‘And did you seeGuardians of the Galaxy’s Groot before? We need to get pics of that.’
That we can do. I did see Groot. He was like a walking fence panel. I wince to think of the splinters but applaud the dedication to his craft. That said, I think he might be the only other person in here as uncomfortable as me. The problem is that I’m still wearing my trench coat and it turns out it’s fleece lined, which is perfect for the winter months but less so in a hotel conference hall full of people in costumes. It means I’m now sweaty Sailor Moon and I have a feeling it’s also ruined Mum’s eye make-up. I feel the discomfort most in my bottom half, where these knickers are cutting into the creases of my thighs.
‘We can do whatever you want,’ I say, wiping a trickle of sweat from my upper lip.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to take off your coat?’ Cameron asks, watching the perspiration forming around my hairline.
‘I’m just… I’m a little shy.’
He gives me a quizzical look. ‘Really?’ I guess the girl he’s been sexting has been less shy. ‘Then allow me to buy you a drink. You cool hanging here while I join the queue? Coke? Sprite?’
‘I will take anything…’ Especially if it helps replace the bodily fluid I’m losing.
‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘I won’t.’
He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. I want to say it’s driven by an uncontainable attraction, but it’s because there’s a youthful Peter Parker excitement that just simmers off him. He’s like me. I don’t meet many people like that. The energy is contagious, attractive and the way we’re bonding over these geeky shared endeavours makes me want to jump on the spot and erupt with joy. You get me. I can’t, though. Mainly because I’m bloody boiling.
I watch him disappear into the crowd. You’re such an idiot, Josie. This rucksack is also strangely heavy as not only does it contain condoms but also a necklace and headband that I was going to put on later if and when this went full role play. In my hands is also a photograph that we paid to take with Stanley Tucci, who was brilliant in real life, except I look incredibly nervous because of all the sweating, so I think he thought me a tad strange. How do I make this work? Do I run and go get changed? I have jeans in my bag, but that won’t work. I’d still be half naked on top. Facing a wall, I undo the trench coat, fanning myself like I’m flashing the bricks. I don’t even have nipples anymore, they’ve kind of melted into my body. A man dressed like Wolverine makes eyes at me. Don’t you even dare.
I glance at the exhibit opposite. A clothes stall:Got T-shirts? I hope you do.
‘Can I help?’ a heavily bearded man suddenly asks me as I step inside his sales space. He wears a T-shirt that says I AM THE GOD OF TITS AND WINE and I realise the GOT refers toGame of Thrones. I’ve seen that show. I can do this. It doesn’t quite match, but it’s better than what’s underneath this coat. I can style it out.
‘I am looking for a T-shirt, any colour, about a size 10.’
He holds up a black one that says MOTHER OF CATS.
‘I don’t have cats.’
He nods and puts it back on the rail. ‘Do you have a favouriteGame of Thronescharacter?’
‘The Hound?’
‘Who likes The Hound?’ he asks, confused.
‘He’s funny and he has all that trauma with his brother who burned his face.’ I spin around, trying to work out where Cameron is. I don’t know why I’m having this discussion with this man.
‘I don’t have any T-shirts with The Hound. What about this?’
It’s Littlefinger and underneath a cartoon drawing of him are the words FANCY A LITTLE FINGER?
‘NO.’
‘That’s my bestseller.’
‘Just give me that one with Jon Snow’s face on… Is that a small changing room? Can I put it on?’
‘I guess… Do you want—’
‘I can pay you cash and if you could cut out the tags that would be awesome and very kind of you.’
As I get out my wallet, he shrugs and I grab at the T-shirt and disappear, pulling a curtain behind me, taking off the coat and standing here for a moment to allow myself to cool off, using my hands to wipe my face down. I look at myself in a skinny full-length mirror and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. What am I doing? This is fun. Being here is fun, but crossed wires seem to be at the forefront of this relationship and I’m not sure if it’s worth all this panic.
I pull the T-shirt over my head. With the mini skirt of my sailor dress, stupid knee-high boots and melted mascara, I look like a very confused, grungy student from the nineties. I roll up the trench, put it in my bag and open the curtain.
‘Nice,’ the exhibit vendor tells me. ‘Good fit. Everyone loves Jon Snow,’ he says, winking, and I shuffle away cautiously.
