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‘Iris, we’d like you to go to Portugal to interview…’ Toni leaves a dramatic pause hanging in the air as she clicks on her mouse and then swivels her desktop to face the screen towards me ‘…him.’

As I peer at the image, the editor-in-chief of Studio magazine leans back in her cushioned, black office chair on the other side of the desk and removes her designer, black, square-frame glasses, a smug smile stretching across her lips as she awaits my reaction.

I raise my eyebrows a little, intrigued, but doing my best to keep a neutral expression. A professional expression. It’s no use, though. Toni knows exactly what I’m thinking; that’s why she’s smirking. But it’s impossible not to think what I’m thinking. This guy is hot. No, more than hot.

He’s beautiful.

It’s a striking picture too. The photographer has captured him mid-stride across the sandy beach, carrying a surfboard under one arm, fresh out of the sea with his wetsuit peeled down to his waist, the low light of the sun bathing his muscled arms and ripped abs in a warm orange glow.

His dark-brown hair is wet and tousled, beads of water trailing down his cheeks towards his strong, chiselled jawline, his full lips parted slightly, and his dark eyes locked on the camera lens as though he’s just noticed he’s being photographed.

I try to fight the fact I suddenly need to swallow, but I can’t help it.

Toni notices my throat bob.

‘Good. I hoped you’d say yes,’ she says, placing her glasses down by the keyboard, her hazel eyes flashing at me.

‘I haven’t yet.’

‘You will.’

I uncross my legs to cross them again the other way, which isn’t as easy as it sounds in the fitted, black skirt I chose to wear with my black, cashmere, roll-neck top and over-the-knee heeled boots today.

Whenever I come to the Studio office, I tend to wear all black.

It’s safely stylish and the staff here are not messing around.

You step through the elevator doors out onto this floor and you know instantly that you’re surrounded by people who work for the leading fashion and lifestyle magazine in the UK.

Toni is also in mostly black today, a sharp trouser suit with a white blouse and Louboutin heels, and flawless, barely-there make-up, her light-brown hair in a stylish short cut that complements her oval-shaped face.

I don’t mind making the effort to ensure I don’t look out of place when I have meetings at Studio ; I happily took my time getting ready this morning.

I’ve always taken a lot of pride in my clothes and make-up.

I’m of the mind that if I try to look in control then I feel in control, even if my life is all over the place.

Which, to be frank, a lot of the time, it is.

But if you looked at me now, hopefully, you wouldn’t realise that, not with my long, dark hair swept up into a neat ponytail, bold, black, winged eyeliner framing my green eyes and carefully applied statement red lipstick.

‘Who is this guy?’ I ask, fiddling absent-mindedly with the butterfly of one of my small, gold, hoop earrings. ‘Some kind of model, right?’ I drop my hand, giving her a pointed look. ‘You know that’s not my area of expertise.’

Ever since I started writing on a freelance basis for Studio , its editor Toni Walker has been trying to get me to broaden my scope of work; sports journalism, my specialism, is ‘a bit niche’, she likes to remind me.

I know that. I also know how lucky I am to be on Studio ’s radar at all.

It’s a glossy brand that everyone has heard of and it has numerous international editions. But the British Studio is the original.

It’s a stroke of luck that I got into Toni’s good books and found myself in the comfortable position of receiving regular commissions from the country’s top magazine.

I used to be a sports writer for The Daily Journal newspaper, but with the way things were going there – like with all print media – I knew I wouldn’t have a job for long so I took voluntary redundancy at the first opportunity and made the leap into freelance journalism.

Suddenly, I didn’t have a stable income and I had to pitch ideas constantly to various publications in the hope of keeping up regular work.

Then, former professional tennis player Kieran O’Sullivan offered me an exclusive interview.

At first, I didn’t believe him. I know him well now – he’s the fiancé of my best friend Flora – and Kieran is notoriously private and hates any kind of press intrusion in his personal life.

For years, he shunned interviews, even after he retired the summer before last, and despite my teasing when they were first dating, I’ve never broached the subject of speaking to him in a professional capacity.

That’s not my style.

But Kieran isn’t an idiot and he knew that a bit of press would do wonders for the charity he founded, so he approached me last year with the idea of an interview about, well, everything: his career, his history, his relationships.

Once we’d talked through how it would work, I didn’t hesitate to write to Toni Walker at Studio to offer her the exclusive.

I got a reply within two minutes and it was a big, resounding yes . No surprises there.

Toni’s exactly the no-bullshit-type editor I like working for and, luckily for me, I’m the type of journalist she likes to work with: I’m passionate about what I’m writing and I’ve never missed a deadline.

She’s commissioned me to write several high-profile pieces about sport celebrities, but recently has tried to convince me to consider expanding my portfolio.

I guess that must be what is going on here with this handsome beach model she’s presenting me with. It’s going to be hard to say no to interviewing this dark-haired, half-naked Adonis, but I’m determined to stay focused on what I do best: sports journalism.

‘He isn’t a model,’ she says to my surprise. ‘He’s a pro surfer. A former pro surfer, I should say. He retired a while ago. His name is Leo Silva. You heard of him?’

I shake my head.

She quirks a brow. ‘And here I was thinking you were a sports expert.’

‘Surfing isn’t exactly my thing.’

‘Well, you might want to make it your thing,’ she suggests, clasping her hands in front of her on the table. ‘I take it you know the name Michelle Martin.’

Of course I know Michelle Martin. She’s the Australian media proprietor who owns Bind Inc.

, the international umbrella company of many media titles and brands, of which Studio is one.

But most people know her because of a TV show she did years ago, Pitch , a documentary that followed her and her core team for a couple of months in her London offices as her largely-print media company battled to stay relevant in a digital world.

Her ruthless opinions and tendency to interrupt people with a curt, ‘Boring! Next!’ became iconic.

She’s always had a fiercely unapologetic, powerful and demanding reputation, but her popularity has dipped recently thanks to interviews that went viral for all the wrong reasons – mostly clips of her giving sneering responses to reasonable questions.

She also likes to share her sharp opinions on social media and snap back at anyone who thinks differently, hurling personal insults without any thought.

‘Yes, I know Michelle Martin,’ I confirm. ‘We’re sitting in her building.’

Toni taps at her screen with her long, red, manicured fingernail. ‘Leo Silva is her son.’

‘This surfer is Michelle Martin’s son ?’ I glance back at his picture. ‘Whoa.’

Toni fights a smile. ‘I know.’

‘I’m not sure I knew she had a son. Maybe it rings a bell…’

‘He hasn’t appeared in any of her TV work, she never talked about him in front of a camera, and he’s not affiliated with her company,’ Toni explains frankly to clear up my confusion. ‘They haven’t been on the best terms.’

‘Oh. Did you say he’s in Portugal?’

‘That’s where he’s been hiding since he left Australia twelve years ago on his retirement from pro surfing at the age of twenty-four.

Michelle’s assistant tells me it’s where his father resides.

He stuck around to help with Leo while he was growing up, but moved back home to Portugal when Leo bought his own place at eighteen. ’

‘Okay, so Leo did well for himself early on, then.’

‘There was a time that Leo Silva was the World Champion, a huge surf star.’ She leans forward conspiratorially, resting her forearms on her desk.

‘But he was also a notorious party boy: booze, drugs, famous flings. He was a tabloid favourite on the other side of the world. None of Michelle’s rags, of course.

His wild behaviour wasn’t a great look for his mother, who was busy building her empire there and overseas.

Fucking Christmas for her rivals. They plastered his antics all over their platforms.’

‘I bet.’

‘He lost his sponsors and damaged Michelle Martin’s reputation by association at the time. You know how the business sharks think, especially of a woman back then: she couldn’t handle her out-of-control son; what else couldn’t she handle?’

‘Okay, you’ve painted the picture. Fame, fortune and wasted potential. What’s the hook? Why do you want this feature on him now?’

Her lips curl into a gratified smile at my impatience and curiosity. We both know she would be asking the exact same questions.

‘Leo was meant to be the next Kelly Slater,’ she says. ‘But his partying streak destroyed his career. Then he… disappeared. Retired early and fled overnight. No more parties, no more press, and no more surfing. Strange, right?’

‘So, what happened?’ I ask, unable to fight the urge to gaze at his image. ‘He woke up one morning and decided to just… give up? Did something happen to him? Why leave the country altogether?’

Toni lifts her finger, pointing it at me. ‘These are the questions I want you to answer and more, Iris. What is his story? Why has he been hiding away all these years? And why has he chosen to come back now?’