One True Thing by Nicole Hayes Page A

met, it never got further than Mr Blythedale asking Dad if he surfed, and my dad saying that he spent enough time watching Luke swim countless, mind-numbing laps to last a lifetime of water sports. Beaches, Dad said, were something to write about, to offer an inspiring view – not for participation, not for getting wet. So now, whenever they run into each other, they barely manage more than a friendly greeting before an awkwardsilence descends. The fact that Mr Blythedale is about the least likely surfer you’d ever meet – a cross between Seth Rogan and Mr McGoo – does nothing to change the fact that he spends every minute he can on the coast, chasing the perfect wave. And apparently never finding it.
    Kessie licks her fingers. ‘So … we talk a lot – Jake and I.’
    â€˜Good for you,’ I say. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
    Kessie smiles broadly, shaking her head. Then she kisses me on the forehead, like my mum used to when I was little after I’d just done something stupid or, worse, adorable . ‘ Because … ’ she says, drawing out the word, ‘he’s been asking questions.’
    A platter of buffalo chicken wings floats by and I snaffle two pieces, dipping them in blue-cheese dressing before the waiter can escape, thanking god for pub food.
    Kessie isn’t going to let this go. ‘About you,’ she says as she bites into her last piece of sushi.
    â€˜He’s writing an article about the band, Kessie. Asking questions is kind of the point.’
    â€˜Except you’re the only one he’s asked about.’
    I feel my cheeks colouring. A weird mix of uncertainty and hope swirls in my belly. I’m about to tell her to let it go, that it’s just an interview and he’s just a guy – a journalist too, so more trouble than he’s worth – until I notice a small cluster of photographers hovering nearby. They’re mostly raiding the food platters, but one of them keeps glancing over at us.
    I try to picture what we look like, Kessie and me. Are we doing anything that might look bad on someone’s screen? I think we’re okay.
    â€˜I’m sure he’s nice, Kess, except that’s irrelevant. I’ll do the interview and that’ll be it.’ I bite into the last chicken wing.
    â€˜Nice?’ She shakes her head, grinning. ‘Even I can see he’s hot. An interesting kind of hot, but still. Undeniable.’
    â€˜Don’t go all Jane Austen on me,’ I say, my voice a little thin and high for my liking. ‘He’s not my type.’
    Kessie drapes her arm around my shoulder, pulling me towards her in a rough hug. ‘Bless your heart,’ she says in the fake Russell Brand accent she uses whenever she thinks I’m being naive. ‘I’m sure you believe that too.’
    I brush her off and return my attention to the canapés. ‘Why did I bring you?’ I say. The dizziness strikes again, and I lean against a tent pole to steady myself.
    â€˜For my winning personality and excellent taste in hook-ups for my straight best friend.’ Kessie bows theatrically.
    I press my lips together, trying not to smile. ‘I’m not his type, either, Kess. Let it go.’
    She straightens and laughs. ‘That’s never gonna happen, Frank. See, I know stuff.’
    My heart is doing little flips in my chest, even as I try to keep my tone flat. ‘Whatever you know, you might as well tell me.’
    Kessie grabs two sticks of barbecued prawns from a passing platter and hands me one. She takes a large, messy bite. ‘It’s no big deal,’ she says. ‘I just had a chat with our friend, and he seems to find it hard to talk about anything else.’
    The prawns look delicious. I’m so hungry my stomach is almost groaning out loud, so this fat, juicy-looking prawn should be liquid gold in my mouth, but it’s like suddenly my tastebuds have