Phoebe was sleeping soundly when my alarm went off on Wednesday morning. I slipped out of bed, showered, and was about to head for the train when she woke.
"Morning, you."
"Morning. I didn't want to wake you."
Phoebe gave an elaborate yawn. "Should get up anyway." She padded over to me in her PJs (blue with yellow hedgehogs, if you were wondering) and stood on tiptoes for a good-morning kiss. This close, I could see the bruises from last night. "Got a lot of rehearsal before tomorrow."
"Oh, yes. So what is this gig, anyway?
"We're supporting Jane Lamont." Seeing my blank look, she elaborated. "Scots new-wave folk singer. Did a few songs with Billy Bragg, that sort of thing, decided to do a one-woman tour out here. Derek got wind of it and managed to get us the support gig." Derek being their band's unofficial leader. "It's at the Black Sow, pub near St. Leonard's. I'll put your name on the list."
"Cheers. So, about tonight...?"
"Yes?"
I waited, but Phoebe was being deliberately obtuse, so I went on. "What do you have in mind?"
"Well. Something an old boyfriend taught me at university. Maybe a little bit scary, but I think you'll enjoy it if you give it a try."
"Do I have to interrogate you to find out?"
"I don't know." She tilted her head, eyes adorably wide. "Do you?"
So I spent several minutes questioning her. It was very enjoyable but I can't honestly say that she gave me any information. Eventually I had to admit defeat — it was that or miss several hours of training, which would've been hard to justify on the company tab — so we parted, both rather hot and bothered.
After napping on the train, I spent a very slow morning trying to fake an interest in the collection and analysis of user metrics — not that it's inherently a dull subject, but the lecturer seemed to be running on decaf that day. When the session ended, half a dozen of us went for lunch together and we talked shop until an enthusiastic bearded puppy-dog of a man named Mark suggested we all get together in the evening at a nearby bowling alley. The others agreed, and attention turned to me.
"I'd love to, but I'm already booked." No, that sounded too stiff, unfriendly. "Date tonight."
"Oh!" Was that a hint of disappointment? "Who is he? I thought you were from Melbourne, not round here?"
"I am. We met at a Christmas party, she was down visiting family."
"Oh, I see."
I watched his face, counting in my head until I saw the flicker as he noticed the pronoun I'd used. But since I wasn't trying to discomfit the lad, I pretended not to notice.
After lunch we spent the afternoon coding, trying out some of the tricks we'd been learning. It was a hot day and the air-conditioning was struggling to keep up with a room full of computers; throw in a couple of sneaky bugs that took ages to discover, and it wasn't until half-past five that I finished up and made for the train.
I got off where Phoebe had said, a couple of stops before her station, and she met me on the platform. She was in a T-shirt and shorts — well, she had the legs for it — and carrying a gym bag.
"Hey there!" We hugged, and then I followed her down to the underpass and out to the street. As we walked I peppered her with guesses about where we were going.
"Is it a play?"
"No, though that's a nice idea."
"Opera. Ballet. "
"Around here? Dressed like this? Nope. I said rope, that should be a clue."
"Hellfire Club?"
"No, I think that's in King's Cross. But there are knots involved."
"Scouts. You're a scout leader."
"Not quite, but warmer. And time's up!"
We'd arrived at a big old brick building that had once been a factory of some description. Now it had a small sign out the front: "Rockwall Climbing — Safe Fun For All Ages!"
"This is what I do for exercise. Ever been climbing?"
"Nope." I was trying not to let my feelings about heights show in my voice or my face, but I don't think I succeeded.
"You'll be fine. You've got a good build for it, better reach than me."
We signed in at the desk. Phoebe paid, I signed a lengthy waiver, and they fitted me with a safety harness and rubber-soled shoes that felt too tight for comfort; Phoebe assured me that this was the sign of a good fit. She pronounced my jeans and geek-slogan t-shirt acceptable for climbing, and once I'd crammed my feet into the shoes and tightened the harness to her satisfaction we stowed our bags and went over to the beginner class.
A scrawny guy with a "Rockwall Climbing" T-shirt explained how the gear worked: you have a rope that attaches to your harness and runs up above you to a pulley at the top of the wall, then down to your partner who's belaying from the ground. They use the belaying gear to take in the rope while you climb, brake it when you stop, then lower you to the ground when you're done.
If you come off the wall and they're not paying attention, well, the floor stops you. It's padded, but not enough to matter if you fall from twenty metres. With that cheerful thought I clipped myself in and tied my back-up knot, Phoebe and I checked one another's gear, and then I started to climb.
The beginners' wall was easy: great big handholds like jug handles, and lots of them. It was like climbing a five-metre ladder — but less wobbly, and with a safety rope — and I made it to the top easily enough. I tapped the pulley to show that I'd made it, like the other climbers were doing, and I heard Phoebe below me call out "Safe!"
I looked down to see her holding the rope securely in brake position. From here, I figured, I could probably survive a fall even without the rope. So I opened one hand, let go of the wall, grabbed the rope. Opened the other hand, let go of the wall, grabbed the rope and held on tight. Still no help at all if the rope failed me (or the pulley, or Phoebe at the other end) but it felt better holding on to something.
Without my hands keeping me on the wall, my centre of gravity shifted backward and I came away from the footholds to dangle in space, slowly revolving in the air. Phoebe paid out the rope she'd taken in, and soon my feet were on solid ground again.
"Not bad. Now you try belaying."
So we switched places. Belaying was harder than it looked; you have to take up the slack as your partner climbs, so they're not going to fall too far if they come off the wall. But you can't do that with the rope in brake position, so you have to be quick about it, returning to brake every time you change hands. Phoebe was climbing much faster than I had, and I had to discipline myself to stick to the five steps they'd shown me and not cut corners. Just a little inattention is all it would take.
She reached the top and slapped the pulley. I watched, waiting for her to do something more, and then remembered my line: "Safe!"
