Page 1 of Ride the Wave

PROLOGUE

It’s late and the beach is empty, shrouded in darkness. The wind is battering dramatically against the coastline, the crash of the waves echoing around the natural amphitheatre of the cliffs. As he makes his way unsteadily down the wooden steps to the sand, his board tucked under his arm, he pauses to lean on the rail and peer out. His eyes are adjusting now and he can make out the mass of white foam tumbling towards shore from what must be towering waves. He can hear the roar of them in his ears.

If this was yesterday, he would make the decision not to go out.

The conditions are bad and getting worse. It’s too risky. His instinct is to turn back.

But things are different now and tonight he will ignore that instinct. He will ignore it because for as long as he can remember he has had an aching need to surf, a need that burns through every cell of his body and has the capability to override any rational sober thoughts he may have. He will continue down the steps and he will stumble across the sand towards the waves with his board, because this is all he is. This is the only way he knows how to be.

And he is too heartbroken to pay attention to instinct.

*

Later, when he is struggling underwater against the current that is crushing his lungs, when he helplessly tumbles and rolls through the pitch black, when he thinksthis is it,I’ve fucked it, his instinct will kick in again.

It will tell him to fight.

1

‘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 ofStudiomagazine 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 knowsexactlywhat 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 theStudiooffice, 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 fortheleading 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 atStudio; 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 tolookin control then Ifeelin 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 forStudio, 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 onStudio’s radar at all. It’s a glossy brand that everyone has heard of and it has numerous international editions. But the BritishStudiois 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 forThe Daily Journalnewspaper, 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.

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