A French Wedding (12 page)

‘No, surely not,' Eddie scoffs. ‘Anyway, so
all
of us drunk, but most especially Max. Max dying to impress Helen –'

‘As per usual,' Nina says.

‘Hey!' Max protests.

‘As per usual,' Eddie echoes. ‘And then he, somehow, God knows how, negotiates an arrangement with the party Santa to swap his own clothes for the Santa suit.'

Max chuckles. Eddie winks at him.

‘He's got girls sitting on his knee all night telling them whether they've been naughty or nice.'

‘Genius,' Lars says.

‘Absolute genius, except that it doesn't interest Helen at all, who is stuck in some debate about aid in Africa or the reduction of funding for the arts, or some bullshit. So off Max goes to have some quality time with one of those lovely, short-skirted women somewhere or other, maybe the broom cupboard?'

Eddie shakes his head. ‘I cannot believe I have never had sex in a broom cupboard.' He turns to Nina, as though Max is not sitting next to him. ‘Do you reckon Max has a broom cupboard here?'

‘I don't reckon Max has swept a floor in a good many years. You might have to ask Juliette.'

‘I'm still here!' Max says.

‘Good idea,' Eddie says to Nina, like he isn't.

‘Back to the story,' Nina demands.

‘Yes. So there's Max, rooting some bird in the let's-just-call-it the broom cupboard, pissed as a newt, and eventually the girl leaves, and the cupboard, or whatever it is, is all his and he's drunk and sleepy and the Santa costume is snug and cosy and he falls asleep. Which is great. Except that when he wakes up the whole bar is shut and locked up!' Eddie snorts and slaps his thigh.

‘How'd he get out?' Nina asks, laughing, already knowing the answer.

‘Had to squeeze himself out of the toilet window and jump a fence! In a bloody Santa suit! Wandering down the high street in a Santa costume!'

They are all in hysterics now. Helen finally looks over.

Eddie adds, ‘Didn't you say some kid on the tube asked his mummy if Santa was ill?'

‘Yes, there was a kid, and hell, I was sick,' Max laughs, shaking his head.

Nina sighs. ‘I'd love to see the surveillance footage. Drunk Santa, squeezing himself out the loo window …'

‘Are you talking about that Christmas party in Borough?' Helen asks. Soleil, sitting next to her, is looking on.

‘God, you were a fool,' Helen laughs. Thinking of that Christmas party makes Max long for the whole lot of them as they were back then. It seems like a different lifetime when they were so young and stupid; so unburdened.

Juliette passes around small plates and cake forks.

When the others return to their conversations and Hugo is back again and Beth joins Sophie sitting in the garden, Max notices Lars looking at him.

‘You miss it,' Lars says.

Max nods.

‘It's hard not to.'

‘We had a laugh,' Max replies.

‘Sometimes I want to delete every year since and be back there. In that life. It was so easy.'

‘I know what you mean.'

‘But …'
Lars
glances
at
his
daughter,
sitting
on
the
grass,
with
so
much
love
it
almost
makes
Max
wince.
‘Then
we
wouldn't
have
Soph.'

Sophie appears to be taking a photo of her dirty plate – remains of tart and dressing soaked salad leaves and sticky, smeared cream sauce – while Beth is doing her hair.

‘No,' Max says, though he doesn't really understand. He catches Nina looking over at them. ‘You got a good one here, Nina,' he says, tipping his head to Lars.

‘Don't I know it.' Her face is soft and sweet.

‘Hey, hey,' Lars mocks. ‘I'm still single.'

Max nods. ‘When are you making an honest man out of him, Nina?'

‘I prefer him dishonest,' Nina replies, smiling.

Lars had proposed to Nina when they found out about the pregnancy. Nina had said yes that first time. They had even started planning the wedding, but after Sophie was born it was suddenly different. As if being a mother was more than enough for Nina to manage.

Max's parents had been married. He knows this because of another one of the photographs he'd pilfered and studied, rubbed over with his thumb as though doing so would bring the woman in it to life, would reanimate her. But she is trapped in black and white, dark hair rising up from her forehead, two stiff curls on either side of her dark, staring eyes. Her hands are hidden behind a small bouquet and she appears footless because her dress makes a tent over her shoes. Her face is the biggest mystery. Max has stared and stared, looking for clues, but he never finds any. Was she happy? Was she scared? Was she real? Her face gives nothing away. As though painted on. Max didn't know if his mother had wanted to marry his father. He didn't know if she had loved him. In the photo she is a mannequin. Waxy and unreadable. Thinking of proposals and weddings makes Max's heart race. Makes him wish for a stiff drink.

‘How many times have you proposed, Lars?' Max asks.

‘Oh, mate, too many to remember,' Lars replies, blowing out air dramatically. ‘If you're ever thinking about it, come to me, I'm a pro.'

Max gives an anxious laugh.

Lars pours Muscadet into the glasses around him and then passes the bottle along. Max serves himself a big glass and brings it to his lips, relishing the prickle of it against his tongue and chill against his teeth.

From the garden two figures walk into Max's line of sight. He blinks away his nerves and memories. Two women, giggling. Beth and Sophie returning from the garden. Sophie is actually smiling. She has pretty teeth, Max thinks. Nina's teeth, to be exact. And her freckles, she gets those from Lars, they peek through her makeup. Blue eyes and slender fingers from her father, sturdy ankles like her mother. It still astounds Max that Sophie is made up of Nina and Lars. That she is constructed
of them. He finds it baffling and unnerving. Makes him wonder about the elements he is made up from. A bully and a ghost.

‘Your hair!' Rosie exclaims.

Max has to look again. Sophie's hair is fixed in a braid that weaves across the front of her head. The black tips, just the odd streak or two, hidden amongst the twists. Little light strands, too short to be contained, stick out and catch the light. It gives her a kind of halo.

‘Lovely, darling,' Lars says.

‘You look beautiful,' Helen agrees. ‘Like a Greek goddess.'

‘Athena,' Hugo specifies.

‘Thanks,' Sophie mumbles, looking at the ground and then back up at Nina. ‘Glad someone noticed.'

‘Beth did it?' Nina asks, gently.

‘She's a hairdresser,' Sophie replies, glancing at Beth.

‘She has such a pretty neck,' Beth says, her Kentucky accent thick and rolling.

‘Yes,' Nina agrees quietly.

They start to talk of other things. House prices in London. Insurance. Mulching. But Max is still thinking of marriage and of family, looking at Nina as she continues to stare at her daughter, wearing her crown of hair. Nina's eyes are slowly filling with tears. Max is about to reach out when Nina stands up too fast. The glass in her hand falls and smashes on the table top and Nina wobbles and then braces herself, palms against the table upon the broken glass. She winces. Looks at Max. Then slumps back into her chair with a noise like someone being punched. Air fleeing her lungs, pain about to follow.

Chapter 7

Juliette

Th
e
re is blood on the tablecloth. Two large blots and several constellations of crimson specks.

Juliette attends to Nina's cuts with Helen as helper. They're not bad, but they're bad enough. Sophie is pale and Lars looks like he has been struck. Helen fetches a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth without being told where to find them. She instructs Max to find the antiseptic solution that Juliette says is in the bathroom annex next to her room at the front of the house. Beth comforts Sophie, explaining it's not as bad as it looks, that the brain will soon tell the blood to clot and it won't look so dreadful. Soleil leaves and then comes back with Bach flower rescue remedy, which she places next to Juliette's knee as she squats in front of Nina. Rosie is crying, she has to turn away. Nina is crying a little too, though she keeps saying her hands are fine and she's fine. Hugo stands to one side, tall and frowning. As useful as a skittle.

Helen and Juliette take a hand each and inspect them for fragments of glass, wiping each palm carefully with a cloth. Juliette recalls when the same had been done for her, after her mother's death. The neighbour, Babette, thick-waisted and frank in her kindness, who had said, ‘Get up,
ma fille
. Get up off the pavement.' Juliette had done as she was instructed, had become a child in Babette's firm grasp. She had let her wash her hands, let her put slippers on her feet to walk home in, watched as she made coffee and got out biscuits, while her tears dripped, onto her t-shirt.

‘Don't let the cuts get infected,' Hugo says in a supervisory tone.

‘Thanks, Hugo,' snaps Helen. Juliette glances at Helen's fingers as she runs her fingertips over Nina's palm. Hugo finally leads Rosie away, sniffing, with an arm around her shoulders.

‘They're fine,' Nina demurs again, trying to withdraw her hands. ‘It's just shock. I'm okay. Truly.'

Juliette catches her wrists. ‘You need some plasters.'

Max returns with the antiseptic wash as instructed. Juliette pours a capful into the bowl of water. She and Helen take turns dipping cloths into it and cleaning the wounds. Soleil snips plaster tape into smaller sizes. Nina needs two on her right hand and three on her left. She has stopped crying now.

‘Are you okay, Mum?' Sophie whispers.

‘Fine, love. Perfectly fine.' She holds up her palms. ‘See?'

‘You just … ?' Lars asks.

‘I got off balance. It's nothing. The heat, the wine … It's nothing.'

Lars and Sophie nod together.

‘Maybe you need some ocean air,' Soleil suggests.

Juliette glances at the newcomer. She keeps trying to see Helen in Soleil but of course they are very different. Soleil has none of Helen's beauty, though Soleil is very beautiful. Helen's beauty comes from her warmth. Soleil, on the other hand, is somehow cool and fiery at the same time, exotic and unpredictable. She's blunt and detached and, now, oddly helpful.

‘Good idea,' Beth enthuses. ‘I think Hugo took Rosie that way.'

Max looks at Nina. ‘A walk on the beach?'

‘Thank you but I think I'll just sit here for a bit. All of you go. It'll make me feel like less of a dunce.'

Sophie looks to her mum. ‘Do you want me to stay –'

‘No, love, you go.'

‘I'll stay,' Lars says, dragging over a chair to sit beside her, stroking the hair from her face. Max looks to Helen. Juliette picks up the bowl and backing paper from the plasters. She stands to move back inside.

‘Will you go, Juliette?' Helen asks.

Juliette looks quickly at Max. ‘Oh. No, I'd better clean up … from lunch.' Juliette doesn't want to mention the cloths or the bowl of water, now a disconcerting shade of pink.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘I'll help,' Helen says.

Max frowns and tugs on Helen's arm. ‘She's fine, Helen, she just said so.'

‘No, she didn't,' Helen says. ‘I'll help.'

‘I'm fine,' Juliette assures Helen, looking at her boss. Max stares at Helen, imploringly.

‘I want to make sure Nina is okay. You go, Max.'

‘But you said …' Max looks petulant. He glances at Juliette.

‘It's okay, Helen, truly, it's my job,' Juliette says quickly.

‘Oh, don't be stupid,' Helen rebukes. ‘No one likes doing dishes, for God's sake, I'll help.'

Eddie calls out to Max, ‘You coming, mate? Show us the local bird life?'

To which Max forces a smile and says, ‘On my way.'

*

Helen follows Juliette to the kitchen with the bowl of bloodied water, tipping it down the sink. The kitchen benches are lined with plates and platters. Helen starts stacking them into the dishwasher. Juliette transfers leftovers to smaller bowls and wraps them with plastic wrap.

‘Thank you,' Juliette says.

‘That's okay.'

Juliette notices the plates Helen has stacked are a mess and that some of the glasses are the wrong way up. They'll fill with water when the dishwasher starts.

‘I hear you used to own a restaurant? In Paris?' Helen asks.

‘I did.' Juliette covers a small bowl of panzanella.

‘What was it called?'

‘
Delphine
. It's a name but it also means dolphin. It sounds better in French, I think.'

‘Max says you make something delicious … what's it –'

‘
Kouign-amann
.'

‘Queen … a man … ?'

Juliette smiles. ‘Something like that.' She likes the sound of Helen's voice. British and American both, the edges raspy, probably from smoking, as though sandpapered rough. ‘It means butter cake,' she explains. ‘It's actually just pastry and butter, a lot of butter, and sugar, but the key is the caramelisation. It tastes a bit like croissant, a bit like brioche, and it is sticky throughout.'

‘Yum.'

‘It's basically a heart attack,' Juliette admits.

Helen laughs. ‘Sounds perfect.'

‘Douarnenez is famous for
kouign-amann
, it originated here. I grew up making it. It's become popular elsewhere now. It's simple once you know how. There's a chocolatier who sells hundreds and hundreds of them, all in different flavours, in his boutiques in Paris. But I can't make flavours. To me there is only one flavour.'

‘You're a traditionalist.'

Juliette pauses. ‘Well, with
kouign-amann
I am. It's … I don't know … perfect as it is.'

‘Apart from the health effects,' Helen jokes.

‘But we're French, we don't worry about that. It's not the point.'

‘Do you ever miss it? Paris? Or the restaurant?'

Juliette pauses. Of course she has been asked before. Louis, who had gone from restaurant manager to owner at Juliette's encouragement, worriedly asked her, her friends, countless curious others. She had a repertoire of standard answers that all eluded the truth. Because the truth was like a cut diamond, it had many sides. Yes, no, always and never. All of them partially true and none of them completely true. Sometimes she missed the racket of the
Delphine
kitchen, the sibling-hood with the other chefs, the rowdy, laughing drinks at the end of a long shift. Sometimes she missed the lights of Paris, even that sparkling Tour Eiffel, a year-round skeletal Christmas tree, which so many others hated. She missed the peacefulness of
Musée de l'Orangerie
on a weekday, when she had a rare day off from the restaurant, the pastries fresh out of Henri's
boulangerie
oven, the way he talked of his dog as though it were an infant. She missed her lover; she could barely allow herself to think about that, lest the wound reopen and ache. She missed friends. She missed being important for fleeting moments, being special. And then, at other times, she missed nothing at all.

‘I came back to Douarnenez when my mother died,' Juliette answers, as truthful as she can be while avoiding the questions directly.

‘Oh, I am so sorry.'

‘You weren't to know.'

‘Are your parents –'

‘My father died shortly after. We didn't even know he was ill too. He had been looking after my mother.'

‘Juliette …' Helen's voice is soft. Once again Juliette hears the lullaby she has been hearing for so many months.

Let the birds sing, dilly dilly …

She takes a breath and smiles. ‘Now I am here.'

They work in silence for a moment while Helen tries to wedge dishes in amongst the strange pattern and mess she's made of the ones she's already stacked. Juliette watches her out of the corner of her eye, expertly rearranging the fridge to make room for the new bowls to go in.

‘You said that you own a gallery?' Juliette asks Helen.

‘I do.'

‘That must be incredible.'

‘Yeah,' Helen says. ‘Actually …' She looks to the ceiling. ‘It was. It's become much more commercial, more of a game than it was. I mean, I really love art. I loved making art once too, but I have no time for that these days.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘I guess so. I don't know if I still have it in me, to be honest.'

‘Of course you do.'

Helen laughs. ‘I'm not so sure.'

‘Those kinds of things don't get lost.'

‘It feels a bit lost.'

‘It's all still there,' Juliette encourages.

When Babette picked her up off the pavement beside the rubbish bags, her palms bloodied, Juliette had been unsure she could ever function on her own again. Walk, breathe or eat. But she had. She had washed herself and dressed herself. She'd cooked for her and her father. Made phone calls and sold a business. Helped to arrange a funeral. And then another after that. Impossible things were possible. Even dreadful, impossible things.

Helen straightens. ‘Did Max tell you we all met at Camberwell? At art college?'

‘Yes. Max was an artist too?'

Helen nods. ‘Max was a photographer. Actually, he was pretty good. Now it's all channelled into music and lyrics but he used to take incredible photographs.'

‘What about the others?'

‘Oh. Well, Rosie was amazing.
Is
amazing. Great at detail work and very neat, you can probably imagine. Nina wasn't at school with us, she studied journalism and was dating Lars, obviously. Lars majored in sculpture like me, but was mostly interested in ceramics. Eddie studied graphic design.' Helen smiles to herself, remembering.

‘You were close,' Juliette says.

‘Very. It was, I don't know … a moment in time … you know? We partied. A lot. We drank cheap wine. We played music and talked about art till the sun came up. We forgot to eat. We went without sleep. We wore each other's clothes. We smoked hundreds of cigarettes.'

Juliette can picture it. Younger versions of Rosie and Nina whispering and giggling, just as they do now. Lars and Eddie choosing music. Max smoking and Helen sitting on his knee. The room dark and warm, smelling of takeaway food, tobacco, grease and salt, of spilled red wine. Bright young faces. Lives ahead of them.

‘We had nothing,' says Helen. ‘No money, no responsibilities, no mortgages, no kids. We just had each other.'

‘Max speaks very fondly of you all.'

Except for Hugo, Juliette doesn't add. Rosie, ‘bless her cotton socks'; Nina, ‘who keeps us all in check'; Lars, ‘most decent bloke you'll ever meet'; Eddie, ‘funny,
so
funny, more of a brother than a mate'.

Helen.

‘Does he? Aw, what does he say?' Helen asks.

‘I can tell he cares for you all. Very much.'

Helen narrows her eyes. ‘Has he sworn you to secrecy?'

‘No …'

Helen laughs. ‘It's okay, you don't have to say.'

Lars sticks his head into the kitchen, blinking his long, sand-coloured lashes.

‘Hey.'

Helen pauses, holding a plate she is about to jam into the dishwasher.

‘Hey,' Lars replies. ‘I'm just going to take Nina upstairs. For a quick lie-down.'

‘Is she okay?'

‘She's fine. Just tired.'

‘She works too hard,' Helen says.

Lars nods. ‘You okay here? Juliette? Need a hand?'

‘I'm fine, thank you. Helen is helping.'

Lars peers over to the dishwasher. ‘Yeah, I can see that. Looks like Helen's handiwork.'

‘What do you mean?' Helen asks.

‘Trust fund baby,' Lars whispers to Juliette. ‘Knows her way around a polo club, a scrubbing brush not so much.'

Juliette tries not to smile while Helen rolls her eyes. ‘Fuck you, Lars.'

‘Fuck you too, Helen,' Lars replies. He winks and leaves.

Helen and Juliette look down into the dishwasher together.

‘It's bad, isn't it?' Helen murmurs.

‘Well …' Juliette says, carefully. Then they both start laughing.

‘I'm not very good at this kind of thing. Max and me – we're not very practical.'

‘You fixed up Nina's hands. You were great.'

‘Oh. Well. A crisis, you see. That's different.'

‘Then you are good in a crisis. That's something.' Juliette thinks of how many crises there have been in the past year. One after the next, like dominoes.

‘But not helpful when you need to get the dishes done. You know, like, every day.'

‘Give that to me.' Juliette plucks the plate out of Helen's hand. ‘I'm good at getting dishes done.'