tongue for my taste. William has gone past naughtily close to her ass and is instead grabbing it by the handful.
As we stare at Bee and William I can see both my reflection and Arthur’s in the window behind them. We have both tilted our heads to the side like the creepy twins fromThe Shining. ‘Why do I get the feeling that they had an entirely different morning to us?’ he asks. ‘Do you think they even remember we’re here?’
‘I think you could strip naked and do the Macarena and they wouldn’t notice.’
‘Is that something you’d be into?’ he says, turning to look at me.
He isn’t flirting. He’s joking. ‘I’m not sure anyone looks good doing the Macarena with clothes on, so best not to try it.’
‘Good call. Come on, let’s ruin this lovely moment for them and go get some food.’
IT ISN’T Acoincidence that the next several activities don’t go higher than the first floor of a building. I’m kind enough not to say anything about it, because that’s what friends do. Nonetheless it’s something of a learning exercise for all involved across several packed, but highly budgeted, weeks.
I learn something about Bee that I already knew—she hates the northside. Would it kill them to put in a nature strip or two? Concrete jungle is not in fact what dreams are made of. It’s not 2016 anymore; no one wants milkcrate indents on their ass while they drink a coffee. When did American cardboard pizza get so cool that there’s a by-the-slice joint on every corner? It smells like vape juice.
The commute is not enjoyable. Parking is also not enjoyable. Six-fifty an hour, who are they kidding? I should be getting a tax rebate for supporting local businesses.
Bold call from Bee, since I’m the one who pays for the parking.
It turns out that Bee and William have this antipathy in common. When we arrive on the first floor of the almost-missable boardgame bar, he is perched delicately on the edge of his seat, as though unwilling to allow his beige chinos or crisp white shirt (meticulously cuffed three times to the forearm) to touch the surfaces lest they be tainted by Greens-supporter energy or something.
‘It’s rustic!’ Arthur exclaims, nudging William as if to knock some frivolity into him. ‘This is Melbourne’s premier gaming destination! They’ve got a whole two-player section if you guys wanna get canoodly. Or you can try the Guitar Hero!’ I raise a singular eyebrow, which he clocks immediately out of the corner of his eye. ‘What?’
‘That was so creepy,’ I say. ‘You just went from regular person to cheesy secondhand car salesman in two seconds flat. It was so easy to see where you stopped and the spin began. Is that what you’re like at work? Do you use phrases like “circle back” and “value add”?’ He’s silent for a minute, and I realise that this was a dickhead thing to say, no matter how true. I go to apologise, but he grins and gestures towards the bar.
A few minutes later, after William has wandered over to where Bee is exploring the options, Arthur puts down a pint in front of me and asks if I’ve ever played chess. I was, in fact, my primary school’s chess club champion once upon a time, but the achievement doesn’t seem worthy of mention. Arthur brags that he gotsuperinto playing online after watchingQueen’s Gambit, as though the entire world hadn’t decided they were chess prodigies around the same time. When I win our third game within about twenty minutes, he starts accusing me ofhustling him, but there is no bite to it. And I honestly don’t think I did—he is just really,reallybad. I offer to buy the next round to soothe his wounded ego, but when I return and place the dewy glass in front of him, he doesn’t even turn to glance at me.
What has him so transfixed? Bee is attempting to play Mario Kart. Attempting is a truly generous word; Princess Peach has just sailed off the edge of the track. And it looks like William hasn’t set it up on easy mode with the bumpers up. Frustrated, Bee tosses the controller onto the table in front of her and angrily finishes the rest of her gin and tonic.
I watch as William is spurred into action, abandons his inspection of the fourteen boxes of Settlers of Catan populating one shelf and pulls a stool up to sit behind her. He reaches around her to grab the controller (unharmed by the violence), lips brushing her neck. She giggles, all tension evaporating.
He sets up a new race, then asks her to take the controller. He wraps both arms around her and places his hands on top of hers. His face is tucked into her shoulder, and they press start. Then there are the logistics of two hands pressing the buttons. How will that even work? Won’t it make their reaction times slower? Will their mood be destroyed if he pulls this and they still lose?
Bee and William don’t appear bothered.
They finish fourth, but they defeat Wario, and this is apparently more important, and is celebrated by the two of them proceeding to try to eat one another’s faces. It’s time to look away now; the looking is getting weird.
‘Okay,’ Arthur says, approaching me with full arms. Ihaven’t even noticed him getting up, transfixed as I was by the technicolour mating ritual across the room. ‘I have a sneaking suspicion that you are really good at board games, so we are going to try all of the classics until we find one I can beat you at.’
He doesn’t.
It ends when we get into a pint-fuelled argument about the rules of Monopoly, soundtracked by Bee and William’s attempts to serenade each other at the Guitar Hero station. In contrast to the Mario Kart display, this disagreement isn’t sexy at all. Arthur is required to have four houses before he can purchase the hotel. He can’t just skip straight to the hotel, everyone knows that. And when he lands on my evil green corner of hotels I can’t give him rent relief in exchange for discounted rent on his properties; if I did, we could both just sail around the board never paying rent. Yes, that’s the point. But it’s against the rules. Spit flies from his mouth. There is no rule forbidding it. I knock my almost-empty drink over, sloshing beer everywhere. There is no rule allowing it. His hair has come a little loose from the perfectly gelled thing he had arranged before he got here. It’s a little cute when the curl falls over his eye. Even cuter when it gets him even more flustered as he tries to push it back. What are the rules on getting out of jail, anyway? He slams a fist on the table.
Maybe we aren’t able to remain friends and play Monopoly together. That’s the first thing we’ve agreed on in about an hour.
It turns out that William is hot-girl fit, as we learn on a perfectly free and geographically suitable running (fastwalking?) date around Albert Park Lake. I’m tempted to ask what the purpose of the date is—what does it say about me if I enjoy or do not enjoywalking? Maybe Arthur just wants to avoid any semblance of competition between us; I have a feeling that though these experiences were ostensibly aboutmycharacter development, he has discovered some things about himself over colourful bits of cardboard and plastic that he doesn’t necessarily like. But we get so caught up in discussing the nuances of Gillian Anderson’s filmography I forget to ask, and then it completely derails into catty running commentary on William’s experience of the day.
‘I think he has a stitch.’
