Page 38 of One Summer

‘He’s really going for it, isn’t he?’ he says, grinning at me.

‘Yes. He has a thing about people with hats,’ I lie brazenly. I have no idea how Ted views people in hats, but I feel strangely compelled to protect Ted from criticism.

‘That’s a lot of people,’ the man says, and I realise belatedly that I am also wearing a hat. A blue baseball cap, which I am wearing backwards to protect my badly sunburned neck, which took a scorching on the boat ride over.

I am momentarily struck dumb. Ted isn’t. He takes his barking volume back up to 100 per cent and increases the frequency by a further 50 per cent.

‘What’s your name?’ the surfer asks.

My stomach flips a little. He’s not just nice-looking, he’s gorgeous, even in a wet neoprene hood and matching booties, and he’s asking me for my name.

‘Lindy Hougassian,’ I say, and add a cheerful, ‘Halloon.’

He looks a little confused.

‘What’s yours?’ I say, because perhaps he thinks I’m rude for not asking him back.

‘Joshua,’ he says. ‘But I actually meant the dog’s name. I was talking to him.’

‘Oh! Ted. He’s called Ted. Because he looks like a teddy.’

A teddy with an anger management problem.

I can feel myself blushing. I genuinely thought it was possible that this surfing Adonis might be hitting on me, that he might be about to ask me for my number.

Joshua kneels down and says, ‘It’s okay, Ted, you can chill now. I know I’m wearing a stupid outfit, but it’s just to keep me warm in the sea, because it gets cold after a while out there, and I get an ice-cream headache.’

Ted goes instantly silent as if he understands this sentence and feels embarrassed of his previous behaviour.

‘Nice to meet you, Ted,’ Joshua says, and holds his hand out. Ted pauses a moment, and then lifts a reluctant front paw for a handshake.

‘He’s cute,’ Joshua says, and adds, ‘Noisy but cute.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, as Ted runs to the water’s edge and starts playing with a pebble, as if none of this unpleasantness ever happened.

Joshua takes his hood off to reveal his tousled, blond waves. My heart skips another beat.

‘Whereabouts in New Zealand are you from?’ I ask.

‘I’m not – I’m from Loor. My dad’s a Loorian, although he lives on the mainland these days.’

But he definitely said he was from New Zealand – and what about his accent? Is he some sort of pathological liar? He can evidently read my expression because he elaborates.

‘I lived in New Zealand for eight years until recently. My mother was from there. She was a professional driver.’

‘Like a chauffeur?’

His face registers surprise. Maybe he means a taxi driver. Why am I asking for specifics? What is wrong with me? He doesn’t know me and has no need to give me any more information about his own mother than he feels necessary.

‘It sounds mad, I know, but she was actually a racing car driver.’

I can feel my eyes widen.

‘But she lives here now?’

Still asking for specifics. Why? There is no need for specifics. All I need to do is nod and look politely interested.

‘No, she died.’

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