A French Wedding

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  ‘Didn’t she have a friend to stay with?’ Max asks, trying not to sound resistant.

  ‘I think so. I’m not sure.’

  ‘There might not be enough room anyway,’ Rosie says. ‘Though I’m sure we could work something out, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Max replies, non-committedly. He watches Juliette unpack the box of food into the fridge and kitchen cupboards. Now she’s placing teabags and sugar and spoons and cups on a tray by the kettle. Max wants a proper drink, not a cup of tea. And he wants answers. To the image he has seen over and over in his head during the hours they were driving. Who kissed whom? What do you want with her? How does she feel about you? What is this?

  ‘Juliette?’ Rosie asks. ‘Where are you sleeping?’

  Juliette turns from the fridge, glancing briefly at Max. ‘I won’t stay.’

  ‘You’re not driving back to Douarnenez.’

  ‘No. I’m not going to do that,’ she replies. ‘I’ll stay with a friend.’

  ‘Who –?’ Helen starts to ask.

  ‘That might be better. Like Rosie said, there’s not much room,’ Max says tightly. Juliette faces him and pauses. Max waits for embarrassment to wash over her face, or for her to look away. But instead she holds his gaze and lifts her chin.

  ‘Max …’ Helen murmurs.

  ‘Yes,’ Juliette says slowly. ‘You have everything you need. I will leave you alone.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Max offers. Helen drops her head as Juliette walks past her. Rosie, confused, looks between the three of them.

  Max walks Juliette to the front door. Her leather bag is held tightly in her hand. Neither of them says anything until they are far from everyone else. Max holds the door open.

  ‘She’s mine, Juliette.’ Trying not to sound desperate. Trying to believe it is true.

  Juliette holds her slender frame upright and steady, her eyes meeting Max’s.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’

  ‘Maybe. But she’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘You’ve got more than that, Max,’ Juliette says softly.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ Max replies, glancing for a moment back into the apartment. ‘It’s just stuff. I thought it meant something once. When I didn’t have it, probably.’

  Juliette blinks. ‘I didn’t mean the stuff.’

  Max frowns. ‘Look, Helen and I go way back. We’re the same. We understand each other. Don’t make me spell this out.’

  ‘Spell what out?’

  Max licks his lips. ‘You don’t know her, Juliette. You don’t know how we are. She’s mine, okay?’

  Juliette nods slowly and turns.

  Max reaches out, placing his hand on Juliette’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey, sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long day.’ He rubs his face. He is not handling this well. He needs a drink. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

  Juliette says nothing.

  ‘To go to the hospital,’ Max adds, levelly. He is Juliette’s boss, after all. ‘What time?’ he asks, switching to the details, the practicalities.

  Juliette’s expression is intractable. ‘There are seven of you, Max. I think you can figure it out for yourselves.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Goodbye, Max. Give my love to everyone.’

  As Juliette descends, her caramel-coloured leather sandals make gentle slaps against each stair. Max is unsure whether he will see her again.

  He suddenly wants to call out but doesn’t know what to say.

  *

  They order food from King Falafel Palace for dinner. The restaurant is only a block away from the apartment on Rue de Rosiers and is open late. Lars and Hugo go out to pick it up and return with plastic bags bulging full of trays wrapped in silver foil. Flat bread, salad, sliced onions, hummus, taboulleh and hot silky eggplant with garlic and mint. Max tries not to think of Juliette. The things she said, the strange look on her face as though he just didn’t get it. Would never get it.

  I can find another cook.

  I can find another housekeeper.

  It’s not a big deal.

  Nina comes out of the bedroom with her hair askew. She scolds them all for coming but gives kisses and hugs all the same. She looks better. Rested. Helen, on the other hand, is quiet and pale and keeps glancing at him. Max distracts himself by finding enough plates for them all. Sophie distributes paper napkins from one of the bags; Max places cold bottles of beer from the fridge in the middle of the table. Beth fetches glasses of water for those that want one. Nina reaches for a beer and twists open the top. Then stands. Hands pause over the food.

  ‘Take a beer,’ she demands. Everyone obliges. Max’s is already open. Nina waits until all the bottles are popped open. All eyes are on her.

  ‘First of all, thank you. For coming here for me. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect any of this. And …’ She pauses for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I kept it secret.’

  She looks to Rosie. Rosie is looking down at her plate, which has nothing on it yet. She raises her head.

  ‘But this is not my party. It’s Max’s.’ Nina reaches over and rubs Max’s head. ‘Bloody ruined it, didn’t I, Max?’

  ‘Nah, Nina, you didn’t.’

  Lars agrees, ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Well, maybe I did. But, we’re all together, right? In Paris? Eating falafel?’

  Lars lifts his bottle. ‘Hear, hear!’ Even Sophie gives a fleeting smile.

  ‘We’re all here and it’s Max’s weekend, so I want to say a toast. I didn’t get a chance to yesterday.’ Nina clears her throat. She takes a swig of beer. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘You’re supposed to toast first,’ Eddie heckles.

  Nina turns to Max. ‘Max, darling Max, I remember when I first met you. It was at the Amersham Arms. You probably don’t remember …’

  They all laugh.

  ‘You were wearing that horrible leather jacket. The black one. It stank. And you had hair then, of course. It was gorgeous hair. Truly it was pretty, wasn’t it, Rosie? Helen?’

  ‘Very pretty,’ Helen confirms, quietly. Max stares at her.

  ‘Lars took me to see a band and Max was in it.’

  ‘The Cold Foxes,’ says Eddie.

  ‘The Cold Foxes. That’s it.’ Nina points her bottle at Eddie. ‘It wasn’t a big gig, actually there was hardly anyone there, but Lars said I had to come, his friend was playing and his friend was good. And … he was. Weren’t you, Max? You were really, really good. Much better than the rest of them. You were something special.’ Her voice drops. Max shifts, uncomfortably, in his seat.

  ‘You got us drinks on your band tab and made us laugh so hard – I can’t even remember what we were talking about, but my sides hurt the next day, I remember that. And we got home when the sun was coming up. And soon enough we were seeing you all the time. Couldn’t get rid of you. More gigs, more pubs, more laughs. So many laughs.

  ‘And then there was Rosie and Helen, then there was Eddie, there were all of Max and Eddie’s girlfriends …’ Max watches Hugo glance down at his lap. Nina gestures to Beth. ‘Sorry, Beth. But, believe me, Eddie’s girlfriends were always better than Max’s. For starters, they lasted longer. And they wore more clothes –’

  Max interrupts. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Alright, Nina. We got the message,’ Eddie groans, reaching for Beth’s hand.

  ‘Anyway, that was that,’ Nina says. ‘We were a … what? Gang? Gaggle?’ She looks to Helen. ‘Give me a collective noun, Helen.’

  ‘Skulk?’ Helen offers. ‘Like foxes?’

  ‘Yeah. A skulk. We were a skulk. And together we all grew up. Ish.’ Nina gives Max a pointed look. It’s supposed to be a joke but it makes Max feel a bit sick. The events of the last twenty-four hours want to flash in front of him like a horror movie you can
only watch through your fingers. The shimmer of Soleil’s dress, the wet, warm grass on his face, Helen’s refusal, the pitying, resolute look on Juliette’s face before she turned down the stairs. Helen is staring at him, he can feel it, but he doesn’t dare look at her.

  ‘Can we be done with the birthday stuff? The speeches?’ Max pleads.

  ‘I can say what I want. I’m the sick one,’ Nina retorts.

  Everyone is silent. Sophie laughs. Nina smiles at her.

  ‘Okay, so the skulk, sort of, almost grew up,’ Nina says. ‘Got married. Moved away. Travelled. Made money. Found ourselves, I guess. Stayed in touch, not seeing each other as much as we would like but … still friends. Still there for one another. And out of all of us, Max has done so, so well. We can all agree with that. I mean, look at him. He is doing what he loves … every single day. Making music. He lives in this beautiful place, in this beautiful city. Or Douarnenez when the mood takes him. With Juliette cooking! Bloody hell.’

  ‘Lucky bugger,’ Lars agrees.

  Max wants Nina to stop. Silently begs her to stop. But Nina continues, ‘He hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still Max. The Peter Pan. The life of the party. But he doesn’t judge us and we don’t judge him. We’re proud of him. His achievements feel like our achievements. And … we love him. Isn’t that right?’

  Max looks around the table. Everyone is looking at him. There is a weird prickling sensation in his chest. He glances at Helen.

  ‘No matter how mental he is. How little we get to see of him these days. He’s our mad, generous, famous mate. He’s ours. He’ll always be … our Max.’ Nina lifts her bottle again. ‘I’ll get the toast bit right this time … To Max,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Max!’ echoes around the table.

  Bottles clink against one another. Max reaches out his arm, on autopilot, and then withdraws it.

  ‘Max?’ It’s Eddie. ‘You alright, mate?’

  ‘Yup,’ he lies. ‘I’m fine.’

  *

  Everyone arranges themselves into rooms and into beds as Max watches from the couch and drinks too much. They get into pyjamas, give each other goodnight kisses, give Max goodnight kisses and he hears the whir of electric toothbrushes and water running and bare feet padding over floorboards. Behind him the window is open and springtime Paris nudges its way in. Diners leaving cafés and calling out to one another, waitresses chatting after their shift, bike wheels on cobbled streets, high heels, whistles. Max just wants everyone to go to bed. To vanish. He puts on some music and lets it saturate him, just like the booze. Music, alcohol, taking him away, away, away like a tide, like sleep. In the morning everything will be different. In the morning he won’t think about Soleil and Helen and Juliette. In the morning he’ll be Max again. Everything will be fine. Max feels the bottle slip from his hand and doesn’t reach out for it. Something thuds against his shoe.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ his father roars. The backpack is light on Max’s back. It has so little in it. A couple of pairs of shoes, some clothes; he didn’t even take his toothbrush.

  ‘None of that is yours! I paid for all that!’

  He’s okay with screaming on the street now. He doesn’t care. He’s too drunk. Max watches a curtain in the opposite block being drawn across.

  Max only took what he could grab. Other than the clothes he stuffed in some records and a couple of old photos. Truth is he could have left with nothing, could have lit a match and dropped it, could have watched the place covered in flames, could have cared less if his dad had been inside, bloated, drunk, fists slack. Now his father reaches for him, but misses and stumbles. He’s not so strong anymore. Can still land a lucky punch, but not like he used to.

  ‘You look at me. You look at me!’ His mouth is close enough for Max to feel the spray of spit on his cheek.

  ‘You think you are better than me, Max. But you’re not.’

  Max keeps moving. Pigeons on rooftops in sentry lines. Their feathers the same colour as the sky. Their eyes looking on.

  ‘We’re the same. Makes you sick don’t it?’

  Max flinches but doesn’t turn around. The buildings of the estate loom as he leaves, mute and pitiless. They don’t care that Max is going and will never be back. Everyone goes.

  ‘We’re the same, Max!’

  Someone at Max’s feet. Max can only make out a dark lump, a shadow.

  ‘Christ, Max. There’s beer everywhere.’

  ‘Rosie?’

  He can hear her moving and breathing heavily, on hands and knees. Then he feels his shoes coming off. She lifts his legs and turns him so he is lying, instead of sitting.

  ‘I’m alright …’ he slurs.

  He feels his wet socks being peeled from his feet. Then the window lock, squeaking closed. A blanket floats above him for a moment as if in slow motion. Like a cloud, like something from his childhood he cannot place. Then it falls down onto him. Rosie pulls it down over his bare feet, tucks it around him.

  ‘Rosie?’

  She sighs. ‘Goodnight Max.’

  He grabs her wrist before she goes. It’s so small; his fingers go all the way around.

  ‘Rosie?’ His music has been turned off. Paris is shut out. It’s cool and dark and quiet now. Quiet like a weight.

  ‘Rosie? I did the wrong things.’

  Rosie doesn’t move. Max lets go of her wrist and his arm flops like a doll’s. Sadness fills him up, like water in a glass. The dark, the quiet, the loneliness and the mistakes, as real and cold as liquid.

  ‘I know,’ Rosie murmurs.

  Monday – lundi

  Chapter 20

  Rosie

  Rosie watches the city wake up, dusty-eyed and lumbering. Watches Parisians who seem not to have slept at all, in shoes with high heels that have become uncomfortable and dresses that need regular pulling down. Others walk with one foot still in dreams, heads down and rubbing eyes. The garbage collectors, brightly clad, call to one another. Women take out small dogs for a morning piss as men smoking cigarettes stare at joggers. Rosie strokes the string of the window blind with her fingertips and watches. The rest of them are asleep. Her husband, who moved quickly and unconsciously into the space she vacated when it was still dark, Beth and Eddie with the door left ajar, Beth’s head on Eddie’s chest, Sophie curled neatly on a couch. Max, on his back, head lolling, snoring lightly, blanket not reaching his feet. Sleeping like that, Max reminds Rosie too much of one of her sons and the thought makes her sad. Sweet now, while he is in slumber, but she worries what will become of him when he wakes. He is still a boy, when the world demands an adult. Rosie looks back out at the street. There is part of her that expects to see Juliette, part of her that hopes to see Juliette. She has become a kind of ballast these last few days. Instead, a blonde woman in red coat looks up at her and Rosie almost waves. It is no one she knows.

  Rosie unlatches one of the windows and pushes it open. She can hear traffic in the distance, though she cannot see any. It is more of a blur of noise, a thrum, than a proper sense, a rush which gives the impression of cars and taxis, the digestive-like rumbles of Metro trains, conversation and industry. Le Marais is still relatively sleepy but soon the shutters will be rolled up on the shop fronts and shutters opened on cafés.

  ‘How long have you known?’

  Rosie turns to see Helen. Her hair is askew and pyjamas creased.

  ‘About Nina?’ Rosie asks.

  Helen perches on the radiator under the window. She has a cigarette packet in her hand. She taps out a smoke and lights it. She nods.

  ‘A while,’ Rosie admits. ‘She made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  Helen inhales. She blows the smoke, slowly, out the open window. The scent wafts back towards Rosie. She no longer knows anyone who smokes. Not a single person on her street, in her group of friends
, any of the members of the PTA. Rosie’s father had smoked; the fragrance makes her feel nostalgic. It reminds her of summer evenings with him in the garden, leaning on a spade, lighting a smoke while proudly surveying his dahlias. Helen looks to the floor. ‘I wish she had told me.’

  ‘We see one another more, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe. You’re so close. I miss that.’

  Rosie pauses and takes the cigarette from Helen’s fingers. Helen stares as Rosie breathes in a cautious puff. The sensation of it moving down her throat and filling her lungs is wild. She had forgotten how it felt. All of a sudden she recalls being fourteen years old and huddled under a kitchen table with Mary Roberts, her high school friend, passing a stolen smoke between them. Giggling and coughing and feeling like the rock stars they idolised so much. Women who wore their eyeliner thick and played guitars and shook shaggy heads over microphones.

  ‘I should come back more,’ Helen says.

  ‘You have a life in New York. We understand that.’

  Helen frowns. She retrieves the cigarette and inhales deeply. They both look out the window, following the trail of smoke Helen puffs out into the city.

  Rosie and Hugo had come to Paris on their honeymoon; they left the day after the wedding. Rosie still remembers the thrill of packing her bag several days before. Folding her clothes into neat squares – the new underwear, the carefully chosen dresses and shoes. The night before the wedding Nina had slept with Rosie at her parents’ house, staying on a mattress on Rosie’s bedroom floor. Sophie had been tiny then but Nina left her to be bottlefed by Lars, allowing Rosie all the quiet, devoted attention a bride deserves; helping her with her veil, fluffing her train, fetching water and listening to last minute worries and nerves. Observing, patiently, the packed suitcase for Paris that Rosie couldn’t help but proudly show her. She took big sunglasses that made her feel like Audrey Hepburn and books she didn’t read but sat with, opened, looking out over tiny coffee cups in streetside cafés, Hugo next to her. Rosie fancied she looked like a local, fantasised about the top-floor Parisian apartment she and Hugo resided in, with their perfectly turned out children wearing navy coats and shiny patent leather shoes. In reality Rosie and Hugo had stayed in a room barely big enough for the bed and a bathroom down the hall they had to share with two other guests. The room window didn’t open properly and it had been summer, claustrophobically hot. But back then, they had fewer worries and a greater share of possibilities. There was no mortgage, no house, no children, no surgical practice to maintain or golf days to attend, no children’s homework or secretarial duties for respective playcentres, parent-teacher associations and scouts groups.