Page 4 of Ride the Wave

I stare at her, my stomach twisting.

‘I appreciate you are a freelance journalist,’ she continues, ‘but out of curiosity, might you ever be tempted to consider a fixed role again?’

Oh my God. This is… this ishuge. A dream job.

I nod thoughtfully, trying to play it cool. ‘It might be something I’d think about, yes.’

She looks satisfied. ‘Good. Well, should you produce yet another one of your winning features on our lead surfer here, I’d say you’d be in a very good position to prove to the executive leadership team that you’d be a good fit.’ She pauses. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. You haven’t formally accepted this commission yet.’ She straightens, reaching for her glasses and putting them on as she returns her attention to an email on her screen.

I sit in silence, well aware that she’s making a point. She needs an answer on this now. It’s rare for a freelancer to turn down work and even rarer to say no to work that offers the opportunity to go abroad. But there’s a reason surfing isn’t my thing – a reason I can’t admit to her – and if this big job wasn’t being dangled in front of me, I’d probably say no.

Toni coolly taps away at her keyboard, knowing I can’t turn this down.

‘All right,’ I say to absolutely no one’s surprise. ‘When am I flying to Portugal?’

2

‘Monday,’ Mum repeats to make sure she’s heard me right. ‘But it’s Saturday! You only had the meeting yesterday. She’s given you two days to get everything sorted.’

I was meant to be going to Mum’s today for lunch but changed the plan for her to come to my flat instead so I could make a start on preparing for the trip. She arrived this afternoon, has been here two minutes and has already plumped every throw cushion on my sofa. Standing in the doorway to my bedroom, she’s now eyeing up the ones resting on my pillows. I can see her fighting the urge not to sort them.

Selecting a black, halterneck dress from my wardrobe, I free it from its hanger and begin to fold it carefully, turning to my suitcase that’s lying open on my bed.

‘That’s right,’ I confirm. ‘The surf competition is in April, so Leo Silva will be in full training now. The sooner I can get to him, the better. You know athletes start clamming up the closer they get to the competition. The editorial assistant atStudiosent over my itinerary late last night and the flight is booked for Monday.’

‘Toni might have given you a little more warning,’ Mum says, leaning on the doorframe as I go back to my wardrobe to pick out the next outfit. ‘How are you going to fit in time to research the piece before you get thrown into things? It all seems very rushed. You have to drop everything and cancel all your plans so suddenly.’

I snort, folding a pair of cream linen trousers. ‘It’s not like I had that much to cancel, Mum. This is a great opportunity and I get to go to Portugal for two weeks.’

‘Out of season,’ she notes.

‘It’s stillPortugal,’ I emphasise, but grabbing a couple of jackets all the same and folding them into my case. ‘The village where he lives is meant to be lovely; I looked it up last night. It’s a former fishing town, really small and beautiful. My first meeting with Leo is scheduled for Tuesday morning, so I have this weekend and Monday to research him.’ I straighten, putting my hands on my hips. ‘Not that there’s much to research. He’s got no socials, and after a quick google, pretty much all that comes up is old celebrity gossip on him back in Australia during his party days. Nothing new. Noactualinterviews.’

‘Strange,’ Mum agrees, ‘when his mother owns so many publications.’

‘That could be the reason he avoids them,’ I remark, giving her a knowing smile. ‘Maybe having an insider’s knowledge of the media industry put him off.’

‘Itisvery impressive that Michelle Martin has asked for you specially,’ Mum says proudly. ‘She doesn’t seem the warmest of personalities, but at least she has good taste.’

I chuckle, opening a drawer to pick out some tops. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘I only wish I could come with you. It would be nice to escape for a bit.’

I stop rummaging through my drawer to look up at her as she sighs, pretending to pick a piece of fluff off the collar of her crisp, pale-blue shirt. There’s no fluff there, of course; Mum never looks anything less than polished. She was the one who instilled a sense of pride in the way I dress. I suppose I’ve always aspired to appear as put-together as she is.

‘Mum, will you be okay?’ I ask quietly.

She looks startled and then appalled at the question. ‘Of course! I only meant that I’d love a holiday. You know I’ve always been keen to do more travelling – of course, it’s hard to find the time. Life is busy, but that’s a good thing!’

Her poise is instantly back into play, any hint of vulnerability gone.

‘I won’t be away for very long,’ I assure her.

‘No, it will fly by! And, as you say, it’s a wonderful opportunity.’

I nod. She must know what I’m thinking though because she says, ‘Iris, I’ll befine. You mustn’t worry about me in the slightest.’

She does her best to convince me of her words through a fixed smile. I’ve been watching her do this for weeks. Months, even. Ever since she and Dad invited me over for dinner to tell me they were getting a divorce.

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