Swell (15 page)

‘Don’t tell me how to deal with this bullshit situation, Chuck. You should be sorting this, he’s your fucking client!’

‘And he’s your top team rider,’ Chuck shrugged, clearly enjoying seeing Oli lose the plot.

‘If he doesn’t back down and agree to do this talk show I swear I will fire his ass.’

‘No you won’t. No-one fires their number one asset, dude.’

Chuck looked at his nails as if checking them for dirt and sucked in his cheeks. His nonchalance only served to make Oli even more infuriated.

‘Which is not to say,’ Chuck carried on, ‘Poseidon won’t fire
your
ass for not getting him to agree to do the show. I mean it’s live TV, man, people will notice for real. You’re right, that could look real bad for you.’

Jason appeared just in time to stop Oli throttling Chuck with his sausage-like fingers. For someone who had been immersed in personal turmoil for the best part of a
week, Jason appeared surprisingly calm and rested. In direct contrast, in fact, to his management team who were distinctly off-balance without Jason’s usual clear direction.

I smiled at him, the perfect picture of a well-groomed professional. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt embroidered in silver with the image of the Japanese Kanagawa tidal wave by Hokusai. The sharp, wide collar accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. His black trousers were as crisp as if they had just been removed from their packaging for the first time, which they very likely had. They were cinched in at his slim waist with a smooth leather belt. His blond hair, relaxed as ever, was smooth and shiny. He would not have looked out of place in a Gucci ad.

Jason placed the black leather weekend bag he held on the floor and cleared his throat.

‘Where the fuck are you going now?’ Oli fumed.

‘Not that I have to run it by you, Oli, but I need some headspace before the Tahiti contest so I’m taking a break. Besides, Bailey and I have got work to do on the book.’

I blinked when Oli span around to scowl at me.

‘Pack a few things, Bailey, we’re going on a trip.’

I clapped my hands.

‘I’ll meet you in the SUV.’ He turned to Chuck. ‘You know where to find me.’

Chuck nodded.

‘Just with everything that’s happened I feel like I need to go home.’

Chuck hugged Jason. He bent down and picked up his bag before walking up to Oli.

‘And if you ever threaten to fire me again I swear I will come down on you like a sixty-foot wave at Jaws.’

Lost for words, Oli opened and closed his mouth.

‘I didn’t know you…’ His voice cracked.

‘Where’s home?’ I asked over my shoulder as I headed off to pack.

‘You’ll see,’ Jason smiled. ‘It might not be quite what you expect.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We drove for three hours, during which we talked about everything from music and movies to food and fashion; everything except the child-shaped elephant in the room. It was his issue, so I let him dance around it. If he wanted to talk to me about his illegitimate son, he would when the time was right.

We were in the remote countryside when we pulled up outside a huge wooden gate painted glossy red. The centre of the gate was branded with the letters RCR burned into the wood. Jason applied the handbrake and hopped out of the SUV to speak into an intercom. The gate slid smoothly across. A winding, dusty driveway stretched infinitely before us. Through the darkness I heard the whinnying of horses.

‘Where are we?’

‘The Ricky Cross Ranch,’ said Jason.

With no further explanation, he pulled himself back up into the SUV and drove on. The gate slid shut automatically behind us. We meandered at a respectful speed through a cosy canopy of gnarled old trees. Ten minutes into the property, I was wondering whether we would ever find civilisation when suddenly the canopy opened out into a clearing lit by fairy lights. A green gypsy caravan sat in the centre of a fenced garden, guarded by a pack of innumerable black and white collie puppies that looked more capable of licking an intruder to death than anything useful.

‘Who lives there?’ I gasped. ‘The witch from Hansel and Gretel or Gypsy Rose Lee?’

Jason laughed and I rummaged in my bag for my camera.

‘Actually you’re looking at my childhood home.’

I almost dropped the camera.

‘You’re kidding?’

He shook his head.

‘You grew up in a gypsy caravan?’

He nodded.

‘But I thought you were the glossy Californian boy next door. How did you ever come from here to be the greatest surfer of all time?’

‘That’s what you’re here to find out. I thought it would be better to show you than just talk about it for the book.’

I whistled.

‘Well I’m glad you did. This is something quite unexpected’ - I glanced again at the tiny caravan – ‘and really quite special.’

‘I’m glad you like it and, by the way, thanks for the compliment about being the greatest surfer of all time.’

I playfully punched his arm.

‘It was a slip of the tongue. Don’t let it go to your head.’

He laughed.

‘But I have to admit, Jason, you’ve come a long way.’

Jason paused before he spoke.

‘In some ways yes but’ – he touched his hand to his chest – ‘in here maybe not so far.’

I smiled and raised my bare feet onto the dashboard, tucking my hands under my knees.

‘It can be a wonderful thing to have roots,’ I said.

I omitted to comment though that, as in my case, if the roots were rotten the tree could be rather unstable.

We drove on towards a barn stacked to the roof with hay bales like a giant box of Shredded Wheat.

‘So,’ I grinned when Jason stopped the car, ‘are you going to show me your crystal ball?’

‘Give me a break, I’m not a gypsy,’ he smirked.

We jumped down from the SUV and collected our bags from the back.

‘Hello, my loverly, wanna buy a lucky rabbit’s foot?’

‘Stop,’ Jason laughed, ‘come on it’s this way.’

He picked up my bag and led the way past the barn. The air was an aromatic melange of fresh hay, horse manure and burning wood.

‘Hopefully my dad will have the barbeque going.’

‘Lovely,’ I said as I negotiated my way around gooey pats of what I hoped was mud, ‘I should have brought something as a gift. Will he be happy if I just cross his palm with silver?’

The house was breathtaking. It had been fashioned out of local wood and stone and stood reverently on the top of a hill surveying the acres of land that made up the ranch. At the front of the house, a wide, open porch with a huge empty rocking chair took me back to
my childhood days reading
Anne Of Green Gables
. I imagined blissful warm evenings spent curled up in the chair, reading a book to the light of the lanterns swinging from the roof beams above. They provided a squeaky percussion to the sound of guitar playing emanating from the west side of the house.

A horse wandered past as naturally as my neighbour’s cats that frequented the balcony of my flat. Our feet crunched on the gravel pathway leading to the side of the house, alerting two large Alsatians who bounded around the corner with teeth bared. I yelped and held on to Jason. Hopefully if they were going to eat anyone, they would go for the meatier one of us.

‘Mundy, Tav, meet Bailey Brown,’ said Jason.

He bent down to welcome the two man-eating wolves that instantly became as docile as a couple of sleepy sheep. They rolled over and allowed Jason to tickle them, their tongues lolling indulgently between their teeth. I bent down beside him and stroked the dogs.

‘Which one’s which?’

‘Mundy’s the girl. She’s called after Mundaka, my favourite reef break wave in Northern Spain. We’ll be going there in the summer.’

‘I can’t wait. Hello, Mundy.’

‘Tav is short for the wave Tavarua in Fiji.’

‘Do they realise how international they are?’

‘Their names might be but they don’t go further than Ojai the nearest town.’

‘They seem happy enough. Are they yours?’

Jason nodded.

‘You must miss them.’

I stroked Mundy between her front paws and she let out a long sigh of gratitude.

‘Don’t go getting used to that soppy shit,’ said a voice as gravelly as the ground.

I sharply withdrew my hand and just as quickly the dogs scrambled to attention and bowed their heads respectfully. I peered into the darkness. The man who emerged from the smoky air billowing down the side of the house was just short of six foot tall with wide, pointed shoulders and a willowy but toned frame. His clothes hung on him as if he were made of wire. He wore a red checked shirt tucked into well-worn jeans that were held up on his narrow hips by a leather belt with a large, scratched silver buckle. On his feet was a pair of brown leather cowboy boots with heels. A chocolate brown Stetson partially shadowed his face but I could tell he was a ruggedly handsome man in his fifties who could well have been the Marlboro man in his day. His full-lipped mouth stretched slowly into a half-smile.

‘How are ya, son?’

‘I’m good, Dad, how are you?’

Jason and his father embraced with a stiff hug.

‘Dad, this is Bailey.’

A pleasant aroma of musk mixed with fresh cut wood circled my nostrils as I approached Jason’s father. He doffed his hat.

‘Welcome, Bailey,’ he growled, ‘I’m Ricky Cross.’

‘Hello, Ricky I’m Jason’s biographer.’

Ricky looked me up and down and arched his eyebrow.

‘He’s got a biographer now has he? Well that’s a new one.’

We shook hands. His skin was as rough as an old rhinoceros.

Ricky replaced his hat before wrapping his arm around Jason’s wide shoulders and leading him away towards the smell of a roasting animal.

‘She’s a cutie,’ I heard Ricky say as I picked my way over the gravel behind them, ‘are you screwing her or can I have a go?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We ate crispy spit-roasted pig served with mounds of mashed sweet potato and chargrilled corn on the cob smothered in butter. We washed down the hearty meal with bottles of cold beer. Jason ate as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks and Ricky’s right-hand man, Jesus (pronounced Heyzoos) entertained us on his guitar while we indulged in sweet pumpkin pie swimming in cream. Ricky regaled us with stories of his youth and of chasing women, which was seemingly his primary hobby. He showed little respect for the fairer sex and I wondered whether he had always been so macho or whether he had become that way after suffering a broken heart.

I quizzed Jason about his father when we took the empty dessert plates into the house. It emerged Ricky had been a champion surfer who was talented enough to be a world-beater until drugs, girls and an injury put his career into free-fall. Jason then explained how his mother had acted like the parachute, rescuing Ricky just before he hit the ground. She had led him towards a new life and, once recovered from his debauched history, Ricky had intended to rebuild his surfing career. However, his beautiful wife then fell pregnant and Ricky had to find a job to pay for his new family. Professional surfing did not have the same salary structure in the Sixties and Seventies as it later came to have for Jason’s generation. Ricky put his dream on hold and found temporary work as a ranch hand on the ranch that his own son would eventually buy for him and rename the RCR. The only evidence that remained of Ricky’s surfing career was a tarnished and dented cup that Jason showed me. It nestled between family photographs on the thick wooden mantel above the open fireplace in the main room of the house.

‘Californian Champion 1966,’ I read aloud from the cup’s worn engraving, ‘Ricky Jason Cross. So that’s where you get your surfing genes from.’

‘I guess it could be hereditary. We don’t talk about it much.’

He doesn’t talk about anything except himself much, I was tempted to say, but I bit my tongue and concentrated on the family photographs.

‘Did your father resent your mother getting pregnant? Is that why he acts the way he does about women?’

‘Not at all. He was totally crazy about her. He fell apart when she died.’

‘How did she die?’

‘In childbirth. I would have had a younger brother but he died too. It was a horrible tragedy. My dad would have done anything for my mom but he couldn’t save her life. Apparently he was the one who wanted more kids so I think he blamed himself.’

I reached out and touched his arm.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘You’re not prying. I brought you here to show you everything about me so I guess we have to do it.’

I nodded sadly.

‘Your poor father. I know how it feels to lose someone you adore.’

Jason brushed his hands back through his hair and took a deep breath.

‘Well that is one gene I hope I have inherited. The ability to love as deeply as he loved her.’

I looked at Jason. He was lost in his thoughts.

‘You will one day,’ I said, ‘and she will be a lucky girl.’

His smile was genuine and warm.

I picked up a photograph.

‘So who is the boy beside you in these pictures?’

Jason touched a finger to the picture and paused before he spoke.

‘That’s my brother, Mike. He’s a crazy kid. He’s caused more trouble than the government.’

‘I didn’t know you had a brother. You’ve never mentioned him. Where does he live? Does he surf?’

Jason exhaled towards the ceiling.

‘No, there aren’t any waves where he is.’

‘You don’t mean…?’

‘No no, he’s not dead. He’s alive but he’s not here. He’s in jail.’

‘Thank God for that.’ I grimaced. ‘Sorry, I mean I guess it’s better than being dead.’

I pressed my knuckle against my mouth to shut myself up. Jason tilted his head and surprised me by smiling.

‘I think I might take my feet out of my mouth and toddle off to the bathroom,’ I grimaced. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

The bathroom was effortlessly and delightfully rural in style. The sink was big enough to bathe sheep in and the bath stood on metal legs that I imagined had long supported many a dirty cowboy after a day spent rounding up cattle. The toilet was in an adjoining room of its own with a warped door that fit the doorframe as poorly as a round peg in a square
hole. I sat down and jammed my foot against the bottom of the door. I was just flushing the toilet when I heard the distinctive clunk of cowboy boot heel on the knotted wooden floor outside. When I opened the door, there stood Ricky. He was reclined against the wall with his feet crossed at the ankles and his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans. His hat was on at a jaunty angle and a smile played on his lips. I smoothed down the back of my skirt, smiled back and turned to wash my hands.