The next day, however, he has no choice – his mother is going to work late and, despite his protestations, decides she will drive both sons to school on her way. Loïc is delighted at this unusual turn of events, and chatters non-stop until they reach his school gates. As they pull away, however, leaving him still waving on the pavement, their mother turns to Mathéo with a sharp crease between her thin, perfectly plucked eyebrows.
‘Perez called last night. Said you took yesterday off.’
‘Had a cold. Didn’t want to risk it affecting my balance.’ Mathéo turns away quickly from his mother’s stare, propping his elbow against the edge of the open window and chewing his thumbnail. He can tell from her silence that she is unconvinced. ‘Did – did you tell Dad?’ He cringes inwardly at the note of anxiety creeping into his voice.
‘No,’ she answers slowly. ‘I expected you to.’
‘I didn’t want to worry him.’ His voice comes out brittle and defensive. ‘You know what a fuss he makes if I ever miss a session.’
‘I think he’d have been sympathetic if you weren’t feeling well.’ Her voice softens slightly. She sounds disappointed, hurt even.
He tears at a hangnail.
‘You seem kind of . . . distant, lately,’ his mother continues quietly, turning the wheel with a soft, velvety sound beneath her perfectly manicured hands. ‘Is everything all right?’
It throws him, this unexpected display of concern, and for a moment he is unable to reply. Perhaps, despite her workaholic lifestyle, she notices things more than he gives her credit for.
‘Mattie’ – she hasn’t called him that for ages – ‘if there’s something bothering you, I’d like to think that, as your mother, I’m someone you’d trust enough to tell about it.’
‘There – there isn’t,’ he says too quickly, hating his giveaway stammer. ‘I’m just a bit tired after the, um – the – the, you know . . .’ His mind goes blank suddenly. He is overcome with the strange feeling of falling through space, like a dive with no form. ‘Mum?’ He looks at her, breathing hard. Suddenly he wants to tell her – all of it. The blackout the night after the competition, the overwhelming feeling that something terrible occurred, the nightmares, the certainty that something within him has irrevocably changed.
‘Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas, mon chéri?’ She has pulled to a halt outside the emptying school grounds. He feels himself flush, his throat constrict. Perhaps if she hadn’t used that term of endearment, perhaps if she hadn’t looked so very unusually . . . caring for a moment, he would have been able to tell her.
‘No, it’s – it’s nothing. Thanks for the lift. See you tonight.’
She reaches out to touch his cheek, but he grabs his bag and ducks out of the car before she has a chance to make contact, slamming the door behind him and giving her a reassuring wave before jogging across the asphalt to class.
Although it has only been a couple of days, Mathéo feels as if he has not seen Lola for weeks, and spends the first half of the morning counting down the minutes until break. But Lola is nowhere to be found. Despite having arranged to meet her at their usual hangout before saying goodnight to her on the phone last night, he ends up spending the whole of morning break sitting on one of the benches at the bottom of the cricket pitch alone like a fool, pretending to watch the inter-school match while calling her mobile and repeatedly getting her voicemail. He goes in search of her at the auditorium and then the school gym, but no musical rehearsals appear to be taking place today. He walks past the cell-like window in the door of the drama department more than a dozen times, until some of the pupils begin to notice and turn their heads. With a sigh of exasperation, he checks his mobile for a reply to his text, a missed call – but still nothing, and he is beginning to get antsy now. Lola always has her phone on her – if for some reason she wasn’t able to come in to school, she would let him know. Anyway, she sounded perfectly fine when they spoke last night. Something must have happened this morning. Something serious enough to stop her from even answering her phone. He is beginning to feel sick, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding, as if he will never see her again.
When lunch finally comes around, Mathéo grabs his tray and hurries towards their usual table at the far end of the canteen, but finds only Hugo and Isabel seated there. He drops his tray onto the table with a clatter and performs a thorough scan of the busy hall before scraping back a chair and throwing himself into it.
‘Where the hell is she?’
‘Well, hello! Good to see you too!’
‘What?’ He forces himself to meet Hugo’s questioning gaze, his voice coming out sharper than intended.
He is aware of Hugo and Isabel exchanging glances. ‘Earth to Matt . . .’ With a highly irritating noise, Hugo clicks his fingers in front of Mathéo’s face in an overblown attempt to get his attention.
‘We’re right here – can you see us?’ Isabel laughs. ‘Lola’s not in today.’
‘What? Why?’
They both look so startled that he realizes he is no longer speaking in measured tones.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I – I just need to talk to her about something important. Have you got any idea where she is?’
‘Whoa – a very important question?’ Hugo performs his infuriating eyebrow wiggle and Isabel snorts.
‘Look, do you know where she is or not?’ Shouting was a mistake: a couple of students at the next table turn at the sound of his raised voice.
‘Mate, what’s going on?’ Hugo’s expression merges into a mixture of annoyance and concern.
‘Nothing, I – I’m just trying to ask you a simple question—’
‘We don’t know,’ Isabel cuts in swiftly. ‘We haven’t seen her today. She’s probably just got a dental appointment or something and forgot to let us know. Have you tried her phone?’
‘Of course I’ve tried her phone!’
‘Hey, c’mon – chill, man!’ Even usually laid-back Hugo is beginning to look discomforted by the unwanted attention. ‘What’s the emergency?’
Mathéo empties his lungs, trying to bring his tone back down to a more acceptable register. ‘I thought you were supposed to be her friends! Don’t you give a damn about her?’
Hugo’s head jerks back in surprise and he stares at him, stung. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back off there, buddy. You’re being a dick!’
‘Why?’ He finds himself shouting again, despite his efforts to stay calm. ‘Because I’m the only one who is concerned about Lola’s whereabouts when she doesn’t turn up at school and switches off her phone?’
‘She often skips school at the last minute to go on one of her dad’s shoots, you know that—’
He feels his heart skip a beat. ‘Jesus, how can you just say that? Something could have happened to her!’
Hugo stares at him. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid, mate? Not to mention possessive?’
Mathéo stops breathing for a moment, feels the blood rush to his face. He pins his friend with a look of undisguised fury. ‘Possessive?’ He takes a painful breath. ‘Fuck you!’
Before he has a chance to think, he has jumped to his feet, kicking back his chair and sending his fork clattering across the table, overturning Hugo’s glass. There is a sudden hush around them as pupils at neighbouring tables turn to watch the commotion.
Hugo’s eyes widen and he takes a breath to reply, but before he has the chance, Mathéo grabs his bag and strides out of the canteen.
Damn them, damn them, damn them! He paces the empty classroom, fist pressed against his mouth, knuckles pushing his lip hard against the ridge of his teeth. He breathes in slow, rhythmic breaths, trying to calm down. He is not going to get upset over Hugo’s stupid big mouth and mocking banter. But in spite of his efforts, the irrefutable knowledge slowly sinks in that he has only succeeded in cutting himself off from his friends even further. They have been talking about him behind his back ever since he returned from Brighton – of that he is sure. They even tre
at him differently now – as if he is a little fragile, a little unstable, a little broken. It’s almost as if they know. And yet that is impossible. Who would have told them? Unless they have guessed; unless he has betrayed himself with his own demeanour and they have read the guilt in his eyes . . . Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps Lola has found out what happened and . . . If she has, it’s not surprising she’s not answering her phone and is skipping school. She won’t want to see him again. Not ever. She won’t be coming back. Oh God!
‘Hey—’ Mathéo turns from the window with a start at the sound of Hugo’s voice in the doorway. ‘She’s just started rehearsals in the gym.’
‘What?’ He takes a step back in surprise, banging his hip against the windowsill. ‘How – how do you know?’
‘A couple of Year Sevens in the canteen just told me. They had a late start.’
Draining his lungs, Mathéo sags back against the sill, the anger suddenly ebbing from his veins, his body weak with relief. ‘Oh . . .’ He feels the blood rise to his cheeks. ‘Oh, OK . . . Um, thanks.’ He tears at a hangnail, stares at the floor, breathing hard.
Hugo is watching him carefully, eyes narrowed in concern. ‘Are you OK?’
Mathéo takes a sharp breath, attempts a conciliatory smile. ‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry I snapped. I just – I just . . .’ He shakes his head, his voice tailing off as he finds himself unable to come up with a reasonable explanation for his earlier outburst.
He is aware of Hugo closing the classroom door and slowly crossing the room. ‘Matt, what’s going on?’
‘Nothing! I – I just . . . Nothing!’ Keeping his head lowered, Mathéo raises one arm slightly to keep Hugo at a distance.
Hugo stops. Leans against the whiteboard. ‘Come on. We’ve been mates for years, but suddenly I feel like I don’t know you any more. You storm off in the middle of conversations; there was that crazy nightmare; you look like shit—’
‘Thanks!’ Mathéo forces himself to meet Hugo’s gaze and manages a brief laugh.
But Hugo’s expression remains serious. ‘You know what I mean. You look like you haven’t slept properly in ages. Don’t tell me you’re already stressing out about our A-level results! Or are things not working out between you and Lola?’
Mathéo feels himself flinch. ‘No!’
‘Jeez, come on – it’s Lola, isn’t it? I tell you everything about Izzy—’
‘It’s not what you think, Hugo.’ His voice has begun to rise again, he can feel the constriction in his throat. ‘It’s – it’s fucking complicated, OK?’
‘Then tell me. I’m not gonna blab.’
He winces as if struck, sucking in air through his clenched teeth. For a moment he thinks he’s going to lose it completely, break down in front of his oldest friend.
‘Damn it, Hugo!’ He slams his fist against the windowsill behind him. ‘Just – just stop asking me fucking questions I can’t answer.’ He feels his voice catch, tears swarm into his eyes. ‘Please! Jesus . . .’
Hugo looks suitably stunned. ‘Hey, buddy, come on. I didn’t come here to make it worse—’
‘Then stop it, OK?’
Hugo holds up his hands. ‘Fine! Take it easy, Matt. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
With ragged breaths, Mathéo turns back to the window in an effort to recover his composure. Biting the corner of his lip, he stares down at the cricket match on the pitch below, blinking rapidly.
‘Do you want me to go?’ Hugo asks after a long moment.
Mathéo nods, not trusting himself to utter another word.
‘Fine.’ Hugo sounds defeated. ‘But look – if you ever just wanna talk, I’m here for you, mate, OK?’
Holding his breath, Mathéo nods his head and closes his eyes.
He has nothing on at school for the rest of the afternoon so, in an effort to avoid Hugo, hangs around outside the gym until Lola is done with rehearsals. She finally emerges just after two and, as his parents are still at work, he persuades her to come back home with him for the afternoon. He is desperate to wipe the conversation with Hugo from his mind; he has missed Lola so much during the last couple of days, wants to put all that behind him, aching to feel that connection with her again. Still painfully aware of Hugo’s comments about his demeanour, he makes a concerted effort to act laid-back and cheerful in an attempt to recapture their carefree banter of the past.
Consuela won’t stop fussing around them, so in the end they manage to get rid of her by going outside to sunbathe, snuggled behind the rhododendron bushes at the end of the garden. They chat about stuff Mathéo missed the day before – Hugo getting blind drunk and Isabel going ballistic when he ‘accidentally’ kissed an ex at someone’s end-of-school party. After a while, the two of them lapse into companionable silence in the heat of the sun.
Eyes half closed, Mathéo suddenly remembers something that tickled him that morning on TV and starts to laugh. ‘Hey, listen to this . . .’ But Lola doesn’t move and, looking down, he sees she has fallen asleep against his chest. She lies face down, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, her only movement the steady rise and fall of her shoulders. Her pale eyelashes are still against her cheeks, her nostrils constricting slightly with each intake of breath, her face gently flushed with the warmth of the late-afternoon sun.
Carefully reaching for her discarded bottle of water, Mathéo tilts it gently over her face, letting fall a few drops onto her cheek. She twitches and wipes them away, but then he catches her nose, and finally her ear.
‘Hey!’ She raises her head and squints up at him, holding out a hand to deflect the stream of water now aimed at her eyes. ‘What the hell . . .? Aargh!’ She pulls herself into a sitting position and wipes her face with the back of her hand, shaking her head in an attempt to get the water out of her ear. ‘You bastard!’
She makes a vain grab for the bottle, but Mathéo rolls away, holding it just out of her reach and squeezing it like a water gun, spraying the back of her neck.
Half laughing, half cursing, she jumps to her feet and lunges for him. ‘Oh, you are so dead!’
Lola grabs the bottle and attempts to dodge past, but he is too quick and catches her round the waist, wrestling it out of her hand. She attempts to get it back, but is instantly blasted with water and dashes away shrieking, heading towards the large tree in the hopes of swinging herself up into its branches. Mathéo gets to her just as she reaches it, however, drenching her head and shirt as she shrieks and struggles. Finally she escapes his grip and races back into the house, slamming and locking the conservatory doors behind her with a triumphant whoop.
After a considerable amount of banging, Consuela finally lets him in, looking mildly horrified, Loïc trailing in her wake. Mathéo takes the stairs two at a time and eventually catches up with Lola in the top-floor bathroom, where she is attempting to dry herself off with his flannel.
‘Your shirt is transparent,’ he laughs, slinging her over his shoulder and carrying her into his bedroom. He throws her unceremoniously down on the bed. ‘Look at you! You’re a disgrace, Miss Baumann!’
‘Not funny! Gimme one of your T-shirts right now!’ she growls, kneeling up on the bed and lowering her head to unbutton her top; her wet, tangled hair falling forward, obscuring her face.
He jumps onto the bed beside her, almost knocking her over. ‘No.’
She looks up at him as he helps her out of her sodden top. ‘What d’you mean no, you filthy rat-bag? You want me to walk around in my underwear for the rest of—?’
His mouth meets hers with a jolt, cutting her off. ‘No,’ he gasps between kisses. ‘Personally, I think you should wear nothing at all.’
She starts to laugh, but he bites her bottom lip to silence her, and suddenly they are kissing hard, almost frantically, so fiercely they hardly have time to come up for air. His hands grip the sides of her face, then slide into her hair, her mouth hot and fierce against his. As their kisses become stronger, more urgent, almost painful, he wraps his arm around her waist
, pulling her towards him so that their bodies are pressed tightly together, his hands pushing against the back of her neck, her head. He is kissing her so hard, they barely have time to surface for breath. She smells of grass and earth and peppermint, her lips salty and her hair soft and damp. And he never knew a kiss could be filled with so much emotion – passionate, yet somehow also desperate, as if it were both the first and the last kiss in the world.
He divests her of her top, leaves her to do the rest, and pulls his T-shirt over his head, kicking off his trainers and stepping out of his jeans. Then, suddenly, they are both naked on the bed, sending the duvet tumbling to the floor, their bodies meeting instantly. He can feel a current slide under his skin, crackling with electricity; it is the first time they have had sex since they got drunk by the river, and he is so turned on she has to remind him to use a condom. He sits up, cursing, and then presses down on her again and moves his mouth over her breasts, kissing her from her navel to her neck, then making contact with her mouth with a gasp, the sudden press of her lips against his almost making him come.
She circles his torso with her arms, wraps her legs around his, her grasp so fierce, so urgent, he can feel the edges of her nails against his back. She is holding on so tight that for a moment he feels trapped: trapped within her grasp, trapped within her body, trapped against his will. And suddenly he knows there is no escape, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He can only freeze and lie still and try to disappear, evaporate into the air around him.
‘Hey!’ The voice, not one he recognizes, calls to him as if from outside a nightmare. ‘Hey!’ A breath, a silence. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re probably just tired or – or . . .’