Page 17

‘You were a natural.’

‘I don’t know.’ His eyes fall modestly to his feet as he scrunches his toes into the sand again.

‘Dad’s never pressured me into it – you’ve met him, he’s not like that.

He loved it as a hobby and a passion, and so did I.

’ He pauses, his forehead creasing in thought.

‘But it somehow also felt as though I never had a choice. I had to be out there on the water, there was nothing else for me. Does that make sense? I’m talking shit. ’

‘No, I think it does make sense,’ I assure him. ‘Would it sound too much of a wanker thing to say that… you feel as though the ocean chose you? It’s part of your soul.’

He chuckles. ‘It does sound like a bit of a wanker thing to say. But yeah. Something like that. Do you feel the same about writing?’

I wasn’t expecting the question. The focus is meant to be on him.

‘Uh… I… I don’t know. Maybe. It’s something I’ve always done.’ He’s watching me intently waiting for a proper answer, so I take a moment to think about it. ‘I guess… I can’t not write.’ I shoot him a look. ‘That sounds like a wanker thing to say too.’

‘It does. But hey,’ he shrugs, ‘I get it.’

He smiles in a way that makes my breath hitch.

There’s something about the way he’s looking at me, his eyes softening as his smile broadens, that makes my belly pool with warmth and I realise that my tactic is working.

Right here, right now, he’s not seeing me as a journalist, sent to interrogate him and ruin his image.

He’s simply talking to me, Iris, about his passion in life while we sit on a beach. We’ve had a breakthrough.

I tear my eyes away from his to look out at the water.

‘It must be different surfing here to Australia, though,’ I reason, steering our conversation back on track.

‘It is. Different waves, different people, different vibe.’ He nods thoughtfully. ‘Both are good in their own ways. I have… missed Australia, though. I’ve missed it heaps, to be honest.’ For a moment, he looks pained. ‘I’m looking forward to going back next month.’

‘Do you feel like you’re going home?’

His eyes lock on mine, his eyebrows knitting together, as though I’ve asked him something he hadn’t considered before.

‘No,’ he says eventually, refusing to look away. ‘It will always mean a lot to me, but this is my home now.’

‘I can understand why. It’s…’ I raise my eyes skyward, searching for the right word ‘…calm here.’

‘Definitely calmer than London,’ he comments.

‘Most places tend to be. I like that it’s busy, though.’

‘You always want to live in a city?’

‘I don’t know. London is all I’ve ever known.

’ I hesitate and then decide to divulge more information, if only to continue the connection we’re forging.

‘My parents wanted me to buy a small flat somewhere – I’ve been saving up the deposit and they were happy to help too.

But… it didn’t seem right. I don’t know why. ’

He digs his heels into the sand, pushing his feet out to straighten his legs. ‘You can’t settle for somewhere if you don’t have the gut instinct that it’s the right place for you.’

‘Is that how you feel about Burgau?’

‘Yeah. I always felt restless in Australia. My life was different. Here I feel like… I can breathe. Do my own thing. No pressure.’

‘As in, no one expects anything of you here? Is that how you felt when you were living in Australia?’ I ask cautiously. ‘Like you had to live up to something? Maybe because of who your mum was, or because you were successful so young?’

His expression darkens. ‘That sounds like an interview question.’ Suddenly, his eyes widen. ‘You record on your phone.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You record on your phone,’ he repeats. ‘It was that other thing that you turned off and put in your bag, but not your phone.’

As he spots it still lying in the sand between us, he moves to reach for it but I snatch it up before he can get it.

‘You’ve been recording this conversation this whole time?’ he asks angrily.

‘Yes, I have,’ I tell him honestly, pressing stop and saving it.

‘So you’ve been lying to me.’

‘I never said that I was ending the interview formally. I said it wasn’t working me asking you questions like that, and that we had to do things differently.’ I give him a stern look. ‘Do you want me to delete it? I will if you like, but do you honestly regret anything you’ve told me this evening?’

He opens his mouth to protest. Then, he closes it.

‘You see?’ I say smugly, sliding the phone into my bag. ‘I really enjoyed our conversation and I think you did too. That was all this needs to be, Leo. I had to get you to relax into it, and you did.’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘There were some really lovely quotes in there. It was exactly what I was after; all those moving things you were saying about the first time you got up on a board, it’s really—’

‘I won’t talk about what happened in Australia,’ he says in a low, serious voice, completely different to the way he was talking to me before.

The walls are back up. He’s a different person.

‘Leo, that’s not what I—’

‘You won’t trick that out of me,’ he growls, his expression hardened.

‘You can try to play me about other stuff – my hopes and dreams when I was a kid, my life here now – but don’t pretend as though you would go ahead and delete the recording if I’d just spilled my sad little story to you about why my career finished. Don’t pretend to be the good guy.’

I stare at him, stunned. ‘Leo—’

‘This interview is over,’ he says abruptly, getting to his feet. ‘You got what you came for.’

‘Can we—’

‘Will you be okay getting home?’ he cuts in.

If it wasn’t for the hate radiating off him right now, I’d have appreciated how nice it is for him to ask.

I sigh, defeated. ‘Yeah. It’s about two minutes from here.’

With a sharp nod, he bends down to pick up his shoes and walks away off the beach. I turn to watch him go as he strides forwards furiously.

I glumly get to my feet, attempting to wipe some of the sand off my leggings.

Tonight was, technically, a huge success.

But it doesn’t feel that way.