Swell (23 page)

I tilted my head and frowned up at Oli.

‘What are you, a tsunami salesman? Tell that to the poor sods who are looking for their houses that have been washed five hundred miles down stream, I’m sure they’ll be rushing for their surfboards.’

Oli shook his head and waddled away muttering – ‘Chicks, man, they just don’t
get
this shit.’

FRANCE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘What’s that?’ asked Chuck.

He tentatively held up the shellfish as if it was likely to crawl out of the shell and bite his head off.

‘I think it’s a bulot or whelk,’ I said, upon hearing which, Chuck threw the offending creature over the edge of the terrace railing and into the swimming pool below.

It sank to the bottom to join the blossoming community of giant prawns, mussels and razor clams that had already been granted their freedom from Chuck’s iced seafood platter.

‘What’s that?’ said Chuck.

‘It’s a cockle.’

‘A cock what? Man that’s nasty.’

Over it went.

‘Chuck stop hurling them in the pool,’ said Jason, ‘they’re dead already.’

‘Are you sure, dude? I think I just saw that one wink at me for real.’

‘Where’s its eye?’

‘I dunno, B, that’s the problem with this shit, it could be its asshole. Have they never heard of like
cooking
shit in this country?’

‘It’s supposed to be cold, it’s a French speciality.’

Chuck looked disbelieving at me and gulped his champagne.

‘Well their speciality sucks. Man I need a burger. What’s that?’

We had all been invited to the Waterman’s Ball, a glittering event celebrating the surfers and important members of the surfing industry who had achieved greatness over the previous year. The ball was held in a private Basque style mansion house in the sprawling foothills of the Pyrenees. The house had been lovingly refurbished by Poseidon’s European Managing Director to be contemporary in design while maintaining the traditional white and red walls and red roof of the local architecture. The L-shaped main house hugged an Olympic sized swimming pool that danced with colour-changing lights and Chuck’s emancipated shellfish. A stage fit for Glastonbury had been constructed on the other side of the pool, the backdrop being the moonlit ocean that lapped the visible shores of Biarritz, St. Jean de Luz and San Sebastian. The mountains of the Pyrenees stood sombrely behind us in the dark like silent bodyguards.

I already adored this region of France nestled in the crook of the elbow-shaped coastline joining France to Spain. The sun had greeted us every day of the trip from the moment we had stepped off the plane onto the sizzling tarmac at the modest airport in Biarritz. The evening skies were a mass of stars and the air was so fresh I felt as if I were breathing in twice as much oxygen than usual.

All we had done over the previous weeks was eat and drink in between working and surfing. How the French women stayed so skinny while being constantly tempted by indulgent cheeses, buttery pastries, rich chocolates, sugary almond macaroons, flaky baguettes, rich meats in even richer sauces and sumptuous wines was a mystery. I suspected the wealth of slimming treatments that filled an aisle in the supermarket and the national refusal to denounce smoking as a health hazard were key factors. If it had not been for my daily beach walks and regular surfs in the temperate waters with Ruby, I
would have been having to replace the surfboard I was borrowing with my very own super tanker by the time we left France. I now understood the true meaning of both gourmand and gluttony and embraced both with equal fervour.

The evening’s celebrations at the Waterman’s Ball had opened with a buffet of canapés that would have cast a shadow over any Buckingham Palace garden party. There were platters of fresh fruit kebabs, tapenade-topped blinis, stuffed olives, hot caramelised nuts, fresh pitta bread and homemade hummus, anchovies in oil, Spanish tortilla, stuffed peppers, squid in ink, scallops wrapped in cured Bayonne ham, calamares, rustic crackers spread with rich camembert and reblochon cheeses, red lump caviar, black lump caviar, miniature filo pastry tarts filled with glazed fresh fruits, tuna empañadas, avocado salad, tomato and mozzarella salad and freshly baked breads all lit up by flickering candles.

‘What no chips and dips?’ I quipped to Ruby, who then proceeded to defy science by consuming more than her entire body weight in canapés.

The indulgence did not stop there. Above iron fire pits, bearded Basque men with biceps like bowling balls manually turned several whole pigs on spits. Bars around the gardens offered 1998 Perrier-Jouët Fleur de Champagne as well as exquisite cocktails and Pastis, the drink of choice of the old men who played boules in the region’s villages. I had partaken of two glasses of Patxaran (pronounced pacharan), a sloe-flavoured liqueur that gave one’s taste buds a hearty punch before sliding delightfully down to warm the stomach and twist the head. Suitably relaxed by the Patxaran and with the possibility of the contest being called on the following day due to a (rather untimely for the revellers) swell, I was now restricting myself to a couple of glasses of chilled rosé wine from a nearby Basque vineyard that perfectly complimented the seafood.

I was sharing a round table fit for King Arthur’s knights with Jason, Chuck, Oli, Ruby and Rory. Ruby was avoiding the seafood, although with decidedly more decorum than Chuck. She had, however, wolfed down almost an entire baguette since taking her seat. I was sure she had a tapeworm. Oli, whose shirt collar was so tight his head resembled the inflated Violet Beauregarde in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
, spent the entire time taking very loud business calls on his Blackberry. After each call he would then argue at even greater volume with Chuck about public appearances and French TV and radio shows he wanted Jason to do.

‘But it’s the top French radio station and it’s a big deal.’

‘I don’t care, dude, he ain’t doing it’ said Chuck while holding up a clam. ‘What’s that?’

‘But we promised.’

‘You promised, dude. We didn’t make no promise so you better unpromise you know what I’m sayin’? Anyway, Jason don’t speak French you dumbass.’

‘They’ll have a translator, dipshit.’

‘I don’t care, he ain’t doing it.’

‘OK he can have a new fucking car if he does it.’

‘Whatever, he’s got enough cars.’

‘Fifty grand.’

‘Peanuts.’

‘One-fifty.’

‘Keep climbing little man.’

It was a tasteless game of ego tennis. Jason meanwhile ignored the pair of them and did not even blink when his fee rose to a figure that made me choke on my wine.

After a dessert of warm tarte tatin with homemade vanilla ice cream washed down with a syrupy Sauternes wine, the live band began to play. They bravely performed a medley of English language songs sung by a French man who had no grasp of English pronunciation. The Fray’s
How To Save A Life
sounded suspiciously like
Have To Shave A Wife
, John Lennon’s tearjerker
Imagine
was apparently written about a girl called
Imogen
, Oasis’
Don’t Look Back In Anger
became
Dork Likes Black In Wrangler
and my personal favourite, Lulu’s
Shout
was simply
Shit
.

‘Let’s dance,’ said Ruby suddenly.

She was positively bursting with energy, which was hardly surprising considering she had consumed enough calories to power the entire Australian army.

Chuck did not need convincing.

‘Yeah, dawg, let’s boogie,’ he whooped, leaping to his feet and contorting his lanky body towards the dance floor like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

Rory escorted Ruby with a little more class, the pair of them giggling conspiratorially when they looked back to see who I would be lucky enough to dance with between Oli and Jason. I knew Jason was not big on dancing at public functions. I just hoped Oli did not consider himself to be the next John Travolta but it would not have surprised me in the slightest if he did.

Before Oli could speak, I rose to my feet and offered my hand to Jason. He raised his silver eyes and smiled but the smile quickly shrank into a frown when his eyes were diverted behind me. I made to turn around just as a very drunk Cain careered into me,
sending the delicate crockery on the table and a half-drunk bottle of Perrier-Jouët crashing to the floor. Jason pushed back his chair and leapt to his feet while I struggled to move Cain off me. The Tiger Sharks surrounded our table like a cordon of riot police.

‘Leave us alone, Cain,’ Jason warned. ‘You’ll only humiliate yourself.’

Oli cowered behind a silver candlestick.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do, Brah, you ain’t the boss of me,’ Cain shouted, waving his arm wildly as if he was trying to stay upright in a gale.

‘But I’m the boss of him,’ Oli stammered, pointing at Jason, ‘and I’m telling you to step back.’

Oli did not stand up.

Jason and Cain both looked at Oli and then back at each other.

‘Shut up, Man, this ain’t your battle,’ said Cain.

He then turned to me and draped an arm around my neck. His muscles contracted around my throat as he yanked me towards him. I gasped. His breath was flammable and his eyes rolled manically. He was high, drunk and dangerous.

‘I wanna feel that soft English ass move like it did when I screwed you, Sista.’

Soft ass
? The cheeky bastard.

He grabbed my bum and squeezed hard. I fought to break free of his grasp but he was strong despite his willowy frame. The Tiger Sharks roared their approval and barricaded Jason’s way as he battled to reach me.

‘Get off her, Cain or I swear I will…’

‘You will what? WHAT?’

Cain let go of my backside and gestured at Jason who was being held by Rosario and Orca. I could tell the situation was on the verge of becoming even uglier than Cain’s crew.

‘Leave it, Jason, I’m fine,’ I pleaded breathlessly. Cain’s arm tightened on my windpipe, ‘I can fight my own battles.’

‘This is not your battle, Bailey, this is our battle. Cain just likes bullying people weaker than him but this is all about me.’

Cain laughed a gravelly laugh.

‘Oh I dunno, Brah, we could make this about her if you like yeah. How about you give me her tonight and I’ll give you a wave in the contest? The way you’re surfing you gonna need my help.’

Jason growled and wrenched his arms to break free of Orca and Rosario. Oli was now nowhere to be seen. I gasped for air and managed to turn my head towards Cain.

‘If Jason surfs so bad then why does he get to you, Cain?’

His hand stopped on my left breast.

‘You what?’

‘I said why does Jason still get to you if he’s no threat in the surf? Or are you just trying to rattle him tonight because deep down you know that he is better than you’ll ever be?’

‘You bitch. You think you’re so clever huh, Sista?’

Cain’s mouth twisted horribly and he relaxed his arm enough for me to push myself away from his side. His black eyes narrowed and made me shudder.

‘You got a big mouth,’ he seethed, grabbing me by the wrist and twisting until my bones hurt.

I clenched my jaw and held his gaze.

‘And you’ve got a big ego for someone who has to hide behind thugs, beat up girls and threaten people to get what you want. Chinese burns are for playgrounds.’

He squeezed tighter and I could not help but cry out in pain.

‘Get off her!’ Jason yelled so loud the music stopped.

A sudden war cry froze us where we stood and all I saw was a shock of aubergine hair as Chuck hurled himself into the mix. Rosario landed face first in a half eaten tarte tatin on the table and Orca lost his footing and tumbled over the railing into the swimming pool where he sank to join Chuck’s discarded seafood colony. Jason was loose and gunning for Cain while Oli bounced up and down at a safe distance.

‘Stop, Jason, please don’t do this,’ I cried out, positioning myself in the middle of the world’s top two surfers.

‘Get out of the way, Bailey, this punk needs to learn a lesson.’

Cain squared up to his rival and growled – ‘There ain’t nothing you can teach me, Brah. And I’m no punk. You think you’re better than me, huh? You and your Hollywood crew. You dare to look down on me.’

I flinched when Cain thumped his chest with both hands. On my other side, Jason’s chest rose and fell rapidly.

‘But you can’t look down on me when I’m the champion of the world and that is the way it’s gonna stay, Brah. I am better than you. I am the best.’

I wiped Cain’s spittle from my cheek but I remained firm, refusing to move. If life without a father had taught me anything it was how to stand up for myself and be as stubborn as a mule. They could be as defiant as they wanted to be but I could always be more so.

‘A punk like you doesn’t deserve to be World Champion. It’s an honour and you don’t live up to the title.’

Cain laughed.

‘It’s an honour that I won, man and I will win it again.’

With my hand pressed against his chest, I turned to look Jason in the eye.

‘Rise above this, Jason. You have to be the better man here. Then you will have won this battle. The rest you will have to do in the ocean.’

My eyes moved towards the mesmerised crowd that had gathered around us. Jason’s eyes took my lead and when he looked back at me I knew I had won him over. Ever the consummate professional, Jason valued his public image too much to fight his rival hand and fist in front of his peers and the surfing industry’s movers and shakers. I felt his breathing deepen while Cain twitched on my other side like a man possessed.

Jason finally spoke, calmly and assertively.

‘I will not let you win this title again, Cain but I will do my fighting in the water. Let’s leave this to Mother Ocean. May the best surfer win.’

The disappointment was visible on Cain’s face. He was positively itching for a physical confrontation and once again Jason had taken the higher ground and denied him what he wanted. This made Cain hate Jason even more; I could see it in his eyes.