Hurt (3 page)

‘Oi!’ She lunged again, and this time caught hold of his wrist. ‘Open your hand!’

The look of fierce determination on her face made him chuckle. ‘No!’

‘Fine, then I will!’ She attempted to prise open his fingers. ‘Oh God, why are guys always so freakishly strong?’ As she dug her index finger into his fist, he allowed her to gradually unclench his hand until she found it empty.

Sucking in her breath, she appeared shocked for a moment, her eyes meeting his, her fingers still round his wrist. For a second she was so close he could almost smell her hair . . . He stepped back with a jolt, blood thrumming in his cheeks.

‘What?’ she asked sharply, noticing the change in his expression.

He managed a quick laugh, galloped back a few steps and pulled the watch out of his pocket. ‘Catch!’

She squawked and had to jump for it, only just making contact as it arced over her head.

‘Oh, my poor watch!’ Lowering her hands, she inspected it carefully, polishing its face with the hem of her shirt, then holding it up to the light to scrutinize it for scratches. ‘This is brand new, you know – a leaving present from a friend back home. God, if I’d lost it—’

‘You’re welcome,’ he interrupted with a sarcastic grin.

She slipped it back on her wrist and pinned him with a stare. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! Thank you for trying to steal it and then nearly throwing it in the water!’ Brushing the hair back from her face, she shook her head with a long-suffering air, but he detected a glint of humour in her cut-glass eyes.

Leaving the park and its orchestra of summer scents, they exchanged crunchy gravel for the unyielding asphalt of the main road, striped with long, spiked shadows, the tall buildings robbing the pedestrians below of the final minutes of sunlight. Almost immediately they found themselves swallowed up by the rush of commuters hurrying towards the gaping mouth of the Tube, while the open doors of bars spewed out laughing, chattering people, before sucking others back in again. From a café somewhere the pounding bass of a drum seemed to shake the ground, and the whole cacophony of the street rose to greet them as if someone had just turned up the volume, raised voices reverberating inside his skull. Crowds eddied around him, their faces looming large as in a telescope, filling the lens. Ahead of him, swept away by the current, Lola had almost reached the street corner. Half turning, she called back: ‘So I guess I’ll see you around school . . .?’

But already she was disappearing from view, fading into the crowd.

He took a deep breath. ‘How about you give me your number? My friend’s having a party this weekend . . .’ A lie, but he knew he could count on Hugo.

A brief moment of hesitation, and then she was elbowing her way back towards him. People swarmed past them like ants round an obstacle. He produced a leaky biro from his pocket and felt the nib tickle and scratch against the palm of his hand. Then she flashed him a smile before once again being engulfed by the human tide. As she was washed away by the mass of seething bodies, he moved back, away from the flow, sagging against the glass of a department store, utterly spent but unable to stop smiling.

‘Aargh!’ Lola grabs him by the shoulders and topples him backwards so that he finds himself with his head in her lap, staring up at the sky. ‘What are you day-dreaming about? Winning Olympic gold?’

He lets out a snort. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘Hey, I’m counting on you winning that gold medal next year!’ Lola teases. ‘I mean, why else would I be going out with you?’

He gives her an evil smile.

‘We’d better make a move. It’s Orange Wednesday,’ she reminds him.

Wednesday evening is movie night for Lola. Every week, without fail, her father takes her to the cinema. Both movie buffs, it’s one of many fun routines they started way back when Lola was still at nursery school and lost her mother to cancer. When she and Mathéo first started going out, she would try and persuade him to come along too, but despite being flattered to be included, he always firmly refused, not wanting to encroach on her time with her father.

Lola gathers her things, and he levers himself to his feet and slings the strap of his school bag across his chest, shoving his damp feet back into his shoes.

‘Hey, guys!’ Hugo calls out from his spot in the sun with Isabel. ‘You off already?’

‘Yeah, unlike you lazy sods, we have better things to do,’ Lola shouts back teasingly. ‘See you tomorrow.’

The kitchen door of the Baumanns’ house is open onto the courtyard, the smell of cooked apples billowing out with the steam, and Lola’s dog, Rocky, scampering around in circles on the grass patch, chasing a leaf into the early evening breeze.

‘Come in and say hi to Dad – he’s been asking after you.’

As they approach the gate, Mathéo can already make out Jerry Baumann at the cooker, his favourite Guns N’ Roses apron tied beneath a slightly sagging stomach, rattling a saucepan with gusto to the blast of Queen on the radio.

‘Dad, you’re gonna get in trouble with the neighbours again!’ Lola shouts by way of greeting.

Jerry sets the pan down on the hob with a clatter, turns round with a broad grin and, in his usual manner, envelops his daughter in a bear hug as soon as she steps through the door.

‘Ow, I can’t breathe. Why are you cooking already?’

Ignoring her protests, Jerry turns to Mathéo and claps him heartily on the back. ‘How’s my favourite diver?’

‘The only diver you know,’ Mathéo responds automatically, playfully swatting Jerry away and circling the table to tussle with Rocky. Mathéo has always loved this house. So warm and snug. So small and cluttered and messy. So very different from his own.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ Jerry urges him as Lola disappears upstairs to change. ‘I got off work early so I thought I’d be a good dad and do some baking.’

‘Thanks, it smells great but I’m not really hungry.’ Mathéo holds out a hand in an attempt to restrain Jerry from passing him a piece of apple pie.

‘You’re looking undernourished as usual,’ Jerry counters, taking no notice and pushing the plate towards him. ‘You need fuel for all that training!’

‘Hardly.’ But he sits, breaks off a small piece of burned crust and surreptitiously feeds it to Rocky, salivating expectantly under the table.

‘Dad, it starts in ten minutes!’ Lola rushes in with her handbag, narrowly missing Mathéo’s plate as she dumps it unceremoniously on the table. ‘I’m sure your pie is divine but I really want to get good seats for once, so can we please go?’ She rushes over to the oven and turns off the heat. ‘Daaad! One of these days you’re going to burn the house down.’

Jerry intercepts her at the fridge, holding out a spoon. ‘Just a taste. I made it from scratch from the new recipe book you got me.’

Glancing at Mathéo, Lola shoots him a long-suffering look and reluctantly accepts the mouthful. ‘You’re force-feeding Mattie too?’ she exclaims indistinctly, her mouth full. ‘Aargh, Dad, that burned my tongue!’ She strides over to the sink and bends over to drink straight from the tap.

‘Do you think it’s a bit overcooked?’ Jerry carries on blithely, ignoring his daughter’s antics. ‘I’m worried I left it in the oven too long.’ He takes a bite himself.

‘I think it’s delicious,’ Mathéo assures him.

‘Mattie, stop being polite! Would you please just tell my father to get his butt out of here?’ Lola implores.

But Mathéo is quick to raise his hands with a small laugh. ‘Whoa, you know I never take sides between you two.’

She scowls at him. ‘Coward.’

With the help of Rocky, Mathéo manages to finish his slice, watching the interaction between father and daughter with customary amusement. Lola and Jerry have a relationship like no other he has seen before. They are mates, partners in crime. Mathéo’s own parents always comment that Jerry allows his daughter to do as she pleases – run wild and have whatever she wants – because he is trying to make up for the loss of her mother, but Mathéo doesn’t agree. For the majority of Lola’s life, it’s just been the two of them, and so they seem to have formed a bond so strong it sets them apart from the rest of the world.

Mathéo’s parents tend to dismiss Jerry as a hippie – and no doubt he once was – but now he is more of a middle-aged rocker. Former lead singer in quite a well-known band, Jerry seems to have passed his talent down to his daughter. The two of them are passionate about music – seventies rock in particular: David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Lou Reed, Queen, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones . . . Jerry and Lola even have a little band of their own: Jerry composes and plays the drums, Lola plays the guitar and sings.

But over and above their shared passion for music, what Mathéo has always found remarkable about the two of them is the way they interact. It helps that Jerry is laid back and that Lola is not known for her wild streak, but they share a camaraderie usually only found between best friends. Sometimes it seems as if Lola is the adult – reprimanding her father for leaving his camera gear lying around or for shopping for ready meals. Materially they aren’t wealthy – Lola is at Greystone on a music scholarship, and he knows Jerry struggles to pay the mortgage out of his salary as a freelance photographer – but on the other hand, when Jerry receives assignments he gets to travel the world, usually taking Lola out of school for days at a time, and almost every wall in their small but cosy little house is covered with prints of Lola at every age in all sorts of exotic locations. When he is working locally, Jerry always seems to be home to greet her after school – chatting about her day, plying her with snacks and drinking in every little detail. He is always on hand to help with homework, and in the evening they take Rocky to the park together. After dinner they might watch some TV, or download a film or, if Lola isn’t too tired, head for the studio-shed at the bottom of the garden and work on Jerry’s compositions . . .

The first time Lola brought him back to introduce him to her father, a couple of weeks after they started dating, Mathéo was nervous. He expected Jerry to be very protective of his only daughter. And he was, in a way. But he approved of his daughter’s first serious boyfriend, Mathéo could tell. Jerry was friendly and took an interest in Mathéo’s diving, right from the start. Even now, even though his training usually gets in the way, they always make an effort to include him. Mathéo shouldn’t feel envious. And yet sometimes, watching them together creates an ache inside him.

After parting company with Lola and Jerry at the end of their street, it takes Mathéo less than ten minutes to walk the nine blocks home. Hawthorne Avenue, otherwise known as Millionaires’ Drive, always seems especially austere after the cosy little street of small terraced houses where Lola lives. Everything about the avenue seems twice the size: the wide, residential road is lined with people-carriers and four-by-fours, interspersed with the odd sports car or motorbike. The trees here are thin and tall, their topmost branches level with the roofs of the identical four-storey houses with their painted white exteriors and shiny black doors. Passing the neighbouring houses, where crystal chandeliers catch the afternoon rays behind the windows, he turns between the pillars outside number twenty-nine and climbs the five steep steps, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans for his key. Pushing open the heavy front door, he steps into the silent hallway. Virtually everything inside the house is white or cream, from the heavy marble tiles downstairs to the thick carpets that muffle every footstep on the upper three floors. Each room is painted white – it makes your eyes ache after a while. The ground floor is open plan: the hall leads to the living room, which in turn opens out into the dining room and then the kitchen. The size of all the rooms is further magnified by the sparse furniture, mostly black or silver – even the light fittings are made of brushed aluminium. The kitchen holds only the essentials: white-topped surfaces, a silver heavy-duty fridge-freezer, eye-level cupboards and a long breakfast bar separating it from the living area. This then contains a black leather sofa with matching armchairs, a glass coffee table, floor lighting, a sound system built into one wall and a flat-screen TV built into another. To the right of the hallway a spiral staircase, still in white marble, leads to the first floor: a second living room, rarely used, a guest room and a bathroom. The second floor belongs to his parents: their bedroom, ensuite of course, his father’s study, and the spare room that no one seems to know what to do with – empty save for a broken exercise bike and some weights. The top floor is the one his parents still refer to as ‘the children’s floor’. First, a spacious bathroom, and next to that a large room that until recently was Loïc’s playroom. Now it’s more of a games room, with a television, a computer, a variety of games consoles, a football table and mini pool table. Across the landing, the two bedrooms are more or less identical: kingsized beds, built-in closets and French windows that open onto balconies overlooking the garden. This is quite large by London standards, about the size of a swimming pool, and consists of a patio strip, followed by a long stretch of closely cropped grass, mowed weekly by the gardener. There are few plants or flowers – the brick walls are free of weeds and vines. Mathéo can’t remember the last occasion he spent any time out there. Even in the summer the garden remains largely unused except for parties. The conservatory doors open straight out onto it, and at the far end of the lawn a small black iron door leads out onto a narrow footpath that runs along the backs of all the gardens and opens onto the street – a useful short cut or escape route when his parents are entertaining.

Back on the top floor, posters of any description are strictly prohibited. The cleaner makes the beds and picks up after them daily, so every evening Mathéo comes home to find his scattered books neatly stacked against the wall, his laptop closed and his desk bearing the telltale smears of a polishing cloth. The discarded clothes have vanished from the floor and the crumpled bedsheet has been replaced by a fresh one. However messy and lived-in Mathéo tries to make his room, by the time he gets back it has always reverted to its customary clinical neatness. It never used to bother him before; in fact, he’d always thought it perfectly normal. It was the only home he’d ever known and his friends’ houses were much the same – although perhaps not quite as large. Until he met Lola. Until he met Jerry and started hanging out at theirs more and more. At first he’d been astounded by the clutter, the lack of a dishwasher, the breakfast things still sitting casually in the sink when they got back from school. The mosaic of photos and sketches and postcards on the fridge door. Dog hair everywhere, crumbs littering the kitchen table. But he soon found out that it was the clutter, the lived-in feel that made it one of the few places he could be completely at ease. One of the few places he could relax, prop his feet up on the furniture, fall asleep on the couch.