Only when he hears the sound of footsteps does he become aware of his own physical presence, curled up on the living-room floor at the foot of the sofa, knees pulled up to his chest, shivering in T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, clutching a cushion for warmth and comfort. He thought he had been quiet, crying silently with his face pressed into the sofa cushion, but when he lifts his head he is startled to see Loïc standing there solemnly at the far end of the room, at the foot of the marble staircase. With his fine, white-blond hair and pale complexion, he resembles a small ghost in the vast room, illuminated only by the moonlight falling through the large bay windows. If not a ghost then a statue, standing there unmoving, fitting in perfectly with the sparse but expensive furniture that surrounds him.
Shocked and humiliated, Mathéo is lost for words – he has no way of disguising his tears and can think of no other reason for his brother’s unexpected appearance. Loïc has a phobia about ghosts and never normally ventures downstairs on his own at night, and certainly not without switching on the lights. Mathéo realizes he has no idea how long Loïc has been standing there, witnessing his big brother’s meltdown: he cannot remember ever crying in front of Loïc before . . . Shame makes him want to snap, tell Loïc to go away and leave him alone, but he has been sobbing so hard he does not trust himself to speak. He is still gasping in that juddering, uncontrollable way that only ever accompanies a massive crying jag, and the tears are wet on his cheeks. He presses a clenched fist to his mouth and attempts to hold his breath, but the air only bursts from his lungs with a choking sound. For some reason, Loïc’s silent, stricken presence seems to upset him still further. He tries again to get a handle on his breathing, rubs his face hard with the heels of his hands, clamps a hand over his mouth and frantically tries to gather enough breath to tell Loïc to go back to bed. But every time he attempts to speak, the words are punctuated by sobbing gasps.
Loïc’s eyes have not left Mathéo’s face. He appears subdued, his usually plaintive gaze replaced by one of deep sorrow, but with no discernible trace of shock or fear. He takes four measured steps towards Mathéo, his bare feet silent against the marble, and then slowly kneels down a couple of metres away, as if approaching a wild animal. Gingerly he holds out a hand. It takes Mathéo a moment to realize that his little brother is holding out a crumpled tissue and, still unable to speak, Mathéo has no choice but to nod his thanks, reaching out to accept it. He rubs it against his cheeks, the breath still catching in his throat, then empties his lungs slowly and lowers his eyes to the gap on the floor between them.
A couple more steady breaths, and then he whispers, ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Loïc’s voice is barely more than a whisper, but calm, more mature than usual. ‘Do you want me to go away now?’
Fixing a point between them on the ground, Mathéo breathes slowly through his mouth, concentrating on staying as calm as possible. ‘N-no. Of course not.’
‘I don’t think anyone else heard,’ Loïc says, as if reading his brother’s mind. ‘I woke up to go to the loo and your door was open and I saw you weren’t in bed. So I came to find you.’
‘Why—’ Gasp. ‘Why did you come down?’ Mathéo asks thickly, in an attempt to make conversation.
‘Because I was worried you might of ran away.’
Mathéo’s eyes flick upwards, startled, to meet his brother’s steady gaze. ‘What – what makes you think I’d do that?’
‘ ’Cos you been sad for a long time now. And sometimes, in books, when teenagers get sad, they run away.’
The whispered words hang there in the silence, slowly forming themselves into a question – a question of such magnitude that Mathéo can actually sense its presence in the air between them. He wipes his cheeks. ‘But who – who told you I was sad?’
‘No one. I just could see by your face. After the big competition you won on TV, when you came home, you were sad. And then you got more sad. And then you had nightmares.’
Mathéo is staring at Loïc now, his pulse beginning to race. ‘What? What nightmares? How – how do you know?’
‘Don’t you remember? You talked and shouted, and sometimes you cried a bit too. I came into your room and said your name louder and louder till you waked up. Then you told me to go to bed and fell back asleep.’
‘Shit . . .’ He breathes deeply, rattled by this revelation. ‘How often?’
‘Twelve times,’ Loïc replies without missing a beat. ‘I was thinking tonight was thirteen, but this time wasn’t a nightmare ’cos you were awake.’
Mathéo finds himself staring at his brother in shock. ‘Did – did anyone else hear?’
‘No, just me, ’cos I have very good hearing. I always wake up straight away if there’s a noise, even when other people can’t hear it. I didn’t go get Mummy or Daddy in case they asked you lots of questions and you didn’t want to answer.’
Hugging the cushion tighter to his chest, Mathéo tries to imagine Loïc coming into his room to wake him from a nightmare, and fails. But his brother is not one for making things up. ‘You – you said I was talking – what kinds of things was I saying?’ Fear grips him suddenly; fear of what he might have said.
‘It depended. Sometimes you shouted, or sometimes you sounded very sad. I can’t remember everything, but lots of times you said, Why me? and You’ve always been kind to me, and Please don’t – you’re a good person. And one time—’ He hesitates, biting his lip and looking down as if afraid of getting into trouble. ‘Um – you said the f-word. But it wasn’t your fault because you didn’t know you was saying it because you was sleeping!’ He shakes his head earnestly, as if to reinforce this fact. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mattie.’
Unsteadied again by Loïc’s touching concern that he should not blame himself for swearing, Mathéo quickly changes the subject: ‘Did I ever say what – what was happening in the dream?’
‘No. But you always sounded like you were angry and scared. Lots of times you shouted, I swear on my life I won’t tell.’
Mathéo feels his heart rate accelerate. ‘Did I ever—’ He swallows. ‘Did I ever say a name? Anyone’s name?’
Loïc shakes his head, and Mathéo momentarily closes his eyes and breathes deeply in relief.
‘Loïc?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you promise me something? Can you promise you’ll never tell anyone about this – about those things I said?’
‘I promise.’ Loïc levels his unblinking gaze, and for the first time in the conversation, Mathéo recognizes real fear in his brother’s eyes. ‘Did someone hurt you, Mattie? Is that why you have nightmares all the time and you’re always sad?’
The interrogation behind his little brother’s gaze unnerves Mathéo. The question is so simple, so straightforward. And that it should come from his eight-year-old brother, from Loïc – the kid brother he leaves to the nanny while he concentrates on pursuing his busy, action-packed life – just knocks the breath from his lungs. All those days, all those evenings, when he’d get back from school or training, take the stairs two at a time to change and call Lola, or rush through his homework before hitting the gym. All those evenings he’d contrived to ignore Loïc – his own brother, for ever stuck downstairs with the nanny. His own brother, who was always so desperate to hold him up with questions about his day, or his diving, who’d even pretend to be stuck on his homework in a frantic bid for a few minutes of his big brother’s time. All those delaying tactics just to get a tiny bit of attention. Attention he craved but got from no one other than a string of nannies with poor English, while his parents were either working or socializing, playing golf or tennis or keeping fit at the country club. Parents who pretty much ignored their younger son every meal time to discuss Mathéo’s training, Mathéo’s competitions, Mathéo’s new dives, Mathéo’s grades, Mathéo’s accomplishments, Mathéo’s future. And even so, despite barely exchanging more than a few words a day with his big brother, Loïc had been the only one to pick up on the fact that
there was something wrong, that something had happened, that something had changed, and that Mathéo was ‘sad’. Unbeknownst to anyone, even to Mathéo himself, Loïc had been regularly coming into his big brother’s room at night to wake him from his nightmares – without any thanks, and without mentioning it to their parents in case Mathéo didn’t want them to know . . .
‘Loïc?’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone . . . someone did hurt me.’ Pause. ‘But – but it’s OK now. I’m OK now.’ He attempts a reassuring smile, but the breath catches in his throat. ‘Thank you for – thank you for not telling anyone. Thank you for coming down to check on me. Thank – thank you for waking me up from the nightmares.’ He takes an unsteady breath. ‘I know I’m always busy with stuff, but – but I love you a lot, you know.’
Loïc looks up with a shy smile. ‘I love you too.’
With a grin, Mathéo chucks the cushion at him and holds out his arm. ‘I forget: are you too old for hugs?’
Loïc’s face lights up. ‘I’m only eight, silly!’
‘Get over here, then!’
His smile broadening, Loïc shuffles over on his knees and giggles as Mathéo pulls him onto his lap. For the first time in years, Mathéo feels the fragile body of his kid brother pressed up against his own. Loïc is small for his age, as light as a bird, and feels almost insubstantial, but his hug is fierce. He smells of soap and kiddie shampoo. And for a while they just sit there, Loïc warm and floppy with sleep, until eventually his arms loosen around Mathéo’s neck and his head grows heavy. Careful not to wake him, Mathéo stands up, shifts him gently against his shoulder and carries him upstairs. At the door of Loïc’s bedroom, he hesitates. Loïc’s king-size bed seems ridiculously large for such a small child. Crossing over to his own room, Mathéo lowers his brother carefully down onto the mattress, tucking the duvet in around him. Then he pads round the bed to climb in beside him. If he has a nightmare tonight, at least Loïc won’t have to get up again. It even seems conceivable that having his little brother sleep beside him might keep the nightmares at bay . . .
10
The following day he wakes late. Loïc is gone from his bed, no doubt summoned to breakfast, so Mathéo spends most of the morning holed up in his room, doing his best to contact Lola. He tries calling her mobile, texting her, emailing her – but nothing. Whether at home or not, she is never without her mobile, so she must know he is trying to reach her. He leaves a couple of voicemails, imploring her to call him back. It’s not like Lola to go cold like that, refuse to talk, cut off all contact – but this is uncharted territory for them both. What terrifies him to the core is the thought that he may have wounded her feelings beyond repair, that the gulf between them may be non-negotiable, unbridgeable, may end their relationship for ever . . . But he can’t allow himself to go on thinking this way or he’ll go insane. He worries she may have spoken to someone about what happened, to Isabel or Hugo or, God forbid, Jerry, and that news of his actions may well have spread, misinterpreted no doubt as deliberate violence. But above all, he worries desperately he might have seriously injured her. Even though it was a reflex action, he’d still pushed her so hard that she’d slammed into that wall.
He thinks back to last night: it had started off so great. One minute they were messing around, laughing, having fun; the next they were in her bedroom, kissing hard. His whole body craved hers – they hadn’t slept together in so long – but then, all of a sudden, the sensation of being touched became horrific, repulsive. He closed his eyes and she’d morphed into someone else – someone who wanted to hurt him, who enjoyed his pain. Someone he had once trusted, transformed suddenly into a monster . . . But Lola had no idea about it all: as far as she was concerned, one moment her boyfriend was initiating sex, the next he was pushing her away – and brutally at that: throwing her against the goddamn wall! Surely she can’t believe he’d meant to push her away like that! Surely she doesn’t believe he did it on purpose! Yet how can he know?
Pacing his room, phone in hand, he feels increasingly desperate as the morning wears on. He wants to go round to her house, face her in person, so he can tell her the truth, tell her what happened, confess to everything in the hope she might understand. But that would mean having to face Jerry, and he is sure to know by now – Lola tells him everything. Jerry is bound to have asked questions; he always senses when his daughter is upset. To make matters worse, Mathéo has a pretty strong feeling he won’t be able to leave his own house without a grilling – whatever excuse he thinks up. For once his parents are lingering over breakfast . . . he can hear them through his balcony’s open windows.
It is a bright, warm day, at painful odds with his countenance, the sun beaming down from a china-blue sky. A warm breeze floats in, ruffling the white mesh curtains. The clink of glassware and crockery from outside indicates that breakfast on the terrace is still in full swing. Consuela’s nasal tones contrast sharply with his father’s pontificating drawl about the Eurozone crisis, while his mother talks over them both, fussing in French over Loïc’s lack of appetite and shooting orders at Consuela in perfect Spanish. Only Loïc’s voice is missing from the chatter and Mathéo worries that last night’s episode may have rattled him enough to induce him to finally confide in his parents about the nightmares, despite the promise of the night before. It must have shaken Loïc up seeing his big brother, almost ten years his senior, collapsed on the living-room floor, sobbing like a child. Mathéo feels himself flush at the memory. But then again, all this time Loïc has known far more about Mathéo’s distress than the other three combined . . . and, though on the one hand it causes Mathéo pangs of guilt, on the other hand there is no denying that the realization also brings him some relief – relief that there is at least one person who knows, one person who cares, one person who has some idea, however small, of the torment he is going through.
‘Chéri, come out and sit down with us. Have some breakfast.’ His mother manages to intercept him before he can even reach the front door.
‘It’s OK. I’m not hungry. I’m just going out for some fresh air.’
‘You can get fresh air right here in the garden.’ She pulls out a chair and directs Consuela towards the coffee pot with the tip of one immaculately manicured finger. Too tired to argue, Mathéo leaves the relative cool of the kitchen and joins them on the terrace, the sun-drenched decking warm under his bare feet. His favourite jeans seem to have stretched since the last time he wore them and, beltless, slip down to rest on his hips beneath the faded grey T-shirt. Despite the giant parasol, the light strikes him painfully in the eyes, making him squint. Already he feels exhausted, flattened by the sheer brightness of the day. Stirring sugar into black coffee, he sags back in his chair and watches the familiar weekend breakfast unfold. Everything is so . . . devastatingly predictable. He doesn’t know why this upsets him, but it does – to the point where it feels almost tragic. The day is already turning out to be another scorcher: the sun beating down from high up in a seamless blue sky, a single blackbird warbling away as if nothing is wrong. Loïc is clad only in pyjama bottoms, his top half bare and fragile-looking, bed-tousled hair hanging like an untidy straw thatch in front of his eyes. He appears bored and sleepy, his eyes listlessly following Consuela as she spreads unwanted jam on his croissant, his narrow shoulders slumped, as if in defeat. His father, dressed for golf and immersed in the Financial Times, swats ineffectually from time to time at a large bluebottle, determined to get at his plate. His mother is dressed for the gym but still manages to look elegant in leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one tanned shoulder, hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Come eleven o’clock, his parents will get into their respective cars and drive to their respective leisure centres, Consuela will walk Loïc to his tennis lesson, then later to a play-date or the park, and in the evening his parents will go out to one of their cocktail or dinner parties. The following day will be more of the same, and the family will continue the treadmill of separate weekend l
eisure and social activities before regrouping for Sunday dinner to mark the end of another meaningless week.
‘You look tired, chéri.’ His mother’s voice breaks through the fragile web of tinkling cutlery, rustling paper and buzzing fly. ‘Haven’t you been sleeping properly?’
‘I’m fine,’ he says firmly, levelling his gaze with hers.
‘You’re dreadfully pale and you’ve got huge shadows under your eyes. Mitchell, don’t you think our son looks pale?’
His father lowers his paper and pins Mathéo with a frown. ‘Too much lounging around. His body’s not used to it – Perez should have him training at the gym at least.’ He swats at the fly in irritation. ‘What date did the doctor say you could start diving again?’
‘After I get my stitches out and depending on the results of the EEG scan.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘In two weeks.’
His father sighs in frustration. ‘Perez isn’t suggesting you stop training completely until then, surely?’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’
He sees his father’s eyes widen. ‘What are you talking about?’
Mathéo takes a deep breath and gets to his feet, ready for a quick exit. ‘I never want to see Perez again in my life!’ he declares, leaving the table. And then finds himself articulating words he never thought he’d ever say: ‘I’m giving up diving, Dad.’