Hurt Hardcover

by Tabitha Suzuma

  ‘I don’t know, Mathéo, I only spoke to her father half an hour ago. Anyway, please, pull yourself together and go and get changed, the guests will be arriving any moment.’

  Upstairs, Loïc’s bedroom door is open. He is dressed in his summer suit – the cream one that he is made to wear for weddings and the like. It accentuates the pallor of his face. Consuela, looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting cocktail dress, kneels in front of him, straightening his collar. Loïc shoots Mathéo an anguished look over the nanny’s head. ‘She’s put sticky stuff on my hair to make it stand up!’

  Mathéo drops his bag on his bedroom floor and leans against the doorjamb. ‘It’s all good. You look cool, Loïc,’ he says, trying to dredge up a note of enthusiasm.

  Consuela turns abruptly, looking flushed and strained, her make-up overdone, hair already falling loose from its chignon. ‘Mathéo, quickly! You change? You have suit?’

  He crosses over to the bathroom, if only to assuage her nerves. ‘Yes and yes. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  He has always hated his parents’ parties but usually receives enough advance warning to be able to make other arrangements or come up with an excuse to get away. After putting in the mandatory half-hour presence, shaking a few hands and answering a dozen or so questions about school, his plans for university and whether he has a girlfriend, he is normally able to slip away relatively unnoticed with the excuse of homework. But tonight clearly does not hold that option – he will be the centre of attention, with not only his coach but also his diving buddies present, and will somehow have to negotiate the congratulations and the flattery and the praise as if he is somehow worthy of it all. As if it somehow all matters; as if he gives a damn about the Nationals or the Olympics or his whole diving career at a time when his very life appears to be coming apart at the seams. Toppling, falling, splintering at his feet like the trunk of a fallen tree, its branches stirring, trembling, as if they know, in their restlessness, that something terrible has happened.

  Dressed in his black suit trousers, silver-buckled belt, and a white open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Mathéo treads slowly down the stairs. The oppressive air, sticky with the heat of bodies and food and perfume, the gentle roar of voices, music and general merriment all rise up to greet him. He sets his face into what he hopes is an expression of relaxed cordiality. A slight smile, not too forced; a friendly, open demeanour; a countenance of quiet confidence. All at painful odds with the nerves and confusion that he feels inside.

  He reaches the bottom of the stairs, and the party seems to open out and swallow him whole. The ground floor is heaving with people, spilling out onto the garden patio: the men in brightly coloured shirts, the women scantily clad in the warm June evening. His father has cranked up the surround-sound and the place is almost deafening. Returning warm, sweaty handshakes, raising his voice to answer greetings, thumped on the back and clapped on the shoulders, Mathéo takes in deep lungfuls of hot, sultry air and gratefully accepts a tall flute of champagne as he tries to negotiate his way towards the relative cool of the garden. The alcohol fizzes in his empty stomach, his nostrils sting with the stench of his father’s Cuban cigars, and he feels the sweat begin to congeal beneath his collar as he strives to hear what people are saying, straining his voice to answer their myriad questions, to thank them for their effusive compliments.

  ‘Hey, it’s my golden boy!’ Perez catches him unawares, coming up from behind and grasping Mathéo firmly by the shoulders, giving him a playful shake.

  Startled, Mathéo almost elbows his coach in the face before being swung round and given a fierce hug and several slaps on the back. People have already started to gather round. Flush-faced and with false laughter, Mathéo vainly attempts to dodge his coach’s large, sweaty hand as it ruffles his hair, claps him on the back of the neck.

  ‘You’re looking at next year’s Olympic gold medallist,’ he announces to the gathering crowd. ‘Flawless performance in Brighton, not a single dropped dive – won by a massive forty points! Twenty-five perfect tens overall, including a perfect Twister, a perfect armstand back double-somersault tuck, and finally, a perfect Big Front!’ The other guests are nodding and smiling and congratulating Mathéo politely, but it is clear that Perez is already tipsy, his crimson face sweaty, brandy sweet on his breath. ‘A set like that this time next year and he will send the Chinese and the Americans home in tears!’

  Smiling over gritted teeth, Mathéo shakes his head in embarrassment and attempts to extract himself from Perez’s grasp. He tries to make his way over to Zach and Aaron, standing in a corner, looking bored. But before he can reach them, Perez catches up with him. ‘Now, you can celebrate tonight, but as from tomorrow it’s back to the food plan—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And as soon as school breaks up . . . When is that again?’

  ‘In two weeks.’

  ‘Well, in that case, in two weeks, in two weeks the real training starts. The Olympic training. I forget – have I shown you your schedule?’

  ‘Several times,’ Mathéo replies with a tight smile.

  ‘No holidays, no partying, no late nights, no bad foods . . .’ Perez slashes the air with his forearm, as if striking items off on a list. ‘And – most important . . . You know most important, Mathéo?’

  Wearily, Mathéo shakes his head.

  ‘No girlfriend!’ Perez booms to the room. ‘No girlfriend and no sex!’

  Around them, heads turn and people titter, and feeling the blood rush to his cheeks, Mathéo turns from his drunken coach and pushes his way through the crowd. He manages to lose Perez, only to run into the new neighbours, holding out more sweaty hands.

  The evening seems to him an elaborate theatre, the sole purpose of which is for his parents to show off their son’s achievement, their house, their wealth, their perfect little family. The guests are like actors, playing their part as revellers and admirers, even though most of them barely know him or have the slightest interest in diving. His father, surrounded by a posse of his golfing friends and associates, is jovial and solicitous, brandishing his cigar and knocking back the wine, laughing at his own jokes and growing more loquacious with each glass, entertaining his guests with a detailed account of his recent business trip to Cairo. On the other side of the room, his mother stands poised, hand on hip, making little smoky swirls in the air with her cigarette, tall and elegant amongst a group of work colleagues and luncheon friends in front of the bay window, their glasses of red wine luminous in the reflected evening light.

  ‘Consuela? Consuela, more wine!’ his mother calls over to where the nanny stands beside Loïc, who is grasping her hand tightly and extracting a string of oohs and aahs and head-ruffles from the stream of overdressed adults who seem to be queuing up to admire him as he stands there, innocent and blond and adorable. Although used to being paraded this way at endless parties and weddings and other functions, Loïc looks none too happy, but his serious expression and doleful eyes only succeed in increasing the fuss made of him by his parents’ guests. He appears panicked for a moment as Consuela disappears from behind him, and Mathéo presses his way through the throng and holds out a hand, which Loïc immediately grabs with both of his, following his older brother through the party’s undergrowth and out into the deep, dappled shade of the terrace. Mathéo finds him a place to sit down on the lawn, hidden away by the rhododendron bushes, snatching him some juice and vol-au-vents along the way.

  ‘Here.’ He sits down cross-legged opposite his brother, his back to the rest of the party, and sets the plate and glass down on the grass between them.

  Loïc looks up at him with a grateful smile, the relief evident on his face. ‘Can you stay with me?’

  ‘Sure. You know what? I hate these parties too.’

  ‘But everyone wants to talk to you,’ Loïc says between mouthfuls of vol-au-vent. ‘Everyone likes you.’

  ‘They don’t like me; most of them barely know me. It’s just because th
ey’re stupid and they’ve heard about the competition.’ Mathéo looks across at his brother’s wan face, and for the first time finds himself wondering what it must be like to be his own sibling, to be the one who is patted and petted but always overlooked – by his parents, by their friends, by Mathéo himself.

  ‘It’s not real, you know,’ he tries to explain. ‘Their friendliness, their questions, all the chit-chat. I just have to pretend like I’m happy or flattered or interested or whatever. It’s all a game of Let’s Pretend.’

  ‘Is that why Mummy and Daddy always go out to parties? Because they like to play Let’s Pretend? Is it Let’s Pretend that you love diving, then?’ Loïc asks.

  The question throws him off guard. ‘No!’ he exclaims quickly. ‘I love—’ But then he breaks off, hesitating. Suddenly it strikes him that he doesn’t need to lie to his brother. For once, he is in no rush to end the conversation, tell him what he wants to hear in order to be able to get away. ‘I used to love diving,’ he says quietly, cautiously, as if only just admitting the fact to himself. ‘I mean, a lot of the time things ached, or the training was so intense I thought I’d pass out. But the more I trained, the better I got, and – and, well, it’s nice to feel like you’re really good at something. It feels kind of good to be the best. And once you become the best, you want to stay the best. You never want that feeling to go away. But then other divers come along and start training even harder, and so you keep having to work just to stay the best.’

  ‘So are you the best diver in the whole world?’ Loïc asks, his eyes widening.

  Mathéo feels himself smile slightly. ‘No, that’s the problem. I’m one of the best. I’m probably the best in the country. Though once you become the best in the country, at first it feels really amazing, but then the amazingness kind of wears off. People start expecting you to win competitions, and if you don’t, they get really disappointed. So you want to have that feeling of being the best again. So you train even harder, and try to become the best in the whole of Europe, and then the best in the whole world.’

  Loïc holds his second vol-au-vent up to the fading light, checking for signs of tomato. ‘So is that what you want to do? Become the best in the whole world?’

  Mathéo chews the corner of his lip, looking over his shoulder at the throngs of people on the terrace, their voices getting louder with every sip of champagne.

  ‘No. Not any more.’

  He has surprised himself, but Loïc continues munching steadily, unperturbed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because—’ Mathéo swallows, his throat dry suddenly. ‘Because after the competition at the weekend, I realized I didn’t like diving any more.’

  ‘But you won!’

  ‘Yeah. But I realized I didn’t care about that any more. I realized I no longer cared about what Dad or Perez thought about me. I realized that I was sick of them – sick of them always telling me what to do.’

  ‘So you’re going to give up?’ Loïc looks faintly startled for the first time during the conversation. ‘Dad – Dad will get angry—’

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  ‘Just tell him you’re a grown-up now and you don’t want him to boss you around any more,’ Loïc suggests. ‘But say it with politeness,’ he adds nervously. ‘In a respectly way.’

  Mathéo smiles but feels his throat constrict. ‘I wish I could, buddy. I wish it was that easy.’

  His father calls him from the conservatory doors, looking annoyed, so Mathéo leaves Loïc to entertain himself with the games on his mobile and returns to the party. He is introduced to some new neighbours and finds himself plunged back into the heat and noise. As the Winchesters take turns pumping his hand and slapping him on the back and smiling eagerly, asking him about his Olympic preparation and informing him that their three-year-old is already showing remarkable signs of agility in the field of gymnastics, Mathéo drains his glass and accepts a refill from one of the passing waiters. He scans the crowd, but there is still no sign of Jerry and Lola, thank goodness. They must have sensibly decided to skip this circus. The volume is reaching fever pitch now. Everyone seems to be talking with strange animation, and all he is aware of is a mounting feeling of despair at the artificiality of the set-up, at the tone of his mother’s voice out-shrilling her own guests, but most of all at the sensation of himself as an imposter, someone posing as a sporting hero when in reality he is a nothing, a less-than-nothing: a piece of scum on this already tarnished earth, a faulty specimen of a human being who should be wiped out, tied down to a rock and tossed out to sea, leaving the world a calmer, healthier, cleaner place. Even as he talks, drinks, laughs and greets his parents’ guests, he feels himself sinking – so low that he appears to have reached rock bottom. It is not some dramatic breakdown. Rock bottom, in fact, is very mundane: it is simply an inability to see the point in anything and only wonder why on earth everything looks and feels so bad, so painful and so wrong. He feels stuck somewhere between dead and alive, and cannot imagine any place worse. All these people – how can they keep talking, keep smiling, keep laughing? Can’t they feel his pain, his sorrow, his despair? Is he that good an actor? He feels so utterly wretched that it suddenly seems impossible that the whole world doesn’t stop and suffer with him. On the one hand, he is desperate to keep up the façade; on the other, he is tempted just to walk through one of the conservatory walls and have the sharp, broken shards slash him to ribbons so he can finally look the way he feels. He gazes at Mrs Winchester’s painted pink lips, opening and closing, opening and closing; listens to Mr Winchester’s deep booming laugh, the puff-puff of his cigar and his rasping breath, and he wants to shout, Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, all of you! The whole world seems to have become a maze of shifting mirrors in which he wanders alone, looking frenziedly for the exit back into his real life, where people have substance, act genuine, are whole. But somewhere, somehow, ever since waking up that morning in his trashed room, he seems to have fallen into a nightmare. He wants to escape, wants to blot it all out, wants to sleep . . . No, not sleep, dammit – what he wants is to wake up!

  After what seems like an eternity, he manages to escape the clutches of the Winchesters and, while his parents’ backs are turned, escape back out to the garden. Dusk is beginning to fall: Loïc has been escorted up to bed by Consuela, and just a few smokers linger on the patio, the faint chill of nightfall ushering the rest of the guests inside. A large pale moth dances in the areas of light and then disappears. Breathing in the blessed coolness of the late evening, Mathéo picks up a half-drunk bottle of wine, looks about for a glass and, finding none, pinches a couple of cigarettes from an abandoned packet. For once he doesn’t give a damn, suddenly reckless and self-destructive, sick of having to take care of his health during every waking moment. Moving quickly away from the patio lights into the penumbra at the bottom of the garden, he slips behind a tall poplar tree, crouches down in the grass to light his cigarette from one of the glass-cupped candles that line the lawn, and then sits back against the cool brick of the garden wall, taking a swig of wine, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling heavily.

  A shadow falls over him, making him start. He freezes, hiding the cigarette’s glow behind his back in the hope that whoever it is will fail to notice him and just wander back inside.

  ‘What are you doing out here alone?’

  He recognizes the voice just as Lola’s silhouette comes into focus. Contrasting sharply with the suits and cocktail dresses of the rest of the guests, her legs are bare: she is wearing her favourite cargo shorts, rolled up to just above the knee, a pale yellow T-shirt, and a leather ankle bracelet above her Birkenstock sandals. Her long hair hangs down to her waist, her pale skin accentuating the smattering of freckles across her cheekbones and her bright sea-green eyes. In the eerie fading light, her appearance is more ephemeral than ever: the slight hollows in her cheeks, the slim neck, the delicate ridge of her collarbone. As usual, her face is free of make-up and her hair is unadorned – she is stunning without
even trying. There are traces of violet beneath her eyes; she has an almost painfully fragile beauty about her that makes his heart ache. After having had to put on an agonizing act for the last half-hour, he is suddenly so happy to see her, he wants to jump up and hug her, feel her arms around him, reassuring him that he is still alive. He wants her to bring him back, to remind him who he once was, to make him feel real again. He wants to kiss her so much that it hurts.

  ‘Mattie!’ She kneels down in front of him. ‘What the hell – you’re smoking?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ He takes a long drag, bracing himself for a lecture, but instead she just takes the butt from between his fingers and raises it to her mouth, inhaling slowly. Then she leans back, blowing smoke rings up into the darkening air. ‘Is your coach here? He’d fucking kill you if he caught you!’ She chuckles.

  ‘Yeah, somewhere. But I couldn’t care less. Where’s Jerry?’ he asks her.

  ‘Oh, stuck in the darkroom – got a tight deadline. He sends his congratulations though.’

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier – I don’t know what got into me . . .’ he tries to explain. ‘And I’m sorry about this. You didn’t have to come.’

  She looks at him with a mischievous smile, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. ‘Are you kidding me? Miss your congratulatory party, all your parents’ business associates slapping you on the back and singing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow?’ She laughs, reaches for the bottle and takes a deep swig.

  He feels the shadow of a smile cross his lips. ‘So you came to mock me in my hour of need?’

  ‘Well, yes, basically. But looks like I’ve missed the best part – or have you been camping out here all evening?’

  ‘No, I only just got away. You came at the perfect time.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She hesitates, rocking back on her heels and drawing her knees up beneath her chin. ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here.’