Hurt (7 page)

Her eyes widen and she sucks in her lower lip. She seems to be holding her breath.

‘I love you, Lola.’

His heart stutters and threatens to stop. For a moment he thinks she might not respond. He has said it too soon – this wasn’t the right time, the right setting. And yet he feels it with all his heart, has done for a while now, and perhaps the alcohol and the veil of night have finally given him the courage to actually articulate his thoughts.

Tears glint in her eyes, making him flinch. ‘You don’t have to say anything back, Lola.’

‘I want to.’ She crinkles her nose and presses her fingertips to her eyes. ‘I love you too, Mattie. So much. I’ve been wanting to say it for ages. I just – I was just scared you would take it the wrong way—’

Her words begin to sink in and he feels as if all the air is exiting his body. ‘Really?’

Lola wipes her eyes on her sleeve, sniffs and gives him a disarming smile. ‘Why do you think I only applied to drama colleges in London?’

He stares at her, momentarily stunned. ‘I thought – I thought that was so you could save money by living at home—’

‘Of course not, silly. It’s so that I can still spend time with you while you’re training.’

‘Wow.’ He is speechless for a moment. ‘Does Jerry know?’

‘Of course! He totally understands. He was the one who found me that job in the bookshop so I could save enough money to travel to watch you compete.’

‘But I thought that was to help pay for uni fees—’

Lola shakes her head slowly with a small smile. ‘No, the trust fund he set up for me out of my mother’s life insurance will pay for that.’

‘Cool!’ Mathéo tries to smile but feels his throat constrict. ‘So . . . Does that mean you want us to stay together for—’ He breaks off suddenly, unsure how to continue. ‘For – for a long time?’

‘Yes. Or maybe even a very long time?’

He nods, unable to speak for a moment. ‘A very long time,’ he finally manages to whisper. ‘Maybe even for ever.’

She smiles suddenly, fresh tears pooling in her eyes.

‘Don’t!’ he says with a quick laugh. ‘Or you’re going to start me off too. Just—’ He inhales raggedly. ‘For God’s sake, just come here, will you?’

She scoots over onto his lap and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a tight hug, high up on their perch above the moonlit water.

As Lola unlocks the front door to her house, Mathéo leans his head back against the strings of ivy that have grown down from the bricks over the years like a carpet unravelling.

He closes his eyes with a sigh. ‘Don’t go . . .’

She steps in, hesitates, and then reaches back for him. ‘Stay over.’

‘But you didn’t ask Jerry—’

She laughs at him. ‘Oh, you know he never minds.’

His eyes meet hers and he gives her a shy smile. ‘OK. Just remind me to set the alarm.’

He tiptoes up the stairs behind her, past the softly snoring Jerry, and into her room. Sinking down onto the side of her four-poster bed, he shrugs off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. Lola disappears into the bathroom, and with an effort he unbuckles his belt and lets his jeans slide to the floor. Clad in his boxers and T-shirt, he switches off the light and lets himself fall back against the sheets, leaving space for Lola beside the window.

The door creaks and Lola pads in barefoot in her nightie, long hair cloaking her bare arms. As she comes round to her side of the bed, Mathéo turns his head against the pillow, smiling up at her sleepily. Even though his lids feel hot and heavy, he forces them open to stare at her silhouette. The light of the streetlamps falls across her face, highlighting her tousled hair. She climbs onto the bed, but instead of getting under the covers, kneels up beside him, her eyes opalescent in the half-light.

‘Are you tired?’ she whispers.

He feels the breath catch in his throat. ‘No.’

He turns towards her abruptly, a sharp edge to his gaze. As she moves in closer, he feels his breathing quicken and a strange hum fill the air. Sitting up, he reaches out for her, pulling her towards him. Silence descends, as thick and tangible as the velvety darkness that surrounds them. All he can hear is the faint sound of her breath, soft and whispery against his face. He moves his hand so that his fingertips touch the warmth of her cheek, sliding his hands into her hair. Tilting his head, he closes his eyes and leans in until their lips meet.

He breathes her in, smelling her in the heat that rises from her skin. She tastes of strawberry lip salve and toothpaste. Her lips, her tongue – always so soft. He takes a startled breath and places his hands on either side of her face, pulling her closer, kissing her harder. He wants to press up to her, fall into her, feel her hands over him like the sea. His heart is pounding, the blood pumping through his veins. Every nerve and synapse and neuron is on fire, as though channelling electric currents: crackling and spitting sparks. He reaches for the hem of her nightie, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, then dragging off his own T-shirt, kneeling up on the bed so that their bodies are pressed together, so that he can feel the warmth of her breasts against his chest, her hair tickling his shoulders, her hands on his bare skin, muscles shuddering beneath the brush of her fingertips.

As he grips her by the shoulders, her hands ball into fists in his hair. They are kissing wildly, violently now, without a shred of control. His lips and tongue ache with the force of it. He presses his teeth against Lola’s bottom lip, sucks at her neck as her hands stroke and pull at his shoulders, travel down his back. He is acutely aware of their mingled breath tearing and shredding the air around them. Falling back against the pillows, he tries to pull her down on top of him, but she resists and he feels a stab of panic rush through him.

‘Lola, why? That’s not fair—’

‘We’ve run out of condoms,’ she whispers with a wince.

He snatches his jacket from the floor. Shoves his hands into its pockets. Pulls out his wallet and fumbles through it. ‘Ta-da!’

They collapse back on the bed, naked now, their bodies pressed into one. They are kissing hard, frantically – there is no one to stop them, no fear of interruption, no limit on their time. But instead of making them languorous, it adds a new element of excitement and urgency to the situation. Between kisses, he pants gently against her neck, the pain of longing pulsing through his whole body. He kisses every part of her face, her ears, her neck. He needs to touch every part of her, feel every inch of her. He wants to inhale her. He longs for her so much, it physically hurts. As he enters her, he curves forward, sucking in his breath, tensing and staring down at her face as if seeing it for the first time. A small sound escapes him and he closes his eyes.

He is having to hold himself so tight, he can feel himself shaking. It’s been almost a week since they last had sex – he knows he isn’t going to last long.

‘Slow down – slow down!’ he implores in a hoarse whisper, forcing out each word.

‘Shh, OK!’ Flushed and exquisite beneath him, she stares up into his eyes, breathing hard.

He buries his face in her neck. Taut as a wire, he inhales sharply, and again holds his breath and closes his eyes, hands scraping and scratching at the rough cotton sheets. His heart thuds hard in his chest, his breath shudders in his lungs and he tries to remember to keep breathing. The tingling feeling grows inside him like an electrifying warmth, almost a pain, all his muscles twitching. Then the rush fills his body and he feels he will burst from the strength of it. His whole being is taken over by an electric current, and he trembles with repercussions that send him reeling and gasping for air.

‘I’m going to come,’ he tells her in an urgent whisper.

Arching her back, Lola stares up at him, letting out a small cry. He feels himself tense so violently he seems sure to implode. He shudders again and again, scarlet madness rushing through him at full tilt. Unable to breathe without heaving, the gasps catch in his throat. He scrunches up his eyes, clenches his fists, and Lola holds him tight until the convulsions die away and slowly, gradually, the madness begins to fade.

Panting hard, he rolls onto his side and allows his head to fall against the pillow. Lola strokes his head, making him jump; he can feel the sweat on the back of his neck, down the length of his spine. He feels enveloped in warmth, heat even, his heart still pounding against his ribcage, the sparkling, tingling feeling still rushing though his veins. Inhaling deeply, he raises his head and kisses Lola, then rests his head against her chest, his body still caught up in sporadic shivers as she encircles him with her arms. The sweat between them is warm and slippery, and he clings to her as if to a yacht’s mast on a stormy sea, their two bodies panting in silent unison.

He wouldn’t have made it home in time if Lola hadn’t had the presence of mind to set her alarm for four a.m. He dresses hurriedly and kisses her while she buries herself beneath the duvet, barely awake, warm and flushed with sleep. By the time Mathéo has jogged home through the first light of dawn, crept in through the back of the still sleeping house, changed into his swim trunks and tracksuit, he hears his father begin to stir. Mathéo finds him seated at his usual place at the kitchen table in his suit, drinking a large cup of coffee, as thick and black as tar. He holds out the usual banana and energy bar as Mathéo walks in, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.

Whenever his father can go into work late, he drives Mathéo to training. If he doesn’t have any early morning meetings, he may even stay for the whole two hours. Usually, though, he has to set off for work before the training session is out, leaving Mathéo to catch the bus straight to school. Unfortunately today his dad doesn’t have to be in the office until mid-morning and intends to sit out the whole session – as he informs his son as soon as they meet.

They leave the slumbering house in their usual silence and slam into the front of Dad’s BMW. Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as they make their way up the drive, Mathéo turning his head to look out of the window in the hope that his father won’t notice the violet hollows beneath his eyes. Despite his painfully short night, he feels elated that he got to spend it with Lola.

People always seem to think that because he has been diving for so long – nearly half his life now – he must be used to it, must find it easy, must have conquered all his fears. But the truth is, a diver never entirely conquers his fears. You learn to manage them, as he began doing aged thirteen, when his father dragged him off to see a sports psychologist because he refused to attempt a back dive. Throwing himself backwards and plummeting down ten metres without being able to see where he was going was just too horrific to contemplate, and when harangued by Perez, then his father, Mathéo ended up sobbing at the very back of the board, refusing to budge. Since then he has learned to control his fear rather than conquer it, but it is always there, and with every step up the chain of seemingly endless iron ladders, his heart rate increases. People also seem to think that a competitive diver – especially one who excels at the ten-metre board – cannot be afraid of heights. But in fact diving makes you hyper aware of heights: the difference between a dropped dive from five metres and one from ten is extreme. A bad entry from the ten-metre board is like a car crash – at best it will wind you, at worst knock you unconscious. Mathéo knows of divers who have split their faces open by hitting the water at the wrong angle, divers who have been killed. When you are jumping and spinning and twisting through the air at thirty-four miles an hour, you had better get it right or the result can be fatal.

But nailing a dive, particularly a high-tariff one in competition, is an almost indescribable experience. The rush of pure adrenalin as you achieve that perfect rip entry, the rising feeling of euphoria as the muffled applause from the stadium reaches you underwater, the sudden burst of unbridled energy as you kick for the surface, searching for the display board, for your score, and the roar of the crowd when the giant digital numbers flicker you into the lead – ahead of your teammates, ahead of the consistently perfect Chinese, ahead of the world. Mathéo lives for those moments, he thrives on them – they are what keep him going: through the treadmill of training, the hours in the pool, the hours in the gym, the hours in the workout room. There is always another competition on the horizon, another competition to be won . . .

Losing hurts, of course; losing hurts like hell. Getting distracted by the lights, the flashing cameras, the fluttering banners and flags, the screaming supporters – it can all cause you a momentary lapse of concentration, a nanosecond of losing yourself in the air, mistiming a takeoff, mistiming a somersault, mistiming an entry. And you know it – feel it in your bones and muscles the moment you hit the water. And whether it’s a bread-and-butter dive or the most difficult one in your set – the one you have been practising every day for months – it hurts. Far worse than a painful landing. It drives a stake through your heart. And you pull yourself up onto the side, shaking the water from your ears, trying to ignore the sympathetic applause, trying to keep your composure as you glance at the score board and see your name slip down through the rankings. But then the anger sets in – the anger with yourself, the anger with the universe; and it’s how you use that anger, his coach and psychologist always say, that makes the difference between a champion and an also-ran. If you can channel that anger, that sense of injustice, into your remaining dives, you can claw back the points, sometimes even make a complete comeback and go on to win the competition. You think:
I’ll show them – I’ll show them what I’m capable of, I’ll show them I won’t be beaten, can’t be beaten, that one dropped dive is nothing
. And then you go back up to the ten-metre platform and execute the perfect dive, and you know the other competitors are thinking,
Damn, this guy just can’t be beaten
.

From the top board at the Ashway Aqua Centre, Mathéo arches his neck to stretch his muscles and stares up at the blinding white concrete roof just above him. From up here, the diving pool below is nothing but a small, rectangular slash of fluorescent blue. Beyond it, miniature people swim up and down the lanes of the regular pool, getting in their early morning workout. Sounds bounce and echo all around him, but up here he always feels oddly removed from it all, in a world of his own. The air is hot and humid – he dries himself with his cloth so that his hands will not slip when he holds his legs while somersaulting down. Slipping out of a dive is just one of the many dangers.