Hurt (13 page)

‘Here.’ He sits down cross-legged opposite his brother, his back to the rest of the party, and sets the plate and glass down on the grass between them.

Loïc looks up at him with a grateful smile, the relief evident on his face. ‘Can you stay with me?’

‘Sure. You know what? I hate these parties too.’

‘But everyone wants to talk to you,’ Loïc says between mouthfuls of vol-au-vent. ‘Everyone likes you.’

‘They don’t like me; most of them barely know me. It’s just because they’re stupid and they’ve heard about the competition.’ Mathéo looks across at his brother’s wan face, and for the first time finds himself wondering what it must be like to be his own sibling, to be the one who is patted and petted but always overlooked – by his parents, by their friends, by Mathéo himself.

‘It’s not real, you know,’ he tries to explain. ‘Their friendliness, their questions, all the chit-chat. I just have to pretend like I’m happy or flattered or interested or whatever. It’s all a game of Let’s Pretend.’

‘Is that why Mummy and Daddy always go out to parties? Because they like to play Let’s Pretend? Is it Let’s Pretend that you love diving, then?’ Loïc asks.

The question throws him off guard. ‘No!’ he exclaims quickly. ‘I love—’ But then he breaks off, hesitating. Suddenly it strikes him that he doesn’t need to lie to his brother. For once, he is in no rush to end the conversation, tell him what he wants to hear in order to be able to get away. ‘I used to love diving,’ he says quietly, cautiously, as if only just admitting the fact to himself. ‘I mean, a lot of the time things ached, or the training was so intense I thought I’d pass out. But the more I trained, the better I got, and – and, well, it’s nice to feel like you’re really good at something. It feels kind of good to be the best. And once you become the best, you want to stay the best. You never want that feeling to go away. But then other divers come along and start training even harder, and so you keep having to work just to stay the best.’

‘So are you the best diver in the whole world?’ Loïc asks, his eyes widening.

Mathéo feels himself smile slightly. ‘No, that’s the problem. I’m
one
of the best. I’m probably the best in the country. Though once you become the best in the country, at first it feels really amazing, but then the amazingness kind of wears off. People start expecting you to win competitions, and if you don’t, they get really disappointed. So you want to have that feeling of being the best again. So you train even harder, and try to become the best in the whole of Europe, and then the best in the whole world.’

Loïc holds his second vol-au-vent up to the fading light, checking for signs of tomato. ‘So is that what you want to do? Become the best in the whole world?’

Mathéo chews the corner of his lip, looking over his shoulder at the throngs of people on the terrace, their voices getting louder with every sip of champagne.

‘No. Not any more.’

He has surprised himself, but Loïc continues munching steadily, unperturbed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because—’ Mathéo swallows, his throat dry suddenly. ‘Because after the competition at the weekend, I realized I didn’t like diving any more.’

‘But you won!’

‘Yeah. But I realized I didn’t care about that any more. I realized I no longer cared about what Dad or Perez thought about me. I realized that I was sick of them – sick of them always telling me what to do.’

‘So you’re going to give up?’ Loïc looks faintly startled for the first time during the conversation. ‘Dad – Dad will get angry—’

‘Well, exactly.’

‘Just tell him you’re a grown-up now and you don’t want him to boss you around any more,’ Loïc suggests. ‘But say it with politeness,’ he adds nervously. ‘In a respectly way.’

Mathéo smiles but feels his throat constrict. ‘I wish I could, buddy. I wish it was that easy.’

His father calls him from the conservatory doors, looking annoyed, so Mathéo leaves Loïc to entertain himself with the games on his mobile and returns to the party. He is introduced to some new neighbours and finds himself plunged back into the heat and noise. As the Winchesters take turns pumping his hand and slapping him on the back and smiling eagerly, asking him about his Olympic preparation and informing him that their three-year-old is already showing remarkable signs of agility in the field of gymnastics, Mathéo drains his glass and accepts a refill from one of the passing waiters. He scans the crowd, but there is still no sign of Jerry and Lola, thank goodness. They must have sensibly decided to skip this circus. The volume is reaching fever pitch now. Everyone seems to be talking with strange animation, and all he is aware of is a mounting feeling of despair at the artificiality of the set-up, at the tone of his mother’s voice out-shrilling her own guests, but most of all at the sensation of himself as an imposter, someone posing as a sporting hero when in reality he is a nothing, a less-than-nothing: a piece of scum on this already tarnished earth, a faulty specimen of a human being who should be wiped out, tied down to a rock and tossed out to sea, leaving the world a calmer, healthier, cleaner place. Even as he talks, drinks, laughs and greets his parents’ guests, he feels himself sinking – so low that he appears to have reached rock bottom. It is not some dramatic breakdown. Rock bottom, in fact, is very mundane: it is simply an inability to see the point in anything and only wonder why on earth everything looks and feels so bad, so painful and so wrong. He feels stuck somewhere between dead and alive, and cannot imagine any place worse. All these people – how can they keep talking, keep smiling, keep laughing? Can’t they feel his pain, his sorrow, his despair? Is he that good an actor? He feels so utterly wretched that it suddenly seems impossible that the whole world doesn’t stop and suffer with him. On the one hand, he is desperate to keep up the façade; on the other, he is tempted just to walk through one of the conservatory walls and have the sharp, broken shards slash him to ribbons so he can finally look the way he feels. He gazes at Mrs Winchester’s painted pink lips, opening and closing, opening and closing; listens to Mr Winchester’s deep booming laugh, the puff-puff of his cigar and his rasping breath, and he wants to shout,
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, all of you!
The whole world seems to have become a maze of shifting mirrors in which he wanders alone, looking frenziedly for the exit back into his real life, where people have substance, act genuine, are whole. But somewhere, somehow, ever since waking up that morning in his trashed room, he seems to have fallen into a nightmare. He wants to escape, wants to blot it all out, wants to sleep . . . No, not sleep, dammit – what he wants is to wake up!

After what seems like an eternity, he manages to escape the clutches of the Winchesters and, while his parents’ backs are turned, escape back out to the garden. Dusk is beginning to fall: Loïc has been escorted up to bed by Consuela, and just a few smokers linger on the patio, the faint chill of nightfall ushering the rest of the guests inside. A large pale moth dances in the areas of light and then disappears. Breathing in the blessed coolness of the late evening, Mathéo picks up a half-drunk bottle of wine, looks about for a glass and, finding none, pinches a couple of cigarettes from an abandoned packet. For once he doesn’t give a damn, suddenly reckless and self-destructive, sick of having to take care of his health during every waking moment. Moving quickly away from the patio lights into the penumbra at the bottom of the garden, he slips behind a tall poplar tree, crouches down in the grass to light his cigarette from one of the glass-cupped candles that line the lawn, and then sits back against the cool brick of the garden wall, taking a swig of wine, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling heavily.

A shadow falls over him, making him start. He freezes, hiding the cigarette’s glow behind his back in the hope that whoever it is will fail to notice him and just wander back inside.

‘What are you doing out here alone?’

He recognizes the voice just as Lola’s silhouette comes into focus. Contrasting sharply with the suits and cocktail dresses of the rest of the guests, her legs are bare: she is wearing her favourite cargo shorts, rolled up to just above the knee, a pale yellow T-shirt, and a leather ankle bracelet above her Birkenstock sandals. Her long hair hangs down to her waist, her pale skin accentuating the smattering of freckles across her cheekbones and her bright sea-green eyes. In the eerie fading light, her appearance is more ephemeral than ever: the slight hollows in her cheeks, the slim neck, the delicate ridge of her collarbone. As usual, her face is free of make-up and her hair is unadorned – she is stunning without even trying. There are traces of violet beneath her eyes; she has an almost painfully fragile beauty about her that makes his heart ache. After having had to put on an agonizing act for the last half-hour, he is suddenly so happy to see her, he wants to jump up and hug her, feel her arms around him, reassuring him that he is still alive. He wants her to bring him back, to remind him who he once was, to make him feel real again. He wants to kiss her so much that it hurts.

‘Mattie!’ She kneels down in front of him. ‘What the hell – you’re smoking?’

‘Yeah . . .’ He takes a long drag, bracing himself for a lecture, but instead she just takes the butt from between his fingers and raises it to her mouth, inhaling slowly. Then she leans back, blowing smoke rings up into the darkening air. ‘Is your coach here? He’d fucking kill you if he caught you!’ She chuckles.

‘Yeah, somewhere. But I couldn’t care less. Where’s Jerry?’ he asks her.

‘Oh, stuck in the darkroom – got a tight deadline. He sends his congratulations though.’

‘I’m sorry about earlier – I don’t know what got into me . . .’ he tries to explain. ‘And I’m sorry about this. You didn’t have to come.’

She looks at him with a mischievous smile, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. ‘Are you kidding me? Miss your congratulatory party, all your parents’ business associates slapping you on the back and singing
For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow
?’ She laughs, reaches for the bottle and takes a deep swig.

He feels the shadow of a smile cross his lips. ‘So you came to mock me in my hour of need?’

‘Well, yes, basically. But looks like I’ve missed the best part – or have you been camping out here all evening?’

‘No, I only just got away. You came at the perfect time.’

‘Well . . .’ She hesitates, rocking back on her heels and drawing her knees up beneath her chin. ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here.’

‘Of course I wanted you here. I always want you here.’ He reaches out for her, makes contact with her bare arm, slides his hand down towards hers.

‘You seemed pretty mad when you took off in the park . . .’ Her fingers hesitate against his, rubbing his palm gently with her thumb.

‘I was being dumb.’

Over the crests of her kneecaps, her sombre eyes study his. ‘What got you so worked up?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

She appears dissatisfied. ‘You keep saying that,’ she continues. ‘But clearly something’s going on. Was it something we said? That’s the second time now you’ve gone charging off like that.’

He stubs out the cigarette against the damp earth and stares down at the ground, searching for the right words. ‘I was being stupid,’ he says slowly. ‘For a moment I felt like – I felt like you were accusing me of being a—’ His voice stutters to a stop. He can’t say the word.

‘Of being what – a criminal?’ Her eyes are wide with disbelief. ‘But Mattie, we were just playing a game! Why . . . Why would anyone, even for a second, think you were a criminal?’ She gives a small laugh, her brow still creased in confusion.

Because I feel like one? Because I’m terrified that is what I’ve become?
But he can’t say that to Lola – he can’t even make sense of it himself.

He forces himself to meet her gaze. ‘Lola, I don’t – I honestly don’t know what’s going on. I feel like – like something’s happening to me. Like there’s this pain, and I can’t get rid of it, and it just won’t stop hurting. D’you know – d’you know what I mean?’ He bites the inside of his lip, a sharp point pressing against the back of his eyes. ‘Have you ever felt it? It’s like a feeling of depression, or – or loneliness. Like you feel separate from everyone around you, as if you no longer belong . . .’

She stares at him, her expression serious, brow creased in concern. ‘But you’re not alone and you
do
belong. You belong to
me
. I love you, Mattie.’

He exhales slowly, pulling her gently towards him, sliding his hand beneath her hair, cupping her cheek. His eyes close and his mouth meets hers and he kisses her gently, inhaling her warm breath, soaking up the taste of her lips, of her tongue. And he is suddenly taken over by a new fear, so violent and unexpected, it hits him like a fist in the stomach.

‘Lola,’ he whispers between kisses. ‘Please . . . please don’t leave me.’

‘I would never—’

‘But you will.’ He kisses her almost desperately now. ‘One day you will.’

She pulls back. ‘Mattie—’

He tries to kiss her again, this time only reaching the corner of her mouth.

She puts a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. ‘What about the stuff you said that night by the river – didn’t you mean it? I thought you wanted to stay with me for ever?’

‘I do, but – life doesn’t work like that—’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I dunno.’ He struggles to come up with some reason for this sudden, inexplicable fear. ‘Because – because we’re young, we’re still at school.’ He leans forward again, his lips searching hers. ‘Realistically, how many teen relationships go on to last a lifetime?’

She puts her hand on his face, still holding him back, her eyes, full of confusion, boring into his. ‘Then what’s the point? If you’re so sure this isn’t going to last, why continue with it now?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he whispers desperately. ‘I don’t want to break up. My God, it’s the last thing in the world I want. It’s just that I’m trying to be realistic. You will break up with me one day, I – I just know it—’

She pushes him back hard, angry suddenly. ‘Stop saying that!’