Hurt (22 page)

Pacing his room, phone in hand, he feels increasingly desperate as the morning wears on. He wants to go round to her house, face her in person, so he can tell her the truth, tell her what happened, confess to everything in the hope she might understand. But that would mean having to face Jerry, and he is sure to know by now – Lola tells him everything. Jerry is bound to have asked questions; he always senses when his daughter is upset. To make matters worse, Mathéo has a pretty strong feeling he won’t be able to leave his own house without a grilling – whatever excuse he thinks up. For once his parents are lingering over breakfast . . . he can hear them through his balcony’s open windows.

It is a bright, warm day, at painful odds with his countenance, the sun beaming down from a china-blue sky. A warm breeze floats in, ruffling the white mesh curtains. The clink of glassware and crockery from outside indicates that breakfast on the terrace is still in full swing. Consuela’s nasal tones contrast sharply with his father’s pontificating drawl about the Eurozone crisis, while his mother talks over them both, fussing in French over Loïc’s lack of appetite and shooting orders at Consuela in perfect Spanish. Only Loïc’s voice is missing from the chatter and Mathéo worries that last night’s episode may have rattled him enough to induce him to finally confide in his parents about the nightmares, despite the promise of the night before. It must have shaken Loïc up seeing his big brother, almost ten years his senior, collapsed on the living-room floor, sobbing like a child. Mathéo feels himself flush at the memory. But then again, all this time Loïc has known far more about Mathéo’s distress than the other three combined . . . and, though on the one hand it causes Mathéo pangs of guilt, on the other hand there is no denying that the realization also brings him some relief – relief that there is at least one person who knows, one person who cares, one person who has some idea, however small, of the torment he is going through.

‘
Chéri
, come out and sit down with us. Have some breakfast.’ His mother manages to intercept him before he can even reach the front door.

‘It’s OK. I’m not hungry. I’m just going out for some fresh air.’

‘You can get fresh air right here in the garden.’ She pulls out a chair and directs Consuela towards the coffee pot with the tip of one immaculately manicured finger. Too tired to argue, Mathéo leaves the relative cool of the kitchen and joins them on the terrace, the sun-drenched decking warm under his bare feet. His favourite jeans seem to have stretched since the last time he wore them and, beltless, slip down to rest on his hips beneath the faded grey T-shirt. Despite the giant parasol, the light strikes him painfully in the eyes, making him squint. Already he feels exhausted, flattened by the sheer brightness of the day. Stirring sugar into black coffee, he sags back in his chair and watches the familiar weekend breakfast unfold. Everything is so . . . devastatingly predictable. He doesn’t know why this upsets him, but it does – to the point where it feels almost tragic. The day is already turning out to be another scorcher: the sun beating down from high up in a seamless blue sky, a single blackbird warbling away as if nothing is wrong. Loïc is clad only in pyjama bottoms, his top half bare and fragile-looking, bed-tousled hair hanging like an untidy straw thatch in front of his eyes. He appears bored and sleepy, his eyes listlessly following Consuela as she spreads unwanted jam on his croissant, his narrow shoulders slumped, as if in defeat. His father, dressed for golf and immersed in the
Financial Times
, swats ineffectually from time to time at a large bluebottle, determined to get at his plate. His mother is dressed for the gym but still manages to look elegant in leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one tanned shoulder, hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Come eleven o’clock, his parents will get into their respective cars and drive to their respective leisure centres, Consuela will walk Loïc to his tennis lesson, then later to a play-date or the park, and in the evening his parents will go out to one of their cocktail or dinner parties. The following day will be more of the same, and the family will continue the treadmill of separate weekend leisure and social activities before regrouping for Sunday dinner to mark the end of another meaningless week.

‘You look tired,
chéri
.’ His mother’s voice breaks through the fragile web of tinkling cutlery, rustling paper and buzzing fly. ‘Haven’t you been sleeping properly?’

‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly, levelling his gaze with hers.

‘You’re dreadfully pale and you’ve got huge shadows under your eyes. Mitchell, don’t you think our son looks pale?’

His father lowers his paper and pins Mathéo with a frown. ‘Too much lounging around. His body’s not used to it – Perez should have him training at the gym at least.’ He swats at the fly in irritation. ‘What date did the doctor say you could start diving again?’

‘After I get my stitches out and depending on the results of the EEG scan.’

‘And when’s that?’

‘In two weeks.’

His father sighs in frustration. ‘Perez isn’t suggesting you stop training completely until then, surely?’

‘It really doesn’t matter.’

He sees his father’s eyes widen. ‘What are you talking about?’

Mathéo takes a deep breath and gets to his feet, ready for a quick exit. ‘I never want to see Perez again in my life!’ he declares, leaving the table. And then finds himself articulating words he never thought he’d ever say: ‘I’m giving up diving, Dad.’

‘Lola, let me in. Please, I just want to talk to you. I
have
to talk to you. It’s really important – you have no idea!’

After leaving the house, he decided to wander over to see if Jerry’s van was still missing from the driveway – thankfully it was – but there was no telling when he’d be back. Mathéo has been hammering on the door for the last five minutes, has already heard Lola’s voice from inside, firmly informing him that she is not in the mood to talk and that he should get lost. He sags forward against the solid wood, hanging onto the knocker for support, pressing his face against the crack between the door and its frame, aware from the proximity of her reply that Lola is just behind it, most likely sitting on the stairs.

‘Lola, everything’s falling apart. If – if you never want to see me again after this, then that’s fine. Well, not fine. God, no, not fine, but – but I’ll understand. I promise I’ll leave you alone. But I want to check you’re not hurt and . . . and I want to tell you, Lola! I
have
to tell you. I owe it to you now, and – and if I don’t tell someone soon, I think I’m going to go truly insane! I need – I have to – I think I need help. Lola, please!’ His voice cracks: he has run out of words, run out of time. She has already decided to leave him. He will have to spend the rest of his life without her, trying to find a reason to stay alive. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the archway, utterly spent, the soft fabric of his T-shirt sticking to his back. Suddenly the door opens and he half stumbles, half falls into the hall.

‘Jesus!’ She steadies him with her arm.

Blood-red blotches puncture the air around him. He feels the cool touch of Lola’s hand against his, tries to keep hold of it. Briefly it is as if there is another person there, hovering just behind her, and a frightened, prickling sensation begins to spread all over his skin. He tries to straighten up, tries to still his galloping heart, but the fear is so real he can almost taste it.

He kicks the door shut against the harsh light of the encroaching afternoon and slumps against the wall of the narrow hallway.

‘What is it you wanted to tell me?’ Lola asks, keeping an unnatural distance between them. Her arms are folded round her waist, as if hugging herself against a cold wind that only she can feel. She looks frail and wan, her eyes enormous in her pinched face, violet shadows under pink-rimmed eyes, the sleeves of her blue cardigan pulled down over her hands.

‘Did I hurt you, Lola? I – I mean, physically?’

She doesn’t reply. Instead she turns her head a little and he sees the deep, heavy sadness in her eyes.

‘I thought you had something you wanted to tell me,’ she says after a pause, stepping back and hugging herself more tightly now.

There is this terrible void between them and he doesn’t dare reach out to try and bridge it for fear of her reaction. They are like two beings on opposite banks of a torrent, gazing across at each other while the waters rage between them.

‘I – I do,’ he falters. ‘But first I really need to check your arm; check I haven’t hurt you.’

She seems to shrink back further again, as if fearing his touch. ‘As you can see, I’m fine,’ she says coldly. ‘Nothing broken or anything.’

‘But – but your arm. Your shoulder. It hit the wall. Does it — I mean, did it really hurt?’

She hesitates for a moment, then sucks in her lower lip in an attempt, he can tell, to hold back tears.

His voice bursts out of him with a will of its own. ‘Oh dammit, Lola, please just – just let me see!’

Instinctively, he reaches out a hand and she moves back immediately. ‘It’s just bruised,’ she says quietly.

‘Can – can I have a look?’

‘No.’

‘You – you’ve got to believe me,’ he says, cupping his hands over his mouth, his voice softly desperate. ‘I
never
meant to hurt you. It’s the last thing in the world I’d want to do.’

‘Look, just tell me why you threw me against the wall and then go,’ Lola says, tears pearling on her lashes. ‘I just really need some time alone right now.’

‘OK,’ he says desperately. ‘OK. That’s why I’ve come. I – I—’ He fills his lungs, empties them slowly, wipes the back of his hand across his clammy face, runs his hands through his hair. His knees suddenly feel dangerously weak. ‘Can – can we sit down somewhere?’

Silently she turns, leading the way into the small front room. Rocky is stretched out on the sofa, so Mathéo sits down on the carpet, leaning his back against the armrest and drawing up his knees. Lola curls up on the armchair beside the window.

The room hangs heavy with silence. As much to escape Lola’s expectant gaze as to gather his thoughts, Mathéo finds himself pressing his hands against his face, pushing his fingertips over his eyelids, the vision inside his head filling with exploding, blood-red stars.
You have to tell her
, he reminds himself.
You will probably lose her anyway, but if you want even the slimmest chance of getting her back, you have absolutely no option but to tell her. And it has to be now. Right now. This very minute. Because Jerry could come back at any moment. And because if you sit here in silence a second longer, she will imagine you tricked her into letting you in and will demand that you leave. And she’s already angry. Angry and upset and confused and . . . Do it now! Speak, for fuck sake!

‘Mattie, if you’re not—’

‘I am, I am!’ His voice is almost a shout, and he sees her start. ‘I’m just . . . Shit, I should have worked out how I was going to say it before coming here—’

‘To make the story more convincing, you mean?’

‘No! So that I knew what words to use to describe this – this fucking dreadful—’ A pain grips his throat, forcing him to stop, and he claws at his face in despair.
You’ve got to calm down. You’ve got to tell her. With every passing second she is slipping away from you. Like the girl in the bath. She is starting to disbelieve you and you haven’t even begun. Any moment now and you’ll lose her for ever!

‘Mattie, I can’t deal with all this right now. Just go, please.’

He forces his hands away from his face. His fingers are wet. ‘Lola, please – you’ve got to let me talk—’

‘Talk, then!’

‘I’m trying! Just promise me you won’t hate me!’

She stands up and steps tentatively towards him. ‘You cheated on me.’

‘Yes . . . No!’ Cheating – suddenly he can’t quite fathom the meaning of the word. ‘Oh God . . .’

‘Jesus.’ She winces as if from a blow. Turns her head away and closes her eyes. ‘Get out.’

‘I didn’t cheat!’ He jumps to his feet, grabs her by the shoulders and hears her gasp. ‘I didn’t cheat, I didn’t, I didn’t! At least I didn’t
want
to!’ He presses a fist to his mouth to strangle a sob.

‘Let go of me, Mattie! Let go of me right now!’ She is shouting.

‘No! You’ve got to hear this – you’ve got to know, you’ve got to understand!’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Just listen!’

‘I don’t want to hear it!’ She grabs his arms, tries to push him away.

‘You have to!’

‘No! Get off me, Mattie, or I’ll scream, I swear!’

‘I was attacked!’

‘What?’

He shakes her by the shoulders. ‘I was attacked, OK? I was forced – I was forced – I was forced . . . Oh shit!’

She stops struggling, stares, quiet suddenly, and very, very still. ‘Forced to what?’

He commands his gaze to meet hers, gasping, heart pounding, trickles of sweat running down the side of his face. ‘To – to . . . Oh fucking hell, Lola . . . to – to have sex . . .’

She pulls back angrily. ‘Oh, you were forced to cheat, were you?’ Her voice is mocking now, heavy with sarcasm. ‘Some girl just threw herself at you?’

‘It wasn’t a girl. It – it was a guy. He was bigger. A hell of a lot heavier. I fought as hard as I could, but he had . . . Lola, I’m sorry. He beat the crap out of me, he threatened to kill me: he had a knife and so I believed him. I got scared, so scared. I couldn’t fight any more, so – so I let him!’ He feels the tears puncture through his eyes. A harsh sob escapes him.

There is a terrible silence. He lets go of Lola’s shoulders and she almost falls backwards, stunned. ‘You were . . .’ She struggles to finish the sentence. ‘You were raped?’

He nods, holding his breath, silent tears spilling down over his cheeks, hot and heavy, dropping from the edge of his jaw and onto the collar of his T-shirt.

‘When?’ Lola gasps.

‘At – at the Nationals in Brighton. The n-night after the win. I was walking back to the hotel and – and this guy said he needed help. So I followed him!’

He sees her face change: first shock, then horror, then a mixture of fear and despair. ‘Mattie! Oh no – oh God . . .’