Page 48 of Ride the Wave

That did not happen.

He was quiet and cautious, lost in thought. His answers were nice, but shallow. I felt like I was getting nowhere. I cut it short and asked if we could meet again, maybe on the beach. I was trying to recreate the chilled beach vibe he seemed to like, but he was on to me.

What is truly infuriating is that I can’t be annoyed at him because technically, he’s doing what’s required of him. He’s cooperating, he’s meeting me for interviews, he’s answering questions. Ultimately, the problem is me. I’m not getting out of him what I need.

Before the party, I was able to keep calm and level-headed around him, but I find the way he looks at me extremely distracting. Sometimes, I think I’m searching for something that isn’t there in his expression; do Iwanthim to be interested in me? Maybe that’s why I can’t sit still around him anymore, why I keep crossing and uncrossing my legs, sweeping my hair round one shoulder then back behind my neck again, pretending to check my phone just to have something to do with my hands. The whole thing is exhausting and I have no idea if it’s solely in my head.

Worst of all, it’s affecting my work.

If I need confirmation of that, I get it from Toni on Tuesday morning after sending her a draft of what I have so far.

‘Iris, hi,’ she says down the phone when I pick up, having just made myself a second cup of coffee. She’s only said two words, but I can already tell she’s desperate to make this quick. ‘I’ve read the draft paragraphs you sent through.’

I pause, my coffee midway to my lips. ‘What did you think?’

This is an unnecessary question. We both know it. Toni doesn’t bother to make phone calls unless absolutely essential, especially not to journalists on a job. She doesn’t need, or want, to hear about any hiccups one of her writers might come across whilst on a project – you go away and get the job done. That’s it. She doesn’t have time to reassure newbies or massage the fragile egos of writers desperate for praise.

If she has something to say, her assistant will say it.

If it’s something youreallyneed to hear, she’ll call herself, and there will be no mistaking that it’s a damn inconvenience for her to do so.

Which is why I lower my mug and sit down on the sofa, bracing for impact.

‘Iris, I know I can be straight with you and you won’t take it personally,’ she begins.

Oh bollocks.

I swallow. ‘Mm?’

‘It’s boring. My God, I didn’t even read the last couple of paragraphs. I gave up.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m not saying it’s unsalvageable. To be honest, I’m confused,’ she says, and I hear her tapping her desk in the background. ‘Usually, I don’t ask you to send me drafts. I don’t ask anyone for drafts. But with the Michelle Martin link – well, I thought it best to see how things are shaping up. Maybe all of your drafts are this dry at first, I don’t know.’

She pauses and I realise that she’s waiting for me to confirm or deny.

‘Uh, sometimes, maybe.’

I’m lying. She knows it. I know it. I can’t be arsed to keep it up.

‘Actually, no, they’re not,’ I admit, tilting my head back against the cushion and looking up at the ceiling. ‘Usually by this point, I’ve got more from my interviews.’

‘All I’ve read about this guy is that he liked surfing when he was little, he has a supportive father and he’s looking forward to the competition. I mean, come on.’ She sighs with exasperation. ‘My five-year-old niece would be bored to shit by that fairy tale. I could have guessed all that myself. There are sweet moments, for sure. But where’s themeatof the story, Iris? Where’s the personal struggle and turmoil? Where’s the journey and the meteoric rise? You can’t have a hero without any challenges, yes? That’s what makes them heroic.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I know you know. So what’s going on? Are you nervous to ask the difficult questions because he’s Michelle Martin’s son?’

‘No! I want to ask those questions.’

‘Why aren’t you, then?’

I exhale, closing my eyes. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about that stuff.’

I’m greeted with silence. I knew I would be.

The silence grows. I know she’s waiting for me to respond to my own dilemma. I envision the sports editorial director job slipping from my grasp. Swirling in the silence, I hear her thoughts:she can’t even handle an athlete who doesn’t want to talk about his past, so how can she manage this huge responsibility?

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