Hurt (27 page)

He catches up with her, smiling and wincing. ‘Come on. We can do this!’

He holds out his hand. She takes it and yelps as he pulls her towards him, the icy water suddenly deepening, reaching their waists.

‘Come on – quick and painful!’ he says encouragingly; then, with a laugh, lets go of her hand, plunging forward. Engulfed by the glacial water, for a moment he fears his heart will stop in shock, but then finds himself staring up at the stream of bubbles rising towards the dazzling surface and, above that, the blurred contours of Lola’s face as she stands looking down at him. It feels wonderful to be underwater again. The sea seems to be transforming him, turning him into the person he once was, giving him back what is rightfully his. He can sense it inside him; can almost feel the sordid memories begin to melt away. The world shrinks away above him. Liquid blue fills his vision, darkening and deepening down below. The new Mathéo is fresh and bright and clean like a child, a baby being reborn.

He pushes himself deeper, circles Lola’s ankles with his fingers and, with one swift movement, pulls her feet out from under her, sending her plunging backwards with a muffled scream. He resurfaces, wipes his eyes with his hands, and for a moment cannot see her, the sun bouncing off the water, refracting shards of blinding gold into his eyes. Then, suddenly, she is by his side, heaving, grabbing his arm for support. ‘You bastard!’ she splutters.

‘See?’ he laughs. ‘Quick and—’ He is cut off mid-sentence as she throws her full weight against him, sending him back under, but he manages to grab hold of her as he goes, dragging her down with him. Then, before she can retaliate further, he sets off at a fast crawl, Lola shrieking and splashing in his wake.

When they finally stop and turn round, treading water, the beach is a long way behind them, Hugo and Isabel just bobbing heads in the distance, splashing each other and tossing something into the air.

He turns to Lola, breathing hard, hair plastered to his head, water streaming down his face. ‘Keep on going?’

‘Don’t be crazy – we’re already too far out!’ she exclaims.

Mathéo takes a deep breath and slides down beneath her, swimming deeper and deeper into the darkness far below. Way up above, he can see Lola still treading water, waiting for him to re-emerge. He lets his breath out in steady increments, floating weightlessly, deep down near the sea bed. Above him, empty shards of golden light illuminate the surface. He feels calm, cocooned. As if he could stay here for ever.

He rockets out of the water with a splash, flooding Lola with spray.

‘Oh my God, you’re crazy!’ she starts to shout as, coughing and gasping, he laughs at her horrified expression, tickled at having succeeded in scaring her. He follows her into shallower water where their feet meet firm sand. Pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, gasping against her ear, kissing the side of her head, her face. Lola turns towards him and his mouth meets hers – cold, salty lips, hands gripping his head, water from her hair dripping into his. Between hot, frantic kisses, Mathéo opens his eyes for a moment and finds the colour of the sea reflected in hers, droplets of water pearling across her cheekbones, down her forehead, hanging on her lashes, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the sun. The pale, freckled skin on her cheeks and nose is slightly burned; flashes of light refract from the water on her forehead. He feels her chest pressing against his, her leg against his thigh, their feet touching in the soft sand. And he thinks,
This is it.
He is back, alive, passionate, in love, and the nightmare that has haunted him over the last few weeks is gone for good.

He wants to capture this moment in time and hold on to it for ever, stay in it for ever, remain for ever right here, with Lola in his arms and the feel of her warm neck and dripping hair against his face. It’s as if someone has found this day, created it just for him, like the most amazing present he could ever have wished for. He now knows that meeting Lola was always meant to be. He was always meant to fall in love with her and have his love returned. He feels light – so light, all dark thoughts erased, replaced instead by excitement and amazement and a happiness so pure it threatens to take his breath away. For the first time in ages there is not the slightest trace of pain in his body or his mind – no piercing shaft between his eyes, no throbbing ache in his head, no sick dizziness within his chest, no currents of electricity burning through his veins. The heavy fog that has been surrounding him has evaporated into the bright blue air – that static, stabbing, burning weight gone from his muscles, gone from his skin. His body has softened, as if something harsh and solid has been released from inside. And it’s as if he has finally achieved what he has been longing for ever since that terrible morning: stepped out of his body and into one that is brand new; found a place where he can think and feel and live and breathe without hurting, without pain. He never knew not hurting could feel this good, this light, this gentle. He wants to hold onto Lola like this for ever. It’s as if by merging his body with hers, she is dissipating everything dark and heavy and negative within him, allowing him, after weeks of unrest, to exist once more as a normal person . . .

After a game of Frisbee with the others in the sand, the sun seems to have lost some of its luminance, the air has turned slightly cooler, and the sea has retreated still further. Mathéo is reminded that time is moving on, that things keep changing. Casting patterned shadows on the sand, he returns with the others to grab towels, shove sandy feet into sun-baked sandals. He ignores the other two and keeps his eyes fixed on Lola, desperate for her to continue to provide him with the light and energy to keep the darkness at bay.

As they begin their ascent back to the house, leaving the beach and the dipping sun behind them, Mathéo keeps Lola’s hand firmly clasped in his, the sand rough between their warm palms. When they finish climbing the steps and Hugo and Isabel drift quietly across the garden, discussing what to have for dinner, he holds her back for a moment and kisses her again, trying to stop her from drawing away.

Surfacing for breath, Lola smiles. ‘Your cheeks have caught the sun,’ she says, and then hesitates for a moment. ‘Are you OK?’

He nods, feeling a genuine smile touch his lips for the first time in ages. ‘Yes. Yes, I really am.’

That evening, everyone seems a little hyper, as if all that sun, sea and sand has stirred up a potion of exuberance inside them. After dinner, amidst guffaws of laughter, they play strip poker around the poolside table. As usual, Hugo and Isabel are losing on purpose: Hugo is already bare-chested, having chosen to divest himself of his T-shirt but keep his flip-flops. Isabel is down to her bikini. Lola has managed to find bits of jewellery to remove; Mathéo has lost his sandals.

Hugo laughs wickedly as Lola loses a round and removes her ankle bracelet. ‘That’s all the jewellery you’ve got. I’m gonna get you out of that T-shirt, Baumann!’

‘Over my dead body!’ she retorts.

Late that night, after emerging from his shower, Mathéo finds Lola already curled up in bed, light off, the room filled only with moonlight and the sound of the waves. Slipping carefully under the bedsheet as not to wake her, he stretches out on his front, the pillow cool against his sunburned cheek. After a moment, however, he feels her breath against his skin and is aware of her lips against his face – she is kissing him: tiny butterfly kisses, so light they barely seem to make contact. He waits, hoping for a change in their circular pattern, longing for them to come further down, to reach his lips, his mouth, his tongue. His lungs heave in a deep sigh and he opens his eyes a little, just enough to be engulfed by Lola’s startling green gaze, tilting his chin upwards in the hope of catching a fluttering kiss on the mouth. They come closer, but not enough, and a small sound escapes him, a murmur of encouragement, until a kiss brushes the corner of his lips, setting them alight. He empties his lungs slowly and then fills them again, struggling to wait for her and not to respond. Craving a proper kiss, he finally has to raise his head off Lola’s shoulder, and touch her jawline with a finger to guide her mouth towards his. But she turns to kiss his finger instead, and he follows the contour of her lips and feels the sharp, smooth enamel of her front teeth and then the soft, wet warmth of her tongue as she grazes his finger. Mathéo’s sigh is deeper this time as his finger begins to tremble with a mixture of excitement and desire. And he realizes he wants to kiss her so much he is actually shaking with the urge, all the muscles in his body tensed in anticipation. He can hear the sound of his own breath now, shallow and rapid and increasingly frantic, his lips tingling. A small sound of frustration escapes him as he leans in towards Lola, only for her to turn away so that he barely manages to kiss the tiny downy hairs of her cheek instead.

He takes another steadying breath, but it seems to fill the room, and his voice, when it comes out, is tremulous and softly desperate.

‘Lola, stop it, let me kiss you.’ A breath. ‘Lola, I really want to kiss you . . .’

‘How badly?’ she teases, a question they used to taunt each other with when they first started going out. And just like all those months ago, he feels himself tense so strongly that his stomach disappears into the hollow beneath his ribcage.

He gives a little laugh to let her know he remembers, but is so turned on he can feel himself shiver. ‘So badly that – I’ll bite you if you don’t.’ A tremor runs through him and he gives a brief, shy laugh. ‘See?’

She kisses his neck and he tenses further. ‘Lola, don’t— Ah, shit, come on, please . . .’

She smiles, and her kisses follow a trail up his neck, over his chin, beneath his lower lip and . . . and then her mouth meets his: warm and tender, yet so fierce and passionate that it catches him off-guard.

With ragged breaths, he slides his fingers into her hair, each kiss deeper and stronger than the last. He wants her so much that his whole body thrums with desire and he holds her face between his hands, kissing her with a fervour bordering on desperation. Lola runs her hands slowly up and down his back, her fingers as light as petals, before circling round to his stomach and gradually reaching his nipples. Her touch sends small aftershocks rippling through his body, and just as he finds himself coiled as tight as a spring, her mouth meets his with such startling strength and passion that he gasps in shock, and he feels that electric bolt of excitement rush back through him for the first time in a long time. Such a long time . . .

Their clothes go flying. His T-shirt and boxers, her nightie, all tossed onto the floor. Kneeling naked on the bed, Lola is half laughing, half gasping. ‘Whoa—’

Grasping her shoulders, he pulls her towards him, kissing her neck, her ear, her cheek, her mouth, his chin pressing into her face, his mouth hard and urgent against hers.

‘Mattie—’

Hand holding the back of her head, he kisses her again, harder and harder still, then tries to coax her back against the pillows.

‘Mattie, wait—’

He can’t wait, not after all this time. Lola passes him a condom and he fumbles in his haste. She is back. He is back. They belong together and he is never letting her go.

‘Mattie!’ Hands on his chest, she pushes him away hard, alarm flashing in her eyes.

‘What? No – you want me to stop?’

Keeping him at arm’s length, she stares at him, hair wild and face exquisitely flushed; breathing hard. ‘Look at me,’ she says quietly.

He forces his eyes to meet hers. ‘Lola, don’t. I want—’ He feels his windpipe constrict.

‘Just go gently, my darling.’

‘OK . . .’ He takes a deep, shuddering breath, bites his lip, manages a reassuring smile. ‘OK. Like this?’ He strokes the side of her face, brushes his lips across her cheek, kisses her softly and feels her relax beneath his touch.

‘Yeah. Like that,’ she breathes.

She keeps her eyes open and stares up at him, warm, flushed and gently panting as he slides over her, enters her with an audible gasp. He forces himself to go as slow as he can, gazing back down at her, drinking her in as if for the first time. It’s as if, since that terrible night, he has seen her only through a veil, but now that veil has been lifted, a thick fog has dissipated and he sees her afresh, anew. He notices all the tiny details that make her who she is, that make her unique. The gentle arch of her eyebrows, the soft curve of her cheek. Each individual eyelash, long and dark, framing irises of the deepest green. He sees her so clearly he can count the freckles that sprinkle her cheekbones. Holding himself over her, his arms vibrating slightly, he moves rhythmically against her, taking deep breaths in an effort to keep calm. He concentrates on the sweat glistening on her neck – her throat so white, so delicate, so soft against his mouth. The pearl-drop on her necklace catches the light of the moon, reflecting its rays into his eyes so that it seems to glow from the inside. Her hair is wild and tangled by his fingers, russet brown against the white pillow, small wisps curled into humid spirals framing her face. Her hands are pressed tight against his back, sliding up to stroke the nape of his neck, then moving over his head, into his damp hair, separating the strands between her fingers. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply as they make their way to his forehead, her nails skimming the contours of his face: his temples, his cheeks, slowly down the line of his jaw until they meet his mouth. They play against his lips; he opens his mouth to taste them, and they are cool and refreshing, like droplets of water. He fills his lungs again, opens his eyes, and she is smiling up at him – and he feels it in his heart. So much tenderness, so much understanding, so much love in that smile that it hurts him – but this is a good pain, one that makes him feel safe, and complete, and alive. She has woken him from his nightmare, brought him back to life, thawed the walls of a deeply frozen heart. He tries to say thank you, but the words won’t come out, so he mouths them instead and her smile broadens, as if she understands, as if she knows everything and has forgiven him . . . He closes his eyes as their mouths meet and he is forced to give way, pressing himself hard against her, shudders overtaking his body as he buries his face in her neck, softly gasping.