by Lisa Glass
“You should be on multivitamins, Zeke, especially since you’re a vegetarian. I’ll buy you some.”
We were sitting near the lifeguards’ booth, and while Zeke slept I went to talk to them to find out what was happening with the shark situation. The rumor was that earlier in the day the shark flags had been flying, courtesy of a giant hammerhead eating a ray not even a hundred yards out, but the blood had cleared and the shark seemed to have moved on. They didn’t seem too bothered.
“So is Newquay in London or Birmingham?” the lifeguard was asking me, as I scanned the surface of the water for fins with his binoculars. Then I heard someone call my name.
Chase.
I handed the lifeguard his binoculars and walked quickly down the steps of the booth to help Chase with his belongings he’d brought a large rucksack, two paddles and two twelve-foot-long SUP boards. He was sweating heavily, having hauled them all the way from the car park.
“Where’s Zeke?” he asked, scanning the crowded beach.
I pointed to a pair of legs sticking out from beneath our blue beach umbrella.
“Asleep. Again.”
“Late night?” Chase said, elbowing me lightly in the ribs.
“Not really, although we did watch the first and second Harry Potter.”
“Jet lag kicking his ass?”
“We only came from the West Coast.”
“He’s probably just exhausted. He’s been traveling for pretty much four years straight, you know. Takes it out of a guy. What’s that thing he says, about the tank?”
I shrugged.
“You remember: when he flies in for a contest he only has sixty percent in the tank, even on a good day. Or was it fifty? Whatever. He’s running on vapors. He really needed this vacation.”
“Yeah,” I said, “he did.” But Zeke had never told me any of that. Up until this trip, it had seemed as if he had a never-ending supply of stamina and energy. “And maybe quitting smoking has done something to his brain,” I said.
“Could be.”
He looked as if his arms were about to fall off so I took one of the ridiculously heavy SUPs and dragged it behind me, plowing a furrow in the sand. When we got to our umbrella, Chase set his board down and sat on it.
It felt super-awkward to sit there in silence with someone I hardly knew. Then Kelly texted me to tell me about a huge storm hitting Newquay which had thrown up storm waves so massive that the beaches had lost half their sand. I texted her back to say that I hoped everyone was OK and also to point out that in Miami it was thirty-five degrees and sunny. Her reply was a single emoji of one finger.
Chase was also texting away on his phone, but after thirty minutes of this I cracked.
“Zeke,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to slap him. He opened his eyes instantly.
“I was just having the craziest dream about . . .”
Chase threw a handful of sand at Zeke’s feet.
“Buddy!” Zeke said. “I thought you had to work today!” His eyes locked on the SUPs.
“Perks of working for the old man. So I’m here to rescue you from crushing inactivity.”
“Thank you, sweet, sweet Jesus,” Zeke said, jumping up and tearing off his T-shirt. He threw it down, but I intercepted it and folded it, in an attempt to embrace tidiness.
I had to give it to Chase, he was a great friend, coming to distract Zeke from the surf DTs. He seemed to really care about him. They weren’t just friends, they were more like family. It made me think of Kelly. Made me miss her even more.
“Iris, do you mind?” Zeke said, his voice all quivery with excitement.
“Go.”
I watched them from the shore. Chase looked like such a land-shark, with his sharp outfits and cool hats, but he was a natural on the water. He had a skinny, strong body, and managed the SUP like it was an extension of his feet. I watched until they paddled out of sight, and when they appeared again, two hours later, Zeke’s whole demeanor was different. Instead of sleepy, he looked completely energized.
Chase went off to find a loo, leaving his board at my side. I ignored it and cracked open a packet of crisps.
“Ha,” Zeke said, stretching out beside me, “you have quite the eating plan here.”
I’d popped to the nearest 7-Eleven to grab Zeke some vitamins, and had also bought a feast of junk food and laid it out in a mockery of a picnic. I’d done this deliberately, to make a point. The point being: I am eating and I am not going out with you on a bloody stand-up paddleboard, Zeke Francis, no matter how much you nag me.
I’d tried SUPs in Newquay and completely embarrassed myself. I kept dropping the paddle and could barely manage to stay on my feet as every crossways ripple sent me into the water with an immense, mortifying splash. Then, once I was in the water, I couldn’t scramble back on the board while clutching a paddle in my hand, so I’d inevitably drop it again. All my coordination deserted me on an SUP and I really didn’t want Zeke to see that.
“Wearing your tourist hat, huh?”
“Exactly. I’ll get back on the salads tomorrow.”
“Ha ha,” Zeke said. “I know what you’re doing. I’ve got you all figured out. This is Procrastination 101.”
“No idea what you’re talking about, mate.”
“I know you’re twitchy about that hammerhead, but you gotta chill. It’s just a fish.”
“Yeah, the hammerhead,” I said, sensing an opportunity. Zeke assuming I was more afraid of sharks than of making a fool of myself was fine by me. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”
But Zeke was having none of it; he was the sort of adventure junkie who didn’t believe that fear, danger, risk of death were reasons not to do something if anything, those three things were his main criteria for picking a new hobby.
“I saw, like, one spinner shark out there,” he said, “and even he was just cruising.”
Spinner sharks were known for leaping out of the water close to shore, often right behind the line-up, which was a little bit alarming when you were out there waiting to catch a wave.
“I’m busy here,” I said, popping another Cheeto and following it with a Dorito.
“Tanning? Come have fun. I’ll go back to the hotel and get the Shark Shield for your board, if you want, so you’ll be totally safe.”
The Shark Shield was supposed to repel sharks, stop them getting closer than five meters. It had been tested on most species and seemed to work, but no one could be completely sure.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Battery’s flat after yesterday. It was flashing red and green this morning, so I put it on charge.”
“We don’t need it anyhow. Hey, we just saw a bunch of cobia fish following migrating manta rays. It was so awesome. Come on, you might never have another chance to see that your whole life.”
“I’m fine here, thanks.”
“If you really want a career as a pro-surfer,” Zeke went on, “you have to get used to sharing the ocean with wildlife. Otherwise you’re basically just limiting yourself to Fistral Beach and indoor bathing pools, so let’s do this thing. If something awkward goes down, we can jump on our boards and paddle back.”
Awkward would definitely be going down the moment I stood on a stand-up paddleboard. I knew I’d make a tit of myself and everyone on the beach would notice, as I’d make a giant splash every time I fell in, which is exactly what had happened the last time I’d tried SUPing at Fistral.
“Look, how about we both go out on the same board?” I said, finally seeing the obvious solution to my problem. “You can paddle and I’ll sit on the front.”
“Deal,” Zeke said, going for a handshake.
“Just promise me one thing,” I said.
“What?”
“That we won’t end up chumming the water with our entrails.”
“Hey, you’re with me, aren’t you? Nothing bad can happen if you’re with me.” His eyes were twinkling and I knew he was laying on the charm, but I let myself be won over.
I sat
on the front of the SUP, turquoise water all around, and Zeke stood behind me and paddled. Once we got past the sandbanks and the ocean got quieter, he started telling me about his childhood with his brothers and Chase in Hawaii, and I told him about adventures I’d had with Kelly and my sister Lily, knocking around on Fistral Beach. Memories that were important to me, but which I’d never shared with him before.
Eventually he sat down, straddling the board too, the paddle tucked under his knees, and we faced each other.
“I love you so much, Zeke,” I said, but only in my head. I wanted to say it aloud, but there was that feeling again, stopping me: a vague sense of dread, of tempting fate.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” I said. “Miami’s brilliant.”
“It’s even better now you’re here,” he said, deadpan.
I cocked my head at him, unsure if he was joking or serious.
“Smooth,” I said, and he laughed.
I shuffled toward him, reached up and kissed him for a long time.
chapter twelve
Later we lay in the sun, talking superficials with Chase, when Zeke said, “It’s so hot. I vote we find a bar.”
“Good idea,” Chase said. “Warm us up for the party. You up for a spot of early drinking, Iris?”
“Yes, but I’ll need to go back to the hotel first.”
“Why?” Zeke said.
“Look at the state of me.”
“We can wash up in the public bathrooms.”
“Uh, really, Zeke?”
“You look great. Splash some water on your face and we can go get drinks now.”
“Zeke! I look horrendous. I’m not going out looking like this. What’s the rush?”
“No rush. How long do you need to get ready? Like, twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes,” I agreed, nodding, and planning out hair-washing, drying, straightening and make-up that would take an hour and twenty.
“Great, we have to go celebrate.”
“Wait up,” Chase said, reading a text message, “My trainer, Nishi, wants to take me kangooing.”
All I knew about kangooing was what I’d seen of it on the streets of Miami: people who hopped past the rollerbladers wearing weird springs attached to their feet.
“You’re really going to do that, in public?” Zeke said.
“You ain’t too cool to kangoo,” Chase said. “Burns twice as many calories as running and I ate a giant bag of chips this morning. Catch you later.”
Chase and Zeke embraced and then Zeke helped him take the SUPs to his truck.
“So what exactly are we celebrating?” I asked.
“That it’s almost your birthday. That we’re in Miami. That a bunch of fans queued two hours yesterday just to get your autograph?”
“Three.”
“Three hours?”
“Three fans. The ones in the queue were there for you. Trust me. Anyway, we shouldn’t get too wrecked. Look a bit unprofessional, wouldn’t it, especially if you ran into any other surf fans.”
A shadow crossed Zeke’s face.
“It’s a few drinks. Loosen up.”
“I am loose. Is . . . something going on?”
“No.”
“You seem different here. Two days in a row now you’ve slept in the middle of the day.”
“Gimme a break, Iris. I’m on vacation.”
“OK, take a chill pill. I was just saying.”
But he was already picking up his rucksack. He turned. “You staying or coming?”
I paused. Things were tense between us, but I couldn’t see that changing if I sulked and stayed away from him for the rest of the day. At least if we were together, we’d have a chance to talk things through.
“Coming.”
He was already halfway to the car park and his stride was so long that I had to run to catch him up.
So much for early drinking. By the time I’d finished getting ready it was nearly seven o’clock, but I’d really made an effort. Generally I didn’t bother with make-up or hair-straightening I was in the sea almost every day, so trying to glam up, when it would be instantly ruined by seawater, felt like a total waste of time. But there was something about the glamour of Miami that made me feel self-conscious, or at least more confident with freshly washed hair and decent make-up.
“Chase is coming to pick us up, and we won’t have time now to go somewhere before the party,” he said, as I was putting on eyeliner, “so if you want booze, you’ll have to grab it from the minibar.”
“OK.” I wanted to pace myself, so I went for a small bottle of apple cider, which would take the edge off my nerves but not mess me up. I noticed then that the contents of the fridge were significantly reduced, and there were empty miniature bottles on the floor by Zeke’s side of the bed. I hadn’t even noticed him drinking.
He’d taken a quick shower two hours before, and spent the rest of our “getting-ready time” surfing the Internet on his iPad. He wasn’t on any of the surf e-zines or Magic Seaweed though. Instead he was on Reddit, obsessing over some crime podcast he’d listened to.
“I’m ready,” I said, waiting for him to notice my super-skimpy pajama party outfit, which included very short shorts.
“At last,” he sighed, without even looking up at me. Instead he picked up some of my make-up products scattered all over the dressing table and placed them neatly in my toiletries bag.
“Hey, I sort of made an effort. I painted my toenails with glitter varnish for God’s sake.”
He looked up then and grinned.
“You look beautiful,” he said, “from the top of your head, right down to your toes.”
“Yeah, you’re a day late and a dollar short,” I said, parroting one of his favorite phrases in my best impression of his voice.
“I sound nothing like that,” he said, frowning. “Can we go now?”
chapter thirteen
Chase gave us all a lift to Coral Gables in his fancy blue sports car; Zeke in the front, and me, Saskia and Gabe squashed into the back. Saskia had gone for some antique black silk nightdress that was backless and floor-length, and Gabe was in Bart Simpson pajamas and army boots.
When the house came into view, I heard myself say, “Farking ’ell!”
“So, Chase, you’re the eldest brother, you say?” Saskia said, giving me a wink, “Heir to the family fortune?”
Gabe scoffed and said, “Millions of people in this world are living on a dollar a day.”
“Hey,” Chase said, “this party is for charity, remember, so quit being judgmental. My folks worked hard for this house.” He was smiling as he said this, but I had a feeling Gabe had touched a nerve.
“If by working hard, you mean inheriting a bunch of money . . .” Zeke said.
“OK, so maybe luck played a small part,” Chase said, grinning now.
“How many loos does it have?” I asked, still staring at the house, completely in awe that this was home to Chase, who had seemed so normal to me. I remembered how pleased my mum had been when she’d saved enough money to put in a tiny downstairs toilet. No more waiting for Lily to finish washing her hair while we hopped about outside, shouting, “Hurry up!” and banging on the door.
“If by loos, you mean bathrooms, then it has six,” Chase said.
“That’s a lot of toilet roll,” I said, imagining a Morrison’s trolley full of it.
Beyond the wrought-iron gates, a long driveway led to a house like some ancient Roman palace, all white walls, pillars and huge vertical windows. Behind it, a golf course rolled out in all directions.
I got out my phone, took a photo of it, and sent it to my mum and Kelly. Kelly replied instantly with “Well jell!!!” and five kisses. My mum replied with “Very nice indeed.” And then followed it up with, “I forgot to say! We won half a pig in the meat raffle! Night night.”
We were early, but the place was already jam-packed with partygoers. Saskia and Gabe went off in search of food, as both claimed to have not eaten carbs in a
week.
Expensive sound equipment was racked up to one side of the infinity pool, and the music was thudding so loud it seemed like my skull was vibrating in time with it. But the thing that really stood out, the thing that became instantly clear, was that what Chase termed a “pajama party” did not fit my definition of a pajama party, at all.
True, most of the men were rocking comedy pajamas with printed superheroes or cartoon characters, or were doing the bare-chested boxers and dressing gown thing, like Zeke, but the women were kitted out in basques and sheer slips, and many of them had opted for bras and pants. Amber had on emerald lace underwear and huge, real-feather wings, like a Victoria’s Secret model, which, it occurred to me afterward, she probably was. Basically, there were boobs and bums everywhere.
Zeke looked amused by this, but I turned to Chase and said, “Pajama party? Really?”
“Yeah, maybe I had that wrong. It kinda looks more like a lingerie party.”
I undid the buttons of my overshirt and knotted the ends over my navel.
“You know you could just take that off, if you’re uncomfortable,” Zeke said.
“Yeah, no.”
Chase and Zeke went off to engage the DJ in mysterious chat of some sort, and a curvy older woman in a long nightgown and feather wrap, who it transpired was Chase’s mum, came up to me and said, “Nice shirt.”
“Thanks,” I said, touching the knot over my stomach and wondering if I should have in fact ditched the shirt, and just gone with the shorts and vest, which would at least go a little way toward blending into the scantily clad crowd. “Nice boa.”
She shimmied it over her shoulders and said, “Oh, this old thang? Here, you can borrow it, as you like it so much.”
She handed me her boa of golden feathers and I wound it a few times around my neck, like an actual constrictor, and then immediately loosened it, as the feathers tickled my nose.
“You came with Chase?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re his girlfriend?”
“Zeke’s.” After six months of travel I was well and truly fed up of having to define myself by whose girlfriend I was, but I didn’t want to seem rude.