Love/Fail

Chapter 4

Annoying Pinspiration Quote #4

"Those who dare to fail miserably can achieve greatly."

"I'm not taking off my shirt!" I squawked, eyes locked on the tempting abdominals on display as Rupert lifted his arms up.

"No, not your shirt, you hussy," he responded. "That hoody-thingy. Give me that."

"Why?"

"Because the way I figure it, we've got about five minutes left before one of my minders comes looking for me, so we need an exit strategy, don't we? I don't think anyone is going to be looking for the fashion forward Rupert Marx wearing that dirty rag."

"Watch it," I said, pulling the black jumper with the pink hearts off and handing it to him. "It's one of my favourites. And just what am I supposed to wear?"

Rupert slid into my hoody, and proceeded to do a catwalk strut. "You know, I can honestly make any item of clothing look brilliant. It's a god-given skill, I swear. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing, I'm still totally shaggable."

"Not from where I'm standing," I said, unimpressed.

"Wounded! You wound me, woman! Have you no respect for a poor artiste's heart?"

"Rupert! Focus!"

"Right, right." He grabbed his wide scarf, which was almost the size of a single bed sheet, and threw it over my head. With skilled fingers, he wrapped it hijab-style around my neck, cloaking my shoulders and torso. "There. The perfect disguise. No one dares to stare at a Muslim woman, because God might make your eyeballs drop out or something. I'm a bit fuzzy on the theological details, but I thinks that's close."

"Oh my god. So racist."

"I am many things," said Rupert haughtily. "I'm a feminist, arachnophobic, racist, agoraphobic, but I am not a racist. Oh, wait..."

"Are we going?" I headed for the door, but Rupert laced his fingers through mine.

"Not that way, love. They'll be expecting that. And if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that you always have to keep them on their toes. Come on!"

Dragging me behind him, he led us in a flying run down the corridor, which bucketed us out into a darkened backstage area. Before I could prepare myself, we burst through soft wings and out onto stage, the magnificent theatre soaring up around us. A few disinterested roadies packed up gear, and we ducked around a half-dismantled drum kit before leaping off the stage and into the aisle.

The name on the drum kit had caught my eye, and as we ran, I said, "Hey! I know your band!"

Rupert looked back, grinning like a loon. "Well, thank god for that, love. Here I was thinking that maybe you'd been locked up in someone's sex basement for the last five years without a television, and I'd have to re-educate you about modern society. Have you heard of the internet? It's this amazing place where the entire planet congregates to argue over vaccinations and watch cat videos."

By this stage, I was too busy panting to try and keep up with his nonsense, although his ability to spout so much crap while we ran up the steep theatre aisle was quite impressive. We threw ourselves against the crash bar, and exploded into a deserted lobby. As we scanned for the exit, I caught my breath enough to say, "I meant I've heard of your band. I don't know any of your songs or anything."

He spun to face me, looking genuinely devastated. "Lies!"

"It's true."

"We wrote the last World Cup song!"