Silver Bay by Jojo Moyes

will also – be – whoops!’ He struggled to keep his balance. ‘There we go . . . The simulators will be on site for clients to learn on before they go out on the water. It’s a complete – package.’
    Even those who had never been on the water in their lives, he said, gasping with the effort, would be able to practise in private before exposing themselves to the gaze of their fellow holidaymakers. I don’t know if it was the bizarre improbability of this machine forming part of the proposal, or Dennis’s evident enjoyment, but within a few minutes even I had to admit that he was winning them over. I watched as Tim and Neville crept closer to the machine, sipping the champagne that Tina had handed to them.
    Their finance man, a florid heavyweight called Simons, had already taken off his shoes, to reveal surprisingly threadbare socks, and the two junior members of their team were quoting at each other from the pages of surfing slang that Tina had prepared.
    Dennis had imagination, I had to hand it to him.
    ‘What happens if we turn it up, Dennis?’ Neville was smiling. I wondered if that was a good sign.
    ‘Tina has given you – a – list,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I believe – I’ll be – whoops! “Catching a pounder.”’
    Neville had moved closer. He took off his jacket and handed his glass to his secretary. ‘What level will you go to, Dennis?’
    He was, I had guessed, one of nature’s competitors.
    But so was Dennis. ‘Any you want, Nev. Turn her up,’ he cried, his face beaded with sweat. ‘We’ll see who can catch the biggest wave, eh?’
    ‘Go on, Mike,’ Neville urged. I smiled. They were all enjoying themselves. As Dennis had guessed, the simulator had drawn away their attention from the South African rumours.
    ‘I’ve always fancied a bit of the old surf,’ said Tim, removing his jacket too. Before them, the simulator whined and juddered under Dennis’s weight. ‘What level you on there, old chap?’
    ‘Three,’ I said, glancing at the dial. ‘I really don’t think—’
    ‘Come on, we can do better than that. Turn him up, Mike. Let’s see who can stay on longest.’
    ‘Yes, turn him up,’ the grey suits of Vallance Equity Financing chanted, the veneer of restraint peeled away by amusement.
    I looked at Dennis, who nodded, then motioned towards the dial. ‘Come on, Mike old boy, bring on the waves.’
    ‘You’re stoked, Dennis!’ Tim was checking the surfing terminology. ‘The waves are gnarly, but you’re stoked!’
    Despite his apparent gaiety, Dennis was now sweating profusely. He tried to smile, but I saw a hint of desperation in his eyes as he tried to stay aloft the now rapidly undulating board. ‘Want me to take you down a notch, Dennis?’ I offered.
    ‘No! No! I’m – stoked! How long have I been at level four, chaps?’
    ‘Take him to five!’ yelled Neville, stepping forward and grasping the dial. ‘Let’s see how he rides the – ah, the crunchers!’
    ‘I’m not—’ I began.
    Afterwards, no one was sure how it had happened. Dennis was one of the few people in the room who had not drunk any champagne. But somehow the simulator was booted up to its highest level at the moment when Dennis’s balance failed him. With a terrible cry he was hurled clear of the surrounding inflatable cushions and across the boardroom, more swiftly than someone his size should have been, to land heavily on his hip.
    It broke, of course. Those who hadn’t guessed that the impact would do it heard the sickening crunch. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound. It removed, for me, even the slender desire I’d felt to try the machine. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not one of nature’s risk-takers.
    There was pandemonium. Everyone crowded round. Over the exclamations of concern and cries of ‘Call an ambulance!’ the surfboard gyrated and the Beach Boys sang on.
    ‘Australia, eh?’ said Neville, as Dennis was stretchered towards the lift. ‘Unforgettable