A French Wedding

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  Down the other end of the long expanse of beach there is something dark and wobbling. Shimmering, coming into view.

  A person or a monster?

  Max’s voice is stuck in his throat. Wobbling, focusing, wobbling. A mirage, he guesses, or perhaps he does need glasses as Frank once suggested. Then there are legs. And a torso. And a dark head. Or is that hair?

  Hair.

  Dark hair.

  The figure is in a swimsuit. She is carrying a towel and wearing glasses. Round ones with black discs for lenses. She is walking towards him.

  The black swimsuit is low on the thighs. She has a way of moving that reminds Max of Marilyn Monroe. What do you call that walk?

  Sashay.

  She sashays.

  Max waits for her to say his name. His own voice is still stuck, his tongue a thick and dry washcloth in his mouth. He blinks and stares at the woman and wants her to come closer. A hot breeze is skedaddling handfuls of sand across Max’s legs.

  She is an angel, Max decides. Though there are no wings and no halo. She is bringing something good. Max can tell. Not a thing, of course, but … something. A delivery of good fate, of luck. A bathing suit angel. A goddess. A messenger.

  She’s close now, still smiling. She’s close enough for Max to see her teeth and notice that her lips are painted an orange-almost-red. Her glasses have tortoiseshell frames. Her swimsuit has gathers or pin tucks or ruching, whatever those things are called, that look like river ripples down her sides. Her skin is pale. Pale as full-cream milk, French milk, the good stuff, and she has pink-beige freckles on her kneecaps.

  Max’s heart pounds.

  She pulls off her sunglasses. ‘Max?’

  No.

  Max wants to turn his head away. It cannot be her, because Max does not know what she looks like. Not like this. He knows her only in two dimensions. In photographs. The sun scalds his skin, takes his breath away. Max wants her to stop smiling. It’s too kind.

  Not you.

  The woman looks into his face. But it is. Though she’s not quite clear, not perfect, it is her.

  ‘Max?’

  It’s the voice that doesn’t belong. The voice Max knows from other dreams.

  ‘Max? Are you okay?’

  From another world.

  Helen.

  Max sits up too fast. It makes him feel ill, almost ill enough to throw up, but he rarely vomits, so that doesn’t happen. The blinds in his room are wide open and sunlight is pouring in. Helen is perched on the edge of his bed. She lays her hand against him, calming him, encouraging him back down onto the pillows.

  ‘Fuck,’ he says, blinking.

  Helen’s hair is wet and she’s wearing a white shirt and navy shorts. She looks like she should be on a yacht. She looks like a magazine cover. High gloss. Max inhales through his nose and catches the smell of himself. Sour and dirty.

  ‘You were having a bad dream.’

  He rubs his eyes, still half-stuck on that beach. His eyes feel full of sand.

  ‘Feeling rough?’

  He nods. ‘I’ll be alright after something to eat.’

  ‘Juliette is cooking breakfast,’ Helen replies.

  ‘Breakfast?’ he asks, shaking his head, which seems stuffed with stones. Max has the nagging feeling there is something he should remember. Helen smiles gently. It makes Max think of the woman from the dream. Her teeth, her lipstick.

  Max watches a drop of water from Helen’s hair slide down her neck and into her shirt. He thinks about following it with his finger. Or the tip of his tongue. This thought is better, is more familiar. The feeling slinks over him, like a clean shirt. Settles his heartbeat. Presses pause on the tightening of his head.

  He is not on a beach with his mother. He is in bed with Helen. If only Helen were in the bed with him. If only he were in Helen. He relaxes back into the pillows.

  ‘Morning is overrated. I think we should skip it.’

  ‘What would you have us do instead?’ Helen asks.

  Pull the blinds and make love, he thinks. Instead he shrugs. ‘We could take a vote. All in favour of deleting morning and skipping straight to lunch, say aye.’

  ‘Nay,’ Helen replies. ‘It’s nice here in the morning.’

  Max reaches out for the hem of her shorts. ‘You like it here?’

  ‘I really like it here.’

  He tugs on the hem. ‘Your sister doesn’t agree.’

  ‘Soleil doesn’t agree with much.’ Helen is looking down at Max’s fingers pinching the fabric of her shorts.

  ‘She said the place was a monstrosity.’

  Helen glances up at him, face serious ‘Soleil is very particular about town planning and architecture –’

  ‘Soleil is fucking particular about a lot of things,’ Max says and then regrets it.

  He is lying in bed with Helen, he should be enjoying it. He should not be complaining about her sister. He should not be sulking. He glances at Helen, checks her face. But she is now looking out the window as though she didn’t hear him at all.

  ‘I should have come here earlier. Before,’ Helen says.

  ‘We have busy lives,’ Max says compassionately, resolving not to be an arsehole. He will be loving and kind. He can do that. He has it in him. He takes Helen’s hand in his.

  Helen looks back to him. ‘Yes. But do you ever wonder what you’re doing? I mean, why?’ Helen looks down at Max’s hand and whispers, ‘Sometimes it feels like my life is living me, rather than the other way round.’

  Max wants to nod. He wants to say, ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ For the statement to have weight. For it to resonate and amplify and clarify all that Helen is thinking, in that way that staring at fireworks bursting across a dark sky makes you feel alive and full of wonder.

  ‘Sometimes … Sometimes it feels like I just woke up in my life,’ Helen says. ‘I’m just stumbling along and I can’t figure out who made all the choices to get me to this point, you know? I know it was me but … what was I thinking? What did I want? I need to make some choices, Max.’

  Max continues to stare at her. God, she is beautiful. Even with her mouth twisted down, with her face so sad.

  Helen takes a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t say yes.’

  Max’s mind whirs. The temporary silence between them feels vast. Max pushes the pieces of last night back together in his memory, like a jigsaw. It takes him a few moments. A few, painful moments. Helen’s cheek under his fingers, her lips. Her voice – apologising, once, twice – each time driving a kind of dagger into Max. Staggering back to his room in the dark, throwing the box, that stupid box he’d placed all his hopes on, across the floor.

  He really feels like he is going to be sick now.

  Max searches for the right thing to say. The perfect thing. The thing that lets Helen know he gets it, really gets it, that it’s no big deal. But of course it is.

  ‘This is pretty heavy for early in the morning, isn’t it?’

  Max, you are such a fool.

  ‘I need to know you are okay.’ She looks so tortured.

  The room sways and Max’s head pounds.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ he lies ‘I’ll be fine.’ The moment shattering like a plate against the floor.

  Fuck, Max thinks. Fuck fuck fuck.

  ‘I should help Juliette,’ Helen says, tentatively.

  ‘No. Stay,’ Max asks, his voice choked, more desperate than he wants it to be.

  ‘She’s probably down there by herself, cooking for all of us.’ Helen is straightening now, ready to stand. Her expression is still pained. She releases his hand.

  ‘Stay here,’ Max begs, wobbling dangerously on that line between cool and wretched. And then, ‘It’s Juliette’s job.’ Which he wishes, immediately, he could take back.

  Helen’s brows knit togethe
r. ‘Max.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ he says, digging himself deeper into it.

  ‘Do you know why she left Delphine? Why she left Paris?’ Helen asks gently ‘Did you ever ask?’

  Max doesn’t answer. Of course he never asked. He never even thought to.

  This isn’t happening. This is not the plan.

  Helen stands. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’ She turns to leave.

  Max feels like he stood up too fast, like all the blood has rushed from his brain.

  Helen pauses when she reaches the door, hand on the door handle. Though Max doesn’t know what she is going to say, he knows it’s not something he wants to hear. He can tell by the look on Helen’s face, now turned back to him. The look is hesitant and conflicted, worried.

  ‘Do you know where Soleil is? I can’t find her. Her bed is made, but she’s not here.’

  Max’s mind works faster this time. The pieces falling into place without him having to work at it. His fear, his shame, deepens. Oh God. Soleil. Max licks his lips and clears his throat. Though it’s the truth it feels so much like a lie it hurts.

  ‘No. I don’t know where she is,’ he replies, in the lightest, smoothest voice he can manage.

  Chapter 14

  Rosie

  Rosie’s hands are sunk in warm, soapy water. Though Juliette begged her not to, washing up gives her something to do. Something familiar. Something safe. She rubs a dishcloth over a plate and stares out the window into the garden. There is a breeze bossing the flowers and leaves. She watches the branches of the Linden tree sway.

  ‘Mornin’.’

  Beth lifts her palm to Juliette, who is preparing breakfast. Juliette looks pale and tired, Beth looks young and radiant. She is wearing a robin-egg blue short set and red lipstick. Her hair is in victory rolls on the top of her head.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Juliette replies.

  Beth picks up the dishcloth hanging over the tap.

  ‘You don’t have to –’ Rosie says.

  ‘I made kind of a mess last night.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Much better. So sorry about that.’

  Rosie shrugs. ‘I have three boys. You can’t shock me with a little vomit.’

  Beth gives a tentative laugh.

  ‘It’s not an invitation to throw up again,’ Rosie warns.

  ‘Got it,’ Beth replies.

  The women stand shoulder to shoulder. Rosie glances at Beth’s clothes and hair, then down at her bare feet and back again. ‘I like your outfit.’

  ‘Thanks. I made this,’ Beth says, shrugging.

  ‘You can sew?’

  ‘A bit. My mama taught me.’

  ‘Taught you well it looks like,’ Rosie says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Where is Eddie?’ Rosie asks.

  ‘Sleeping off the hangover.’

  ‘That could take a while.’

  Heads down, they smile at the same time.

  ‘He’s not much help in the kitchen,’ Beth concedes.

  ‘No,’ Rosie replies.

  ‘When I moved in I washed every single cup and plate and pot in the cupboard. They were filthy.’

  Rosie nods.

  ‘He’s a lot of fun, though,’ Beth adds quickly. ‘He makes me laugh.’ She reaches for one of the bigger pots, dunks it in the water and sets to work scrubbing at it with the cloth.

  ‘He’s always made us laugh,’ Rosie replies. ‘Eddie and Max. They’re our clowns.’

  Juliette retrieves a bowl from a cupboard and returns to her chopping board.

  ‘How did you and Hugo meet?’ Beth asks, taking two plates and handing one to Rosie to wash.

  Rosie looks down at it. ‘At a pub.’

  ‘You’ve been married for a long time?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie replies. Thinking: So so long. Last night they had slept with their backs to each other, pretending the other didn’t exist. Hugo hated it when she drank too much. Hugo hated it when she had too much fun. Rosie scrubs every inch of the plate in her hand.

  ‘Are you considering it? Marriage?’ she adds, not looking directly at her.

  ‘Oh, well. I don’t know …’ Beth pauses, pressing her lips together. ‘I don’t know how I feel about marriage.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘It seems –’ Beth starts.

  ‘Hard,’ Rosie finishes for her. ‘Yeah, it’s hard.’

  Beth picks up a tea towel hanging on a rail and stands on the other side of Rosie, drying the dishes Rosie has washed.

  ‘Why do people bother?’ Beth mumbles, thinking out loud. ‘Sorry, I …’

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Here. Look,’ Rosie says, ‘put your hands in the water and make a cup.’ She presses her hands together tightly and dips them in the water. ‘Like this.’

  When Rosie lifts her hands, the water is caught in a little pool.

  Beth tries it. She scoops up some water, but it disappears quickly, slipping through the gaps between her fingers.

  ‘Try to keep it in your hands,’ Rosie instructs.

  Beth tries again, with Juliette now looking over, but the water slides through. Juliette glances at Rosie, whose hands are resting against the edge of the sink, engagement and wedding rings sparkling. Beth turns to Rosie.

  ‘Are you messin’ with me?’ she asks softly. ‘I don’t get it. It’s about marriage?’

  Rosie murmurs, ‘You’ll try it again. We all do. We keep trying, even though we know it won’t work. It just seems like it should.’

  Beth is staring at her fingers when Rosie rights herself. She feels old and cynical. She looks over to Juliette.

  ‘How about you, Juliette?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What do you think of marriage?’

  ‘I don’t have too many personal opinions about it.’

  ‘Have you been married?’

  ‘Oh.’ Juliette looks a little caught off guard by the question. ‘No, never been married.’

  The door opens. All three women turn to watch Eddie walk in.

  ‘Ladies,’ he greets them, kissing Beth on the ear.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, blushing.

  Rosie clears her throat. ‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ She passes Eddie a tea towel, which he drapes over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m always up at this time. Aren’t I, Beth?’

  Beth smiles and shakes her head.

  ‘I’m up, I go for a run, I make a kale smoothie, I return to do my yoga practice.’

  When Eddie stretches, his t-shirt sleeves fall back to reveal the thick, dark hair of his armpits. He looks like a man but he is still a boy, Rosie thinks. It makes her feel sad. The same number of years have passed for both of them and Rosie feels ancient for them, while Eddie can still look and seem like a teenager.

  ‘Always the clown. How do you live with it?’ Rosie asks Beth.

  Beth stares at Eddie lovingly. Eddie holds up his palms. ‘Hey, girls, please. Don’t fight over me, it’s embarrassing.’

  Beth cuddles into one side of him and Eddie reaches out and pulls Rosie into his other side. Rosie squeals and Beth giggles.

  ‘This is better. We should all just get along, don’t you think?’

  Juliette looks over and smiles.

  The door opens again. Hugo nods at Juliette then looks over to the trio by the sink. He stares at Rosie. Rosie stares back, heart sinking.

  ‘Ah, my beautiful muses,’ Eddie says, with a dramatic sigh. ‘My past …’ He kisses the top of Rosie’s head. ‘And my present …’ He kisses the top of Beth’s head. Rosie watches Beth’s smile wane as she glances at the flagstones on the floor. She knows Beth had expected him to say ‘future’. When Rosie looks back at her husband his stare is so fierce it could
burn holes. She should have told him. She should have told him a long time ago; from the beginning. But back then she had been telling white lies and as time wore on it seemed like such a silly, minor thing to confess. The fury on Hugo’s face should make Rosie guilty and ashamed, should make her terrified. Instead she is flooded with a kind of weariness. Hugo turns, his hand slapping against the door.

  ‘Hugo?’

  All of them now looking at the long, lean back of him, exiting the kitchen.

  ‘Hugo!’ Rosie calls, louder this time.

  The door bangs.

  ‘Shit,’ Rosie sighs, walking after him. She pushes past Helen and Max, coming into the kitchen as she goes out. Helen wearing a white shirt and navy shorts. Max with pillow creases on his cheek.

  *

  Hampstead Heath, 1999

  ‘Rosie?’

  Rosie was lying back against a picnic blanket, a dark denim jacket tucked under her head.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Rosie sat up. In front of them Lars and Eddie and Helen were kicking a football. Helen wore a long skirt and lots of bangles. She was hopeless but the boys weren’t great either. They were all laughing and Helen’s bangles were jingling as she ran and Eddie was trying to trip Lars up with his foot. Rosie turned to face Nina.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Nina laughed. Broad and deep and clear, like she always did. She reached into her handbag and tossed Rosie the test stick. ‘Very sure.’

  Rosie stared at it. The stick was so light. So insignificant; not much bigger than a ballpoint pen. But there were the two blue stripes and the diagram beside indicating just what that meant. Rosie turned it over as though there might be more information on the back. As though it might be a joke. Nina gently took it from her hands and put it back into her bag.

  ‘How …?’

  ‘You need me to tell you how?’ Nina asked.

  Nina reached over to the container full of rice salad studded with fat raisins and ate a few forkfuls. They both watched Helen fall over, giggling, and Lars reaching out to lift her back up. Max was talking to some girl that had come racing over to get his autograph. He had been travelling a lot since the album had come out. Most recently in the States; driving through deserts, buying cowboy boots and mirrored sunglasses, smoking pot, playing in bigger and bigger venues, sleeping with reedy pretty girls with long, straight hair.