Hurt

  He has no idea what he wants to do as a career, cannot imagine a life beyond diving. He initially wanted to study English Literature, but as his parents and certain teachers drummed into him, he would just reappear after three years with the kind of degree that would have him trained for nothing other than bullshitting his way through a critical essay. Law, his parents said, or medicine, or finance – become a banker like Dad: yes, that was the obvious choice. So, despite having no interest in the subject, Mathéo did as he was told and applied to do economics at Cambridge. If he stays injury-free and does well enough at the Rio Games, he will no doubt continue diving for another two or three Olympics, spending every waking moment either studying, working, training or competing. Until his form begins to dip, until his body gives out. And then he will most likely get a job in the City, at some investment firm, working fourteen- and fifteen-hour days like his father. Marrying someone, having kids he never sees, with no choice but to put them through the same educational treadmill – because at the end of the day, education is compulsory, and for a reason: without it you face a life of cleaning up other people’s shit. So, if you’ve got the means, you try to shove your own children as far away from the shit-cleaning as possible by sending them to the best school you can afford. Even if it means spending the rest of your days working in vacuous professions such as finance or investment or law, ripping off those who can afford it or those who can’t but are desperate. Like his mother, for example: a hotshot solicitor who charges by the minute . . . He loathes it all, Mathéo realizes; the whole system. He loathes it more with every passing second.

  Another fourteen minutes and thirty-five seconds before the lunch bell. Time presses down on him, slowly spinning to a stop, hanging in the air. It is an effort to move his limbs, to turn his head. The day goes on outside in the street, but in here, time moves in infinitesimal increments, or doesn’t move at all. He has one of those expensive, sleek, super-accurate analogue watches – silver, with a broad black leather strap – a present from his parents in exchange for the string of As and A stars he brought back for GCSEs . . . His brain empties suddenly. He feels flattened, and it is almost an effort to breathe. He doesn’t want to do anything, can’t concentrate – a dull, mute pounding against his skull.

  He is aware of the teacher’s eyes on him.

  ‘Mathéo, are you feeling all right?’

  The squat, middle-aged man has been walking up and down the aisles and, breaking off from his soliloquy, comes to a stop beside Mathéo’s desk. It isn’t until he glances up into the teacher’s mildly concerned face that Mathéo realizes that, unlike the rest of the class, who are now engaged in some lively debate, he is just sitting there, currently studying a chip in the wooden desk beside his unopened pencil case.

  ‘Uh, not really. Headache. Can I go to the nurse?’

  But once free of the classroom, he doesn’t head for the medical room. He considers the library, but he is not in the mood for reading. Instead, he walks the corridors restlessly, passing the odd janitor or student between classes, recognizing a face here and there. He wonders if any of them can tell just from looking at him that his pain is so total, so complete, that it consumes him. It is terminal. He feels so entrapped by the horror of existence that it is hard to comprehend why the whole world doesn’t feel it too. His polished school shoes squeak rhythmically against the red and white chequered lino, a lonely soundtrack to his purposeless meandering. He wishes he could describe the feeling to someone, so they could help him; help him understand what is happening. But it’s something he can barely put into words. Just a heavy, over-whelming despair. Dreading everything. Dreading life. Empty inside, to the point of numbness. And terrified he is stuck down here for good.

  The school canteen is a sea of white acrylic, nothing but whiteness, the vast hall buzzing with shouting, jostling, laughing students. It’s so loud in here it hurts his head. The industrial-sized windows overlooking the sports fields let in too much sun, flooding the walls with brightness, turning the whole place into a giant light box. Getting through the buffet line seems to take for ever – faced by the options he cannot choose, his stomach turns over at the sight and smell of all that food. People seem to be knocking into him on purpose; faces he barely recognizes break into smiles of congratulation – he manages to nod and smile back, thankful for the general din drowning out his half-formed words. Standing still, tray in hand amidst the tide of passing bodies, he is lost for a moment, unsure where to go. Until he spots Lola in the far corner, away from the throng, mercifully alone.

  She is finishing off an application form with one hand while forking pasta into her mouth with the other. As he sets down his tray opposite her and takes a seat, she glances up only briefly, before returning to her paper and lunch.

  ‘Hi,’ he says uncertainly, thrown by her lack of greeting.

  She continues scribbling in her barely legible scrawl without looking up, munching solidly. For one awful moment he feels like he might be invisible, a figment of his own imagination, but then she swallows her mouthful.

  ‘Hi.’ She does not look up again.

  ‘Uh . . .’ He picks up his fork and moves the salad around on his plate. ‘Are you busy?’

  She slaps her pen down on her notebook in a gesture of exasperation and pins him with a look. ‘Not particularly. Why?’

  ‘Well, I just—’ He sucks in his right cheek, biting and pulling at the skin. ‘Are you mad about something?’

  She opens her eyes wide, as if amazed by his stupidity. ‘Well, yeah, Mattie. And kind of confused!’

  ‘About yesterday—’ He swallows a bitter taste at the back of his throat. ‘I’m sorry I took off like that. I wasn’t feeling too good. Just kinda dizzy, you know? Maybe I was dehydrated from the competition or something.’

  ‘That’s why you switched your phone off for eighteen hours? And refused to return any of the messages I left with the nanny?’

  ‘I crashed out for the rest of the day and most of the night,’ he tells her truthfully. ‘I was knackered.’

  ‘You could have called me before school this morning to tell me you weren’t coming to pick me up! I nearly missed first period waiting for you. And you could have answered my texts!’

  Mathéo forces himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes spark with anger, but he also detects a hint of bewilderment and worry that sets his head pulsing. He doesn’t want to spike her concern further by telling her he had kept his phone switched off since yesterday, purposely leaving it unchecked so that he wouldn’t be faced with the barrage of concerned voicemails from his coach, his parents, Consuela, his friends and even Lola herself.

  She is staring at him, waiting for an answer.

  He draws his lower lip in between his teeth. ‘I messed up. I’m sorry.’

  Her mouth drops open. ‘You’re sorry!’ she exclaims. ‘Mattie, I’ve been worried sick! If it wasn’t for your parents I’d have come round.’

  He winces against the sound of her voice, her words piercing the fragile membrane that seems to surround him. ‘Look, I really am sorry, I don’t want to fight. Lola, please don’t be mad, I can’t deal with this now. I’m just so tired—’ The words catch in his throat and he stumbles to a halt.

  ‘Mattie, I’m not mad, OK? I was just worried, that’s all. I didn’t – I didn’t know . . .’

  A big, vacuous silence: Lola as much at a loss for words as he is himself. She is worried, he can hear it in her voice. She stretches her bare arm across the table and cups her hand over his.

  ‘Mattie, please. Please, just tell me what’s going on.’ Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

  He shakes his head, forces a laugh and pulls his hand away. ‘Nothing! I’m just – I just seem to be in this weird mood . . .’

  Her eyes are searching. ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘Nothing!’ He exclaims with mock annoyance. ‘I just hate it when we fight, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re not fighting, Mattie.’

 
‘OK, OK – well, good.’ He takes a ragged breath. ‘Because – because I’ve blown off training so I’m free to hang out all evening, if you’ll put up with me!’ He forces a laugh.

  She gives him an uncertain look, as if weighing up whether to press on with the inquisition or accept the sudden change in mood. ‘Cool!’ she exclaims after a beat. ‘That’s perfect because I agreed to meet Hugo and Izzy for pizza in the park and I wasn’t looking forward to being the third wheel.’

  His heart plummets. For the life of him, he cannot remember how he ever tolerated hanging out so much with those two when his time with Lola was already so limited.

  ‘Are you up for that?’ His expression must have betrayed him: all at once she looks uncertain.

  ‘Of course! I’ll pick up some beer!’

  ‘It’s a school night, Mattie.’

  He laughs at her and shrugs. ‘So?’

  ‘Hey, that’s my man!’ Hugo raises a hand for a highfive as Mathéo jogs over towards them with a pack of Stella, pulling his tie down, shirt tails flapping loose. He slaps Hugo’s hand and kneels down on the grass between the girls, who are busy dividing up the pizzas. The sight of the red peppers and sauce turns his stomach for a moment. He tosses Hugo a can and rocks back on his heels, angling his head into the warm breeze and taking a steadying breath. When he turns back he finds Lola’s eyes on his face, the crease of concern once again furrowing her brow.

  He forces a smile. ‘Well, this is nice.’

  She returns the smile, but the hint of sadness in her eyes throws him for a moment and his precarious veneer threatens to splinter. Quickly opening his can of beer, he takes a long swig.

  ‘Aren’t you excited about winning the Nationals?’ Isabel asks him through a mouthful of food. ‘I mean, has it actually sunk in yet?’

  With a monumental effort, he forces himself to engage. ‘Yeah, course!’ He raises his eyebrows and smiles in an attempt to reinforce the words. ‘But, you know, another whole year till the Olympics. Still plenty of work to be done . . .’ His voice tails off at the sinking thought.

  ‘I think this calls for a drinking game!’ Hugo declares.

  ‘No, I want to sunbathe.’ Pulling a magazine from her bag, Isabel opens it and tries to lie back, but Hugo immediately snatches it out of her hands.

  ‘Don’t be so boring, Izzy!’

  ‘Ow ow ow!’ she screeches. ‘Multiple paper cuts!’

  ‘Serves you right.’

  Their banter is loud and jarring, highlighting the strained silence between Lola and himself.

  ‘Matt, Lola – are you guys in?’ Hugo shouts, swatting Isabel’s bare legs with the rolled-up magazine.

  ‘What are we playing?’ Lola asks cautiously.

  ‘I Have Never . . .’

  ‘Excellent!’ Lola exclaims. She glances back at Mathéo and shoots him an encouraging grin. ‘You in?’

  He switches on the smile and gives what he hopes is a suitably enthusiastic nod. ‘Sure!’ Shuffling closer to the group on his knees, he leans forward in an attempt to emphasize his willingness to participate.

  Everyone settles down, falling quiet as they start thinking up statements, the first can of beer placed in the centre of their scraggly circle. After a moment of careful consideration, Hugo starts. ‘I have never’ – pause for dramatic effect – ‘had a threesome.’ He looks around hopefully.

  Nobody reacts. Then, suddenly, with a dramatic sigh, Lola raises an arm and reaches for the can.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I always knew!’

  ‘Very funny!’

  She falls back, laughing, leaving the can unopened.

  Isabel goes next. ‘I have never . . . done it in a field.’ She glances at Mathéo to watch his reaction.

  He glares at Lola. ‘I can’t believe you told her!’

  ‘What? When?’ Hugo looks outraged.

  Mathéo reaches for the can and takes a good slug before passing it to Lola. The girls laugh. ‘Last Easter,’ they chant in unison.

  ‘You never told me that!’ Hugo protests.

  ‘You might be my best mate, but there are certain things that I keep to myself,’ Mathéo teases.

  ‘How come Izzy knew?’

  ‘Because they’re girls! They talk about everything!’ Mathéo laughs, genuinely, for the first time in days. It feels good. As the game continues, he feels himself begin to relax, the alcohol and superficial banter gradually quietening his raging thoughts. This is normality, he reminds himself. This is the kind of stuff I should be thinking about. Who snogged who and when, who was the first to have sex, who has done the most outlandish or crazy things . . .

  Lola has a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘I have never fancied my teacher.’

  ‘Bitch!’ Isabel laughs, kicking out at her with her bare foot.

  ‘No way! At Greystone?’ Mathéo asks.

  Hugo rolls his eyes. ‘Remember that gap-year student – Ronnie something?’

  ‘He was really hot,’ Lola comments dreamily.

  Mathéo gives her a playful shove. ‘What – you too?’

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ She laughs at his outrage.

  ‘I’ve got one, I’ve got one!’ Isabel shouts, alight with revenge. ‘I have never’ – she gives Lola an evil smile – ‘been arrested.’

  ‘I wasn’t arrested!’ Lola shrieks, laughing.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Isabel retracts. ‘I’ve never committed a crime then.’

  ‘Nicking a plastic bracelet from Claire’s Accessories when I was thirteen is hardly a crime!’ Lola protests.

  ‘Uh, yes it is. Thief!’ Hugo shoves the beer can towards her and Lola obediently takes a swig.

  ‘Anyone else?’ she laughs, waving the can around enthusiastically. ‘Anyone else a hardened criminal like me?’

  She is looking straight at Mathéo, as if she knows. As if she knows about yesterday morning, and his trashed room, the scrapes on his elbows and knees, the scratches on his arms and back; as if she doesn’t believe his story about the bruise on his forehead, his cut lip, his scabbed knuckles. Criminal. As if she knows what he’s done, what he’s become.

  He isn’t aware of raising his arm and knocking the can out of her hand; only of the thud as his arm makes contact with her wrist, the can arcing over her head, showering her hair with beer, scattering the sunlight.

  ‘What the hell . . .?’

  He hears their shouts of protest, voices raised in shock and alarm, calling him back, demanding an explanation, but he has grabbed his bag and got to his feet in one swift movement, and is already through the park gates, sprinting out onto the street.

  He slams into the relative coolness of the house and sags back against the front door, his school shirt sticking to his skin in damp patches. Wiping his sleeve across his forehead, he attempts to catch his breath, scarlet blotches puncturing the air around him. As his racing heart begins to calm and the world swims back into focus, he gradually becomes aware of an unfamiliar hum of activity in the house around him. He kicks off his shoes in the hall and wanders into the living area. The dining table is dressed in a crisp white tablecloth and covered with plates of food: quails’ eggs, caviar on oatmeal bread, eggs mimosa, oysters, wild salmon, sea bass, potted shrimps, sage-and-anchovy canapés, corn-on-the-cob, rice pudding, baked pears, meringues with strawberries and cream . . . Two restaurant waiters from Home Gourmet are still unpacking dishes and setting them out while his mother – dressed in a black cocktail dress with a large bow on the side – is in the process of turning the breakfast table into a bar. His father, in black suit and bow tie, is busy doing something with the lighting out on the lawn. The conservatory doors have been flung open, filling the whole of the ground floor with evening sunlight, the smell of freshly cut grass, and birdsong.

  His mother turns to face him, eyes rendered enormous by kohl, bright red lips parting to greet him with a smile. ‘Quickly, darling. You need to shower and get changed.’

  He stands there, trailing his school bag, suddenly acutely
aware of his damp, untucked shirt, his loose tie, his rumpled hair. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re having an impromptu party!’ His mother gazes at him as if he’s an idiot. ‘Didn’t you get my voicemail? It’s to celebrate your win.’

  He stares at her and the bustle of preparations with a mounting sense of horror. ‘What? Why? Who’s coming?’

  ‘Oh, just some of our friends. A few of Papa’s colleagues, a few of mine. The Winchesters from down the road. Most of the neighbours, naturellement. Archie and his parents—’

  ‘So basically all your friends. Why do I even need to be here? I have to work out.’

  She appears startled for a moment, and stops polishing the candelabra. Then her look changes to one of anger. ‘How dare you take that tone with me! What’s got into you?’

  ‘I’m just not in the mood for one of your parties!’

  ‘This is for you, Mathéo! Talk about selfish, ungrateful—’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry,’ he says quickly, sensing that her anger is at boiling point. ‘I – I didn’t realize.’

  ‘Of course we’ve invited your friends too,’ his mother continues defensively, the colour high in her face. ‘The other boys on the squad, Coach Perez, even Jerry and Lola—’

  She’s got to be joking. ‘Jerry and Lola? They’re coming too? Does Lola even know about this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mathéo, I only spoke to her father half an hour ago. Anyway, please, pull yourself together and go and get changed, the guests will be arriving any moment.’