Hurt (9 page)

Mathéo pulls a face and rolls his eyes in an attempt to cover his embarrassment.

‘Hey,’ Jerry says quickly, as if sensing his discomfort. ‘Exciting weekend ahead! I’m just so sorry I won’t be able to make it, but the shoot was booked nearly a year ago.’

‘I know, I know. Don’t worry about it.’

‘We will, of course, be recording the TV coverage to watch in the evening, though.’

‘Wait to hear from me first. It might be a total embarrassment!’ Mathéo half jokes with a smile.

Jerry smiles back, but there is a slight furrow between his brows. ‘Nervous about it?’

‘Nah,’ Mathéo begins, but the warmth in Jerry’s face and the fold of concern between his brows reminds him that he doesn’t have to pretend here. And much like his daughter, Jerry seems instinctively attuned to the sensitivities of everyone around him. ‘Well, actually, yeah. It’s just that I’m expected to win at Nationals, and that’s worse, somehow. I prefer being the underdog.’

‘Oh yeah, I can understand that. But the way you cope with the pressure in all your competitions is really remarkable. I know it’s easy for me to say, but try not to worry, OK?’

‘Yeah, OK . . .’

‘When are you off?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Mathéo replies. ‘Got an hour’s train journey to Brighton with the squad. Then training in the new pool. Then we go back to the hotel for the night and prelims start in the morning.’

‘It’s gonna be really exciting to see you on TV again.’

‘Hm.’

‘Are your parents going down to watch?’

‘Mum’s got some meeting. But Dad – yeah, unfortunately.’ He meets Jerry’s eye and pulls a long-suffering face.

Jerry makes a disapproving clicking sound with his tongue and shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘Your mum works too hard. Both your parents do.’ A pause. ‘They work you too hard as well . . . Have you been getting enough rest?’

‘I’m OK.’ Mathéo feels himself flush slightly. They always throw him slightly, Jerry’s looks of concern. It’s as if he knows how few of them he gets at home.

Leaning over to ruffle his hair, Jerry says, ‘Just be careful, OK? Diving’s not the safest sport in the world and Lola would be devastated if anything happened to you.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘And I would too.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss.’ Mathéo swats him away with a laugh. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, I know. You’re about to hit the big time. But between you and me, Lola needed a bit of reassuring the other night,’ Jerry says in a low whisper, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink.

‘About what?’

‘About the two of you – about how you becoming a big Olympic star next year might affect your relationship.’

‘I’m not going to become—’ Jerry suddenly has his full attention. ‘Lola thinks it would affect our relationship?’

‘I think she sometimes worries about some of the girls on the women’s squad. As well as those squealing teens who follow you and the rest of the team around the country.’

Mathéo laughs but feels the heat in his cheeks. ‘I rarely hang out with them. It’s not— She’s being silly!’

Jerry is smiling. ‘I told her I didn’t think she had anything to worry about,’ he says. ‘I’ve been around long enough to see that what the two of you have got is something really special.’

He pats Mathéo’s knee, gets up and leaves the shed to make some tea. And Mathéo stares after him, struck by the realization that for the first time, Jerry has broken his daughter’s confidence by telling him of her worries. He wonders why on earth he felt the need to do so. It almost felt like some kind of veiled warning – a warning to not ever hurt his daughter . . .

Lola is still messing around on the new drum kit; it’s past nine and he’s going to have to go home soon. He turns to give her a look that she is quick to recognize.

‘OK, OK.’ She puts down the drumsticks and comes over, leaning nonchalantly against his arm and flicking through Jerry’s new score. ‘I wanna be a drummer,’ she informs him plaintively. ‘I think I’d be good.’

‘You’re not doing my headache any good,’ Mathéo retorts. ‘Stick with what you know.’

She starts to hum the first bars, then breaks off. ‘I’m gonna miss you this weekend.’

‘No you’re not,’ he jokes. ‘You’ll be too busy at the ball, dancing with all the guys who fancy you.’

She doesn’t respond to the tease in his voice. ‘It scares me to watch you dive on TV when I can’t be there. I would have never agreed to be on the Leavers’ Ball committee if I’d known it would coincide—’

‘If I win a medal at the Olympics, I’ll embarrass you by climbing up the bleachers and kissing you in front of the whole world.’

‘You’d better!’ She laughs. ‘And then I’ll embarrass you more by jumping into the pool!’

She levers herself off him, crosses to her spot in the centre of the room to set up the mic, and he swipes at her with his leg as she goes.

With the mic and amp finally adjusted to her liking, she hops onto the guitar stool and opens the score, looking at him with a mischievous smile. ‘Ready to be blown away?’

‘Not particularly, thanks to my three-hour night . . .’

She conceals her smile with a long-suffering look.

‘Fine, fine.’ Mathéo sits up and rests his chin on the back of the sofa as Lola strums the opening chords, leans towards the mic and starts to sing.

He watches her profile as she sings to the window looking out onto the garden, now fading in the gathering dusk. In the house opposite, he can just make out Jerry in the kitchen, clearing away dinner. Lola swings her shoulders to the song, almost dancing to the upbeat tempo, and her long fine hair bounces against her back as she does so, catching the weak light of the naked bulb. Just like every time she sings, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glowing. The daughter of two musicians, both reasonably successful in their time, Lola was always destined to show talent – the reason she got a music scholarship to Greystone in the first place and has now been accepted by the prestigious Central School of Speech and Drama to start pursuing her lifelong ambition of becoming an actress. But it is more than just the mixture of purity and soul in her voice that pulls people in. She has that indefinable ingredient, that magic spark that, whenever she performs, lights up the air around her.

Ten o’clock comes around too soon – he has to be in bed early before a competition: anything less than eight hours’ sleep could affect his performance. Jerry wishes him good luck again and envelops him in a bear hug at the front gate, the familiar smell of weed and tobacco on his favourite checked shirt. Lola insists on walking Mathéo home, and as it’s not yet dark, he lets her. The sun still hasn’t quite set, the last of its orange rays touching the roofs and glinting through the treetops.

Hand in hand, they take their time, walking slowly down the leafy, residential streets, still warm, but quieter now after the hot, busy day. Pollen falls like gold dust from the lime trees and the air is heavy with the thick, sweet smell of summer flowers blooming in the hedges and front gardens. Dusk is taking its time to fall, stretching out each remaining minute for as long as possible, in no hurry for the day to end. And Mathéo finds himself wishing it never had to, wishing this walk could last for ever. He usually looks forward to competitions, even if they take him abroad and away from Lola, but this time something is different; this time he wishes he didn’t have to go.

‘If we walk any slower, we’ll start moving backwards.’ Lola glances across at him after several moments of silence, pressing her tongue into her cheek to hold back a smile.

‘Hey! You didn’t
have
to walk back with me—’

‘I’m joking.’ Sliding her arm round his waist, she pulls him close, kisses his ear. ‘I know it’s only three days, but I’m going to miss you.’

‘I wish you could come.’

‘So do I. It’ll be the first time I’ve missed one of your home competitions. The first time Dad has too.’

‘I’ll miss his giant banner.’ Mathéo smiles. ‘Gah – I can’t believe you told him I snuck over last night!’

‘What? You know he likes it when you stay over!’

‘Likes it? Jeez, Lola, you must have the most liberal dad in the history of all parenting.’

‘He’s only like that with you. He adores you. You’re like the son he never had!’

‘He’s like the dad I
wish
I had!’

Lola laughs. ‘Your parents aren’t . . . the easiest,’ she says diplomatically. ‘But deep down, you know they love you and just want what’s best for you.’

‘I dunno about that. I’m just waiting to see how long it takes Loïc to start accidentally calling the new nanny
Maman
, like he did with all the previous ones—’ He breaks off suddenly, feeling uncomfortable, almost ashamed. How can he complain about his life – his privileged existence, his opportunities, his parents – when Lola and Jerry live on a shoestring and . . . ‘Do you – do you sometimes wonder about your mum?’ He watches her expression carefully in the fading light, afraid of upsetting her. But they have had this kind of conversation before, and Lola has always been quite laid back about it. But still, he wonders: what must it be like, growing up, even in the happiest of environments, wondering what might have been?

‘Sometimes,’ Lola replies lightly, swinging his arm. ‘On my mum’s birthday, or the anniversary of her death, when Dad goes all silent and withdrawn. But when I look at photos – it’s weird, I feel kind of detached, like I can’t really believe she was once my mother. I guess it’s because I never knew her, or at least not for long enough to remember anything. Sometimes I try to think back to my earliest memory, but I can never quite reach her.’

‘Do you ever wish you had two parents though? Or is Jerry enough?’

‘He’s more than enough!’ Lola exclaims with a laugh. ‘I can’t really imagine having two parents. That’s why I’m so glad Dad never remarried or had a serious girlfriend.’

‘How come he never did?’

‘I think my mother was the love of his life,’ Lola replies, her smile fading a little. ‘The few times he does talk about her, he just says she was his saviour.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah. He was kind of a mess when he met her. He was touring with his band, got into drugs big time, was even homeless for a while.’

‘And your mother turned his life around?’

‘Well, not immediately. Apparently it took some time. And there’s still part of him that’s kind of . . . I dunno. Like he does drink and smoke the odd joint . . . But after my mother – well, he tried. He used to go out on, like, one date a month when I was in primary school, but I think he felt guilty leaving me at home with some random babysitter, so it sort of petered out. I mean, obviously I want him to be happy, but because he stayed single all these years I think it brought us even closer together, so we’re like friends – best friends – the two of us against the world!’ She laughs again. And Mathéo thinks:
She looks so happy.
Yes, one really good parent
is
better than two mediocre ones.

‘I thought I was your best friend!’ he protests.

‘You’re both my best friends,’ she says with a grin. ‘I can have two best friends, can’t I? You’re my two favourite people in the world.’

He kisses her goodbye at the front gate under the soft glow of the streetlamps, in no hurry to go inside.

‘I miss you already,’ Lola says plaintively, hanging her arms round his neck.

‘It’s only three days. I’ll be back from Brighton on Monday.’

‘So, I’ll still miss you.’ She pouts, teasingly. ‘Are you saying you won’t miss me?’

He pulls her into his arms and bites her nose. ‘Course I will.’

She snuggles her head against his shoulder and looks up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Don’t forget to say you couldn’t have done it without me when you’re sitting in the press conference with the gold medal round your neck!’

He looks down at her with a long-suffering shake of the head.

She giggles. ‘What?’

‘You’re silly,’ he informs her.

‘But you love me,’ she whispers with a soft smile.

He leans down to kiss her again. ‘I do.’

His clock bleeps, startling him out of his trance. Almost three in the afternoon. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, surrounded by the wreckage of his room, Mathéo is aware of the need to move. He has lain immobile here for far too long. Consuela will be home with Loïc any minute now: Lola, Hugo and Isabel will shortly be leaving school. Mathéo realizes he is going to have to do something about this mess. God forbid Consuela should see this: she would call the police, and for some reason, as yet indefinable, he knows that matters. The only person who can put things right is Mathéo himself. He needs to return his bedroom to its usual orderly appearance.

Although there is nothing but a black hole where yesterday should have been, other memories still remain, anchoring him somewhat to the present, even if, in this pool of utter chaos, he still feels lost, like a cork at sea. With a concentrated effort, he excavates the most recent memories from his brain. Yesterday he was in Brighton, competing in the GB nationals. Not only did he make the cut but he won, he came first – he remembers calling Lola, and then his parents; he remembers the press conference with Aaron, who won silver, and Sam Natt, who beat Zach by a tiny margin to claim bronze. He remembers leaving the Aquatic Centre to go out and celebrate with the squad. He doesn’t remember coming home – no doubt pretty wasted after celebrating with a night on the town. Now he is home, and so today must be Monday, which explains the empty house: his parents are at work, Loïc is at school, Consuela food shopping. But what happened to his room? The only explanation is that he trashed it himself, but why?
Why?

Hurrying downstairs, wincing at the pains darting through his whole body, he returns with a handful of bin bags. Most of his possessions will have to be chucked. The twisted, broken trophies could possibly be salvaged, so he pushes them against the very back of his cabinet, out of direct view. The books he returns to the shelves, roughly shoving the torn, crumpled pages back between the covers. His laptop he hides beneath his bed – there’s a guy at school who might be able to fix it. His desktop computer, however, is smashed beyond repair and the keyboard is in several pieces. He wraps them up in one of the bags and starts piling torn clothes, snapped DVDs, crushed cases, smashed photo frames, and even a mangled comb into the other. Blood and mud stain his sheets and pillow case – he drags them off his bed and bins these too.