Mathéo was used to a lot more than his fair share of female attention. He had been out with a couple of girls before – even one from the year above – but quickly lost interest when they began to make demands on his time, preferring instead to spend his rare free moments with Hugo. But for some inexplicable reason, this girl-in-the-distance captivated him. There was something different about her. She appeared lost in thought, elsewhere, only switching on the automatic smile and slapping on a superficial gloss when forced to engage with the other girls sitting nearby. The difference was so slight as to be barely noticeable, but once he had detected these hairline cracks between her and the rest of the group, he could not turn his eyes away. He found himself studying her as if she were a figure in a painting. She was tall and slender, pretty – no, beautiful – in a long-legged, coltish kind of way. A loose-fitting white shirt hung over the regulation grey school skirt, cuffs undone, flapping around her wrists. Unlike the others in her group her face was devoid of make-up and tanned from the long summer. Her hair was the colour of conkers and hung loose to her waist, long and dishevelled, cloaking her legs as she sat. At rest, her face wore a wistful, slightly dreamy expression, and her wide green eyes gazed far off into the distance, as if indulging in the fantasy of another possible life. There was a look on her face that captivated Mathéo in a way he couldn’t quite define.
Knowing she could not see him, he watched for as long as he dared and found himself unable to take his eyes off her. Why exactly, he could not tell. In some indefinable way he felt drawn to her, as if he already knew her, as if they had been close friends, soulmates even, somewhere in a previous existence. Her mere presence seemed to calm his thoughts, saving him from the vicissitudes of his mind. She appeared before him as familiar, a kindred spirit. Perhaps it was something in her face, her eyes. She seemed to know . . . what, exactly, he was not sure. She seemed to understand. Or rather, he had detected in her the capacity to understand.
With a little smile, he raised his hand.
She returned the gesture, her face igniting for a moment, and then she was gone, striding back to join her friends. The feeling hit. Mathéo stared after her, drawing his lower lip in between his teeth and biting down in confusion. Disappointment yawned open like a cavern in his chest. Was it a gesture of farewell or a friendly acknowledgement of his existence, an invitation even to go over and say hello? But she was back chatting with her friends, denying him the possibility of any further communication.
Her group was packing up, about to set off home. The sun had started to dip in the sky, the early evening colours, soft and roseate, falling like dust over the water. He had missed his chance – if indeed there had even been one in that brief, ephemeral moment. Frustration welled up, pressing at the back of his throat. He watched her wipe her feet clean on the grass before putting on her shoes, stuff the remainder of a sandwich in her mouth and gesticulate wildly while talking to her friends. Chatting animatedly, she followed the others across the expanse of greenery, through the trees and out of the gates without so much as a backward glance.
He felt cheated somehow. As if the wave had been a tease, or a signal to alert him to the fact that she had caught him staring; a warning that he wouldn’t get away with it again. He pressed his fists against his eyes and inhaled deeply, a disappointed, sinking feeling in his chest. It was time to train, time to leave the emptying park, time to go . . . Slinging the strap of his bag across his chest, he said his goodbyes to Hugo and Isabel and slowly got to his feet, his muscles protesting. Passing the pond, he stopped for an instant to soak in the last of the golden rays, the grass drenched in low evening sun, watching the shimmering interplay of light and dark and the gentle arrival of dusk – the conclusion of another day. Spread out before him, the water’s surface was wrinkled and whispering, reflecting thin clouds that stretched across the indigo sky. The geese had reclaimed their territory and glided seamlessly across, serene and proud, melting into the glaucous evening. They brought him peace, and for a few moments he stood there, transfixed by the beauty of the scene . . . Then he shook the fog from his head. Get a grip, he thought. There was only so long he could stand here.
But as he turned, his gaze sweeping over the patch only moments ago alive with the sound of girlish chatter, a sparkle of silver amongst the long blades of grass caught the fading sunlight, reflecting it so brightly it burned his eyes. He blinked, the flash of white light repeating itself on the back of his eyelids. Crossing over, he picked up a watch, its black face no larger than the pad of his little finger. The strap was more of a bracelet – fine, interwoven loops of white gold. He felt its cool weight in his hand: solid, real, the needle ticking soundlessly round and round, making it feel somehow alive.
‘Thief!’ The word was called out casually, teasingly, but caused him to inhale sharply in surprise. The girl was striding down the slope towards him, her long hair tossed by the rising wind. The world quivered around him, and for a moment he was too startled to respond, but then he came to his senses and stepped back, nonchalantly slipping the watch into his pocket.
‘Finders keepers!’ He raised his eyebrows at her with a teasing grin.
She stopped just a few metres away. She was taller than he’d realized, almost the same height as him, and a smattering of freckles covered her cheekbones. Grass stains streaked the hem of her school shirt, one of the buttons was missing and the shape of her slim arms was visible through the sleeves. Dried mud marked her long, pale legs, blood crusting a small scrape just above her knee. A curled leaf was caught in her windswept hair, small pearls adorned her ears, and hanging from a delicate chain, a silver teardrop lay against the smooth skin of her collarbone. For a moment her green eyes widened with incredulity at his response. Then she latched on to his smile and gave a wry shake of the head.
‘Very funny – give it back.’
He took in a quick lungful of air. If he messed this up, the moment would burst. Hands in pockets, he hunched his shoulders, scuffing his heels against the ground and narrowing his eyes in mock-suspicion.
‘First I’m afraid I’m going to need some proof that this – uh – seemingly valuable item does in fact belong to you.’ He cocked a grin and stepped back tauntingly. But he was aware of a warmth rising in his cheeks: it was clear that he was flirting now, and so this was the point at which she might just demand the watch back and stride off. How fine that line was between connection and interruption – one false move, one misspoken word, and you found yourself on the wrong side of things.
But she only let out a little sigh of mock irritation. ‘My name is Lola Baumann,’ she informed him, dragging out the words with exaggerated tolerance. ‘It’s engraved on the back.’
‘Oh, really . . .?’ He removed the watch carefully from his pocket and pretended to inspect it. ‘I’m Mathéo, by the way.’ He kept his eyes narrowed on the watch.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Here – London. But it’s French – my mum’s French.’ He felt himself flush and tried to mask it by cocking his head and pretending to narrow his eyes at her. ‘So I’m guessing you’re a Greystonian like the rest of us?’
‘Unfortunately. We moved here from Sussex last month for my dad’s job.’
‘So are you in the Lower Sixth too?’
‘Yeah. Not doing any science-y subjects like you, though.’
He felt himself start. ‘How do you know which subjects I’m doing?’
She smiled. ‘You’re the Olympic diving guy. Everyone knows everything about you.’
He flushed at that. ‘Well, what subjects are you doing, then?’
‘Art, English and Music.’
‘Ah, that explains why I haven’t seen you around school.’ He turned away, tossing and catching the watch with exaggerated nonchalance.
‘Hey, careful!’ She lunged forward, but he was too quick.
‘Hold on, hold on.’ He moved backwards, holding out his hand to keep her at bay. ‘An engraving, you say? Pity I’m not weari
ng my contacts—’
‘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 . . .
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