Page 5 of Ride the Wave

I wasn’t surprised when they told me. When I’d been in between flats a couple of years ago, I had to move back in with them for a while and I had front-row seats to their bickering. I’d overhear their muttered, snide remarks and witness first-hand their diminishing respect for one another. It’s like they’d completely forgotten what it was about the other that they fell in love with. Eventually, they gave up on fighting for whatever it was they’d lost.

I see Mum as much as I can around work, and I’ve tried to make an effort with Dad. It’s a bit awkward when I see him; we don’t talk about Mum or anything serious or real. We talk like we’ve always talked: about sports.

Mum has hardly been chatty about the divorce either. She continues to put on a brave front and won’t discuss details of it, which is still ongoing. To anyone else, she might seem perfectly fine. But I see the underlying sadness behind her demure smiles and immaculate appearance, the hurt and pain she wouldn’t dare admit to having.

It breaks my heart.

‘Mum, I already know what you’re going to say, but I would like to point out that I don’thaveto go to Portugal,’ I tell her now in a soft and serious voice. ‘If you need me around then I can let Toni know and she can find someone else to write this one.’

‘Oh, Iris,’ Mum says, shaking her head and striding over to me, the comforting scent of her Chanel perfume wafting over me as she reaches for my hands and clasps them in hers. ‘I don’t need anything of you! Iwantyou to go. You are so brilliant at writing these stories and I love reading them. I’m not surprised thatStudiohave picked you for something like this.’ She hesitates. ‘I’ll miss you, that’s all.’

‘I’ll miss you too, Mum.’

She pats my hand. ‘Right, that’s enough of that. I bought some bits and bobs for lunch. Shall I go get that ready? Do you need my help with packing?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m good.’

‘Of course you are. A pro.’ She gives me a knowing look. ‘Learnt from the master.’

Giving my hand a squeeze, she turns around and marches out of the room.

The conversation has blunted my motivation, so I take a brief pause in packing.

Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I grab my laptop from the bedside table and open it, checking the details of my trip. Everything looks good but when I google the Airbnb I’ve been booked into, I gasp. The studio apartment istinyand doesn’t even look clean in the photos. The bed is one of those ones that pull out from the wall and the bathroom looks to be the size of a phone box, separated from the main room with just a curtain.

Now, I understand that magazines are working on a tight budget and they can’t put their journalists up at swanky, five-star hotels, especially for a project that requires a long stint like this one, butcome on. If Michelle Martin wants me to be in a good mood to write nicely about her son, she might want to make me a little more comfortable.

I groan, running a hand through my hair, already dreading the phone call to Sam, the lovely editorial assistant atStudioto argue my case. Then, I have a brainwave: Naomi. My best friend from university who has a fabulous job in luxury travel PR. I don’t waste any time, grabbing my phone and giving her a call.

‘Hey Naomi,’ I trill when she answers, ‘my wonderful, brilliant friend.’

‘Okay,’ she sighs. ‘What have you done and/or what do you need?’

‘What makes you assume I’ve done something?’ I say defensively.

‘You just called me your “wonderful, brilliant friend”,’ she points out, chuckling. ‘Out with it, Iris; I have to get back to this press release. I’m on a deadline here.’

‘It’s a Saturday.’

‘Have you met my boss? And you’re one to talk. I can’t remember the last time you weren’t working. Anyway, What can I do for you?’

‘Okay, I might need your help with something,’ I admit, biting my lip.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m writing a piece on a pro surfer and they want me to shadow him for a couple of weeks in Portugal from Monday.’

‘Ooh! Nice.’

‘Yeah, it is. Except the apartment they’ve put me up in isn’t at all. And you know what their budget is like; it’s unlikely they’ll agree to book me somewhere nicer.’

‘Ah.’ I can hear her smile down the phone. ‘I have a feeling where this is going. Where in Portugal are you staying?’

‘It’s a small village called Burgau,’ I inform her hopefully. ‘I really hate asking you for favours, but when you see the place they want me to stay—’

‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘You’re my icon.’

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