blood on your lip?’
‘Oh yeah.’ He pushes her hand away dismissively. ‘Got pretty hammered last night with the rest of the squad. Tripped on my way back to the station.’
Hugo laughs. ‘Looks more like you competed in a boxing tournament!’
‘Ouch – your hands too?’ Lola takes them in hers to inspect his raw and bloody knuckles, the skin grated back from the wounds, jagged white rectangles surrounding each wet, crimson laceration.
But fortunately the attention is short-lived, as Hugo and Isabel have decided that high tea is in order, and Mathéo follows them as they gather noisily around a table beneath a large parasol outside one of the French cafés, scraping the metal feet of the chairs against the paving slabs.
‘Oh my God, it’s all in Frog!’ exclaims Isabel in horror, examining the menu.
Lola and Hugo laugh. ‘Oh, no!’ Hugo mocks, shaking his head. ‘ Croissants , pains au chocolat , café . . . What on earth can these strange words mean?’
‘Ha ha!’ Isabel retorts. ‘Just because I dropped out of French doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
‘No, no, not stupid!’ Hugo exclaims. ‘Just . . .’ He clicks his fingers and shakes his head. ‘What’s the expression?’ He looks round at the others. ‘Linguistically challenged?’
Isabel bounds out of her chair and goes round the table to throttle Hugo. Then she slides onto his lap. ‘I could eat you – I’m that hungry!’ She laughs and twines her arm over his neck and gives him a long kiss. Looking away, their intimacy suddenly embarrassing him, Mathéo meets Lola’s gaze. With a jolt he is momentarily aware of her eyes scrutinizing his face, and it’s a monumental effort to keep hold of the laid-back, cheerful expression. Why is she staring? Can she tell something is wrong? Elbow propped up against the table, he turns away from her, chewing his thumbnail in an attempt to calm his nerves.
They all appear to be starving. As soon as the food arrives it disappears at an alarming rate, everyone helping themselves from each other’s plates: croissants, éclairs, muffins, coffees. Mathéo chews slowly so that it looks as if he is consistently eating, but only makes it through half a bun. With all the food-sharing and banter he hoped it would go unnoticed, but Lola glances at his plate while Isabel and Hugo are squabbling over the last muffin and raises her eyebrows.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Not really,’ he answers quickly. ‘Had a big lunch.’
‘But you told me on the phone you hadn’t eaten.’
‘I meant since then,’ he says, meeting her concerned gaze just long enough to give her a soothing smile.
A brief moment of hesitation, and then she turns back to the others, their rambunctious enthusiasm showing little sign of waning as they tease, joke and chatter animatedly amongst themselves. They move in electric currents: their raised voices, wild gestures and constant bantering igniting the table between them, making it thrum with energy. Mathéo feels the currents curl around him, envelop his body, encircle his head, but they cannot permeate his skin to fill the icy cavern inside with heat and strength and vitality; they cannot thaw the frost, anaesthetize his thoughts or extinguish the morning’s horrors. For a moment the contrast is overwhelming and he fears it will be impossible for him ever again to transmute back to his original state.
Mathéo is beginning to feel he can no longer keep up the façade, that his true feelings are about to show through. Panic washes over him; he just wishes he knew what was wrong. Maybe something to do with how pointless everything is. Why does everyone put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put on a happy face, the compulsion to keep going? He doesn’t know the answer, he only knows he can’t do it any more. He doesn’t understand what is going on. There was a time, not so long ago, when he was delighted to be part of this group – the most popular set. But something vital
‘Oh yeah.’ He pushes her hand away dismissively. ‘Got pretty hammered last night with the rest of the squad. Tripped on my way back to the station.’
Hugo laughs. ‘Looks more like you competed in a boxing tournament!’
‘Ouch – your hands too?’ Lola takes them in hers to inspect his raw and bloody knuckles, the skin grated back from the wounds, jagged white rectangles surrounding each wet, crimson laceration.
But fortunately the attention is short-lived, as Hugo and Isabel have decided that high tea is in order, and Mathéo follows them as they gather noisily around a table beneath a large parasol outside one of the French cafés, scraping the metal feet of the chairs against the paving slabs.
‘Oh my God, it’s all in Frog!’ exclaims Isabel in horror, examining the menu.
Lola and Hugo laugh. ‘Oh, no!’ Hugo mocks, shaking his head. ‘ Croissants , pains au chocolat , café . . . What on earth can these strange words mean?’
‘Ha ha!’ Isabel retorts. ‘Just because I dropped out of French doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
‘No, no, not stupid!’ Hugo exclaims. ‘Just . . .’ He clicks his fingers and shakes his head. ‘What’s the expression?’ He looks round at the others. ‘Linguistically challenged?’
Isabel bounds out of her chair and goes round the table to throttle Hugo. Then she slides onto his lap. ‘I could eat you – I’m that hungry!’ She laughs and twines her arm over his neck and gives him a long kiss. Looking away, their intimacy suddenly embarrassing him, Mathéo meets Lola’s gaze. With a jolt he is momentarily aware of her eyes scrutinizing his face, and it’s a monumental effort to keep hold of the laid-back, cheerful expression. Why is she staring? Can she tell something is wrong? Elbow propped up against the table, he turns away from her, chewing his thumbnail in an attempt to calm his nerves.
They all appear to be starving. As soon as the food arrives it disappears at an alarming rate, everyone helping themselves from each other’s plates: croissants, éclairs, muffins, coffees. Mathéo chews slowly so that it looks as if he is consistently eating, but only makes it through half a bun. With all the food-sharing and banter he hoped it would go unnoticed, but Lola glances at his plate while Isabel and Hugo are squabbling over the last muffin and raises her eyebrows.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Not really,’ he answers quickly. ‘Had a big lunch.’
‘But you told me on the phone you hadn’t eaten.’
‘I meant since then,’ he says, meeting her concerned gaze just long enough to give her a soothing smile.
A brief moment of hesitation, and then she turns back to the others, their rambunctious enthusiasm showing little sign of waning as they tease, joke and chatter animatedly amongst themselves. They move in electric currents: their raised voices, wild gestures and constant bantering igniting the table between them, making it thrum with energy. Mathéo feels the currents curl around him, envelop his body, encircle his head, but they cannot permeate his skin to fill the icy cavern inside with heat and strength and vitality; they cannot thaw the frost, anaesthetize his thoughts or extinguish the morning’s horrors. For a moment the contrast is overwhelming and he fears it will be impossible for him ever again to transmute back to his original state.
Mathéo is beginning to feel he can no longer keep up the façade, that his true feelings are about to show through. Panic washes over him; he just wishes he knew what was wrong. Maybe something to do with how pointless everything is. Why does everyone put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put on a happy face, the compulsion to keep going? He doesn’t know the answer, he only knows he can’t do it any more. He doesn’t understand what is going on. There was a time, not so long ago, when he was delighted to be part of this group – the most popular set. But something vital
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