Hurt

by Tabitha Suzuma

  ‘OK, but last one,’ Mathéo concedes.

  ‘Whoa! Yeah, what a save!’ Loïc cries triumphantly, skidding across the floor in his socks.

  ‘Loïc, you sit down, please!’ Consuela’s voice is inching towards a tone of mild hysteria, so Mathéo points to the chair and Loïc slides back onto it, the animation on his face fading back to resignation.

  ‘Sorry.’ Mathéo flashes Consuela an apologetic look. ‘But about dinner – I can make us some pasta if you want.’

  Her eyes widen in alarm. ‘No, no. Mrs Walsh, she said no dinner.’

  Taking a swig from his can, Mathéo moves the biscuit tin out of view of his brother. ‘She told you not to make dinner because she’s bringing home a takeaway or something?’

  Consuela’s eyes widen further. ‘No, no, Mathéo. No allowed takeaway.’

  ‘No, I don’t want – I’m not—’ He takes a deep breath, trying to keep the mounting frustration from showing on his face. It is imperative he finds out what is going on with dinner in order to make sure he can get away in time to meet Lola after the performance. ‘Did my mother say why she didn’t want us to have dinner?’ he asks slowly and carefully.

  ‘Yes. No dinner.’

  Loïc gives a small snort as he writes out sums in his exercise book. ‘No dinner, no dinner,’ he mimics, chuckling softly to himself.

  ‘Did my mother say she wanted to make dinner herself?’ Mathéo tries again.

  ‘No! No!’ Consuela shakes her head earnestly, looking horrified at the idea. ‘Mrs Walsh no make dinner!’

  Mathéo fights back a sigh of exasperation. ‘So tonight, no food?’

  Loïc presses his hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle.

  ‘Yes, food!’ Consuela exclaims almost angrily. ‘Tonight food. Of course food.’

  ‘But no dinner—’

  Loïc snorts from behind his hand. ‘This is like something out of—’

  ‘Hey!’ Mathéo pins him with a warning look. ‘Food but no dinner,’ he repeats in frustration. ‘Food tonight?’

  ‘Yes! Of course food tonight!’ Consuela looks at him as if he is a moron. ‘You must eat food tonight, Mathéo!’

  ‘Yes, fine – believe me, I want to eat some food tonight,’ Mathéo mutters as much to himself as to anyone else. ‘Where are we eating this food?’ he tries a final time.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘A picnic?’ Loïc looks up hopefully.

  ‘No! No!’ Consuela almost shrieks. ‘You finish work quickly, Loïc. Mathéo, you get ready please!’

  ‘But get ready for what?’ His voice begins to rise despite himself.

  ‘For eating out! Good place. You wear good clothes, Mrs Walsh says.’

  Loïc puts down his pencil and looks up at Mathéo. ‘Oh, we’re going to—’

  ‘A restaurant,’ they both say, solving the riddle at last.

  Their father is celebrating some big deal he closed at work today, and he has booked a table at their favourite French restaurant, which overlooks the Thames and serves four-course meals with food that looks like modern art and takes for ever to arrive. Loïc is overtired and sulky, unwilling to try anything on the menu, their parents keep ordering more wine, and Mathéo begins to despair of ever getting away in time to meet Lola after her last show. When they eventually get home, he has to wait until Loïc is sent to bed, Consuela has left for the night and his parents have gone into their room, before pulling on a jacket over his faded T-shirt and worn jeans, creeping downstairs, slipping on his trainers and letting himself out through the conservatory doors towards the golden pools of artificial lighting that line the lawn. He reaches the school car park just as the younger pupils are streaming out in their costumes, talking animatedly to proud parents wielding camcorders – the school hall lit up like a beacon from the outside, disgorging teachers and pupils and parents and siblings; whole families, all bursting with high-octane chatter. The musical was clearly a great success and he feels a surge of pride that it was his Lola who was behind it all. She is incredible.

  As the crowd thins, he retreats into the shadows, holding the roses behind his back, but when Lola appears, she already has an armful of flowers. Squealing in fright, she drops the lot as he jumps out from behind her and grabs her round the waist, twirling her round.

  ‘Oh my God, you crazy idiot! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Are you trying to kill me? Shit, you gave me such a fright!’ But she is laughing, turning the heads of the last members of staff to leave the building. Amongst the scattered bouquets he pulls her into a long, hard kiss, despite the presence of his maths teacher, who is locking up.

  ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t come. I had to spend the evening with my parents at this horrible restaurant—’

  ‘It’s fine. I’d have been even more stressed out if you’d been in the audience!’

  He smiles down at her beaming face, eyes still aglow from her triumph. ‘So it was a success?’

  ‘It was, it was! But I’m so glad it’s over. No more teaching dyspraxic kids the difference between left and right, or trying to get tone-deaf Year Eights to sing in tune! And you’re out of the house at last!’ Her words are like a stream of effervescent bubbles, rushing towards the surface; he can feel the energy and excitement beaming out of her like a bright, white light.

  ‘You’ve got to come to France with us!’ Lola exclaims, picking up her bouquets and piling them into his arms. ‘I want – no, I demand at least one week away with you before you start your crazy training again. So I dunno – cheat on the MRI scan—’

  ‘How can I cheat? It’s not a lie-detector test, you silly moo!’

  ‘I don’t care! Think crazy thoughts, or don’t think of anything at all. Pretend you’re brain dead – after all, that shouldn’t be too hard. I’m sure when you hit your head on the board you lost a few dozen IQ points!’

  ‘How much champagne did you have? You’re so pissed,’ he teases her.

  She thumps him. ‘Two glasses. If that!’

  ‘Then it’s just insanity talking.’ He pulls her to a stop in the street and kisses her again. ‘You’re crazy and hyper and deluded – and you haven’t even thanked me for the roses!’

  ‘What, these squished things?’

  ‘They’re only squished because you trampled on them!’

  She laughs again, the sound sparkling up into the night air. ‘I’m joking, they’re beautiful. I love you – come here.’

  They have arrived outside Lola’s house and she reaches up for him and kisses him again so fiercely that the bouquets go scattering back down onto the pavement. She leaves him to pick them up while she goes to unlock the front door, loudly informing him that now she is a hotshot director, she will need an assistant to help her with things like bouquets and awards and—

  ‘Shh, it’s almost twelve! Your dad will be asleep! Let’s go back to mine: my parents are in bed, we can creep in—’

  ‘Dad’s not here! Thank God, or he’d have come tonight and embarrassed me with a speech or something at the end of the show.’

  ‘He didn’t see it?’

  ‘He came to yesterday’s performance. Still managed to be massively embarrassing by chanting for me to come on stage at the end.’ She gets the front door open and is almost knocked over by Rocky, jumping up at her and yapping in frenzied excitement.

  ‘But when is he coming back? Come on, Lola, I really think we should go back to my house.’

  Lola looks surprised. ‘Why risk it when we’ve got this house to ourselves? I know your bed is a hundred time more comfortable but—’

  ‘What if your dad walks in?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s not back till tomorrow night. He had a booking for this big-deal Calvin Klein photoshoot and said he just couldn’t get out of it. So it’s your job to keep me company till then.’ She plonks the bouquets unceremoniously on the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you sure he won’t be back tonight?’

  ‘Yes! Anyway, Dad loves you. When has he ever complained a
bout your staying over?’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘Down, Rocky, down, you crazy dog. I feel like I haven’t seen you for years, Mattie, so you’re definitely not going anywhere!’

  She reaches for the light, but before she can turn it on, Mathéo lifts her up and seats her on the edge of the kitchen table. ‘Good, because I wasn’t planning to!’ Shrugging out of his jacket, he takes her face in his hands, starts to kiss her seriously now.

  ‘Wait. I need to put the flowers in water—’

  ‘Oh no, no, no. No waiting.’ He is kissing her harder and faster. ‘Waited too long already, can’t believe I haven’t seen you for so long!’

  ‘Only two days!’ she chuckles, pulling back for air.

  ‘Shush.’

  He is trying to kiss her, but she keeps bursting into laughter. ‘We don’t’ – kiss – ‘have to shush. Dad’s away, so for once you can be as loud and as ooh and aah as you—’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ He kisses her fiercely, but the laughter vibrates from her mouth to his, rendering further kissing an impossibility, so he hoists her over his shoulder and, with difficulty, negotiates the narrow staircase with Lola squealing and Rocky yapping hysterically at his heels.

  The light of the streetlamp outside her window falls through her open curtains, bathing her bedroom in a soft orange glow. As usual, her bed is unmade, and discarded clothes and books litter the carpet. As soon as he puts her down, Lola’s fingers slip beneath his T-shirt, pressing against the ridges of his stomach, sending a swift, pure thrill racing through his muscles, goosebumps rising on the backs of his arms. Her hair hangs tousled, her face hot to the touch; she is flushed and dishevelled and beautiful and perfect. Mathéo kisses her cheek and neck and breasts, pushing down her skirt with rushed, fumbling fingers. Then Lola pulls the T-shirt over his head, unbuttons his jeans, and slips her hand inside, beneath the waistband of his boxers . . .

  Suddenly he is struggling: twisting and writhing against her, grappling with her hands, grabbing her by the wrists, holding her back. ‘Lola, stop! Wait, stop!’

  She laughs. ‘Mattie, if this is your idea of playing hard to get . . .’ Her arms circle his neck and she pulls him back towards her.

  ‘No, I’m – I’m serious!’ He feels as if he is suffocating. Lola’s hands are still on his skin – touching him, stroking him.

  ‘Lola, stop!’ he hears himself shout. ‘I said stop!’ Grabbing her tightly by the arms, Mathéo shoves her away as hard as he can. There is a thud, and she goes sprawling across the carpet, crashing hard. He hears the whack as her shoulder makes contact with the wall, and then she falls back against it, tangled hair hanging in her eyes, lips kissed sore, an expression of wild, undisguised shock on her face.

  Mathéo takes a couple of stumbling steps back, arms at his sides, panting. His hands shake as he struggles to do up his jeans, to rescue his T-shirt from the floor. Lola sits up slowly, gingerly reaching for her top and threading her arms through the sleeves. She is staring at him with a look he does not recognize: a mixture of hurt and shock and bewildered astonishment. But most of all, of fear. She is clutching her left arm against her chest protectively, cowering back against the wall, shivering, as if terrified of him.

  ‘Shit, I didn’t mean . . . Oh fucking hell, I didn’t – I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ His voice is unrecognizable to his own ears, as if he is being brutally shaken. Breathing hard, he moves towards her, reaching out for her, but she shrinks back with a startled gasp, a look of pure horror in her eyes.

  ‘L-Lola, speak to me! Are – are you all right? Did – did you hurt your arm?’

  Her hand moves up to grip her opposite shoulder and she tries unsteadily to get to her feet, wincing in pain.

  ‘Wait. No, wait! Don’t move. Let me see!’

  He tries to touch her arm, but she holds out a hand to keep him at bay. Her breathing is sharp and shallow. ‘I think—’ A strangled sob. ‘I think you should go.’

  She moves round him to reach the door, but he restrains her. ‘Lola, no, wait, d-don’t. Please don’t. Listen to me: I’m so sorry – I mean it. It – it was an accident. It was just an accident, Lola, you’ve got to believe me!’

  ‘An accident?’ She gapes at him. ‘You slammed me against the wall!’ Her eyes fill with tears and she pushes him away, trying to get to the door.

  ‘You don’t understand—’ His voice begins to rise. ‘I didn’t mean to. Lola, I’m so sorry – I didn’t know what I was doing. I just panicked!’

  She stares at him as if he is crazy. ‘You panicked?’

  ‘I thought—’ His mind scrabbles around desperately for some sort of explanation. ‘It was just that I thought – I thought I heard an intruder!’ His excuse sounds pathetic, even to his own ears.

  Lola just stares at him, her eyes like those of a frightened animal: wild with fear, glistening with pain. ‘I need you to go.’

  ‘Lola, please—’ Careful not to touch her, he tries to block her path. ‘Can – can I just have a look at your arm? Please. Please, Lola. I have to know you’re OK!’

  Her hand shoots out, keeping him from touching her. She stands there, shaken and bedraggled, still holding one arm protectively against her chest. ‘Mattie, I mean it, don’t touch me. Just go!’

  He steps back, sagging against the wall, banging it with the back of his head as he raises his face to the ceiling and closes his eyes against the threat of tears. ‘Lola, I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything—!’

  ‘If you really are sorry, then go.’

  He tries to say something, anything, but no sound comes out. Rising suddenly, he turns and leaves Lola’s room, treading swiftly down the stairs and letting himself out into the darkened street.

  He lies awake deep into the night, feeling sick. Sick with shame. Sick with self-loathing, self-hatred, self-disgust. He should have died when he fell from that board. It should have all ended there and then. Lola, his friends, his family would all be better off without him. There isn’t a single part of himself that he doesn’t hate. Everything hurts. Everything has gone so terribly wrong. Why on earth did he push her away like that? He has truly gone insane. He is dangerous – not just to himself but to others. Maybe he’ll never recover from what he did in Brighton. Maybe he really has become a monster. Maybe this is his punishment. Maybe, maybe . . .

  After several hours of this torture, he can no longer lie still. Climbing out from beneath the sheets, he pads out of the bedroom. Treading softly downstairs, he makes his way through the darkened house, across the hall, into the living room, the furniture around him ghostly in the moonlight. He circles the place like some kind of predator, his hands brushing the walls. He feels trapped. He wants to run, but where? However far he goes, he will not escape, cannot escape his own loathsome self. He will always be trapped within his own body, his own mind. The emotional pain that comes with this realization is so strong, it feels physical. He senses it knotting and twisting inside his body, ready to destroy him from within. He is losing his grip, he is losing his mind. Does anyone else know what it is to be dead yet still alive? This is it. This is it. A half-world of torment, where memories frozen into oblivion slowly begin to thaw. A place where everything hurts, where your conscious mind has neither the strength to let you function in the real world, nor the power to return you to hibernation. Crouching down on the carpet, he drops his head to his knees and begins to cry.

  How will he ever get Lola to forgive him? How can he explain to her what came over him when he barely understands it himself? One moment he felt as if he couldn’t get enough of her – yearned for the touch of her hands over his body, craved her naked form pressed against his, longed to be as close as two beings could ever be, to inhale her mouth, her lips, her tongue – feel himself inside her, so aroused he felt overcome with a kind of madness, overwhelmed by a passion and an urgency only sex could relieve . . . Then, the next moment, he felt trapped – caught and propelled into a nightmare of distortion, horror and disgust. He felt dirt
y and exposed and loathsome, wanting only to cover his nakedness and get as far away from her – from him – as possible . . .

  He can’t believe it, can’t believe it has come to this. That night, that night in Brighton, that one act is destroying his entire life, besmirching the one pure, untarnished thing he has to hold on to: his love for Lola. Beautiful Lola, with her sense of mischief, humour and fun, with her talent, kindness, affection and sensitivity. Lola and her love for him – so strong and bright it is like the sun on a cloudless day. It carries him, sustains him, feeds him and energizes him – through his parents’ absences and his academic pressures, through his gruelling training and competition fears. Through every new dive and every expectation, through fears of accidents and failures, through to anxieties about the Olympics, his future. All those small yet weighty worries, like gravel chips that scrape and wear away at him each and every day. Lola gives him the strength to stand up to them, pick himself up after every fall. She gives him the strength to keep wearing all those different masks: the mask of the popular, cute, beer-drinking jock around school, the mask of the dutiful, charming, academic son at home; the mask of the prodigal, awe-inspiring, championship diver he is expected to epitomize, not just in daily training but at every competition, in every interview – on television, the web and even in the papers. So many roles to fill, so many duties, so much fucking, goddamn, constant expectation.

  With A-level results out in just over a month’s time, with competitions ongoing throughout the summer, with a deferred university place hanging in the balance, and with the Olympics now only thirteen months away, he is not only under the scrutiny of his peers, his closest friends, his diving team and his family, but of an entire nation! The pressure in his life has never been so great, the stakes have never been so high, and his emotions have never been so stretched, so deep, so volatile and so precarious. He cannot let that one stupid night in Brighton get to him; it was a terrible mistake that he should never have let happen. But he did, so now he must purge it from his mind! Purge it from his soul as if it has never been, forget about its very existence and just get back to the overachiever he always was – still is! But none of that, none of it is possible without Lola at his side. Lola – his rock, his jewel, his pearl, the other half of him, the figure of strength and compassion and love that she epitomizes. Lola, the one person he has never had to wear a mask for, the one person who knows him in all his imperfections, with all his fears – and loves him all the same. He cannot lose her, because without Lola life is simply devoid of all meaning, all worth, and he is whittled down to nothing. Less than nothing: an actor, an imposter, a shell. Dead inside.