A French Wedding

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  ‘Hey, mate; look I’m sorry about … well, Beth didn’t know you were there.’

  It takes Max a long moment to figure out what Eddie is talking about. And for his heart rate to slow, his hands to unclench. He glances at Beth, but she clearly cannot hear them.

  ‘We’re, ah, still working it out,’ Eddie says.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure, mate,’ Max says.

  ‘Trying to decide what’s best. For her, me … well, all of us.’

  Max turns to look at his friend. Eddie’s face looks older too. That makes Max feel a little better for a split second. He nods. ‘Sure, sure. No need to apologise. You’ll work it out.’

  Eddie nods back, staring at the hospital door with the window. ‘We haven’t been together for very long. It’s sudden. She’s young. I’m not. I’m pretty terrible with kids. Not that I’ve had much … We just need to work out what is best.’

  Max nods. He can do this. He can talk about something other than Helen. Other than the enormous hole roundhouse-kicked through his chest. ‘What does Beth want?’

  Eddie looks at Beth and then back down to the floor. ‘She wants to know what I want first.’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What you want?’

  Eddie shakes his head. ‘That’s always been my problem. I’m not good with decisions. Well, you know that. Remember Australia?’

  Max nods. The trip had been Max’s itinerary the whole way, excepting a few pubs Eddie had wanted to go to, hostels he’d wanted to stay a little longer in, mainly because of girls he’d wanted to sleep with. Eddie is never in a rush. Max is more impatient. Eddie is easy-going, Eddie never minds that Max makes all the plans.

  ‘Rosie couldn’t stand it, see? She was always deciding where we would go, what we would do; she wanted to be with someone … well, someone stronger, I guess. Someone like Nina. Like Hugo. She got sick of me.’ Eddie shrugs. ‘It was fine. I got it. I get sick of me too.’

  Max turns. ‘Eddie. You’re a good guy.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve just drifted along. You can’t deny that.’

  ‘You go with the flow,’ Max counters.

  Eddie gives a wry laugh. ‘You know who I always wanted to be?’

  Max knows the answer before he says it.

  ‘You,’ Eddie finishes. ‘I just wanted to be you. I did whatever you did. With women. With life. You know that already, don’t you?’

  ‘We’re mates. We like the same things,’ Max replies, hopefully.

  Eddie shakes his head. ‘That could be true. But I wouldn’t know, would I? ’Cause I never found out. We might be the same or we might not be, Max. Problem is I don’t, for sure, have your talent. So I’m fucked on the rock-star front.’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Max mumbles.

  Eddie continues, ‘So I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live your life. And now I’ve got to make this huge decision …’ Eddie looks to the floor, gripping his hands together tightly. ‘And I’ve had no fucking practice. I’m about to go into my forties with no experience at living my own life. Christ.’

  ‘Eddie …’

  ‘It’s fucked up, Max. You have no idea.’

  ‘I have a bit of an idea.’

  ‘You’ve got it all sorted out, mate. The money. The girls. Max, you’re literally living the dream. You’re living it.’

  ‘I’m not, Eddie.’

  ‘Who am I supposed to be? How do I work this out?’ Eddie’s voice is rising. ‘Do we have this baby, Max?’ Eddie stares at Max and looks as though he might cry. Max glances down the corridor at Beth, but she’s still staring into space, hands neatly cupped like she is in church. Eddie whispers, ‘I’m scared, Max.’

  Max blinks fast and nods. I know. So am I, mate. So am I.

  ‘Who am I supposed to be?’ Eddie asks again.

  Sophie looks up from her phone at Max. For a moment he sees the child in her, the girl she once was, in the innocence in her dark eyes.

  ‘Be Lars,’ Max replies, weakly.

  *

  The door with the little window swings open and Hugo comes out first. Max studies his face. Earnest but not grim. Behind him, Lars, who gives a small smile and Nina, who looks tired. Eddie and Max both push away from the wall at the same time. Sophie puts the phone into her bag and Beth stands.

  ‘All good?’ Eddie asks Lars.

  Lars hesitates and looks to Hugo.

  ‘Dr Chesneau is optimistic about a surgical option. There is a risk of unilateral hearing loss but there been good success with previous cases. And he’s thorough; he wants to gather all the information and then give more comprehensive advice. Right, Nina?’

  Nina nods.

  Max has never known Nina to allow someone to answer for her. She looks to Hugo. ‘Thank you. For helping to get the appointment. For translating.’

  Hugo looks to his feet. ‘It’s a good prognosis. Or it could be. You know.’

  ‘I know,’ Nina replies.

  Lars takes hold of Nina’s hand. Nina doesn’t have lovely fingers or lovely hands. Lars’s long, slender fingers link with Nina’s shorter, thicker ones. Max watches as Lars squeezes, Nina’s fingers paling for a moment and then returning to pink. I’ve got you, it says. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Two hands, woven together.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  Max turns to see Rosie and Helen. Both carrying a tray each, the holes filled with paper coffee cups.

  Nina nods. ‘The doctor wants more tests but I can do them in London. Then there’s treatment and surgery, after that.’

  Rosie stares at her husband and quickly back to her friend.

  ‘That’s great news,’ Helen says, but her voice is splitting. Everyone looks over to her but she is staring only at Max. Her eyes are filling with tears. Max hesitates for a moment and then goes to her, wrapping his arms around. Helen curls into his embrace. Small, warm and trembling like a child. Nina touches her back.

  ‘It’s okay, honey,’ Nina says, soothing. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  Muffled, against Max’s chest, Helen sobs, ‘I can’t lose you.’

  ‘You won’t.’ Nina looks at Max.

  ‘I can’t lose any of you …’

  ‘Shh, shh shh,’ Nina comforts.

  Her cries cleave him; they seem to tear through his chest to his very core. He murmurs, ‘You heard Nina. You won’t.’

  Though he longs, wishes, to vanish or run away. To drink till he cannot think or see or feel.

  Lars draws closer, as does Rosie.

  ‘We’ll figure it out,’ Eddie mumbles, talking to Helen but looking at Beth.

  ‘It’s an optimistic prognosis,’ Hugo repeats.

  They all gather around. A huddle of them, Helen and Max at the centre.

  A skulk.

  Nina strokes Helen’s arm. ‘Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Helen says, voice still shaking. Max knows she is speaking to him.

  ‘Monsieur Dresner?’

  Max looks above the heads to two policemen in the corridor.

  The huddle loosens. One gendarme is tall and has a grey moustache. The other is a woman who looks a little like Rosie.

  ‘Max Dresner?’

  Max finds his voice, ‘Oui?’ The man with the moustache speaks in French. Max can pick out words but he’s never been good at stringing whole sentences together. He should have learned. He should have made an effort. But of course he never had, it was all too hard. Hugo is looking at Max, eyebrows pinched together.

  Une agression … la victime … enquête …

  ‘Pardon?’ Max asks, dumbly.

  Hugo frowns. ‘He’s saying you need to go with them. He is saying there has been a charge …’

  ‘A what?’ Eddie comes closer to Max, stands tall
er.

  ‘A charge for what?’ Helen asks.

  ‘Assault. No … sexual assault.’

  ‘What?’ Helen blanches.

  ‘That’s not right,’ Max murmurs.

  Snake hair, shimmering dress, grass.

  His heart sinks.

  ‘You’ve got it wrong. Sorry, but you’ve got it wrong,’ Eddie says, voice growing louder.

  Beth lays her hand against his shoulder. ‘Eddie … I saw it.’

  ‘No!’ Helen protests.

  Eddie turns. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw.’ Beth glances at Helen. ‘It was Soleil.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Nina says firmly.

  The gendarmes are speaking directly to Hugo now.

  ‘They want you to go with them,’ Hugo says to Max.

  ‘This isn’t right. This can’t be right,’ Helen says, shaking her head. Max looks at Eddie. Beth is at his side. Eddie stares at Max. Then silently takes Beth’s hand.

  Max steps towards the cops. There is an odd feeling in his stomach now. A kind of lightness, a strange calm he has never felt before. As though everything is playing out as it should.

  He turns to Helen, her face tear-stained and bewildered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max says to her, before following the gendarmes down the hallway.

  One Year Later – Un An Plus Tard

  Juliette

  Juliette pushes the key into the lock. Outside, the pot plants are gone, replaced by planter boxes full of herbs and edible flowers and a long stone bench for waiting customers. The paint around the window frames is now glossy black, the sign hanging is black too, with brass letters. The ivy is still there, cut right back, but determinedly re-growing in bright green shoots and quivering heart-shaped leaves. Juliette opens the door to the smell of baking and the sounds of rap, Xuan, shouting along. Chairs are still on table tops, the newly tiled floor clean and shining.

  She enters the kitchen and smiles.

  Xuan wiping the sweat from his forehead with a corner of his apron and turning down the stereo. His thick black hair sticks up like exclamation marks. ‘I didn’t know you were coming in.’

  ‘Sorry, I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep.’

  Xuan nods. It is a baker’s curse, the habit of waking before the sun does, a habit that is hard to break even on days off. Juliette has been awake since dawn, watching the light from the window changing colour against her skin. From mauve to gold to ivory, as her thoughts skimmed through memories, dipped into wishes and then went to the pragmatic things. Special orders for the boulangerie-patisserie that bore her name, the supplies she needed more of, the emails that had been piling up requiring replies.

  ‘How are you going? Do you need a hand with the orders?’

  Xuan gestures towards a bench with four white boxes on top, their lids open. ‘Done. When is pick-up?’

  ‘This morning for the kouign-amann,’ Juliette replies, making her voice steady. This is the real reason she did not sleep. The reason she is in early, though she has tried not to think of it. ‘Lunchtime for the others.’

  She surveys the caramelisation of the two kouign-amann, the regularity and depth of the score marks. Xuan has learned so much in such a short time; he has the knack for pastry. Juliette shouldn’t be surprised, he was practically raised in a restaurant. Every now and then Juliette becomes somewhat fearful Xuan will leave Douarnenez and her boulangerie-patisserie, but he doesn’t seem to want to, not yet anyway. His loyalty to his family, his parents, is very strong, he is the eldest son now, after the loss of his brother, and he has a charisma that means he is never short of a girlfriend. Juliette reviews the other boxes – a gâteau Breton and a large quiche.

  ‘These look great, Xuan. Parfait.’

  ‘Thanks, Juliette.’

  ‘Anything else I can do?’

  ‘Not right now. I’m going to do some glazing and then I’ll fill the cabinets.’

  ‘I’ll help with that. If you need me I’ll be out front.’

  Xuan nods and Juliette scans the kitchen before she leaves, balling up a piece of parchment paper and putting it in the bin on her way out.

  After bringing the chairs down off tables, Juliette restocks napkins and folds boxes. She wipes down the cabinets, though they appear spotless, polishes the exterior of the glass so it reflects the light coming in from the window. She stands back and pauses, remembering the way it used to look, all the times she was here as a child, a teen, and an adult. She imagines Stephanie Jeunet behind the counter in her bright red roll-neck jumper, the decorative wicker baskets behind her, calling out to Juliette as she entered. Juliette was lucky the store was still for sale when she enquired, though it was in such a state of disrepair it was unlikely to attract many other buyers. Dust covered everything and underneath the dust, grease, especially in the kitchen which Juliette practically had to build again from scratch. The real estate agent impressed upon her it would be easy to reinstate it to its former purpose, but Juliette knew most of the fixtures – ovens, tables, till – would need to be replaced. Still, she felt the presence of Stephanie Jeunet here, which she wouldn’t elsewhere and that was worth something. Worth something to Juliette.

  Stephanie’s presence gave Juliette courage when she needed to get the electric cabling replaced and when she discovered the ivy had grown into the water supply. It gave her reassurance when bills came in, when Xuan was not yet there for support. It gave her comfort when she felt the loneliness that every business owner feels, the burden of making it all work, of holding it together when things don’t go to plan, when nothing goes to plan. Juliette often summons the memory of Stephanie in her usual spot, content in her place in the world, selling brioche and gâteaux and bread made in the way she always made them, the way her mother would have made them, smiling, chatting, never rushing. Juliette rushed less these days too. Her Paris self would be appalled at her languid pace, the way she pauses before making decisions, the simple, pared back approach to all her cooking.

  The front door opens while Juliette’s back is still turned to it.

  ‘Hi Juliette.’

  She shifts to face him. He is wearing a suit. A nice suit, grey, either new or freshly pressed. No tie. Dark sunglasses. A bright, white shirt, the top two buttons open. He lifts the sunglasses from his eyes to the top of his head. She hadn’t expected him to come. She thought maybe one of the others instead. Or Helen. Of course she had wanted it to be Helen.

  ‘Hi Max,’ she replies. He is a little thinner than usual. Otherwise he looks the same. ‘You look good.’

  ‘I scrub up okay,’ he replies with a gentle smile. Juliette puts down her cloth. Max gives her a kiss on each cheek.

  ‘Helen is just picking up flowers,’ he says, as though reading her mind. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Very.’

  Max looks around the room. ‘This is all yours?’

  ‘Oui. Mine and the bank’s.’

  ‘It’s magnificent.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Business good?’

  ‘Oui.’

  They pause and stare at each other; Juliette lets the silence bloom. She can hear Xuan’s music in the kitchen and the metallic sound of baking trays being shifted on the counters.

  ‘Big day today,’ she says, finally.

  ‘Yes,’ Max replies, clearing his throat. ‘I’m not used to being so sober on these occasions.’

  ‘How is that going?’

  Max meets Juliette’s gaze. ‘Getting better. A little easier.’ His face clouds over. ‘I have been meaning to call you actually. I wanted to …’

  Juliette remembers the moment in the stairwell. Feeling cast out. She was not a part of them but they were now a part of her. Needing to leave but not wanting to go. Helen’s face behind Max’s in the doorway and the sound of her sandals striking each step on the way down.

&
nbsp; ‘Apologise,’ Juliette finishes. She knows it is part of a rehabilitation program to apologise to those you have wronged. She assesses him, his face troubled and serious, and nods. She is pleased he is following through with it.

  ‘Yeah. I –’

  Juliette interrupts, ‘You don’t have to apologise, Max. Things worked out well for me. I’m happy here.’ She pauses. ‘Happier than I guessed I might ever be in Douarnenez.’

  ‘Well …’ Max glances around again. ‘I’m really happy for you. It suits you. You know, I went to Delphine last week.’ He leans towards her. ‘The kouign-amann was nowhere near as good.’

  Juliette laughs. ‘You are a charmer, Max. Always a charmer.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ he protests.

  ‘Speaking of which, you’ve come for your order, right?’ Juliette says. Max nods. Juliette goes to the kitchen and closes two of the white boxes. She carries them out stacked one on top of the other.

  ‘Kouign-amann for a wedding cake,’ she says, coming back out of the kitchen to Max. ‘That’s a first for me.’

  ‘Can you think of anything better?’ Max asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  Max pushes a set of keys into his trouser pocket and reaches out to accept the boxes.

  ‘What do I owe you?’

  Juliette shakes her head. ‘It’s a wedding gift.’

  ‘I want to pay.’

  ‘I said it would be a gift, so it’s a gift. I promised. Don’t argue with me or I’ll get angry,’ she says, jokingly.

  Max tips his head and laughs. ‘That I’d like to see. Are you sure?’

  ‘Take them.’