Hurt

by Tabitha Suzuma

  Pulling out his mobile phone, he runs his thumb over the screen and begins to text:

  Awake?

  A long wait. He leans against the trunk of a tree, suddenly spent, his eyes flicking hopefully from his phone to her bedroom window, praying for a light or a reply . . . Nothing. Her window remains dark.

  Damn. He is about to return his phone to his pocket when it starts to vibrate, startling him so much he almost drops it.

  No.

  He smiles in relief and empties his lungs with a sigh, feeling better already.

  Flashing thing in sky!

  What???

  UFO? Look quik!

  Suddenly her curtains part and he feels his face light up as her ghostly silhouette appears behind the window. He can just about make out the contours of her face, tilted back to look up at the sky. His thumb skims the screen of his mobile again:

  Beaming up from ground!

  Grinning, Mathéo watches in amusement as Lola glances back at the phone in her hand and then down into the street below. He begins to quietly chuckle as she heaves open the heavy sash and leans out, blinking down at him sleepily, her long dishevelled hair catching the moonlight.

  ‘Oh, fuck off!’ She is laughing.

  ‘Shush – you’ll wake your dad!’

  ‘You know he sleeps like the dead.’ She brushes her hair back from her eyes and yawns. ‘Jeez, I was just dozing off, you know. You do realize you have to be up in less than six hours? Where are you going at this time, anyway?’

  Her tone is jocular, but Mathéo suddenly realizes he has no idea. Has he woken his girlfriend just to have a moan about his spoiled little rich boy’s life?

  His sudden silence seems to catch her attention, because all at once the tone of her voice changes. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Course.’ He peels himself off the tree trunk. ‘Just passing by. Checking to see if you still felt threatened by UFOs.’ He forces a laugh. ‘I see that alien abduction is still posing a real danger. I’ll come round tomorrow after training.’

  ‘Mathéo, wait.’ She isn’t buying it, he can tell. ‘I’ll be down in a sec.’

  ‘No, don’t, it’s late—’

  But she has already slammed the window shut, retreating from view.

  The sound of the key in the door makes him start, and Lola slips out, pulling it gently closed behind her. Her white cotton nightdress hangs over a pair of skinny jeans and she is wearing what appear to be hiking boots, forcing a smile to return to his face.

  ‘Don’t you dare laugh!’ she hisses. ‘Couldn’t find my shoes in the dark!’

  ‘I didn’t know we were going mountain climbing.’

  ‘Shuttup – you’ve just dragged me out of bed. You’re lucky I didn’t come down in my underwear.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have complained.’

  She thumps him on the arm and he finds himself envying her lightness, her apparent lack of gravity.

  He empties his lungs with an audible sigh. ‘D’you want to – I dunno – walk around for a bit?’

  ‘Sure . . .’ She pins him with a quizzical look, concern registering in her eyes. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing different from the usual.’ He starts walking fast, too fast. Lola has to break into a clumpy trot to catch up, and grabs his arm to slow him down.

  ‘Hey, you said a walk, not a marathon sprint! Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  He forces himself to walk at a more reasonable pace, and for several minutes they just trail along the tree-lined terraced avenues, the silence between them broken only by the clump of Lola’s boots.

  ‘You sound like an elephant in those things.’ Mathéo manages a weak laugh, but the words catch in his throat.

  ‘Hey! You should know better than to compare your girlfriend to an elephant! Are we headed anywhere in particular?’

  He rubs his forehead. ‘I dunno. I’m being stupid, I shouldn’t have woken you. I just – I just had to get out of the house . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Lola declares suddenly, pointing to the twenty-four-hour supermarket across the road. ‘Let’s get some booze!’

  ‘Here’s to a crappy life, a stupid school, brain-dead teachers, endless diving competitions and fascist, dictatorial parents!’ Mathéo shouts out across the river, and takes another heavy swig of vodka, holding the bottle aloft by its neck and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The alcohol seems to be going straight to his head, filling his body with a warm buzz, blurring his thoughts and blunting his emotions. He takes an unsteady step forward and feels Lola grab the hem of his T-shirt.

  ‘Sit down, will you? If you fall into the water, don’t think I’m gonna dive in and rescue you!’

  Despite her jocularity, Mathéo detects a note of alarm in her voice. They are sitting on the flat stone rooftop of a boathouse overhanging the Thames – one of their regular hangouts. The two of them have been coming here ever since they started dating, seizing whatever scraps of time could be salvaged from Mathéo’s busy training schedule. To sunbathe or watch the rowers or just chat, expanses of unscheduled time receding towards the horizon. However, it’s the first time they have been here at night with the sole purpose of getting wasted.

  Lola is still tugging persistently on his T-shirt, nagging at him to sit down on the roof beside her. ‘Come on, you’re making me dizzy.’ Cross-legged at his feet, she looks wild and windswept in the moonlight, her green eyes flecked with gold, the vodka making her cheeks glow, the shape of her long, slim arms visible through the sleeves of her nightie. ‘Mattie, come on, you’re too close to the edge.’

  Ignoring her, he continues to hold his arms aloft, as if presenting himself on stage. Taking another deep swig, he feels the satisfying burn of vodka in his throat. He laughs down at Lola, teasing her by balancing on the edge of the roof on the balls of his feet. The river snakes away below him, reflecting the lights from a nearby bridge, the water’s surface black and wrinkled.

  ‘Stop it, I’m not looking.’ Lola covers her eyes with one hand and holds out the other for the bottle. ‘And it would be chivalrous to share that, you know.’

  ‘Whoa—’ For a split second Mathéo loses his balance as he attempts to take another swig. Lola extends her arm just in time and he grabs her hand, allowing her to drag him down beside her, suddenly shaken by his near-fall. She takes the bottle from him and thumps him hard with her fist.

  ‘Ow!’ Mathéo exclaims, rubbing his arm for effect and scrunching up his eyes. ‘What the hell was that for?’

  ‘Showing off and trying to scare me,’ she replies matter-of-factly, placing the bottle out of his reach.

  Side by side, they sit quietly now, legs dangling off the edge of the roof. Mathéo stares down at the inky water scissored with flashes of neon light, transfixed by the shimmering interplay of light and dark. For a few moments it brings him peace and he feels the inside of his mind fill up with the absence of thought, until there is nothing but static inside his brain. He is overcome by a sense of being nowhere – for a few minutes at least he can forget who he is, forget the endless treadmill of his life.

  ‘Ah, that’s better.’ Lola leans back on her hands, staring up at the moonless sky. ‘It’s true what they say: vodka does warm you up, and having a boyfriend is overrated. Thanks for offering to lend me your jacket, by the way. Such a gentleman you’ve turned out to be. I should have let you fall in. In fact I should have pushed you in myself . . .’ But when Mathéo fails to respond to her ribbing, her voice melts away into the darkness.

  He continues to stare down, transfixed by the dancing lights on the water. Moonlight trickles on the river’s surface and a small boat bobs in the distance. The weight in his chest has returned suddenly, and he feels drained and heavy and slow, unable to even keep up the banter.

  He heaves a sigh.

  Lola moves closer, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Wish I didn’t have to go away this weekend.’

 
; ‘But it’s the Nationals.’ Lola sounds surprised. ‘At least you know you’re going to come back with a medal. Everyone in the press has you tipped for gold.’ She raises her head to scrutinize his face. ‘Hey, what’s happened to all that self-belief you’ve had drummed into you over the years?’

  ‘I dunno. I just don’t have a good feeling about this one.’

  Silence. He can tell that Lola’s searching for the right words to say.

  ‘It’s probably just ’cos you’re not coming,’ he says lightly with a laugh. ‘You’re my lucky mascot!’

  ‘You’ve no idea how much I wish I could come,’ Lola says quietly. ‘If I hadn’t agreed to be on that damn committee—’

  ‘I know, it’s fine,’ Mathéo says quickly. ‘It’s not that. Dinner tonight was just another embarrassing attempt at playing happy families . . .’

  Lola exhales slowly. ‘So, your dad said no to Hugo’s holiday?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looks deeply despondent for a moment. ‘Don’t they realize you need some kind of a break?’

  Mathéo snorts. ‘Clearly not. And my father rang the head and arranged for me to have private maths lessons next year with that fucker, Harrington-Stowe.’ Staring down at the inky water to avoid her gaze, he is nonetheless aware of her eyes on his face, her look of astonishment.

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding. I thought the whole point of deferring your university place was to train full-time for next summer’s Olympics.’

  ‘So did I. And speaking of training – he’s already on my case about the new schedule. Perez is still drawing it up for September, but my father thinks I should be starting it now. Oh, and he’s also suddenly decided that spending time with you is affecting my focus.’ The kaleidoscope of lights on the water’s surface is hypnotic. Suddenly he feels horribly tired.

  ‘Do you think we spend too much time together?’ Lola asks. The question is posed lightly, almost teasingly, but it pulls him sharply out of his growing stupor.

  ‘What?’ He meets her gaze, feeling mildly stunned, and narrows his eyes as if to read her thoughts better. ‘No . . . No way! Why – do you?’

  Her face looks very white in the moonlight, contrasting sharply with her dark hair, and her eyes are bright, almost luminous. She appears ephemeral, as if she might suddenly disappear, and for a brief moment he is paralysed by a fear so strong, he can hardly breathe. He wants to reach out and touch her; feel the warmth of her skin against his, her breath against his cheek; hear the beat of her heart, the sound of the blood thrumming through her veins.

  ‘You brought it up,’ she counters, her tone reflective, pensive. ‘Sometimes I just wonder . . .’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ The words come out sounding angry, defensive.

  ‘I know how much you want to make the Olympic team, Mattie. I know how hard you’ve worked for it!’

  ‘I’d give up diving tomorrow if you asked me to.’

  She stops and looks at him as if trying to gauge if he is serious. ‘Really?’ Her voice resonates with disbelief. ‘But it’s your passion – it’s the most important thing in your life. You’ve been competing since you were a kid. Hugo told me you would even skip school trips just so you wouldn’t miss out on training.’

  Mathéo raises his eyes to meet hers, so bright and intense in the moonlight, framed by her wild, tangled hair. And is aware of a pain, somewhere deep inside him, a stab of longing, a fear that she could one day be taken away from him.

  ‘I do love diving,’ he tells her, quietly now, struggling to keep his voice steady. ‘More than anything. Except for – except for you.’

  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 tou
ch 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.