Damien laughed. Alright. They could skip some beaches. He had his own reason for agreeing: he’d read the forecast that morning, and he wanted to get back to the river mouth, just past Bilbao.

He pushed the limit on the highway, nudging the needle. They kept the rainclouds behind them, low formations in the mirror, marshmallow turning into steel. The sight made him think of something Laura said, that he had to see a show at the Guggenheim. A Richard Serra exhibition, all steel, in great big arcs. You’ll love it, she said. I promise. Leaving the impression that she might take him to see it.

Laura, who he suspected of being remarkable. The only person he knew who had danced with a prince – and hated it.

In the evening, when they stopped, he called his dad at home. He wandered away from the guesthouse and along the darkening street. Trip’s going well, he told him. How is everything at home? Then, when the call ended, he risked making another call, dialling the number in the soft night air.

The next day was Wednesday. The sky was grey but it didn’t rain. The forecast was for swells of four to five foot. ‘We’re in business,’ Damien said.

‘How much business?’

‘Big business.’ Deciding he could afford to go easier on Max, he dug out the cassettes he had hidden in the back.

‘What do you know,’ Max said, giving him a naked stare.

‘You’re lucky I didn’t bin them at a service station.’

They stuck to the highways now, no detours.

Checking the chart again, Damien said, ‘I bet the water will be freezing.’

‘It’s already freezing,’ Max complained. ‘Why do you think I didn’t want to come here in October?’

‘What?’

‘No, actually. I admit it! I wanted to come while it was still warm. Is that so terrible, Damien? Do we have to act like martyrs?’

‘The trip is about the waves.’

Damien had pushed for them to come a couple of weeks later, in October rather than September, to be sure of getting the autumn swell. But Max, pleading work, insisted on the September dates.

‘I didn’t think it would make a difference.’

‘So the research, the contract?’

Silence. He could not believe it. ‘You mean you made that up because you wanted it to be warm.’

He was the worst. The actual worst. They passed more time in silence while Damien simmered. Do we have to act like martyrs? He pondered the question. If acting like martyrs meant dealing with cold water, then yes, the answer was yes. He took this as a given. At the same time, Damien got that he could be severe at times. This severity was a quality he cultivated in himself. He lived a stripped-back existence, a life of withholding and denial. Of desolate extremes, desert and ocean. And why? To what end?