Page 5

Iowe Naomi BIG time.

She called me Saturday night to say that she’d found me an ocean-view apartment in a building owned by one of her company’s big clients in Portugal that was free for me to use – if I might consider reviewing it for the travel section of Studio .

When I arrive there on Monday and open the front door, my jaw drops. I have to double- check I’m in the right place and then phone her immediately.

‘Naomi,’ I gasp when she picks up, ‘this place is beautiful! Thank you, thank you !’

‘No problem. It wasn’t that hard to find you somewhere considering it’s March.’

‘Oh my God,’ I continue, gliding across the cold stone floor of the spacious lounge and opening the doors out onto the balcony.

I gaze out at the stretch of golden sand and, beyond it, the turquoise-blue sea.

It’s a beautiful evening, and I breathe in the cool breeze, strands of my hair whipping round my face.

I may not like being in the water, but I sure do love looking out over it.

‘Naomi, this view. It’s… I can’t describe it. ’

‘You’re meant to be a writer.’

‘That’s how good it is.’

She sounds relieved. ‘I hear Burgau is stunning. I’ve never been.’

‘I’ve only just arrived, but yeah, you could say it’s picturesque.

’ I smile, leaning an arm on the balcony.

‘When you go down the hill nearer the beach, the roads become all cobbled and quaint.’ I turn my head to admire the high, sloping cliffs that frame the end of the beach.

‘Wow. Burgau is seriously spectacular. A nice place to hide out.’

‘Who’s hiding?’

‘Leo Silva.’ I force myself in from the balcony to explore the rest of the apartment. ‘He’s the subject of my article.’

‘The pro surfer you mentioned,’ she recalls.

‘ Former pro surfer,’ I correct, opening the door to the bedroom and grinning at how spacious it is with a modern ensuite bathroom. ‘He retired and disappeared.’

‘And he’s been living in Burgau ever since? Makes sense, it’s a pretty good surfing spot. That’s what it says in my notes, anyway. So you’re going to write one of your big features on him for Studio ? Like you did with that skier?’

‘Uh-huh,’ I say, flopping down onto the bed and lying back to stare up at the white ceiling. ‘Not a bad gig.’

‘Sure.’ She hesitates. ‘Iris, have you thought this through?’

‘Honestly, no, not really.’ I laugh, kicking off my shoes. ‘The whole thing came about very quickly, but hey, it will be fine. You know I can research fast.’

‘Yeah, but… didn’t you immerse yourself in the skier’s life?

’ She reminds me cautiously. ‘That’s how you write these pieces so well – you don’t do these interviews by half; you throw yourself into their lives.

Like with the skier, you were out on the slopes with him at the crack of dawn, watching him train.

You wrote about the feeling of skiing, all that cool stuff about the exhilaration and sense of freedom you experienced as you followed him down the mountain.

As a reader, I felt like I was there with you. ’

‘Is this your weird way of asking if you can come join me out here?’

‘I wish.’ She pauses. ‘Actually, I’m worried about you.’

‘What? Why? ’ I blurt out, bewildered.

‘Because of Mallorca.’

A lump forms in my throat. I realise what she’s getting at.

‘I don’t want that to happen to you again,’ she continues. ‘Are you really the right person to write this article?’

I swallow. ‘Of course,’ I manage to croak, shutting my eyes, determined to push those memories from my brain. ‘I appreciate what you’re trying to say, but I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I say firmly in an attempt to persuade myself more than her. ‘It will work out. It always does. I’ll find a way. And anyway, it’s too late to back out.’

‘Okay, but I’m here if you need to talk about it.’

‘Nope, I’m good!’ I say chirpily, forcing myself to open my eyes and sit up. ‘I do, however, have to go. I need to… unpack.’

‘Let me know how everything goes!’

‘Thanks so much again, Naomi. I’m so grateful to stay somewhere like this.’

‘Well, in return, if you meet any single surfers who make a mean pina colada…’

I smile into the phone. ‘I’ll book you on the first flight out.’

We say our goodbyes and I get up, ready for action.

As soon as I arrive anywhere, I have to unpack before I can even think about relaxing, so I drag my case into the bedroom, haul it up onto the bed and get to work.

By the time my clothes are all hanging up in the wardrobe or folded neatly into drawers, and the bathroom is decked out in my numerous skincare and beauty products, I feel much more at home and ready to begin this new project.

It’s like I can’t get my brain into order until my space is organised.

It may have been a short flight, but I feel gross from the plane, so I shower and throw on a pink dress that has spaghetti straps and a thigh slit, applying make-up and getting excited to explore.

It’s the first night after all; I should eat out and there’s something exciting about dressing up for dinner when you’re abroad.

Just being somewhere new feels exhilarating; you don’t know what will happen or who you’ll meet.

And for me, it’s all part of the writing process.

I have to bring the readers here to Portugal and I can’t do that staying cooped up in a flat.

Experiencing the delights of Burgau, such as dining out, is technically research.

At least, that’s how I justify my expenses.

As I sit on the sofa to do up the ankle straps of my heels, I glance over at the balcony, which seems to be calling to me.

I eye up the chairs and small round table out there, picturing myself enjoying a coffee out there every morning, writing up my notes in peace, casually procrastinating by watching the sailboats floating by on the horizon.

I think I’ll like it here.

Smiling to myself, I spritz some perfume on my wrists, gather the contents of my handbag together, grab the keys from the counter and finally head out the door, locking it behind me.

I’m practically dancing down the steps of the building, my hand trailing round the curve of the bannister, when I almost collide with someone on their way up.

The shock sends me off balance and I would go tumbling down the steps if he didn’t act so quickly, reaching out to take my arm, holding me steady.

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim, regaining my balance as my fingers grip into the solid arm of my companion. ‘I—’

Whoa .

The lips of the man I almost took out tilt upwards into a smile that sends my heartbeat into overdrive.

Dressed in a smart, tailored suit, the sleeve of which my fingernails are currently digging into, he is in his late thirties, I’d guess, tall with swept-back, dark hair, glasses and designer stubble.

And he smells delicious: an aromatic, expensive cologne.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, relaxing my shoulders and smiling back at him, as I release his arm from my grip. ‘Thank you for catching me.’

It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not in London, I’m in Portugal and I’ve made the most classic Brit-abroad mistake in the book by assuming everyone everywhere speaks English. I blame his handsomeness. It’s thrown me off my game.

‘Oh God, that’s so rude,’ I blurt out, aware that I’m still doing it, the heat flushing across my cheeks. ‘Uh… desculpa .’ I grimace at my terrible pronunciation and hope he’ll forgive me.

By the way his smile is widening, I think he might.

‘That’s okay,’ he responds in English with a Portuguese accent that makes my whole body almost melt right there on the stairs. He is muito sexy. ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t run up the stairs.’ He takes a step up so we’re on the same level. ‘Have you just arrived here?’

‘Yes, I’ve flown in from London.’

‘Ah. Welcome,’ he says warmly. ‘So, you like the apartment?’

‘Yes, very much. Do you live here in this building?’

‘Uh, no,’ he says. ‘Actually, my family owns it.’

‘You’re kidding.’

He smiles modestly, sliding his hands into his pockets. ‘You’re the journalist.’

I’m grateful to Naomi for organising my accommodation and everything, but hello , she could have given me a heads-up that her client was smoking hot.

‘Yes, that’s me. Thank you so much for letting me stay.’

‘It’s not a problem. If you need anything or have any questions,’ he brings his eyes up to meet mine, his voice sincere and serious, ‘don’t hesitate to contact me.’

‘Will do. And thanks again for saving me from falling.’

‘Any time.’

Blushing, I tuck my hair behind my ear and, with a polite parting smile, carry on down the steps.

When he calls out, ‘Wait’, I turn back to see he hasn’t moved. He’s been watching me go.

‘I… I didn’t ask your name,’ he notes apologetically.

‘Iris.’

‘Iris,’ he repeats. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m José.’

‘Nice to meet you, José,’ I say before calmly carrying on down the stairs. I open the door and step out into the cool, evening air, unable to stop a smile.

I think I really will like it here.

*

I would like to know why the people who built Burgau decided that cobblestones were a good idea. Yes, they’re charming, but wearing heels on these streets is a nightmare . Especially as the village is basically one giant slope.

I probably should have gone with a different pair of shoes, but these heels really do work well with this dress.

I remind myself of that as I make my way back to the flat after dinner, trying to convince myself it was worth it for the look.

I move at a snail’s pace in fear of going over on my ankle.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter under my breath as I stumble, stopping to regain my balance.

Luckily, the streets are pretty much empty so few people can witness my helpless tottering. I like that it’s quieter at the moment here; I can enjoy Burgau without any crowds.