As they begin their ascent back to the house, leaving the beach and the dipping sun behind them, Mathéo keeps Lola’s hand firmly clasped in his, the sand rough between their warm palms. When they finish climbing the steps and Hugo and Isabel drift quietly across the garden, discussing what to have for dinner, he holds her back for a moment and kisses her again, trying to stop her from drawing away.
Surfacing for breath, Lola smiles. ‘Your cheeks have caught the sun,’ she says, and then hesitates for a moment. ‘Are you OK?’
He nods, feeling a genuine smile touch his lips for the first time in ages. ‘Yes. Yes, I really am.’
That evening, everyone seems a little hyper, as if all that sun, sea and sand has stirred up a potion of exuberance inside them. After dinner, amidst guffaws of laughter, they play strip poker around the poolside table. As usual, Hugo and Isabel are losing on purpose: Hugo is already bare-chested, having chosen to divest himself of his T-shirt but keep his flip-flops. Isabel is down to her bikini. Lola has managed to find bits of jewellery to remove; Mathéo has lost his sandals.
Hugo laughs wickedly as Lola loses a round and removes her ankle bracelet. ‘That’s all the jewellery you’ve got. I’m gonna get you out of that T-shirt, Baumann!’
‘Over my dead body!’ she retorts.
Late that night, after emerging from his shower, Mathéo finds Lola already curled up in bed, light off, the room filled only with moonlight and the sound of the waves. Slipping carefully under the bedsheet as not to wake her, he stretches out on his front, the pillow cool against his sunburned cheek. After a moment, however, he feels her breath against his skin and is aware of her lips against his face – she is kissing him: tiny butterfly kisses, so light they barely seem to make contact. He waits, hoping for a change in their circular pattern, longing for them to come further down, to reach his lips, his mouth, his tongue. His lungs heave in a deep sigh and he opens his eyes a little, just enough to be engulfed by Lola’s startling green gaze, tilting his chin upwards in the hope of catching a fluttering kiss on the mouth. They come closer, but not enough, and a small sound escapes him, a murmur of encouragement, until a kiss brushes the corner of his lips, setting them alight. He empties his lungs slowly and then fills them again, struggling to wait for her and not to respond. Craving a proper kiss, he finally has to raise his head off Lola’s shoulder, and touch her jawline with a finger to guide her mouth towards his. But she turns to kiss his finger instead, and he follows the contour of her lips and feels the sharp, smooth enamel of her front teeth and then the soft, wet warmth of her tongue as she grazes his finger. Mathéo’s sigh is deeper this time as his finger begins to tremble with a mixture of excitement and desire. And he realizes he wants to kiss her so much he is actually shaking with the urge, all the muscles in his body tensed in anticipation. He can hear the sound of his own breath now, shallow and rapid and increasingly frantic, his lips tingling. A small sound of frustration escapes him as he leans in towards Lola, only for her to turn away so that he barely manages to kiss the tiny downy hairs of her cheek instead.
He takes another steadying breath, but it seems to fill the room, and his voice, when it comes out, is tremulous and softly desperate.
‘Lola, stop it, let me kiss you.’ A breath. ‘Lola, I really want to kiss you . . .’
‘How badly?’ she teases, a question they used to taunt each other with when they first started going out. And just like all those months ago, he feels himself tense so strongly that his stomach disappears into the hollow beneath his ribcage.
He gives a little laugh to let her know he remembers, but is so turned on he can feel himself shiver. ‘So badly that – I’ll bite you if you don’t.’ A tremor runs through him and he gives a brief, shy laugh. ‘See?’
She kisses his neck and he tenses further. ‘Lola, don’t— Ah, shit, come on, please . . .’
She smiles, and her kisses follow a trail up his neck, over his chin, beneath his lower lip and . . . and then her mouth meets his: warm and tender, yet so fierce and passionate that it catches him off-guard.
With ragged breaths, he slides his fingers into her hair, each kiss deeper and stronger than the last. He wants her so much that his whole body thrums with desire and he holds her face between his hands, kissing her with a fervour bordering on desperation. Lola runs her hands slowly up and down his back, her fingers as light as petals, before circling round to his stomach and gradually reaching his nipples. Her touch sends small aftershocks rippling through his body, and just as he finds himself coiled as tight as a spring, her mouth meets his with such startling strength and passion that he gasps in shock, and he feels that electric bolt of excitement rush back through him for the first time in a long time. Such a long time . . .
Their clothes go flying. His T-shirt and boxers, her nightie, all tossed onto the floor. Kneeling naked on the bed, Lola is half laughing, half gasping. ‘Whoa—’
Grasping her shoulders, he pulls her towards him, kissing her neck, her ear, her cheek, her mouth, his chin pressing into her face, his mouth hard and urgent against hers.
‘Mattie—’
Hand holding the back of her head, he kisses her again, harder and harder still, then tries to coax her back against the pillows.
‘Mattie, wait—’
He can’t wait, not after all this time. Lola passes him a condom and he fumbles in his haste. She is back. He is back. They belong together and he is never letting her go.
‘Mattie!’ Hands on his chest, she pushes him away hard, alarm flashing in her eyes.
‘What? No – you want me to stop?’
Keeping him at arm’s length, she stares at him, hair wild and face exquisitely flushed; breathing hard. ‘Look at me,’ she says quietly.
He forces his eyes to meet hers. ‘Lola, don’t. I want—’ He feels his windpipe constrict.
‘Just go gently, my darling.’
‘OK . . .’ He takes a deep, shuddering breath, bites his lip, manages a reassuring smile. ‘OK. Like this?’ He strokes the side of her face, brushes his lips across her cheek, kisses her softly and feels her relax beneath his touch.
‘Yeah. Like that,’ she breathes.
She keeps her eyes open and stares up at him, warm, flushed and gently panting as he slides over her, enters her with an audible gasp. He forces himself to go as slow as he can, gazing back down at her, drinking her in as if for the first time. It’s as if, since that terrible night, he has seen her only through a veil, but now that veil has been lifted, a thick fog has dissipated and he sees her afresh, anew. He notices all the tiny details that make her who she is, that make her unique. The gentle arch of her eyebrows, the soft curve of her cheek. Each individual eyelash, long and dark, framing irises of the deepest green. He sees her so clearly he can count the freckles that sprinkle her cheekbones. Holding himself over her, his arms vibrating slightly, he moves rhythmically against her, taking deep breaths in an effort to keep calm. He concentrates on the sweat glistening on her neck – her throat so white, so delicate, so soft against his mouth. The pearl-drop on her necklace catches the light of the moon, reflecting its rays into his eyes so that it seems to glow from the inside. Her hair is wild and tangled by his fingers, russet brown against the white pillow, small wisps curled into humid spirals framing her face. Her hands are pressed tight against his back, sliding up to stroke the nape of his neck, then moving over his head, into his damp hair, separating the strands between her fingers. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply as they make their way to his forehead, her nails skimming the contours of his face: his temples, his cheeks, slowly down the line of his jaw until they meet his mouth. They play against his lips; he opens his mouth to taste them, and they are cool and refreshing, like droplets of water. He fills his lungs again, opens his eyes, and she is smiling up at him – and he feels it in his heart. So much tenderness, so much understanding, so much love in that smile that it hurts him – but this is a good pain, one that makes him feel safe, and complete, and alive. She has wok
en him from his nightmare, brought him back to life, thawed the walls of a deeply frozen heart. He tries to say thank you, but the words won’t come out, so he mouths them instead and her smile broadens, as if she understands, as if she knows everything and has forgiven him . . . He closes his eyes as their mouths meet and he is forced to give way, pressing himself hard against her, shudders overtaking his body as he buries his face in her neck, softly gasping.
As they lie side by side against the pillows, their warm, naked bodies washed white by the moonlight, Lola turns her head so that their faces are only inches apart. He barely has the strength to speak – exhausted yet more alive than he can ever remember. She raises her hand and runs her fingers down the length of his arm. ‘Sweetheart, you’re trembling . . .’
He smiles at her concern, waits a moment to catch his breath. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Sure?’
He can’t stop smiling. ‘Yeah. More than OK. More than everything.’
14
‘Breakfast?’ Bare-chested, in his swim shorts, his hair still wet from the pool, Hugo turns from the cooker as Mathéo walks through the living room and into the kitchen. He is brandishing a sizzling frying pan and the air smells of bacon.
‘Oh, cheers, but I think I’ll pass.’ Mathéo takes a seat at the breakfast bar, across from Isabel, who’s wearing an orange sarong. She holds out the cereal box, but he shakes his head and takes an apple from the fruit bowl, forcing himself to bite into it. He wishes last night could have lasted for ever, just he and Lola together in their own private bubble, all other thoughts and memories banished to the outside world. But now it is morning, he has returned to the real world with a jolt, and the sun seems too garish today, its violent brightness cutting in through all the windows, illuminating the chrome kitchen, its light refracting from the silver cutlery. A warm cross-breeze, billowing gently through the open French doors of both the kitchen and the living room, carries with it the smell of sulphur and cut grass and roses. The wide window at the front of the living room reveals a sea as smooth as a sheet of glass, and gulls gliding in circles against a vast expanse of deep blue sky. There is a stillness in the air, a sense of time being suspended, of reality being put on hold. Even Hugo and Isabel, chatting and arguing and laughing at their joint culinary efforts, seem different here – too perfect, too contented to be convincingly real.
‘Mattie!’ Isabel’s raised voice makes him start and he almost drops his apple.
‘What?’
‘You OK, mate?’ Hugo asks, both he and Isabel regarding him with a faintly quizzical expression.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Hugo was talking about going hiking,’ Isabel explains. ‘And you seemed to totally zone out.’
‘Where?’
‘Along the cliffs,’ Hugo responds. ‘Last time, Izzy and I found a brilliant picnic spot really high up the cliffs, overlooking the sea. And from there it’s a fairly easy climb down to the water for a swim.’
‘Cool,’ Mathéo replies with a bright smile. ‘Let’s do it.’
Once Lola is up and finishes breakfast, Mathéo and Hugo load the rucksacks in the kitchen. Mathéo glances out at Lola and Isabel standing at the edge of the garden, in deep discussion. Isabel has changed into a pair of cotton trousers and Lola is wearing denim shorts with a strappy white top, her feet weighted down by a pair of solid hiking boots and oversized socks that fall down round her ankles. Isabel has handed the binoculars to Lola now and is pointing out the picnic spot on the neighbouring cliff across the sea.
The four of them swing their rucksacks onto their shoulders and, with the girls following more tentatively, leave the garden and begin the hike along the wide chalk road flanking the coast. For the first half-hour or so the road is smooth and flat, snaking its way round rocks and inlets, keeping them aligned with the sea. It is still early – the forecast for today is clear skies and temperatures reaching forty. The plan is to reach the plateau by midday, then picnic in the shady enclave, thus avoiding the sun at its most powerful, then climb down for a swim. But right now, it is still cool and slightly damp, the air still. Alone on the wide swathe of road, beneath the morning sun, Mathéo feels as if they are the only ones on the planet – the empty road stretching out ahead: no houses, no people, no sound, except for the soft calls of fishing gulls and the distant wash of the sea below. It feels both eerie and strangely beautiful – the early morning light turquoise, making him feel like a stranger in this unusual hue. The bowl of sky above is a glaucous blue, splinters of white light emerging just above the horizon. They are in one of France’s most beautiful regions, and it is so different to London or even Paris that Mathéo feels as if he might as well have stepped into a whole new world.
Now and again he feels himself shiver, as much from excitement as from the sea breeze now brushing his bare arms. Sleep has not entirely left him, its aura still surrounding his head, and his limbs feel stiff from yesterday’s swimming. A tuft of hair refuses to lie flat at the back of his head and he feels light-headed and insubstantial in his blue T-shirt and faded shorts, as if only the weight of his hiking boots is keeping him attached to the ground.
For a while everyone is quiet, still fuzzy from sleep, as if afraid of breaking the fragile web of silence that surrounds them. Despite Hugo’s warning about pacing themselves, Lola is striding ahead, her long legs moving soundlessly across the gritty road, her hair tossing about behind her. Holding hands and talking in hushed voices, Isabel and Hugo are not far behind. Mathéo wants to catch up with Lola and take her hand – aches for the feel of her skin against his – but is afraid of coming across as possessive since right now she appears to enjoy walking alone, face turned towards the gathering light in the distance. Watching her fills Mathéo with a strange kind of longing. For all her tall, slender frame, there is something robust about her. With long legs lithe and strong, she seems to move effortlessly despite the heavy rucksack, and he senses within her a healthy, durable energy, as if she could walk like that for ever.
By the time the sun’s rays have reached every corner of the sky, turning it a bright, startling blue, they meet the coastal path. Here there is rough, uneven ground beneath their feet: dry, dusty soil that their thick soles send cascading away. The cool air has turned hot and dry, the sun pounding down relentlessly from a cloudless sky. Up on the cliff edge, there is no shade and they are at the mercy of its unforgiving rays. The pace has slowed substantially now, Mathéo and Lola hanging back from the other two as they begin to pick their way up through the forest. The first two or three hundred metres from the road are the hardest. The gaps between the trees are covered in rambling bushes, and the only way past them is to push through. As the ground begins to rise, the trees change into tall, ivy-choked columns, with massive gnarled roots that fan out across the earth. The air dips into shaded coolness, the vegetation thinning out from lack of sunlight. Occasionally the canopy of trees and bushes becomes too thick to pass through, forcing them to get down on their hands and knees and crawl along some animal track.
After nearly an hour of hiking, they find themselves at the bottom of a particularly steep slope. It is a tough climb, pulling themselves up by the thick fern stems to keep themselves from slipping back on the mud and dead leaves. Hugo is the first to reach the top, and almost immediately disappears over the ridge. As soon as Mathéo and the girls catch up with him, they stop with a collective gasp. The slope extends out onto a narrow shelf jutting out from the edge of the mountainside. Above them the cliff stretches up almost vertically into a canopy of trees.
The drop beneath them is enough to take Mathéo’s breath away. So used to heights, yet he has never experienced anything as spectacular as this one: the drop to the deep blue sea below is the height of a tall building. At the foot of the cliff, the waves break into white froth against a cluster of rocks set back close to the shore. He can see why Hugo was so determined they hike to this spot: the view is spectacular. From here they can see right out across the bay, along the undulat
ing coast and all the way to the nearest village, its houses nestling beside and above each other, stretching up the slope of the mountain. Matchbox cars crawl along the weaving coastal road, disappearing into the forest in the distance. Below them and to their left, Hugo’s villa looks tiny yet deceptively close, surrounded by rows of cypress trees dwarfed by the dramatic landscape. Mathéo can just about make out the glint of turquoise of the swimming pool, the great lawn now just a tiny patch of green, and, below it, the narrow stretch of sand left behind by the high tide.
Moving towards the edge of the plateau, knee deep in bushy plants, Hugo gazes around with his hands on his hips, head cocked with a triumphant smile. ‘Pretty awesome, hey?’
Isabel lets out a loud gasp and retreats back into the trees, Lola drops to her knees and shuffles forward to peek down, and even Hugo keeps well back from the edge.
‘I’m starving,’ Hugo declares. ‘Shall we have lunch now and then climb down for a swim?’
‘How do we get down?’ Lola asks, sounding uncertain.
‘Look, there are steps.’ He points to the side of the plateau, where protruding rocks create the illusion of a giant staircase. ‘The rocks go all the way down. I’ve tried it – it’s easy enough. Like climbing down a ladder.’
Lola bites her lip and moves hastily back from the edge. ‘It is an amazing spot! I’m going to take some photos!’
‘It’s scary,’ Isabel counters. ‘I think we should move further back inland. What if this rock crumbles or something?’
‘It’s perfectly safe!’ Hugo mocks her gently, jumping up and down to prove his point. ‘When the tide was higher, a bunch of daredevils from the next village used to drive over here on their motorbikes and dare each other to jump. Rumour has it that one of them hit a rock and died.’
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