He is having to hold himself so tight, he can feel himself shaking. It’s been almost a week since they last had sex – he knows he isn’t going to last long.
‘Slow down – slow down!’ he implores in a hoarse whisper, forcing out each word.
‘Shh, OK!’ Flushed and exquisite beneath him, she stares up into his eyes, breathing hard.
He buries his face in her neck. Taut as a wire, he inhales sharply, and again holds his breath and closes his eyes, hands scraping and scratching at the rough cotton sheets. His heart thuds hard in his chest, his breath shudders in his lungs and he tries to remember to keep breathing. The tingling feeling grows inside him like an electrifying warmth, almost a pain, all his muscles twitching. Then the rush fills his body and he feels he will burst from the strength of it. His whole being is taken over by an electric current, and he trembles with repercussions that send him reeling and gasping for air.
‘I’m going to come,’ he tells her in an urgent whisper.
Arching her back, Lola stares up at him, letting out a small cry. He feels himself tense so violently he seems sure to implode. He shudders again and again, scarlet madness rushing through him at full tilt. Unable to breathe without heaving, the gasps catch in his throat. He scrunches up his eyes, clenches his fists, and Lola holds him tight until the convulsions die away and slowly, gradually, the madness begins to fade.
Panting hard, he rolls onto his side and allows his head to fall against the pillow. Lola strokes his head, making him jump; he can feel the sweat on the back of his neck, down the length of his spine. He feels enveloped in warmth, heat even, his heart still pounding against his ribcage, the sparkling, tingling feeling still rushing though his veins. Inhaling deeply, he raises his head and kisses Lola, then rests his head against her chest, his body still caught up in sporadic shivers as she encircles him with her arms. The sweat between them is warm and slippery, and he clings to her as if to a yacht’s mast on a stormy sea, their two bodies panting in silent unison.
3
He wouldn’t have made it home in time if Lola hadn’t had the presence of mind to set her alarm for four a.m. He dresses hurriedly and kisses her while she buries herself beneath the duvet, barely awake, warm and flushed with sleep. By the time Mathéo has jogged home through the first light of dawn, crept in through the back of the still sleeping house, changed into his swim trunks and tracksuit, he hears his father begin to stir. Mathéo finds him seated at his usual place at the kitchen table in his suit, drinking a large cup of coffee, as thick and black as tar. He holds out the usual banana and energy bar as Mathéo walks in, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder.
Whenever his father can go into work late, he drives Mathéo to training. If he doesn’t have any early morning meetings, he may even stay for the whole two hours. Usually, though, he has to set off for work before the training session is out, leaving Mathéo to catch the bus straight to school. Unfortunately today his dad doesn’t have to be in the office until mid-morning and intends to sit out the whole session – as he informs his son as soon as they meet.
They leave the slumbering house in their usual silence and slam into the front of Dad’s BMW. Gravel crunches beneath the tyres as they make their way up the drive, Mathéo turning his head to look out of the window in the hope that his father won’t notice the violet hollows beneath his eyes. Despite his painfully short night, he feels elated that he got to spend it with Lola.
People always seem to think that because he has been diving for so long – nearly half his life now – he must be used to it, must find it easy, must have conquered all his fears. But the truth is, a diver never entirely conquers his fears. You learn to manage them, as he began doing aged thirteen, when his father dragged him off to see a sports psychologist because he refused to attempt a back dive. Throwing himself backwards and plummeting down ten metres without being able to see where he was going was just too horrific to contemplate, and when harangued by Perez, then his father, Mathéo ended up sobbing at the very back of the board, refusing to budge. Since then he has learned to control his fear rather than conquer it, but it is always there, and with every step up the chain of seemingly endless iron ladders, his heart rate increases. People also seem to think that a competitive diver – especially one who excels at the ten-metre board – cannot be afraid of heights. But in fact diving makes you hyper aware of heights: the difference between a dropped dive from five metres and one from ten is extreme. A bad entry from the ten-metre board is like a car crash – at best it will wind you, at worst knock you unconscious. Mathéo knows of divers who have split their faces open by hitting the water at the wrong angle, divers who have been killed. When you are jumping and spinning and twisting through the air at thirty-four miles an hour, you had better get it right or the result can be fatal.
But nailing a dive, particularly a high-tariff one in competition, is an almost indescribable experience. The rush of pure adrenalin as you achieve that perfect rip entry, the rising feeling of euphoria as the muffled applause from the stadium reaches you underwater, the sudden burst of unbridled energy as you kick for the surface, searching for the display board, for your score, and the roar of the crowd when the giant digital numbers flicker you into the lead – ahead of your teammates, ahead of the consistently perfect Chinese, ahead of the world. Mathéo lives for those moments, he thrives on them – they are what keep him going: through the treadmill of training, the hours in the pool, the hours in the gym, the hours in the workout room. There is always another competition on the horizon, another competition to be won . . .
Losing hurts, of course; losing hurts like hell. Getting distracted by the lights, the flashing cameras, the fluttering banners and flags, the screaming supporters – it can all cause you a momentary lapse of concentration, a nanosecond of losing yourself in the air, mistiming a takeoff, mistiming a somersault, mistiming an entry. And you know it – feel it in your bones and muscles the moment you hit the water. And whether it’s a bread-and-butter dive or the most difficult one in your set – the one you have been practising every day for months – it hurts. Far worse than a painful landing. It drives a stake through your heart. And you pull yourself up onto the side, shaking the water from your ears, trying to ignore the sympathetic applause, trying to keep your composure as you glance at the score board and see your name slip down through the rankings. But then the anger sets in – the anger with yourself, the anger with the universe; and it’s how you use that anger, his coach and psychologist always say, that makes the difference between a champion and an also-ran. If you can channel that anger, that sense of injustice, into your remaining dives, you can claw back the points, sometimes even make a complete comeback and go on to win the competition. You think: I’ll show them – I’ll show them what I’m capable of, I’ll show them I won’t be beaten, can’t be beaten, that one dropped dive is nothing. And then you go back up to the ten-metre platform and execute the perfect dive, and you know the other competitors are thinking, Damn, this guy just can’t be beaten.
From the top board at the Ashway Aqua Centre, Mathéo arches his neck to stretch his muscles and stares up at the blinding white concrete roof just above him. From up here, the diving pool below is nothing but a small, rectangular slash of fluorescent blue. Beyond it, miniature people swim up and down the lanes of the regular pool, getting in their early morning workout. Sounds bounce and echo all around him, but up here he always feels oddly removed from it all, in a world of his own. The air is hot and humid – he dries himself with his cloth so that his hands will not slip when he holds his legs while somersaulting down. Slipping out of a dive is just one of the many dangers.
The challenge when preparing for a difficult dive from the ten-metre board, whether in competition or in practice, is always to keep himself from imagining the many things that could go wrong. Today he is practising one of the toughest dives, The Big Front: four and a half somersaults with tuck, and it scares him. But down below, way down below, both his coach and fath
er are waiting, squinting up at him, already assessing his attitude, his confidence, the amount of time it is taking him to psych himself up, and there is only so much stretching and bouncing on his toes Mathéo can get away with before he knows he will have to go for it.
After walking up and down the board a few times, he finally takes up his position at the back, breathes deeply, closing his eyes to visualize each movement in his mind – every tuck and turn and spin his body will make in the air as he falls; all the moves etched into his mind through endless practice dry-diving into the foam pit, on the trampoline with a harness, as well as in the pool. He focuses on his spot, raises himself onto the balls of his feet, counts aloud to three and runs four steps, launching himself off the board and into space.
He pulls his taut legs against his chest, spins down into four somersaults. His eyes constantly search for the water: the slash of blue. One, two, three, four, five. Then he stretches out as hard and fast as he can, left hand grabbing the back of his right, before punching the water like an arrow.
It hurts, and he knows it was an imperfect dive as the vacuum sucks him under, slowing until it allows him to turn and kick straight for the surface. Bubbles rise above him; he can feel the riptide created by his mistimed entry and he shoots towards the light, emerging with a painful gasp, his hair stuck down around his face, chlorinated rivulets pouring down into his eyes. He feels bruised all over. Although it wasn’t a terrible dive, he already knows he over-rotated his entry and landed slightly flat, knocking the air from his body. He pulls himself onto the side and sits, fighting for breath, as Perez comes over, gesticulating at the giant screen on the wall as it replays Mathéo’s dive in slow-motion, highlighting his error.
‘Too much momentum in the run-up; you jumped too wide – that’s why you over-rotated your entry.’
‘I know,’ he gasps, shaking his head to clear the water from his ears and the dizziness before him.
‘You’re still aiming for more clearance than you need. Stop worrying about hitting the board!’ his father shouts from his plastic poolside chair.
It’s not so much a board as a fifteen-centimetre-thick concrete platform. You try somersaulting through the air with that jutting out in front of your face, Mathéo thinks acidly.
The second slow-mo on the big screen comes to an end, and both coach and father are waiting for him to do it again. In a two-hour training session, it is usual for him to clock up over thirty dives from the high board. One dropped dive already – he is already analysing his mistake. He won’t make it again. The next twenty-nine will be perfect. Mathéo jumps to his feet, picks up his cloth, strides over to the ladders and begins his ascent once again.
Shovelling down his huge high-protein breakfast in the Aqua Centre’s canteen, he tries to explain the extension at the end of The Big Front to Eli, who has been trying to nail the dive for months now.
‘The trick is to extend as soon as the top of your head is level with the three-metre board,’ he says between mouthfuls of scrambled egg on toast. ‘If you wait until you think you’re level, it’s actually your eyes that are level, so you’ve left it too late.’
‘But how do you know when the top of your head is level?’ Eli jabs his fork against his plate in frustration. ‘Do you use another visual marker, or what?’
‘You can tell because you’re looking down,’ Mathéo replies. ‘That’s the thing: you’ve got to keep your head straight but really keep your eyes on the water.’
‘Hey.’ Aaron and Zach come over, carrying similarly laden trays which they set down noisily at the table.
‘Perez says if we all finish in the top five this weekend, he’s taking us out for a night on the town!’ Aaron declares with a grin.
‘What, like, to a bar?’ Eli’s mouth falls open.
‘Yeah, maybe!’
‘He told you that?’ Mathéo shoots Aaron a sceptical look. ‘Perez letting us drink? I don’t think so.’
‘I was there. He said “a night on the town”,’ Zach chips in. ‘What does that expression mean to you?’
‘Cool!’ Eli’s face is quick to light up. ‘Top five – we can do that, right, guys?’
‘Means at least two of us have got to win a medal,’ Aaron points out.
‘Duh! Matt’s gonna win gold!’ Eli retorts.
Zach’s face instantly darkens. ‘Why the hell do you always assume that Matt—’
‘Yeah, any one of us could win gold,’ Mathéo says quickly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. ‘I was really over-rotating my dives today.’
‘You’re still the only one who’s got The Big Front—’ Eli begins to argue.
‘It’s not all about that one dive, dickhead!’ Zach flicks one of his peas into Eli’s face.
‘I reckon we can all get into the top five, easy,’ Mathéo interjects.
‘Yeah. Gold, silver, bronze.’ Aaron points at Mathéo, himself, then Zach.
‘Oh, in your dreams, mate!’ Laughing, Zach kicks Aaron under the table.
‘What about me?’ Eli protests.
‘Fifth!’ the other two shout triumphantly.
Mathéo catches Eli’s eye and gives a quick shake of the head. Despite being nearly a year older than Mathéo, Eli has been home-schooled all his life: an only child, mollycoddled and cocooned by fiercely protective parents who live for his diving. As a result, he often acts young for his age, susceptible to a fair bit of ribbing.
Fortunately, Zach is too busy examining his food to continue winding him up. ‘I can’t believe I’ve got to eat this shit for another thirteen months.’ He holds up a spoonful of oatmeal and lets it glob back down into his bowl. Both his parents are overweight; he has begun to broaden out in recent months and so is on a strict low-fat diet. ‘After the Olympics, I’m gonna eat at McDonald’s every day for a month, I swear.’
‘I’d kill for a Big Mac and fries,’ Mathéo agrees with a grin. ‘Chocolate milkshake, apple pie, blueberry muffins—’
‘Beer!’ Aaron adds. ‘And not just to celebrate winning a fucking medal! I tell you, I’m gonna get so wasted. Like that time after Worlds, when Zach snuck all that gin into the hotel room and we—’ He breaks off, perplexed, as Mathéo frantically mimes slitting his own throat.
‘So!’ Perez startles Aaron by approaching from behind him to join them at the canteen table. Short, lean and wiry, he is an overly familiar figure in his usual black tracksuit, an assortment of whistles, keys and ID badges hanging from his neck. ‘I hope you boys are discussing your dives. Just three days till Nationals. We want a clean sweep.’ He leans back against the plastic chair, folding his arms and pinning them each with a look, narrow eyes almost black in his perennially tanned, weather-beaten face.
Mathéo nods along with the others, relieved that Perez appears to have just missed the tail end of their conversation. He wouldn’t have found it funny. Perez is a tough coach, doesn’t suffer fools gladly; he can be painfully blunt, and in the world of diving has a reputation for being extremely quick-tempered, which is true. Nonetheless, Mathéo respects him, likes him even. Perez has been his coach for almost six years now, has pushed, bullied, yelled and dragged him to where he is now – number one in the country, right up amongst the top ten in the whole world. Perez always reminds his divers that he only expects one thing of them – and that is to put in as much work and dedication as him. No mean feat, as Perez himself is a former three times Olympic gold medallist. Twice divorced and now married to his job as the UK’s top diving coach, he specializes in producing future Olympic medallists, and over the last twenty years has coached some of the biggest names in diving history.
‘I’m counting on you guys,’ he continues with furrowed brows, watching them eat. ‘I expect perfect sets from all of you on Sunday. Especially you.’ He is looking straight at Mathéo, who feels himself flush. ‘We’ll sort out that over-rotation once and for all on the dryland springboard after school.’
‘We’ve got dryland training this evening?’ Eli squawks in surpr
ise.
Perez barely looks at him. ‘No, just Matt.’ His phone bleeps and he gets up from the table. Pats Mathéo on the back as he passes. ‘See you in the gym at four sharp.’
Lola is busy with the school musical all morning so it isn’t until lunch that he manages to catch up with her. She meets him at their usual table, setting her tray down across the table from him with a clatter.
‘So, last night was fun!’ She laughs and drops her jacket, bag and keys on the chair beside her, unwinding a multicoloured shawl from around her neck and gathering her windswept hair into a bunch behind her head, twisting it into a hastily made bun, her cheeks pink with exertion. ‘How’s the hangover?’
Mathéo puts down his fork down with a clatter and gives her a sarky smile. ‘Not good. And not helped by the fact that someone shook me awake at the crack of dawn and then ruthlessly kicked me out of bed—’
‘Hey, I saved your arse,’ she reminds him. ‘Your dad would have gone nuts if you’d missed training! You’re not going to the pool this evening, are you?’
‘No, but I’ve got a one-to-one session in the gym with Perez straight after school. And then I’ve got to have dinner with Loïc and the new nanny.’
‘What? Why can’t you have dinner with us?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out with Consuela after this weekend.’
She frowns. ‘You’d better. Oh, Dad and I are rehearsing some new songs tonight. Will you come over and listen after dinner?’
‘Sure . . .’ He chews at his thumbnail, his mind suddenly pulled elsewhere.
Lola raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Nervous about the weekend?’
Damn it, she can sense everything. At home, he has always been adept at wearing masks, but with Lola that’s impossible; she sees through them all. ‘Bit. Training wasn’t too brilliant this morning. Still having problems with The Big Front.’ He looks down at his plate, arranging his rice into patterns with his fork.