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  ‘Loïc, arrête!’ his mother snaps in French. ‘Go and show Papa. I need to finish preparing dinner. Consuela, please just go and lay the table and let me finish this.’ She catches sight of Mathéo as he goes to take the plates from the cupboard. ‘Mathéo, get your brother out of the kitchen, will you? We’re never going to have dinner at this rate.’

  Mathéo quickly passes the plates to a frazzled Consuela and takes Loïc by the hand, propelling him gently towards his father. ‘Hey, Dad, look what Loïc made at school.’

  His father glances briefly at the spinning top Loïc is now holding dejectedly in his hand. ‘That’s nice, Loïc. What is it, a ball?’ But before Loïc can respond, his eyes alight on his older son.

  ‘Did Mr Harrington-Stowe tell you he’s going to be giving you private lessons twice a week starting in September?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mathéo replies. ‘I was kinda surprised. I thought we’d agreed I’d ask Miss Bell. I mean, she has been my teacher for the last two years—’

  ‘I called the school before work this morning. Didn’t want you wasting another day with that dim-witted Canadian.’

  He feels himself flinch. ‘She’s actually pretty nice, Dad. She got me through my GCSE and this year’s A-level – or at least I hope—’

  ‘Pretty nice?’ His father chuckles as if Mathéo has just cracked a good joke. ‘The woman only has half a brain – I don’t think I’ve ever met such an inarticulate teacher at parents’ evening before. Mr Harrington-Stowe – now, he’s a solid guy, Oxford-educated, and rumour has it he really stretches his students—’

  And is also one of the most hated teachers at school, Mathéo thinks to himself. ‘But twice a week for two hours?’

  ‘Next year’s not a gap year!’ his father exclaims for the hundredth time. ‘Just because you’re deferring your university place for a year to compete in the Olympics doesn’t mean you can slack off on study. If you’re serious about reading Economics at Cambridge, then you need the best tuition you can get between now and then. It’s bad enough that you’re wasting your time on that English A level. I don’t know why you insisted . . .’

  You’re the one who is set on me doing Economics at Cambridge so that I can end up going to work in the City like you. Mathéo tunes out his father’s continuing eulogy and surreptitiously aligns the glasses with the plates as Consuela lays the table. His mother is chopping carrots with an energy bordering on mania, and marches over to the dining table to throw a stash of parsley, diced tomatoes, peppers and carrots into the salad bowl, like confetti.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Walsh, I do that—’ Consuela protests desperately.

  ‘It’s all under control, Consuela. Just get the boys to sit down, will you, please?’ With a click of exasperation his mother goes to wash her hands and then returns to the table, taking her usual seat at the far end, nearest the kitchen, opposite her husband. ‘Mitchell, please put the paper away now. We’re about to start dinner.’

  ‘Then why is no one else at table?’

  Loïc slides quickly onto his chair, sucking his middle finger. Mathéo brings the heavy steak dish over from the kitchen and joins them. Consuela finally takes her place beside Loïc. There is a moment’s silence while everyone holds back, waiting for his father. Taking another swig of his Scotch, he surveys them all for a moment, as if to check everything is in its place, then folds his hands in his lap and looks down.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  Mathéo lowers his head like everyone else, but refuses to close his eyes or chorus ‘Amen’. When he looks up, his mother is eyeing him with one of her pinched, angry looks. Pretending not to notice, he unfolds his napkin.

  ‘Consuela, would you cut up Loïc’s meat?’ His mother speaks sharply, the tone of her voice a clear reprimand to the nanny for daring to begin her own meal before attending to her charge’s needs.

  Consuela starts, almost dropping her knife. Mathéo can’t help feeling sorry for her, already so jumpy and yet still to witness one of his mother’s meltdowns. Or one of her three a.m. rows with his father after he’d embarrassed her by getting into some drunken political argument at a cocktail party. One thing Mathéo is about to introduce her to, however, is the parent–son dinner-table argument, and he feels almost guilty for subjecting her to it so soon after her arrival. But he has little choice. He is unlikely to catch his parents together again for the rest of the week, and he needs to let Hugo know about the holiday.

  Mathéo takes a bite of overcooked steak and chews it for longer than necessary, struggling to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. It’s not exactly that he is afraid of his parents – they have never hit him or anything. He just doesn’t particularly relish confrontation of any sort – especially not with his father, who has a quick temper, has been known to smash the odd plate or glass after a drink too many, and excels at shouting Mathéo or anyone else who disagrees with him into submission. And of course there is Loïc, who always turns into a quivering wreck when tempers flare . . . Mathéo had always thought these kinds of tensions were present in all families, until he met Lola. But seeing her with Jerry, hanging out in a house that actually felt like a home, witnessing a family dynamic where disagreements rarely evolved into arguments, and when they did, were quickly settled by an apology – an apology from both sides, and often a hug too – had made him see his own parents in a whole new light. And it saddened him, made him resentful of an upbringing which consisted of far too much money – for which he was supposed to show eternal gratitude – and an almost cruel absence of attention and time.

  ‘So, I had a chat with Coach Perez on the car phone this morning and he warned me—’ his father begins.

  ‘Maman, I made a spinning top at school today!’ Loïc interrupts.

  ‘That’s nice. How did you do in your spelling test?’

  His father puts down his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I was in the middle of speaking,’ he snaps.

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mitchell, but could you wait one minute please? Loïc, take your elbows off the table and sit up properly. Consuela, you need to cut his meat into much smaller pieces—’

  ‘OK, that’s fine, just go ahead and ignore me as usual.’ His father’s voice begins to rise.

  ‘No one’s ignoring you, Mitchell. I’m just trying to teach our son some table manners, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you could start by teaching him not to interrupt.’

  ‘Dad, what were you saying about Coach Perez?’ Mathéo interjects quickly. If they start on each other now, he will miss his only chance.

  ‘I was saying’ – his father takes a deep breath and looks pointedly at his wife – ‘that when I spoke to him this morning he made it very clear you would have to be on top form at Nationals. Apparently there’s a new lad threatening to make the team – an Aussie, but with dual citizenship. Sam Natt, only sixteen. Just moved here but competing in Brighton against you this weekend and already creating quite a stir. Perez reckons he’ll not only make the Olympic team but give you a run for your money this season.’

  Mathéo chews the inside of his cheek and fiddles with the stem of his glass, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘Yeah, I heard. Perez already told me.’

  But as usual his father keeps on at him.

  ‘It’s like I keep telling you: there’s always someone younger and hungrier snapping at your heels. A few months ago they were hailing you as Britain’s greatest and youngest hope for the Olympics. But if you don’t up your game, that could all change over the course of a single weekend.’

  Mathéo winds his napkin round his fingers. He is going to have to go for it now, he realizes, before his father gets completely carried away.

  ‘Dad, you know school’s ending soon—’ He takes a nervous stab.

  ‘Yes?’ His father’s eyes narrow immediately.

  ‘Well, my friend Hugo – you know, the one whose father is a partner at Glaxo . . . he has – well, his paren
ts have a villa in the South of France. I used to go and stay there for a few days every summer, remember?’

  His father puts down his fork. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, Hugo and a couple of his friends are going out there for two weeks when school ends, just – just for a holiday, and—’

  His father stares at him, a chillingly still, open-mouthed gaze. ‘You want to go too?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Mathéo says quickly. ‘It’s just that Lola really wants to go because she’s never been before and – and the others are going off to university soon so it’ll be my last chance to, you know, spend time with them . . .’

  His father continues to stare at Mathéo, his eyes cartoon-huge. ‘You want to take two whole weeks off training to go partying in the South of France?’

  ‘We wouldn’t be partying. It would be to relax, just me, Hugo, Izzy and Lola,’ Mathéo tries to explain. ‘Like an end-of-school thing. I wouldn’t have to go for the whole time. Like maybe just a week—?’

  But his father is already beginning to lose it, his face reddening, the veins standing out in his neck.

  ‘Is this is why I spend ninety-hour weeks in the City to pay for all that exorbitant training?’ he begins to shout, his eyes darkening with rage. ‘So that you can piss off with your mates on holiday and go boozing every night with the Games only thirteen months away?’

  ‘No!’ Mathéo shouts back, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and frustration. ‘I just want to be able to go on holiday with my friends for once!’

  ‘Mathéo, don’t take that tone with your father!’ his mother chips in from the other side of the table, her voice low, fire in her eyes. Loïc gives a whimper and leans in towards the equally terrified-looking nanny.

  Heat scorches Mathéo’s cheeks. ‘But he won’t even listen to me!’ he appeals to his mother. ‘He just starts shouting whenever I say anything he doesn’t want to hear!’

  ‘Damn right I do! It’s thanks to your mother and me that you have food on the table, a roof over your head, a top-class education and the best diving coach in the country!’

  ‘I know that, Dad, and I appreciate it.’ With an effort, Mathéo forces himself to speak in more measured tones. ‘But I’m just asking for one week off. Or – or five days—’ A note of desperation begins to creep into his voice that he immediately tries to quash.

  ‘This is about Lola, isn’t it?’ his father says suddenly.

  ‘What? Well, yes, but not just that—’

  ‘You spend far too much time with that girl and her hippie father, Mathéo, and I want it to stop. She’s getting in the way of your training, she’s breaking your focus. You won’t have time for a serious relationship once your training is stepped up—’

  ‘If you think for one second I’d ever break up with Lola!’ he shouts, the blood rushing to his cheeks. ‘She’s the best thing – she’s the only thing that – that—’ He feels his throat constrict and forces himself to stop, to bring himself under control.

  ‘Look,’ his father says, more steadily now. ‘A thorough training schedule, the moment term ends, is vital to put you firmly on the map for the Olympics. You want to compete in next year’s Olympics, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Then don’t let this opportunity slip away! Most seventeen-year-olds can only dream of competing in the Games. For you, it’s a reality. You’ve no idea what I’d have given, at your age—’

  ‘I know, Dad, I know,’ Mathéo replies. His body slackens as he realizes he isn’t going to win this one.

  ‘In just over a year’s time you could be in with a shot at gold, while other guys your age are getting drunk down at the local pub, watching you on TV.’ Sensing Mathéo has given up, his father’s voice softens slightly. ‘Now, take a look at this!’ With a flourish, he pulls a newspaper out of his briefcase and unfolds it carefully, handing it over to his son. Mathéo spots his name in the headline, and a grainy picture of himself falling through the air.

  Recognizing this as an attempt at reconciliation, he forces a smile, even though reading about himself always makes him uncomfortable. ‘Cool.’

  DIVING: MATHÉO WALSH WINS EUROPEAN GOLD

  17-year-old Mathéo Walsh became Britain’s first individual diving European champion last month, producing a remarkable last-round performance to land gold. He is rapidly becoming Britain’s new diving superstar, determined to turn his talent to Olympic gold next summer. Walsh was only 14 when he became both British champion and Commonwealth champion in the space of just six months. A year later, he won a bronze medal at the World Championships in Shanghai – further raising already high hopes of something quite spectacular at next year’s Olympics – and now he is European champion.

  Walsh admitted he was ‘shocked’ after winning gold.

  The London teenager recorded 10s in five of his six dives to score 540.85 – a new personal best. ‘It was a very high-standard competition so I’m pretty chuffed,’ said Walsh. ‘I was thinking I would be lucky to get a medal, let alone win gold. After all the hard work and speculation it feels unreal. I’m totally overwhelmed.’

  After a shaky start, Walsh produced flawless dives in rounds four and five, each earning four marks of 10 from the judges. ‘I missed one of my dives. Normally I can do that third dive a lot better, and because I didn’t, I got quite worried, and knew I had to turn it around.To be able to get the 10s after that and win gold was utterly unexpected. To finish up standing on the top of the podium with the national anthem playing is not something that happens every day. Now I just want to do it again at the Olympics next year.’

  As he walked on to the platform for his first dive, Walsh looked tense and nervous. His opening dive – a back 2½ somersault with 1½ twists – earned him 88.40, putting him top of the leader-board. But his main rivals also produced their best opening scores, and it was clear it would come down to who would hold their nerve. Walsh had slipped to third place after round three, but his fifth dive, a reverse 4½ somersault with tuck, gained 97.15 and lifted him back up to second. Walsh kept the expectant crowd waiting until the very last round to see whether he would overtake the Russians. Then the teenager completed a powerful reverse 4½ to claim gold.

  It was a dream come true for Walsh. ‘I was so nervous, but there were loads of Union Jacks flying in the crowd, so the support really helped.’

  Walsh has been breaking records since the age of 10. Quickly exchanging the 5m for the 10m board, he was British under-18 champion by the age of 14. The hard work put in to achieve his gold medal was carried out at the Ashway Aqua Centre in West London, under the guidance of his coach, Juan Perez, who is keen to stress that the Olympics is still the main goal. ‘By next year he will be 18 and physically mature enough to give the top divers in the world a run for their money.’

  But Walsh is trying to play down expectations. ‘I am really looking forward to the Games,’ he said. ‘Getting any medal is going to be tough though: the Chinese are going to be really hard to beat.’

  Walsh shows absolute devotion to his sport, even training on Christmas Day! Within 24 hours of winning gold in Berlin he was back at school, studying for A-levels and training three hours, five days a week.

  At competitions, Mathéo makes it all look so graceful and easy, but every time his toes leave that board he is literally taking his life in his hands. In the nanoseconds before he hits the water, at more than 34 miles an hour, there is the potential for so much to go wrong. ‘I’m always scared, but that’s part of the rush,’ says Walsh. ‘I’ve gone through stages in my training when it’s gone wrong, and it’s terrified me. It takes time to build up that courage and go again. But you can’t let it affect you.’

  by Jim Rickets

  Lying in bed, his arm bent beneath his head, Mathéo finishes reading the article and then flings the paper across the floor, in the vague direction of the filing cabinet that houses all the articles about him since he first started competitive diving. Switching off his bedside la
mp, rolling onto his back and staring up at the darkness, he knows he will not sleep. Still riled by his father’s attitude, he is tempted to pick up the phone and call Lola. But Jerry goes to bed early, he doesn’t want to risk waking him, and anyway, he feels the need to move, to stretch his legs, to run. With one swift motion he swings his legs off the side of the bed and reaches for his clothes. He has to get out – of this room, of this house – before it stifles him. Crossing the floor, he opens the French windows and steps out onto the narrow balcony. Night has fallen; he feels the thick blue dark gently pressing its fingers into his eyes. The air is mild, the sky made of velvet, so soft and heavy it seems you could gather it up in your hands. A few streaks of colour remain tucked into the folds of the night; the lights have come on in the garden below. But the conservatory is dark, Consuela has left and his parents must have turned in.

  Opening his door quietly, he strains for sounds from below and, hearing none, begins his careful descent down the three flights. Letting himself out of the conservatory, he walks quickly down to the end of the garden and exits through the door and out onto the footpath.

  Streetlights smear behind him like neon streamers as he jogs the nine blocks to Lola’s house. Beneath the orange glow of a lamppost he skids to a dizzy halt, staring up at the darkened windows. The heavy silver watch on his wrist indicates that it is gone midnight. Shit. Even though he knows Jerry would be cool about it, he can’t possibly go waking him up at this time. But he aches to see Lola. She is the only one he can talk to about the stuff at home.