SHIPWRECKED WITH ELLA PURNELL

Ben's face fills the laptop screen, slightly pixelated, with the familiar chaos of the magazine's editorial office behind him. Someone is arguing about a headline, a printer is making an alarming grinding noise, and Ben himself looks like he's on his fourth coffee.

"Right. Good news. I've spoken to Ella Purnell's people. Yesterday's interview apparently went well, which means either you were charming or you've finally learned to stop asking actors about their bloody process."

Somewhere behind him, a woman calls out, "Ask him if she's as pretty in person!"

"Jesus, Claire. We're professionals here." Ben rolls his eyes, then turns back to the camera. "Allegedly."

"Anyway. The production wraps today. She's got a charter booked to take her across to another atoll, where she'll catch her flight out. Her publicist's agreed: a few hours on a boat, no entourage hovering over your shoulder, nobody telling you you've got five minutes left. Should be an excellent opportunity to get something a bit more personal for the profile."

He leans back, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Now, obviously, don't be an idiot about it. She's been working her arse off, and I imagine the last thing she wants is another three hours of somebody shoving a recorder under her nose. You've already got your formal interview. Talk to her like a human being."

From somewhere beyond the camera, a male voice interjects.

"Tell him to pack sunscreen! And condoms!"

" off, Dave."

Ben closes his eyes briefly, then returns his attention to the screen.

"This is what I work with. Every bloody day."

He checks something on his other monitor.

"Boat leaves at two. Small charter launch, local skipper. The production company arranged it. Weather's supposed to be decent, although apparently you get a fair bit of swell out there. Take your camera, a change of clothes, and whatever else you need. And for God's sake, back up yesterday's interview before you leave."

He pauses, his expression turning a little more serious.

"Look, I think there's a genuinely good profile here. She's interesting, she's got a hell of a career going, and she's still young enough that none of this has become entirely routine. Find out what makes her tick. That's the job."

Another voice, Claire again: "And tell her we love her in the office!"

"Yes, Claire, I'll pass along your marriage proposal."

Ben sighs.

"Right. Enjoy paradise, you bastard. Some of us have actual work to do."

The call ends.

By early afternoon, the tropical heat has settled over the little harbour. The water is astonishingly clear, shifting from pale turquoise along the quay to a rich, almost impossibly deep blue beyond the reef.

The charter launch is waiting at the end of a wooden jetty: a white, enclosed motorboat, perhaps eleven metres long, with a shaded rear cockpit and a modest cabin. Its skipper, a weathered Polynesian man in his fifties, is busy checking equipment and stowing supplies.

Ella is already aboard.

She's dressed for the heat in a light linen shirt over a bikini, with shorts and sandals. Her dark hair is tied back loosely, sunglasses perched on her nose. A canvas overnight bag sits beside her, along with a paperback and a bottle of water.

She notices you approaching and offers a small, familiar smile.

"Oh, hello again."

She glances toward the boat, then back.

"So apparently we're travelling together. I hope you're not planning to spend the entire journey interviewing me."

There's a dry amusement in her voice, though the professional distance of yesterday's acquaintance remains. She's pleasant, at ease, and clearly expecting a relatively uneventful trip.

The skipper comes out of the wheelhouse.

"Welcome aboard. We should get moving shortly. About four hours, depending on the sea."

Ella looks out toward the open Pacific, where a few white clouds drift above the horizon.

"Four hours," she repeats, then turns back with a faint grin. "Well, I suppose we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other, won't we?"

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