Page 14 of Ride the Wave

‘Fine,’ I say finally, straightening. ‘I won’t give up that easily. You sent me his phone number on that email but he’s not picking up my calls or replying to messages. Do you have an address for him?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks Sam. Oh, and he mentioned going to work, but I can’t find any information about him having a job anywhere. If Toni could fill me in on what he does and where he works, that might help too. And I remember Toni saying his dad lives here somewhere? See what you can find out about that. Anything and everything that might help.’

‘Got it.’

‘I’d rather not hang around the beach all day every day hoping he shows up to surf.’

‘I don’t know, that sounds nice to me,’ Sam says wistfully. ‘Don’t worry, Iris; as soon as Toni is out of her meeting, I’ll speak to her and when I have more information, I’ll ping it across to you.’

‘Thanks. Have a good day.’

‘You too! Enjoy lazing around the beach!’

Rolling my eyes, I say goodbye and hang up. This definitely isn’t the best start to this project, but maybe I can use this to my advantage for the feature somehow. A prickly athlete who starts to lower his guard and reveal the cuddly character beneath the hard outer shell. It’s a nice angle with an intriguing hook. Why has he put up this wall around him in the first place? What are his true feelings about his mum and her media empire? Is he ready to step back into the spotlight? And what will it take for someone to break through this barrier?

I smile. Yes, this might actually be a good thing.

Bringing my laptop outside, I google Leo for what must be at least the hundredth time in the last couple of days and continue trawling through the old videos on YouTube of him surfing. I thought I’d watched all of the few interviews that he did – even when he was winning and at the top of his game, he didn’t seem too keen to speak to the press – but I discover one more, a much older one I’d missed before.

It’s captionedAustralia’s Groms: the Next Big Things in Surfing. It features footage of a young teenage Leo, along with another boy and a girl heading out to surf together on Bells Beach. They’re all fearless and brilliant, despite being barely thirteen years old, and clearly good friends, laughing and joking together as they jog down the beach with their boards and make their way into the water. It’s only when they speak to camera afterwards briefly that I realise the other boy is Ethan Anderson.

‘I thought you two were enemies,’ I say to my laptop screen, pausing the video to confirm it is definitely him. ‘Huh.’

Opening a new tab, I search for more information on their relationship. There isn’t much – most of the press surrounding the two later on only seems to care about their professional rivalry. It seems to be a well-known fact that the two of them hated each other. But here they are on camera, laughing and teasing one another, talking about how they plan to spend the rest of their lives surfing and travelling the world to compete. I do find one piece that mentions the two came up the circuit together and were friends once upon a time, but it doesn’t elaborate on what happened between them. I click back onto the previous tab, looking at the two boys grinning together.

My phone vibrates making me jump. It’s Sam.

‘I’ve got two addresses for you,’ she tells me proudly. ‘One is his home address and the other is for the surf shop and school he owns. You should have them in your inbox now.’

‘Thank you, Sam,’ I say, jumping to my feet and looking round for my keys. ‘I don’t remember reading anywhere that he owns a surf shop. Did we only just find that out?’

‘Toni said Michelle’s assistant mentioned it in passing; she had to chase it up.’

‘Okay, great. Thanks so much for everything, Sam. Speak soon.’

‘Good luck!’

Before setting off, I search for the surf shop online and discover that it’s near the beach front, moments from here, but it’s not open yet. I could wait until then, but I’ve done enough waiting this morning and I’m impatient. I decide to pay him a visit at home first.

There are some beautiful, big villas in Burgau, right up on the hillside, that boast spectacular views of the coastline and village, and when I type in his address, I assume it’s going to be one of those. Considering his surf achievements and sponsorships once upon a time, not to mention his outrageously wealthy mother, I’ve assumed he’s always been very comfortable financially speaking. I’ve also seen the house he used to live in when he was based in Victoria, Australia and it did not disappoint; it was the ultimate beach house with state-of-the-art architecture, all huge open spaces, glass doors and an infinity pool.

But apparently, his taste has changed. He doesn’t reside in one of those gorgeous villas I was eyeing up on the drive into the village. He lives in an apartment building that’s on the other side of the village, a bit of a walk from here.

When I think about it, it makes sense that he’d favour somewhere more understated. Clearly, he made the decision that he didn’t want to stand out anymore. Like Marina said, he’s part of this community now. He may not want to tell his story, but I’m determined to hear it.

I grab my bag and head out the door.

It takes me a while to get to his place in these shoes – why is everything hereuphill, for Christ’s sake?! – and I have to take a couple of breaks to catch my breath but eventually, I arrive at his building in one piece. I double-check the number to his flat – four – and press the buzzer. No one answers. There’s no camera, so I don’t think he’s screening me, unless he saw me coming down the road. Luckily, a young guy who looks like a surfer himself in his swim shorts and backwards cap comes out of the building just at that moment and I slip in through the door before it closes. Maybe Leo has already left for work, but I might as well check he’s not here. The building only has four flats; his is right at the top. There is a lift, but it’s out of order.

‘Course it is. Thanks for nothing,’ I mutter bitterly, shooting evils at the broken elevator before reluctantly heading to the stairs.

I take a moment when I reach his floor to collect myself before knocking confidently on his door. Nothing. I knock again, louder this time.

‘One moment,’ he calls out.

I steel myself. The door swings open and he stands in front of me wearing nothing but a towel round his waist, a startled expression on his face.

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