Page 46 of Ride the Wave

‘Not what I meant, but I’m honoured to be your inspiration, London,’ he says, still chuckling. ‘You said that I was lucky to have this support network.’ He gestures to Marina, who is twirling Anna to the background noise of cheers from their adoring crowd. ‘I was asking you aboutyoursupport network. What are they like, your family and friends?’

‘Oh!’ I blush, tucking my hair behind my ear. ‘They’re great. Really great.’

He watches me expectantly while I knock back my wine.

‘That’s it? That’s all I get? They’re “really great”.’ He sighs with disappointment. ‘I thought you were meant to be poetic.’

‘It’s not like I got much better! Do you know how hard it is to get you to talk about anything properly?’

‘Okay, well inspire me then like I inspire you,’ he teases playfully. ‘Show me how it’s done.’ He tilts his head at me. ‘Tell me about you. Otherwise, I’ll just have to imagine the life you lead back in England.’

‘Now, that’s something I’d be interested to hear,’ I say, before grimacing. ‘God, come on, what sort of life have you imagined for me? I highly doubt it will be complimentary.’

‘I picture you growing up in a big family in an amazing, tall town house in Chelsea or something. Top grades at school, you were probably Head Girl, but not a nerd one, an intimidating one who rules the place. And now you attend heaps of exclusive posh parties with CEOs where everyone is holding those fancy, circular, champagne glass things.’

I burst out laughing.

‘What? Am I close to the truth?’ he asks eagerly.

‘No!’ I roll my eyes. ‘I mean, I grew up in London and I think that’s all you got right. My mum maybe has a set of champagne coupes.’

‘Coupe,’ he repeats, clicking his fingers. ‘That’s what they’re called.’

‘I’m pleased I give off a Head-Girl vibe though,’ I reason. ‘I wasn’t, though. I didn’t even make prefect. And I do not party with CEOs. I’m a sports journalist, remember? A very different kind of network to the people your mum would hang out with.’

‘So tell me about it, then,’ he insists. ‘Whodoyou hang out with?’

I heave a sigh, raising my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Fine. Okay, well, there’s my best friend Flora. In the big scheme of things, we haven’t actually known each other that long. We met at the paper I worked at and got to know each other and… it feels like I’ve known her for much longer than I have.’

‘She’s the one dating the tennis player.’

‘Yes, Kieran O’Sullivan.’ I nod, before narrowing my eyes at him. ‘Hey, how did you put that together?’

‘I told you I read your articles,’ he says simply. ‘So, Flora is your best mate. Do you have family in the city, too?’

I nod, wrapping an arm self-consciously around my waist. ‘Yeah. I do. My mum still lives there, in the house, I mean. My… childhood home.’

He watches as I bring the glass to my lips, taking an abnormally large gulp.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his tone soft and low as his brow furrows.

‘Yeah, yes, of course,’ I remind myself, fixing a smile. ‘It’s… complicated.’

‘We don’t have to talk about it,’ he says, waving it off. ‘We can talk about something else. Anything else. I didn’t mean to—’

‘No, it’s fine.’

I exhale and then, before I can think properly about what I’m saying, I find myself wanting to talk about it. I don’t know why. It’s not an appropriate place, this party, and it’s not an appropriate companion, my interviewee. But out it comes before I can stop it.

‘My parents are divorcing, which shouldn’t be a big deal. They don’t get on and, despite all these years together, it’s like they just… don’t understand each other anymore. They don’t want to, anyway. I want them to be happy and it’s better that they go their separate ways, but I can’t stop myself feeling sad about it.’

He’s listening so intently that he’s shifted towards me a little more, ever so slightly closing the gap between us.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly, and I can tell he means it.

I shrug. ‘It is what it is. I’m in my thirties, I know they’re their own people with their own lives. I need to be a grown-up about this. But my mum called today and she told me she’s selling the house.’

Something about saying it out loud hits me harder than I expected and my words become stuck in my throat, tripping my breath up on its way out so it’s shallow and shaky. Hot tears build up behind my eyes and I panic. I won’t cry about this. Not on my own and certainly not in front of anyone. Luckily, I’m a seasoned pro at this sort of thing. These tears will not be spilling over any time soon. I force them back, my lips twist into a smile and I hold my chin up.

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