Page 16

The beach. Of course that’s where he, a pro surfer, wants to chat.

Jesus, he could have been a bit more original.

But if this is where he wants to talk, then I guess this is where we’ll talk.

He’s already pointed out that sitting on the sand with no one around has the distinct advantage of privacy compared to a bar or restaurant.

I mean, so does his flat or my flat, and neither of those require getting sand all over my leggings, but I’m not going to kick up a fuss now.

Not when he’s finally ready to be interviewed.

‘At least you’re wearing shoes that are more practical for the sand today,’ he notes.

‘I don’t choose shoes for their practicality,’ I grumble, kicking sand off the toe of my trainer.

‘Funny enough, London, I’ve noticed that.’

‘Are you really going to keep calling me that?’

He chuckles to himself in response and I roll my eyes.

He finally chooses somewhere, plonking himself down.

‘Are you warm enough?’ he asks, as he gestures for me to sit down next to him while taking off his shoes and socks, placing them neatly to his other side. ‘I can run to the shop and get some hoodies if we need; I have a couple in there.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, even though it is getting a bit chillier.

I carefully place myself down on the sand next to him, aware that he’s watching as I try to do so as elegantly as possible. I catch a glimpse of him smirking when I brush some sand off my bag once I’ve popped it next to me.

‘What?’ I ask, bristling.

He fights a smile. ‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, I get it. I’m being very London , is that it?’

He doesn’t say anything.

While I get my phone and Dictaphone ready – I had made sure they were both in my bag on the way out to the yoga class, just in case my invasion into his yoga practice did have a positive impact – he bends his knees up, resting his forearms on them, and digs his toes into the sand.

‘Will the sound of the waves be a problem?’ he asks, looking out at the ocean getting darker in the evening light.

‘No, we’re far away enough from the water,’ I say gratefully, placing them on the stretch of sand between us. ‘Are you happy for me to hit record?’

He nods, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, his jaw tense. He’s getting nervous now.

‘That was an impressive speech you made back there,’ he remarks as the recording begins. ‘I wasn’t expecting it.’

‘Me neither,’ I admit.

He gives a wry smile. ‘I must have pushed you over the edge.’

I hesitate. ‘Leo, I know this isn’t something you wanted to do—’

‘But we’re here now,’ he interjects, turning to look at me. ‘I can’t back out. My dad reminded me of that this afternoon when he came back from your lunch.’

‘It was a very nice lunch.’

‘Yeah, I noticed he’d had a few.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Your influence?’

‘All him.’

‘Sounds about right.’ He sighs, throwing his head back to look up at the sky. ‘Go on then. I’m ready. What’s the first question?’

I stretch my legs out in front of me, leaning back on my elbows.

Just like when I ordered the wine in the bar with him, I’m making a show of this being as informal as he likes.

If this is going to go well, he has to relax into it.

That means I do too. Or at least give the impression that I’m doing so.

‘Do you remember the first time you surfed?’

He turns to look at me in surprise. ‘That’s the first question?’

‘You don’t think it’s a good one?’

‘No, I… it’s fine.’ He’s folded his arms across the top of his knees and he’s tapping one of his fingers on his elbow nervously. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t remember it.’

‘You were young when you started, your dad was telling me.’

He nods silently.

Fuck’s sake. I knew it was going to be like drawing blood from a stone, but I really hope it gets better than this otherwise I’m going to have a huge job on my hands hitting the word count for this feature.

‘Did you love it straight away? What drew you to it in the first place?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t remember. My dad surfs.’

I wait for him to embellish his answer, but he seems to think that’s good enough.

‘What’s the next question?’ he prompts when I continue to stare at him expectantly.

I sigh, sitting up and making a point of turning off my Dictaphone.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, brow furrowed.

‘It’s not working.’

‘What’s not working?’

‘This. Me asking you questions this way,’ I attempt to explain vaguely, shoving the Dictaphone back in my bag.

‘You haven’t asked many.’

‘Enough for me to know we have to do this differently,’ I say, waving him off. ‘Let’s just sit here and talk.’

He swivels towards me slightly. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I insist, before returning to my position of lying back propped up on my elbows. Time to try another tactic. I breathe in the salty sea air. ‘Can I tell you something?’ I pause for dramatic effect, before blurting out, ‘I don’t like the beach.’

His jaw falls open. ‘What?’

‘I don’t like the beach,’ I repeat.

‘How can anyone hate the beach?’ he asks me in disbelief.

‘I like looking at it! Don’t get me wrong, I love the view of a beach.

But I don’t like being on it. The sand gets everywhere, and I hate the feeling of it between your toes.

’ I shudder, glancing at his toes as he scrunches them on purpose.

‘I hate going into the sea because it’s cold and salty and you can’t tell if you’re going to step on a crab – which, by the way, happened to me as a kid – or if slimy seaweed will wrap around your ankles.

And I hate coming out of the sea because it’s even colder and the sand sticks to the edges of your feet no matter what you do and you can taste the salt on your lips which makes me want to be sick… ’

The whole time I’m talking, he’s watching me intently, stunned into silence.

I heave a sigh. ‘So yeah, in conclusion, it’s not for me.’

There’s a beat of silence before he bursts out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, frowning at him.

‘Everything you’ve said is true,’ he says, ‘and that’s why I love the beach.’

‘You like all those things?’

‘Love them. Maybe not stepping on a crab, although I can’t say I’ve experienced that so far in my career.’

‘Lucky you. Have you ever been stung by a jellyfish?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘Where did it sting you?’

He winces. ‘Just beneath my butt, actually.’

‘Ouch, that must have been sore. Did someone have to pee on you?’

‘No, luckily I made it through without that remedy,’ he says, breaking into a smile as he leans back on his hands. ‘It was nasty, though.’

‘Did a shark give you that scar on your wrist?’ I ask, nodding to the faint line I’d noticed in yoga earlier.

He glances down on it and then back at me, raising his eyebrows. ‘Would it sound impressive if I said it was?’

‘Depends on the type of shark,’ I shrug. ‘If it was a great white, then yeah. But if it was one of those granny sharks, probably not.’

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Kind of mischievous and boyish, with crinkles appearing around the corners of his mouth. A laugh that makes butterflies dance in my stomach.

‘What the fuck is a granny shark?’ he demands to know.

‘The ones with no teeth! Hammerheads, I think.’

‘Hammerheads have teeth.’

‘No, they don’t.’

‘They do. They’re kind of hidden because of their—’ He tries to gesture what he’s talking about.

‘Their… hammer-heads?’ I offer.

‘Right.’ He grins at me. ‘But yeah, hammerheads have teeth. You’re thinking of basking sharks, I reckon. Although, fun fact, they do have teeth. They’re really small, though.’

‘That is a fun fact, thank you Leo,’ I say drily. ‘So is that what got you on the wrist? A basking shark?’

‘I wrestled it with my bare hands when it tried to attack an orphaned puppy.’

‘Uh-huh.’

He sighs wistfully. ‘Nah, that scar is from… a wipe-out.’

‘A bad one?’

He nods. Clearing his throat, he points to another more recent scar on his other hand. ‘This one, however, is from when I tried to bake recently.’

I tilt my head at him, intrigued. ‘You bake?’

‘I said “tried” to. I was making a cake for Dad’s birthday. Fucking disaster.’

‘I think it’s sweet that you tried. You and your dad seem really close,’ I remark gently.

‘I’m lucky to have him nearby.’

‘You surf together a lot?’

‘All the time. You can’t keep either of us away from the water.’

‘Your dad said that when you grow up near the water, you have a connection with it.’

He nods in agreement. ‘Maybe. Although I don’t think you can’t find that connection if you come to surfing late in life.

You can. You don’t have to be on the water from a young age to understand it.

But I was lucky to pretty much grow up on the waves in Australia.

I don’t remember a time before being out on the water. It’s always been my life.’

‘It didn’t frighten you? Even as a kid?’

‘Right from the word go, it gave me this rush that I can’t describe.’ He gazes out at the ocean. ‘Being out there is, like, the only place where you’re completely living in the moment. Everything else washes away. Your head clears and it’s just you and the roll of the wave.’

‘It can’t be like that at the beginning though, when you’re learning. That part must suck. Not that you’ll be able to remember that, you know, being a pro.’

He laughs. ‘I remember the first time I stood up on a board. You don’t forget that. The feeling of getting the balance quite right. My legs were shaking and my dad was cheering.’

He can’t help a grin flooding his face, the genuine warmth of it forcing me to reflect it back at him as he turns to look at me. My chest aches at the pure joy in his expression.

God, he’s beautiful. Annoying, but beautiful.

‘It wasn’t for very long and it wasn’t graceful, but it didn’t matter,’ he continues.

‘I’d done it. That elation, it was pure joy, you know?

I was gliding with the water – shakily – but still.

That was it. I knew as soon as I crashed into the water afterwards that there was nothing else I ever wanted to do. ’