Swell (24 page)

Chuck placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder and we moved away from Cain and a rather waterlogged Orca who was regrouping the Tiger Sharks.

‘The best surfer will win,’ Cain yelled after us. ‘Let me tell you the ending to your book, haole girl. Your hero goes down. There ain’t no happy ending here.’

‘I hope the contest starts tomorrow,’ said Chuck as Cain’s words drifted in the air around us, ‘then that drunk fucker might just go drown himself.’

‘No I don’t wish that on Cain, Chuck. I want to see that punk’s face when I take his title away from him.’

Jason shrugged on his jacket then turned and wrapped mine gently around my shoulders. Rory and Ruby caught us up, both of them pulling us into a silent hug.

‘Sorry, mate, I couldn’t let Ruby get caught up in that so we held back,’ said Rory with an apologetic bow of his head.

Jason gripped his shoulder and smiled.

‘No worries, I think Chuck had it covered.’

‘For shizzle,’ Chuck beamed proudly before bounding off to find our driver.

Rory and Ruby followed on behind. I slowly buttoned my jacket. Jason stepped towards me and took my hand from the top button.

‘Thank you, Bailey.’

‘What for?’

He softly touched my wrist that had risen up with red welts.

‘For bringing me to my senses when I was about to kick his ass.’

I smiled and touched my other hand to his cheek.

‘And risk ruining a handsome face like that, why bother?’

Jason blushed.

‘Besides,’ I added with a shrug, ‘I need a great photo for the book cover and a broken nose really wouldn’t cut it.’

Jason threw his head back and laughed.

‘Oh my God you’re sounding more like Chuck by the day.’

‘If I start dressing like him then you should worry,’ I winked.

The car pulled up at the kerbside and Oli yawned exaggeratedly behind us.

‘Can we go now before this turns into
Gone With The Fucking Wind
?’

Jason opened the car door to let me in. Before he closed the door behind me I heard him turn to Oli and say coldly – ‘Let’s get one thing clear, Oliver, you are not my boss. You work for me. The ocean is my boss. She’s the only one who can tell me what to do. Just remember that.’

I smiled to myself. Jason Cross was back in control, which was exactly where I needed him to be.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

As Chuck had hoped, the contest began the following morning on Hossegor Beach in the comparatively flat Landes region north of Biarritz. The beach stretched before me like a ribbon the colour of a Golden Retriever and covered around two hundred kilometres from Hossegor to Bordeaux, with only slight interruptions for rivers to filter into the ocean. The contest site had been specially built for the occasion on the beach and would vanish afterwards as efficiently as it had arrived. Four glass-fronted cabins made up the judging towers and Press centre and two grandstands had been erected on either side, one to house the competitors and the other for corporate hospitality. International flags representing the surfers’ nations flapped in the offshore wind that whipped the scent of the nearby extensive pine forest towards the beach. There were the flags of Hawaii, USA, Brazil, France, Australia and South Africa. The Union Jack to represent Rory’s place of birth only made an appearance in the flag of Hawaii. I guessed the French would resist as best they could flying the British flag on their beaches.

The main contest area was fenced off from the general public. Burly security men, who looked as though they had been genetically engineered for the purpose, guarded the gateways as seriously as if their lives depended on it. Which they very likely did considering the enormous PR stunt the pro contest appeared to be. Poseidon’s logos were on everything from the rash vests worn by the surfers to the limited edition bottled water. The company wanted nothing to go wrong that could tarnish their event.

A separate tented village sprawled across the beach for the general public selling contest memorabilia, drinks and French snacks. All of the latter were a variation on the
theme of baguette and cheese - baguette and brie, baguette and emmenthal, baguette and camembert, baguette and brie and emmenthal and so on. Every stall was manned by skinny French girls not much wider than one of the baguettes, dressed in skimpy bikinis and hot pant style board shorts.

Unlike the reef breaks we had thus far visited on tour, the French waves broke on a sand bar making them less predictable because they shifted around according to the sand deposits. A frighteningly powerful shore break smashed onto the sand like the arm of a road worker crashing a sledgehammer onto concrete. On occasions the resulting surge of water soaked unsuspecting tourists up to their waists and even washed a bewildered dog off all four paws. I kept my distance from the water’s edge and followed our entourage to the VIP area.

We checked in with the security guard who gazed longingly at the smooth brown skin of Ruby’s legs. Only an impatient cough from Rory snapped the man from his fantasy, at which point he caught sight of Jason Cross in our midst and genuflected dramatically. The guard then attached colour-coded bands to our wrists of the type worn by hospital patients. Mine and Ruby’s were green and declared us to be a ‘
SURFER FRIEND’
. The yellow bands were for the ‘
SURFER’
, red for ‘
VIP’
, white for ‘
PRESS’
and black for ‘
STAFF’
.

‘These are a status symbol in Europe would you believe?’ said Ruby.

‘Really? You’re kidding?’

‘Nope, I’m serious. You see guys who have managed to get hold of a band pretending to be competitors just so they can pull girls. And the girls aren’t much better. To them a band is a ticket to all sorts of delights.’

I looked down at the shiny plastic band on my wrist.

‘Gosh, you mean this is a sex ticket?’

‘Bailey!’ Ruby giggled. ‘Well I guess you could look at it like that.’

I waved the band in the air.

‘I suddenly feel like I’m sporting De Beers diamonds. Perhaps we should have our own security.’

‘You bet. Never underestimate the power of the band.’

Right on cue a group of stunning French girls caught my attention from the far side of the crowd barriers. I moved towards them.

‘Mademoiselle, can you get us a band?’ asked the first girl who wore a yellow and black polka dot bikini too itsy bitsy to have a whole song dedicated to it.

I clutched the band protectively.

‘Oui, Mademoiselle, comme celle-ci, exactement, yes.’

‘I’m sorry girls but I can only get one for me.’

‘Give it to me,’ said another of the girls fiercely.

With her smooth black hair and thick black kohl around her eyes, she looked like she should either be gracing the cover of
Vogue
or drinking vials of blood.

I narrowed my eyes and made to walk away but the first girl delved in her Chloé handbag (that I would have considered inappropriate for a sandy beach) and brandished a wad of Euro notes.

‘I buy it from you, please.’

I looked at the fistful of notes and marvelled at the effect a few inches of reflective plastic could have on a woman’s pride. Mine and theirs alike in inverse
proportions. I then waved my emerald bracelet in the air and skipped away, calling over my shoulder – ‘Sorry, Ladies, no can do. You have to be a surfer friend to get one of these beauties. Have fun out there.’

The VIP treatment was going to my head.

‘They’re the BB girls,’ Ruby explained when I took my place beside her at the top of the grandstand.

‘What does BB stand for?’

‘The Bombshell Beach girls. They are the renowned French Pro Hos’ - She silently mouthed the last two words – ‘They set out to get what they want and they usually get it, at least temporarily. They come to every contest day and every party of the European leg and every year they are all single just before the surfers roll into town. Last year two of them dumped their local boyfriends and one dumped her husband just the week before the event.’

‘Poor guys.’

‘Well what did they expect?’ she said with mock seriousness. ‘If you’re not on the world tour and you’re with a BB girl then you’re on a short lease if you get my drift.’

‘Wow, so they’re feminist in the way they know what they want and cast men aside to get it but then they’re setting feminism back years by making a pro surfer they don’t even know their life’s focus. Perhaps it’s the new form of feminism. SWAG feminists. They don’t burn bras, they make sure they can afford the most expensive damn bra they can find without lifting a finger to work for it.’

We both laughed and peered over the railing to see the vampire BB girl draped around the neck of a young pro surfer from South Africa. She had her tongue in his ear and from the smile on his face it was fairly clear what she was offering.

‘I don’t think I’d have the energy to be a BB girl, Ruby. Licking a salty stranger’s ear at nine a.m. looks exhausting.’

Ruby laughed and wandered over to the table set up behind us that was loaded with croissants, pastries and fruit-filled tarts. I smoothed sun cream onto my face and neck and closed my eyes to breathe in the coconut aroma that always made me think of holidays. I was drifting off under the pleasant warmth of the early morning sun when I heard the beach erupt and I looked out to see what resembled a cartoon sandstorm with arms and legs buzzing towards us. Behind me, Jason stood up to check out the commotion.

‘Here comes trouble,’ I said when Cain emerged from the hysterical ball of fans and strutted proudly into the contest area.

His eyes were masked by sunglasses so large they covered most of his cheeks but, as the sun was shining, he could avoid being accused of having a hangover. The other competitors pushed forward to see the potential confrontation, having either witnessed or heard the rumours of the previous evening’s fracas between Cain and Jason. Cain’s jaw was rigid when he reached the top of the stairs and came face to face with Jason. I held my breath and glanced at Chuck who had appeared beside me, a vision in red, white and blue.

‘Punch him, man,’ Chuck hissed to himself, smacking his fist into the palm of his other hand.

‘Wouldn’t that be bad for Jason’s image?’ I whispered back.

‘Uh yeah, B, you’re right. OK, take one on the chin.’

‘Wouldn’t that make Jason look weak?’

‘Right, for shizzle so we want him to walk away. Just walk away, dude.’

‘Bad competitive spirit,’ I teased.

‘Man, you’ve gone and got me all confused.’

A nerve twitched in Jason’s cheek, which was the only visible sign he was riled by Cain’s outward arrogance. A smile spread across his face before he offered his hand for Cain to shake.

It was Cain’s turn for his cheek to twitch. I looked at both men who stood just inches from each other and considered how alike they were despite the polar differences in their images. They were both fiercely competitive, hugely confident, fit, startlingly good-looking and supremely talented and only the man they were facing stood in the way of world domination.

‘Glad you could make it, Cain,’ said Jason calmly. ‘I hope you last the day.’

Cain accepted the handshake and squeezed so tight Jason flinched.

‘Oh I’m goin’ all the way, Brah. Just glad you and your little posse’ – he flicked his head towards Chuck and I – ‘could be here to see me stand on that podium as the best in the world.’ He let go of Jason’s hand and sniffed the air. ‘I smell blood, Man, and it damn sure ain’t mine.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I had never seen so many people crowded into one stretch of beach. The rabble of enthusiastic fans was so immense it made the Pipeline event seem small in comparison. On the road into Hossegor, cars were wedged in to the most unlikely gaps, abandoned on roundabouts and central reservations by laissez-faire French drivers who would not let a small inconvenience like the Highway Code cause them to miss the finals of the competition that set the whole region alight for a fortnight each September.

By the start of the first quarterfinal all the surfers from the event who had already been eliminated had crowded into the competitors’ area to watch the action unfold, along with their wives and girlfriends and the many children who followed their fathers on tour.

‘What a life for little ones,’ I commented to Ruby.

‘The kids never used to come on tour but the surfers earn more money now so they can afford to take their families with them. They might not get a conventional education but they learn languages and cultures and they stay healthy at least.’

‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,’ I winked.

Ruby blushed.

‘It’s a bit bohemian perhaps but I think it works.’

‘I’m just teasing, you’re right. International beach travel at the age of six or sniffing highlighter pens at an inner city bus stop, I know which one I’d choose.’

The noise in the competitors’ area was overwhelming. Unlike the other events on tour where the surfers took the first flight out of town as soon as their luck ran out, the French Poseidon Pro was immediately followed by a contest at Mundaka just two hours
south in a picturesque village in Northern Spain. With many of the surfers basing themselves around Hossegor for the duration, they were on site to watch the finals and to make the atmosphere even more electric than usual. With news of Jason and Cain’s bitter rivalry rife, everyone wanted to witness the showdown.

Jason kept himself to himself in a corner, his ears covered with huge headphones, his eyes fixed on the surf as if he were hypnotised.

‘Surfers in the next heat please collect your vests,’ announced the beach marshal. ‘Jason Cross in red and Luis Roberto in yellow. You may paddle out in five minutes.’

Jason stormed through the crowd of well-wishers and hagglers that were his peers, collected his vest and ran down to the water’s edge fully concealed behind a wall of security guards while fans tripped over each other in the deep sand to catch a glimpse of or sneak a touch of their idol. Thirty minutes, ten waves, some awe-inspiring aggressive manoeuvres and one solid victory later, a now wet Jason was back in his corner with his headphones on and a furrowed brow as if he had simply popped to the restroom and not just annihilated a very able Brazilian competitor in huge, rumbling surf.