Fat Funny Famous

Chapter 8

"Okay, you just need to move a little faster. But not too fast."

"This is impossible! How are you supposed to tell if you're doing it right?"

"I don't know. You just feel it."

"Well, I don't feel anything."

"Hey, don't be so tough on yourself – this is your first time doing this properly."

Erik pushes his hair back from his face. He's red from exertion and he's breathing heavily as he says, "Whenever you see people doing it on screen, they make it look easy."

"A lot of things look easy on screen," I reply, grinning. "Car chases, hacking computer systems, female orgasms. Surfing is just like anything – it takes time and practice."

We're bobbing up and down on our boards, just south of the resort complex. Days off on a film shoot are rare; it's even rarer to have both stars off on the same day. But the production team are filming scenes with the assassins sent to kill Trish, and neither of us is needed until tomorrow.

My body clock had woken me up early. After weeks of 5am starts, I couldn't sleep in past dawn, so I grabbed my board and headed out to catch a few waves. Accidentally on purpose, I detoured along the path running beside Erik's room. He was sitting shirtless on his balcony sipping coffee causing me to almost drop my board at the sight of his semi-naked state; so many abs... When he'd asked to come out with me, I agreed instantly – so it wasn't until we reached the cool sand that I worked out he'd never surfed a minute in his life.

I spent an hour showing him the basics on the beach: paddling, crouching, standing, foot position. I had to admire his swiftness and grace; he was like a panther, sleek and balanced. But when we got out to the back of the breakers, he'd transformed from a poised jungle animal to a drenched and cranky house cat. We've been at it for a few hours, and despite the perfect beginner waves that gently brake in front of us, he's been dumped on his arse at least twenty times.

Grumpy, he shifts on his sit bones as we wait for the next set. "How are you so good at this?"

"I'm really not," I laugh. "I grew up near the beach, so surfing was actually a school subject for me, but I've never been a surfie chick, not seriously. I got back into it when I scored this role because I knew I'd have to film a few shots as Trish on her board – I'd forgotten how peaceful it can be."

Erik snorts, wiping at the water dripping from his nose. "I can't say that having every orifice in my body assaulted with saltwater is exactly what I'd call peaceful."

"Yeah, nah, that part sucks. But there's this moment when you catch a wave, when it's just you and the board... And it's so perfect and temporary and beautiful..." I shake my head, unable to describe it properly. "It's magic, because it belongs only to you. There's not many experiences in life that you can truly call your own."

Erik's board has drifted closer to mine, or maybe mine has to his, but either way, we're close now, our legs almost touching in the water. He says, "That's how I feel about you and me and this film. No one else will ever have this experience. No one else could understand what it was like to be here, to bring this story to the world." He extends his hand to me. "Thank you, Mila, for being with me."

Without thinking, I reach for his hand, closing my fingers over his. "You're welcome," I say in a whisper. For as many waves as I've caught in my life, this moment rises above them all. It's just me and Erik, drifting together, his eyes bright and penetrating, his fingers laced through mine, the sun on our skin, the cool water beneath us.