Page 11 of Into the Blue
“It’s true,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s only just happened. It’s why I needed to get away.” My tone sours. “Though it doesn’t seem to have slowed him down at all.”
“The boy is a mess,” Sol says. “And we have a couple of your sponsors asking questions.”
“I just… I can’t do this, Sol. I can’t be with him anymore. I’ll talk to the sponsors, if you want.”
“No. No. That’s what you pay me for.” There’s a pause, and I can almost hear him thinking. “Okay, so here’s what we do. We don’t confirm anything for now. Let people think what they want, because it keeps your name out there. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, we’ll put together a plan to capitalise on this. A new Jade, single and glorious, all that shit. Taking back your power. I can already think of a few brands who’ll be interested. Then, once you’re back from wherever the hell you are, we relaunch you.”
“Relaunch me?” I feel sick.
“Yes, we’ll just”—the phone line crackles, and I can’t hear what Sol is saying—“so how does that sound?”
“Sol, you’re breaking up. I have to go.” Because if I don’t, I’m going to throw up. Or scream. Or something.
“You okay with all this? I’ll get Jared to email the details.”
“Yes, fine. Do it.” I don’t have it in me to fight this. Let someone else handle things. There’s another screech of static, and when it clears, I realise the line is dead. Sol, and whatever he has planned for me, is gone.
I have to take a moment to calm my breathing, to bring myself back to my surroundings, to the muslin curtains swaying lazily in the breeze, the crash of surf, the chirp of birds.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be gossiped about online or relaunched or any of it. Not anymore. I wish I could go back to that girl who loved to surf, who found joy in the waves and a second-hand board. But I have responsibilities and, no matter how much I might not want it, I have to keep going.
There’s someone else I need to tell, I realise. I try another number, but the phone reception has dropped out. So I type an email instead, hoping the Wi-Fi will hold up long enough for it to go through.
Hey Zara,
I’m in Indonesia, taking a break from things. I realise I should have let you and Myles know that Zach and I are done. I’m so sorry. I hope we can still work together.
Jade
I’m too much of a chickenshit to email Myles directly, and I feel like a dick friend when I press send. But I know Myles adores Zara, and won’t mind her telling him the bad news. That’s if it even is bad news. Maybe I’m making too much of this. The Jade who is a commodity, who makes a lot of brands a lot of money, is who I came here to get away from. And I know Myles and Zara. They’re friends, as well as being my biggest sponsors. I’m sure they won’t break ties with me over this. If anything, they’ll just want to know I’m all right.
I keep telling myself that everything is going to be okay as I wash myself in the small bathroom, careful not to get water on my stitches. I make a fruit smoothie for breakfast, taking it outside to watch the waves.
But when I get outside, I see my board. Dora’s board. It’s where I left it, propped up against the veranda railing, looking forlorn. My heart sinks as I survey the damage again. It feels symbolic in a way. Dora’s board is who I was; it’s where I started. And now it’s broken. Just like I am. I should go and find this mysterious Axel, and thank him for letting me stay here, if nothing else. If he can fix my board, all the better. A shame I can’t be repaired so easily.
Still feeling down, I head into town. My leg is sore despite the painkillers, the stitches pulling slightly with each step I take. Which doesn’t improve my mood, nor does the fact I can’t seem to find any sort of surfboard repair place. I wander up and down the main street, carrying my board and feeling like an idiot. I’m about to give up when I spot a little surfboard-shaped sign on a building down a side street. I head for it, pushing the door open. A small bell jangles.
Inside is a small space with a counter made of dark timber. The walls are terracotta stucco, the ceiling ribbed with dark wooden beams. I spot a dusty workshop through a wooden beaded curtain hanging from a doorway. I seem to be in the right place, but I wonder where Axel is. Then my gaze goes to the smooth lines of a surfboard leaning against one wall, like a pale curve of shining bone. My jaw drops.
It can’t be.
Axel
I straighten up from my workbench as the bell over the door jangles. I wipe my hands, getting the worst of the dust off them, and head to the front of the workshop.
A woman stands there, silhouetted against the light from the front door, one delicate hand resting on the surfboard propped against the wall. I swallow, hard. She’s fucking gorgeous. A long fall of blonde hair tumbling down her back, and legs that seem to go on for days, tanned golden, slender and muscular. The loose dress she’s wearing hides the rest of her figure, but my imagination fills it in. I sternly tell it to stop. She turns to me, all wide green eyes.
“Is this a Black Axe?” Her voice is husky, slightly incredulous. Another surfboard, the tip missing, is on the floor next to her. And as I clock the bandage on her leg, I realise who she is. It’s the surfer from the beach this morning. The mysterious Jade.
But she’s not so mysterious after all. Shit. I realise why she looks so familiar. I have a poster of her hanging in my workshop, for starters. She’s Jade O’Connell, one of the top female surfers in the world. And the fact she’s standing in my surfboard-shaping workshop is very bad news.
ChapterNine
Axel
Idon’t know what to do. I could plead ignorance, saying it’s a board someone left here to be repaired. I could tell her the shop is closed and to go away. I could call Anna, right now, and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, sending a famous surfer here.
But Jade’s green eyes, as green as her namesake, seem to demand honesty from me. To a point, anyway. “Yes,” I say. “It’s a Black Axe.”
