‘Be nice to your mother,’ Lars instructs, in a sharp tone. Sophie looks to the floor.
Song change.
‘Aha!’ Lars cries out. He raises both fists in the air, closes his eyes, nods his head.
Eddie looks over approvingly. ‘Oasis.’
‘Oh my God,’ Sophie mutters.
Max wants to laugh out loud but the tequila has made him dozy. Helen flashes him a smile that makes him feel like a boy with a present to unwrap. This is how it is supposed to be. This is how music saves people’s lives. Lars winks at Sophie, who rolls her eyes. Nina returns to the couch and is now laughing at Lars, who is dancing, or his version of it. Helen shakes her hair over her eyes. It reminds Max of that girl from Feist he met once. Intense and sexy and cheekbone-y. Or she had reminded him of Helen. Helen being the yardstick against which everyone else is measured.
Eddie plays air guitar, picking over imaginary strings, all the wrong notes. Max laughs and slaps his thigh. When he glances outside he notices the light has faded and the rain is slowly easing up.
‘Kate Bush!’ Helen calls out.
‘The Clash!’ Eddie shouts over the top of her. Helen, who has lit a cigarette even though Max doesn’t normally let anyone smoke in the house – it makes the place smell like he’s on tour – blows smoke in Eddie’s face and he pretends to choke.
‘Fleetwood Mac?’ Rosie pleads.
Everyone groans, the standing joke.
Nina, who isn’t requesting anything, stares around at her friends. She holds a full glass of wine delicately in her fingertips; her eyes are glazed. The others start arguing about the music but Nina is set apart from all of that; watching them all, loving them all. Looking at them like they are the brightest, shiniest things she has ever seen. She reminds Max of one of those old photographs of Elizabeth Taylor, perhaps, a candid shot, like the one he used to have in his bedroom at college. She is radiant and still and … something. Fragile? Max tips his head. He is drunk. Not very drunk but enough. He isn’t seeing her right. Fragile is not a word for Nina. Nina is tough. Solid. Dependable. But something about her, about the light, makes her look like she might softly, silently dissolve.
She turns to him and her expression changes, the spell broken.
‘You okay, Max?’ she asks, her face as Max remembers it. Sweet but stern. Relief floods through him.
‘What do you want to listen to?’ he asks her.
Nina glances at Hugo, who has come into the room and accepted a glass from Juliette. He stands behind the couch that Rosie is sitting on. Max wishes he could cleanly subtract Hugo from Rosie like a mathematical equation.
‘Put on Fleetwood Mac,’ Nina says. ‘Hugo hates it.’
‘The Mac it is,’ Max replies, smiling.
*
Getting older happened too suddenly for Max. He hadn’t noticed it – the years flicking by; he had never given his age a thought. But now, when he looks in the mirror it can make him feel a bit queasy. He isn’t ugly; he has enough confidence to know that. Women still want to fuck him. That much is evident. But when he sees himself he suddenly sees someone else too. His father. He is the reason Max sounds like a Tory. Not because he is but because the ‘I’m owed’ mentality reminds him of his father. His father, who had fleeced every system he could lay his thick-knuckled hands on. Who, on paper, had been a cripple, was traumatised by a brutal childhood (while inflicting a worse one on his own son), had been in the army for five minutes and, thus, considered himself a war hero. His father, who despite paying practically no tax in his life thought the world should give him something. Everything. His father: the cheat, the liar, the bully. Getting older and looking more and more like him disgusted Max. Made him feel like things were getting out of control. Made him take more drugs. Though nothing had changed, Max started waking up in the night, mouth dry, feeling his face, feeling his arms, checking his legs, checking his dick. As though he might have disappeared in his dreams, slipping away from this world without having done half the things he should have.
Helen lays a hand against Max, the one that isn’t holding the cigarette to her lips.
‘This is nice, eh, Maxie?’
‘Bloody perfect,’ he replies softly.
Helen is beaming. She loves these people as much as he does.
Helen’s childhood was the polar opposite to Max’s yet essentially the same. Two parents who added up to less than one. Either completely ignoring her or on her case, reinforcing that she was never, would never, be good enough. Helen’s father, appalled at her choice of college and career, told her that artists never made any money, that they were leeches upon society and she would be the laughing stock of the family. Though Camberwell College of Arts had changed its name years earlier, and counted several famous artists amongst its alumni, Helen’s father still referred to it as ‘Arts and Crafts School’. Worst of all, Helen’s father told her that her art wasn’t any good. The dark knot of doubt that probably led to Helen owning an art gallery rather than contributing to one. On the other hand, Helen’s mother, unfussed about her art, bemoaned how Helen looked. She constantly told her that her clothes were too dark, too boxy, not feminine enough, that some girls could get away with no makeup and Helen was not one of them. Helen wasn’t the daughter she’d expected or hoped for, though God knows what kind of daughter would have made her happy. Together, Helen’s parents were a narcissistic and inadequate sum. They alternated between using Helen as a pawn in their own manipulations and completely forgetting she existed. She was less of a daughter and more of a pet, a fancy piece of furniture, something to show off, something to shoo when the party was over, something that fell out of favour and fashion, something to send away to be looked after.
‘I got something for you,’ Helen says to Max.
‘I got something for you too.’
Max is smiling. The tequila, he’s had a few glasses, has made his blood move slow and sweet.
‘You did? It’s your birthday.’
Max shrugs.
‘Well, I’m going first,’ she says.
‘Okay.’
Helen pats his leg before leaping up and heading upstairs. Max watches her go. The swish of her skirt, the fine bones of her ankles, the way her arse moves beneath the soft, dark fabric. He wants to press her against a wall and lift the dress up above her waist, feel the warmth of her thighs under his palms.
When she is gone from view he glances at her side of the couch. Soleil is still perched on the arm. Be nice. He gives her a forced smile. She returns it.
It is baffling that the miracle of Helen came from the same nursery as Soleil. It shouldn’t surprise Max that Soleil is such a pompous little shit, but he is surprised because of the way Helen isn’t. Soleil clearly does not take after her sister. Max reminds himself they aren’t really sisters at all; their relationship is a result of circumstance, an accident. They don’t share anything other than history, a history that hadn’t even been their choosing.
Helen isn’t Soleil’s. Helen is his.
Max leans over. ‘So. What else are you into?’
‘Other than?’ Soleil asks.
Professors, he wants to say and the thought almost makes him laugh out loud. ‘University?’
‘Oh.’
Soleil takes a drink of gin. Max can smell it. He loves the smell of gin.
‘I guess I am really into university,’ she mumbles. ‘Um. Yoga. Environmental activism. Watercolours.’
‘Watercolours?’ Max asks, laughing.
‘Yeah, watercolours.’
‘Of what?’
‘Flowers.’
‘Jesus, I thought I was old,’ he mutters.
‘I find it calming,’ she replies, icily.
‘Okay. Fair enough.’
‘What are you into?’ Soleil asks Max.
Your sister, he thinks.
‘
My work takes up most of my time. I’m on tour a lot.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Work? Or touring?’
‘Both.’
Max looks at his glass. ‘I love my work. I like touring less than I used to.’
‘Is it lonely?’
‘Yes, it’s lonely,’ Max replies slowly, trying not to lose the confidence he felt a moment ago. He loves performing. He loves being in and of the music. He just wishes there wasn’t the getting there and sitting around and next-day hangovers that seem to be getting worse and worse. Plus, increasingly, he dislikes the people he meets on tour. A parade of ageing PR women with makeup spread like wedding cake frosting, doe-eyed, hopeful girls who won a competition on the radio, the young guys, pretending to be apathetic, who want to give him songs they have written. Max longs for less touring. He yearns to be somewhere quiet and safe; he wants to write more. Some of the music The Jacks have been releasing lately seem like repeats of tunes they wrote before. Max has the sinking feeling that their winning formula has become formulaic. He hasn’t told anyone that, though. Least of all Frank.
‘But it’s fun, you know. Seeing the world …’
This is something Max learned after dozens, hundreds of interviews. Never complain too much. His life is more blessed than most. You have to be grateful. And he was. Is.
Soleil nods. ‘I listened to them, The Jacks. I mean, I looked them up.’
‘Yeah?’ If it weren’t for politeness and the rhythm required for pleasant conversation Max probably wouldn’t ask, ‘What did you think?’
‘They’re okay.’
‘Don’t kill yourself with enthusiasm,’ Max mutters, shaking his head.
‘I’m just not sure they’re my kind of thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘I don’t know. I listen to a range of music,’ Soleil says.
‘But not The Jacks and not The Cure.’
‘It’s just a little … obvious? For me.’
Max turns to face her fully.
‘Especially the newer stuff,’ she adds.
‘You know I wrote most of those songs?’
‘Some of them were good.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The one about the stars and the girl.’
‘“It Takes a Tiny Light”.’
‘Yeah.’
It was one of Max’s ballads. Frank hadn’t wanted it on the album.
‘And the turtle one.’
Both songs were far from being The Jacks’ top hits. They were too dark and too blunt. They weren’t commercial.
‘Do you have favourites?’
‘I’m proud of all our work,’ Max says defensively.
‘I just didn’t like some of the newer tracks,’ Soleil says.
‘You said that already.’
Max empties the glass. He looks around for Juliette but she must be in the kitchen. He feels the familiar, internal itch for something stronger than alcohol. Max isn’t unused to criticism. The Jacks have had plenty of bad reviews, that’s just part of it. But he is unused to criticism sitting in his lounge. He glances at the stairs, looking for Helen. When he doesn’t see her, he turns back to Soleil. The booze gives Max’s throat a pleasant buzz and warms his chest.
‘You can be pretty rude, you know.’
Soleil blinks at him.
‘This is my house. These are my friends. This is my birthday.’
Her gaze hardens. ‘I was just being honest.’
‘I never asked you to be honest.’
‘Yes, you did. You asked me what I thought.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be so bloody critical.’
‘Honest,’ she insists.
Max rubs his face. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Maybe I was a bit harsh about your house.’
‘Yeah, you were.’ Max waits. ‘Is that it?’
‘What else should there be?’
‘Thank you for having me? Sorry I was rude about your music? Sorry I’m such a pain in the arse?’
‘I was being honest,’ Soleil says again. ‘Why do people have such a problem with honesty?’
If Soleil were a guy Max probably would have punched her by now. He could have blamed it on the tequila.
‘There’s honesty and then there’s fucking rudeness,’ he repeats.
‘You’re saying I should never say what I really think? I should only say what is polite?’
Helen appears beside Max. ‘Hey, you two.’
They both look up at her.
‘Getting along?’ she asks.
Max gives a dishonest smile and Soleil says nothing.
*
Juliette refills his glass and Max looks up at her gratefully. Juliette is a wonder. She arrives from nowhere and knows exactly what he needs and when. If Max mentions a cheese or a dish he likes, then it is served next time he comes. Eddie teased him that he should make Juliette his wife, she looks after him so well. Max had laughed but he should probably give her a pay rise. Come to think of it, Max isn’t a hundred per cent sure what he does pay Juliette.
‘Thanks, Juliette.’
‘De rien. I’ll serve dinner in an hour. I need to pick up more seafood. Does that suit?’
‘Cracker,’ Max replies, giving her a thumbs-up.
Helen giggles at him.
‘What?’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Is that so bad?’
Maybe he should ease up. Max always drinks more when he’s not taking coke. He is dying to do some coke. He glances at Eddie. Eddie would do coke with him.
Helen leans back and drops her feet in his lap.
‘So.’ She passes him a box.
‘So. For me?’
It’s about the size of a shoebox, but upright.
‘It’s nothing you need.’
Max puts down his tequila. The box is wrapped in black paper with a pattern of creamy-white staring skulls. He passes his thumb over one; it’s raised and velvety. He peels off the red satin ribbon.
‘Careful. Don’t tip it,’ Helen warns.
He opens the lid.
Inside is a pot plant. Except the pot is half a coconut and the stand is a colourful coil. A bedspring covered in different pieces of tightly wound wool.
‘It’s Baby Tears. The plant, I mean.’
Max lifts it out of the box. Tiny leaves dot falling green tendrils, hanging over the edge of the coconut shell. Max feels someone behind him.
‘What is that?’ Eddie leans on the back of the couch.
‘Baby Tears,’ Max repeats, still staring at it.
‘That’ll definitely go with the decor,’ Eddie jokes. Helen reaches out and gives him a light smack. Max wishes he wasn’t there. He wishes it were just him and Helen, somewhere dark and silent. Max runs his finger over a piece of wool, mustard yellow coloured. Next to it soft mint green. Then red, then brown, then pink. The rainbow journeys up the coil and then runs around and back down again.
Helen pushes at him with her toe. ‘You remember?’
He looks over to her. ‘Of course I remember.’
‘Remember what?’ Eddie asks.
Go away, Eddie.
‘Max made me a pot plant just like that one when we were at college.’
‘Yeah? Didn’t know you were such a crafter, mate.’
‘You know me. Multi-talented.’
‘I’d failed an illustration paper. Remember?’ Helen asks.
Max nods.
‘And my father was being a shit.’ Helen turns to Eddie. ‘Max made me a pot plant and brought over a bottle of vodka. Made it all better.’
‘Aw,’ Eddie says, shoving Max’s shoulder.
Fuck off, Eddie.
Helen leans towards Max. ‘’Cause that’s what he alwa
ys did. Made it all better. Eh, Max?’ She reaches out and takes his hand, their fingers weaving together easily. He wishes Helen could read his mind.
I love you. I need you. It’s you; you are it. It’s always been you. Be mine.
Eddie hangs over the couch and stares at them both with a goofy, drunken smile on his face.
‘I love it,’ Max says softly.
Chapter 11
Juliette
The rain is coming down in sheets now. Juliette expertly sidesteps newly formed puddles, unflinching at the spray against her face. She folds up her umbrella and knocks on her neighbour’s door. There is a Gwenn-ha-du hanging in the front window. Paol and Mari’s eldest opens the door and it takes a moment for Juliette to find her voice. This always happens when she sees Gaela. She looks exactly as Mari did at high school. Her hair dark red and shining, her eyes black and darting. Her mother, Mari, had been outgoing and well-liked, the lead in school drama productions, the girl dating the boy two years her senior.
‘Bonjour, Juliette.’
Gaela beckons her inside, out of the rain, while Juliette wipes her shoes on the doormat.
‘Bonjour, Gaela. Are your parents in?’ Juliette can smell hot butter.
‘Who is it?’ A voice calls from the kitchen.
‘Just me, Mari! Juliette, from next door. I’m picking up seafood from Paol.’
‘Ah, oui. Come in, come in. I’m in here, trying not to burn this crepe. Gaela, bring her in.’
Gaela points towards the kitchen but Juliette already knows the way, following the narrow hallway down towards the right. Gaela heads towards another door, her bedroom presumably, with a silent wave. The kitchen is homely and cluttered with piles of papers and children’s drawings on walls that are so old the tape and the paper have yellowed. Mari’s face, above the frying pan, is frowning as she gently pokes the galette with a long, narrow spatula. Her skin is covered in freckles, her forehead wrinkled, auburn and grey curling hair piled on the top of her head.
‘Gaela looks just like you did,’ Juliette says, taking a seat at a bar stool behind the counter.
‘Hmmm,’ Mari replies, concentrating.
‘Do you want me to do it?’ Juliette asks.
‘No,’ Mari murmurs, still staring at her crepe. ‘I’m going to get it right.’
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