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His jaw tightens. When he doesn’t respond, I continue confidently.

‘As I was trying to say at the beach earlier, I understand that this process can be really daunting, and it might seem a bit invasive, having someone follow you around, but I promise I’m very discreet.’

‘You? Discreet.’ His eyes travel down to my heels and back up again. ‘Really.’

‘Yes,’ I bristle.

He looks sceptical.

Despite the fact he’s pissing me off, I try to level with him.

‘You’re not the first athlete who has been unnerved by the idea of a profile piece, but you’ll soon realise that it’s absolutely fine.

Most of the time, the athletes I shadow end up loving it.

You get to speak about your passion all the time to someone who’s really listening, you can show me how important certain things are to you, you can talk through your hardest challenges and feel pride at overcoming them. It can actually be therapeutic.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Oh please. This kind of bullshit isn’t going to work with me, okay? You can save your manipulative speeches for someone else.’

‘I’m not trying to manipulate you,’ I say, stunned. ‘All I want to do is talk to you and learn about your life. That’s what I do.’

‘I can’t do this now.’

Shaking his head, he goes to shut the door in my face. But I step forwards, jamming my foot in the way to stop him. My patience is starting to wear thin.

‘Hey,’ I say abruptly, frowning at him. ‘You agreed to this interview and, whether or not you want to do it now, I’ve flown out here from London and the least you could do is be civil. Don’t you think?’

He looks taken aback by my candour and has the decency to look a little ashamed, his eyes falling to the floor. He doesn’t say anything, his lips pressed into a hard line, but at least he’s not forcing the door shut anymore. I sigh, putting my hands on my hips.

‘Leo, I don’t get it. This is your big comeback. Why wouldn’t you want to do this interview? This isn’t any old publication; this is Studio . Most athletes would kill for this kind of publicity.’

‘I don’t speak to the press,’ he states plainly. ‘My mum wanted me to do this and I said I would do an interview because her team kept going on at me about it and I…’ he pauses, a muscle twitching in his jaw ‘…owed her one.’

Interesting . Clearly, there’s some guilt there about everything that happened more than a decade ago, or perhaps she did him some kind of favour. I make a mental note to tease that out of him at some point during our interviews. Which I will get.

‘But her assistant said it would be a quick chat,’ he continues, frowning at me. ‘Then I discover that a journalist has been flown from London to shadow me for two weeks . This isn’t what I signed up for. I’m meant to be focusing on Bells Beach, not my mum’s image.’

‘What about your image? Don’t you care about that?’

‘I care about surfing,’ he snaps.

‘Great, then surf,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I’ll take care of your image.

If you choose to work with me, it will make things easier, but if you decide not to, then I’ll get what I can from other sources.

I can easily learn about your surfing from what I witness from the beach.

This morning, you seemed okay out there.

A lot of falls – wait, what do you call them?

Oh yeah, “wipeouts” – but you have time to work on that before the contest. I’m sure you’ll improve. ’

‘There were no wipeouts,’ he counters.

‘Sure there were! You fell off all the time. Don’t be disheartened. You’ll get there.’

‘They weren’t…’ He looks at me, aghast. ‘Those falls were me dismounting the board safely after catching a wave.’

‘Oh. I see. Sure. Dismounts .’ I tilt my head, giving him a sympathetic smile, lowering my voice to a hush. ‘Fake it’ til you make it, right? Love that. You tell yourself what you need to; our readers will totally relate.’

I wink at him. He glowers at me.

‘I should make a note of this, actually; it’s all good insight to your character,’ I say, rifling through my bag for my notepad and pen. ‘I think it’s nice that you’re starting out with those gentle waves today. Build up your confidence.’

‘I’m not… Look, you try to surf every day, no matter what, even if the waves are small. It all matters to the training, the feel of the board and the water, even if it’s not the level you’ll be facing in a contest and—’

He stops talking abruptly. He stares at me, wide-eyed.

I smile up at him sweetly, pen poised.

‘Oh,’ he says, nodding slowly, ‘you’re good.’

‘Good at what?’ I say innocently.

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Okay, Iris Gray, not bad.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Shit. You’re really not going to let this article go, are you.’

‘No,’ I confirm. ‘I’m writing this piece with or without you.’

‘Is that because of who my mother is? Studio is one of hers.’ He tries to appeal to me with an exasperated expression. ‘Do we really need to go through all the motions of this? Can’t she just tell you what to write? Then everyone wins.’

‘Firstly, no one wins if a journalist is being told what to write,’ I say pointedly.

‘Secondly, wouldn’t you rather have some say in what’s going to be written about you?

If you don’t talk to me, I have to go on what I’ve experienced, which is currently kind of…

stand-offish.’ I hesitate. ‘But Marina tells me you grow on people.’

He allows a small laugh, his face relaxing a little.

‘But honestly, Leo, out of everyone involved in making this happen, I thought you’d be the one who wanted this article the most.’

He tips his head back, lets out a loud ‘HA!’ and then looks back at me, amazed. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘I thought you might want to let the world know that not only are you back, but you’re back to win,’ I say calmly, looking him dead in the eye.

His jaw tenses. My words have struck a chord.

‘I want to be the one to tell your story, Leo,’ I say in a low and serious tone, desperate not to lose one inch of the ground I’ve made here. ‘Help me to tell it properly.’

He doesn’t say anything. Come on.

‘You might inspire someone, you know,’ I add hopefully.

‘A young kid out there dreaming of mastering the waves. Or someone who feels they’ve lost their way.

You can be the guy who gets to show them it’s okay to not have all the answers straight away, and that it’s possible to find your way back to something you love.

You could inspire them to get back on that board and ride the wave to see where it takes them. ’

‘Christ.’ He quirks a brow. ‘You must be desperate with cheesy soundbites like that.’

‘I’m being honest. I think you’re selling yourself short – your comeback could mean a lot to someone out there. If it’s told in the right way.’

He groans. ‘ Fine . How would this whole thing work?’

‘We can sit down for a casual chat to talk that through and then schedule in our first interview,’ I say, my heart lifting at his decision. ‘When would work for you to do that?’

The corners of his lips tug up into an amused smile. ‘You need to schedule in a casual chat so that you can schedule a first interview?’

‘I… yeah. We could do the chat now, though. Maybe I could come in.’

‘I’d rather be dressed if that’s okay,’ he says drily, his hands gripping his towel. ‘I’m also going to be late for work.’

‘Of course, your surf school. I only just found out you owned one.’

Leo scowls. ‘Who told you that? Wait.’ He holds up a hand. ‘Let me guess. My mum?’

‘Well, it was actually Studio ’s editorial assistant who told me, so I’m not sure where she got the information but maybe there was some kind of mix up—’

‘No, Mum and her team would love for you to write that I own a successful surf school and shop so it doesn’t look as though I’ve been doing nothing all these years,’ he mutters bitterly.

‘I’m afraid if you want the truth, I just work at one, okay?

I’m an employee. I teach surfing and help out in the shop. I don’t run anything.’

‘You see? This is why it’s great to talk to me and make sure I don’t get anything wrong,’ I point out, clinging to any positivity I can muster.

He looks unconvinced.

‘So when works for you to meet?’ I ask hastily, getting my phone out to schedule it into my calendar. ‘I could come during your lunch break? Or after work might be better?’

He sighs, still obviously pissed off. ‘After work is fine.’

‘Okay, great. Do you know a good coffee place? We can go wherever you like.’

He glares at me. ‘I’ll need something stronger than coffee if I’m talking to a journalist.’

‘How about Marina’s Bar?’ I suggest. ‘She’s your friend, right? It’s a good idea to go somewhere you know and feel comfortable in. Does that setting work for you?’

‘Yeah, fine, whatever.’

‘And what time do you finish? Do you want me to come meet you at the shop or would you rather I see you at the bar?’

He rubs his forehead.

‘God, are you always this…’ he waves his hand about, searching for the right word ‘…busy? It’s like your brain is set to a hundred miles per hour.’

‘I will take that as a compliment. If you mean, am I efficient? Then, yes. It helps to have all the facts of when and where you’re meeting someone.’

‘You’re on city mode,’ he mumbles.

‘What’s “city mode”?’

‘You know.’ He gestures at me. ‘You’re very… London.’

I don’t really know what to say to that. ‘Oh. Well, I am from London.’

He sighs heavily as though I’m not getting it, which is fair because I’m not.

‘I finish at four,’ he says gruffly. ‘Don’t come to the shop; I’ll meet you at Marina’s.’

‘Great, I’ll be at Marina’s for four o’clock,’ I repeat, typing it into my calendar and shuffling back from his doorway. ‘Have a good day!’

‘It already feels like a long one,’ he mutters before closing his door in my face.