A French Wedding (11 page)

‘I don't know. I don't know what Helen looks like.'

‘Yes, you do. You remember your aunty Helen.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘She lives in New York. She owns an art gallery. Max and Helen are … She's a good friend …'

Sophie looks mutinous. Juliette grips the remaining bags and gently closes the trunk.

‘Oh, Soph, you remember Helen –'

‘No,' Sophie interrupts. ‘Why do people always say that – “You remember!”? Like saying “you remember” is going to
make
you remember. It's so dumb.'

Sophie flicks her baby-soft blonde hair, the black tips that look like feathers serving to tell the world she is no one's baby. Juliette glances away, beyond the buxus hedge lining the driveway, beyond the apple trees, leaves shaking in the distance. A disc of light amongst the branches momentarily distracting her.

‘Well, she's a friend of ours and she's bringing her sister,' Juliette hears Nina explaining.

‘How old is she?'

‘Helen's sister? Twenty-five, I think? Ish?'

‘So I'm the only kid here.'

‘What, darling?'

‘I don't get it, Mum. You know I could've stayed with Ella. Her mum said it was okay. What am I even doing here?'

‘We wanted to have fun, as a family …' Nina's voice trails off.

There is that flash of light again. Juliette tries to make it out, wondering if it is a mirror hung in the trees to scare away the birds.

‘Are you listening to me, Mum?'

‘Sorry?'

‘You aren't listening to me.'

‘I was trying to see –' Nina is looking at the trees too. Juliette makes out a pair of legs. A pair of bare legs. And shorts.

‘Mum!'

‘There's someone in that tree …' Nina murmurs. Juliette can see him now too. A boy. Or someone growing out of being a boy. He has ruffled brown hair and tanned skin. He wears a shirt rolled up at the cuffs. There is a glint coming from his wrist. The sunlight reflecting off the face of a watch.

‘I'm going inside,' Sophie huffs.

‘Sophie!' Nina calls to her back.

Sophie wheels around. ‘Yes?' Her voice has a threat in it.

‘Sorry, love.' Nina raises her palms. ‘We'll have a good time, okay? Look at this gorgeous house, and the food is wonderful …'

Sophie's expression remains impassive.

‘The beach is close by … we can go swimming,' Nina gently appeals.

‘I hate swimming.'

‘You
don't
hate swimming,' Nina insists. ‘You used to love swimming. You had that green and white swimming costume … when you were little …'

‘See!' Sophie says. ‘God, you think I am a baby. You think I know nothing. And you're doing it again: “You remember, you
love
swimming.”'

‘But you
do
.'

‘No, Mum, I don't,' Sophie says sternly.

Juliette guesses that Sophie only speaks to her mother this
way.
And because Juliette is half-hidden behind the car and
because she is Juliette, the cook, the housekeeper, she is
practically invisible. Juliette guesses Sophie pours out all her frustrations
on her mother as though she deserves it, had
earned
it, somehow, for bringing her into the world. Talking to
her as though she is simply the most infuriating person
on the planet. And Nina, usually so poised and in
charge, is oddly passive in her daughter's presence. Trying to
appease her, longing for her love.

If you love me, dilly dilly

I will love you …

‘I hate swimming,' Sophie adds.

‘Sophie!'

Juliette watches the avian tips of Sophie's hair swish across the back of her t-shirt as she moves and Nina strides after her. This is an argument on repeat. Juliette turns back to the trees and lifts her free hand to the neighbour's sixteen-year-old son in the tree.

‘
Bonjour
, Etienne.'

‘
Bonjour
, Juliette.'

*

Lars is in the kitchen when Juliette gets inside, at the counter, eating, still wearing his running gear. Nina goes to him, fitting neatly under his chin.

‘Sweaty,' he warns. Nina shrugs and kisses him anyway.

‘Sophie found you?' she asks.

‘Came in, gave me a look like I was dead meat and then left,' Lars replies.

‘Glad it's not just me she seems to despise,' Nina says with a sigh. ‘Sorry you had to hear all that, Juliette.'

‘It's no problem,' Juliette says, putting food into the fridge. It's one of her favourite chores. Returning from the hunt.

Nina drinks from Lars's water glass. ‘She doesn't want to be here. She wants to be with Ella. And she's cross because I told her she remembers Helen and she says she doesn't …'

‘Huh?' Lars says.

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘She doesn't remember Helen? No. She remembers Helen.'

Nina raises an eyebrow. ‘That's what I said.'

‘I'll talk to her.' Lars takes his glass back.

‘How was your run?'

‘Good. I took Eddie with me and we went down to the beach. It's incredible here, Nina. This huge, wild beach, the gulls riding on the thermals; it was empty except for us. Beautiful. Eddie, on the other hand …' Lars laughs. ‘I thought he was going to cark it.'

Nina grins. ‘Last night's booze?'

‘Guess so. I kept it pretty slow but he gave up halfway. By the time I got back here he was … well, he was like that.'

Lars points out to the garden. Eddie is on his back in the grass, arms and legs spread-eagled, sunglasses covering his eyes. They all laugh.

‘Bless him,' Nina says, wiping her eyes. ‘He'll never change.' They watch Beth approach and lean over him. Eddie lifts his head for a kiss. Beth frowns, tests his forehead with her palm and strokes his hair.

‘How long do you give it?' Nina murmurs. Lars has his hand against the curve of Nina's back. Juliette returns to the fridge.

‘Not sure. This one seems different.'

‘You're an optimist,' says Nina softly, leaning back against him.

‘That's true,' Lars says, and kisses the top of Nina's head.

‘Look at you two,' Helen's voice purrs from the door. Lars and Nina open their arms at the same time and she skips into their embrace.

‘Hi, Juliette,' she calls out.

‘
Bonjour
, Helen,' Juliette replies, smiling.

‘You are as gorgeous as ever,' Lars declares, holding Helen at arm's length. She is wearing a long black dress, leather sandals, and a necklace made of large, misshapen silver links.

‘I need him around every morning,' Helen says to Nina. ‘How are you?'

‘We're good. It's nice to be with everyone. Nice to be on holiday.'

‘Hear hear.' Helen nods. ‘I haven't seen Sophie yet. Where is she?'

Nina lifts her shoulders. ‘Around, somewhere. She's
not pleased
with us. Me mainly.'

‘No?'

‘Teenagers don't much like to holiday with their parents.'

Helen raises an eyebrow. ‘No …'

‘It's good for us to all be together,' Lars says.

‘Yes, of course,' Helen replies, patting Lars's arm fondly. ‘It's nice for all
of
us
to be together too. Took us long enough. When was the last time?'

‘Rosie and Hugo's wedding?'

‘That was years ago. Decades.' Nina is shaking her head.

‘But all of us … ? It might have been,' Helen says. ‘How are they anyway? Rosie and Hugo, I mean. I walked past their room but it sounded like they were having an argument.'

‘What about?'

‘Don't know. Rosie telling him he didn't have to know everything about everything and him saying she acts like he doesn't know anything about anything. I didn't get involved.' Helen pulls a grape off its stalk in a fruit bowl beside them and pops it in her mouth.

Nina frowns. ‘You know them. They always argue. Maybe a bit more lately …'

Helen crunches through her grape. ‘Is Hugo still an arse?'

Lars laughs. ‘Tell us how you really feel.'

‘Well, he is an arse.' Helen shrugs.

‘He feels like a fifth wheel when we're all together. You and Max never help that,' Nina replies.

‘I still think Eddie and Rosie …' Helen murmurs.

‘Ho ho!' Lars says, laughing. ‘Now there's ancient history.'

‘We're talking about Rosie, remember?' Nina says firmly. ‘She wanted exactly what she has: her boys, a nice house. And now she's got Fleet.'

Lars agrees. ‘Hugo's an okay bloke, Helen. Bit stiff and all that, but he takes care of our Rosie.'

‘He better.'

‘Be nice.' Nina wags her finger, smiling.

‘Alright,' Helen groans, sounding just like Sophie.

‘And whatever you do, don't mention Eddie and Rosie. Hugo doesn't know about all that. Rosie decided it was better,' Nina whispers. Both women glance at Juliette, but she busies herself with food, scattering walnuts over a duck salad then uncovering a leek tart she had been cooling under a linen cloth.

‘She still hasn't told him? See, I told you there was something –'

Nina scoffs. ‘Helen Barnett, there is not
something
. There is
nothing.
Rosie probably thought that if Hugo knew it would make him feel uncomfortable with us and then he –'

‘What? He would stop her from seeing us?' Helen asks, indignantly.

‘Shh,' Nina hisses. ‘No, not like that. But, you know, it might be awkward for him.'

Helen shakes her head. ‘Awkward? For Hugo? Hugo does awkward all by himself.'

‘You said you were going to be nice.'

‘Yeah, well, I might retract it,' Helen replies mutinously.

Juliette interjects, her voice light, ‘Helen? Have you seen Max yet? He's been very keen to see you.'

Helen turns to Juliette. ‘Not yet. Where is he?'

‘He was out the back,' Lars replies. ‘But he might be having a shower. He only got in a few hours ago.'

‘Why was he so late?'

Juliette shrugs diplomatically. Not mentioning that he'd stunk of alcohol and sweat. Helen laughs, her good spirits back.

‘God love him. I'll find him. Soleil is putting her things in our room. She'll be down in a minute.'

‘The infamous sister,' Lars says.

‘The very one,' Helen replies.

Chapter 6

Max

M
ax laughs to himself in the shower thinking about Eddie. Thinking
–
Thank God for you, Eddie. For being your messy, useless, hopeful, hilarious self. For still collecting Star Wars dolls (figurines!), for tattooing a gecko on your arse cheek while drunk in Perth, for persuading your parents to
continue paying
for your health insurance. For being as useless at love as he is.

Max doesn't keep in contact with Eddie enough, but it never seems to matter when they see each other again. It's as though no time has passed. They are still stupid, they are still just boys. They will always be boys, despite their ages, jobs or responsibilities. Being with Eddie makes Max feel better. Makes him feel like less of a failure. The girls, Nina and Rosie, they're great, but sometimes they make Max feel like an anomaly. Like he hasn't quite got his life sorted. There is never any judgement with Eddie.

Helen manages to fit into both worlds. Rosie and Nina love her, but so do Eddie and Max and Lars. She is comfortable with any one of them. When she walks into a room no one looks away, not even Hugo. She's something to look towards, sure, but it is more than that. Helen makes people feel good, she makes people laugh, she knows how to light up a place. A couple of times she had turned up after a show, unannounced, and in those times Max felt like he was twenty feet tall, the best, luckiest man on the planet.

The three girls had been practically inseparable at college. Helen had introduced Rosie to Nina and the rest of the group after Rosie and Helen met in a class. Max remembers the shy, studious, pretty Rosie paired with bohemian and rebellious Helen. If Rosie was a rose, as her name suggested, then Helen was a fragrant, bright-tongued orchid. Nina fell somewhere in the middle between them. Nina studied hard but partied hard too. All three of them loved Tori Amos and Björk. They argued about politics, art and celebrity gossip. They read and swapped
The Handmaid's Tale
and
Midnight's Children
and a dozen or so Danielle Steel paperbacks with well-worn corners and swollen pages. They drank Malibu and Coke and cheap wine out of boxes. Rosie was competitive and giggly when drunk, Nina sleepy and sweet, Helen wild and affectionate. All three of them loved to dance.

Max's memories of that time are so vivid. A decade or so as though placed under a bell jar. Captured, crystal-clear, beautiful and preserved. Why those years are so lucid and perfect and everything else since seems blurry and nondescript, Max isn't sure. It can't just be the drugs; Max used drugs back then too and drank a lot, if not more. Perhaps it is because he is older and more tired. He has even been growing tired of his work, lately, though he could not admit it to anyone. Playing with The Jacks was a dream job, how could he be sick of it? What would he do otherwise? There is nothing else Max is good at.

Max doesn't like to think that the memories in the bell jar are his best years and there are only less great, blurry ones from here on in. No. It won't be that way for him. He has a plan. A Great Plan. He is going to keep his life and make it even better. If life is a game, he is winning; he is streaks ahead.

Max gets out of the shower and half-heartedly dries off. He pulls on underwear and a pair of shorts but walks into the hallway bare-chested, carrying a t-shirt. He notices movement in Helen's room and feels his face splitting into a grin before he sees her. When he steps into the doorway a small figure with brown hair in a huge bun wearing a bright orange crop top turns to face him. Her skin is soft brown, like a hazelnut. She meets his gaze, full-face, almost confrontational. Green eyes, freckles across the bridge of her nose. She glances down at his chest.

‘Sorry, thought you were Helen.'

‘You must be Max.' She doesn't smile.

‘Soleil?'

She nods.

‘Nice to meet you,' Max says, rearranging his thoughts.

Soleil blinks and then continues unpacking clothes. They're neatly folded in a pale-blue suitcase, like one you might see in a show from the seventies. Max notices her bun is made of dreadlocks, curled around one another like snakes. Max had been expecting someone young and shy, vulnerable. Helen had said Soleil was going through a hard time. Young women going through hard times were usually Max's forte. She pauses and looks up at him.

‘This is your house, right?'

‘Yes. You like it?'

‘I think you wrecked the landscape, to be totally honest with you.'

Max suddenly wishes he had put his shirt on. He crosses his arms. ‘Okay.'

‘The old house must have been so nice as it was.'

‘It was falling apart,' Max says, defensively.

‘Old houses tend to do that. You're supposed to repair them, not bolt on something new and out of place.'

‘Out of place … Right.'

‘It's like Frankenstein's monster.'

‘Frankenstein's monster. Uh-huh.' Max had not prepared for this.

Soleil pauses for a moment. ‘Your kitchen is nice though.'

‘Oh, well then.'

They stand in silence for an uncomfortable length of time, the suitcase of clothes in between them.

‘Helen says you're a musician,' Soleil says.

‘Guitarist. For The Jacks.' Max tries to sound humble but that doesn't work either. Fuck it. If being in The Jacks doesn't impress her, nothing will. His house is like Frankenstein's monster? No. The house is gorgeous. Everyone loves the house.

‘Like, more than one Jack?' Soleil asks.

‘Sorry?'

‘You said “the Jacks”.'

‘Yeah. The Jacks … Fuck, are you serious?'

Soleil's face clouds over.

‘You've never heard of The Jacks?'

‘Should I have?'

Max laughs but it's not the laugh he was aiming for – the wry but carefree one. The one that says, ‘You're hilarious, sweetheart'. Max's laugh comes out dry and bitter like brittle autumn leaves skating across a pavement and makes him feel old. He thinks of coke, just a bump would do the trick, but remembers the promise he made to steer clear of it around the others. He changes tack. ‘Helen said you were having a hard time.'

Soleil crosses her arms. ‘Is that right?'

‘You're not having a hard time?'

‘Do I look like I'm having a hard time?'

Max throws up his hands. ‘I'm just making conversation.'

Soleil shrugs. ‘You don't have to. Not on my account.'

‘I'll leave you to unpack then.'

Max waits for a beat. No apology, no ‘thank you for having me'. He shakes his head and slips on his t-shirt.

‘Lovely to meet you!' he calls out behind him, when he is in the hallway. Something in his voice reminds him of being a kid, reminds him, dare he say it, of his father. The sarcasm that emanated from him like a stink when he was drunk. Rage, bitterness, believing the world owed him something.

*

Helen makes Max think of Elbow lyrics. Those are the songs he wishes he'd written. Poetry. The real stuff. Raw and honest and bleeding and hopeful. Asking her to back a horse that's good for glue, dreams of marriage in an orange grove, admitting he's too stubborn, selfish and old …

She's the only thing in any room she's ever in.

‘Max. There you are.'

Her smile is wide and white. Her hair shiny. She opens her arms and he steps into them, the perfect circle. She wraps him up and into her and laughs and the sound is better than water against the shore, better than rain on a roof, better than any track he ever wrote.

She smells like cigarettes and soap and jam and flowers.

She smells like love.

‘How are you?'

‘Better now I've seen you.'

‘You old flirt.'

‘Easy on the “old”.'

‘Forty now, Maxie.'

‘Did you think I forgot?'

She holds him away for a moment. ‘Looking good for forty.'

‘No shit.'

They are both giggling. When Max had needed family, Helen had been family. Sister, friend, aunty, always, always there for him. No matter how much he screwed up.

Lars walks past holding a platter. ‘You two found each other, I see,' he says with a wink.

Max thinks of the box in his bag, in his room and his Great Plan, and his heart starts to race. ‘We did,' he replies.

Helen squeezes his forearms. ‘Should we help Juliette with lunch?'

‘Yeah, let's do that.'

‘Then a walk on the beach and a smoke and pretend no one else is around?'

‘Perfect.'

Max wants to pull her back to him, to have all of her body pressed against all of his body, but he lets her go and her hand slips down his arm to his hand and he catches it. Her touch makes his skin feels warm and electric. Alive.

She leads him into the kitchen.

*

Juliette has made a feast. The outdoor table is cloaked in French linen and dotted with sparkling glasses, thick silver cutlery and posies of wildflowers cut from the garden. Fragrant stalks of lavender, dill fronds, sprigs of rosemary, puffs of lime-light hydrangeas, silvery sage leaves. Plates are piled high with food shared from big platters. Buckwheat galettes stuffed with langoustine and artichokes bound with a cream sauce. A huge leek tart freckled with fresh thyme leaves and two simple salads – panzanella and a green one with slices of duck and scattered with walnuts. A massive, heaving platter of local seafood. Max grabs Juliette's hand as she walks by and thanks her, but she simply smiles and shrugs as though it is nothing. Juliette is the best thing for this house; his Frankenstein's monster.

Max glances now at Soleil, who is talking to Sophie. Sophie whom he remembers as a five-year-old but who now looks twenty, though he knows she is fifteen. It's her expression, the way she holds her mouth – dissatisfied, disappointed, knowing so much and scared of more she won't admit.

Soleil looks like she is enjoying her food, though Max has not yet seen her smile. She's folding and pushing a galette into her mouth with her small brown fingers like she hasn't eaten for days. Helen, sitting next to her, has her hand resting on Soleil's shoulder. She grins at Max and he raises his glass in reply.

Hugo, sitting at the head of the table, of course, though it isn't his table, leans over to shake Max's hand. ‘Hi, Max.'

‘Hi, Hugo.'

‘Happy birthday.'

‘Thanks, mate.'

It's formal and forced. Hugo, the surgeon, the smart one, better than everyone, seems uncomfortable. Max is glad. Max is also glad Hugo's hair seems to be thinning, his face is more lined, his expression more sour. Max hopes Rosie doesn't screw him much, hopes she no longer gives him blowjobs. She's barely looked over at her husband the whole lunch, whispering instead with Nina as they always do, like they're planning something. When Hugo stands up and excuses himself, no one pays much notice.

Max looks back to Helen. More Elbow lyrics. God, they say it better than he could.
Violets exploding … when I meet your eyes … clouds of starlings …

He should be kinder. It is the noble thing to do.

He must remember to be nice.

Max reaches over to the seafood platter. An arrangement of oysters in their shells, spider crab, a red, gleaming lobster. Juliette is showing Beth how to extract
un bigorneau
from its shell with a toothpick. Max gives Beth a benevolent smile and tips an oyster into his mouth. Here is a sign of him being grown up, he eats oysters now. The Cancale oysters are small and clear, dressed simply. A good oyster tastes simply of rock and ocean. Fresh, salty, delicious. Like a woman, laid back in his bed.

Eddie slaps Max's back. ‘Hey, mate, remember that Christmas party in Borough?'

Nina and Rosie look over, listening in.

‘Tell me,' Max encourages him.

Eddie clears his throat. ‘We were in that old pub near the market. They were bankers –'

‘Lawyers,' Nina says.

‘Lawyers. You're right. Of course. Hot, smart chicks in little skirts and the men – all wankers.'

Beth, Eddie's girl, laughs. She's wearing a headscarf, blue with white flowers against her red hair. It actually looks pretty good on her. Of course Max remembers the Christmas party, he just wants to hear Eddie tell it.

‘We all got so drunk. You girls were drinking that horrible stuff. Wine cooler? What was in that stuff?'

‘Not much wine. Not good wine, that was for sure,' Rosie murmurs.

‘We were wasted. I was trying to get Rosie to come to bed with me –'

Max glances at Hugo's seat beside him, but it's empty.

‘You were?' Nina frowns. ‘But –'

‘Yeah, I know. It was over but … ah, you know me. I was all “I love her!”, “I need her to be mine!”' Eddie clasps his hands together for effect. Rosie laughs and blushes, pleased. Beth turns her face towards the garden.

Max swallows down the concern that he's exactly like that about Helen. A bit pathetic. Needy. But it's different. Max needs Helen but she needs him too. He glances over at her but she's talking to Soleil. A shame. This is a good story. Next to them, Sophie has her camera out and is taking photos. It's one of those small ones that are made to look old. She points it at Max and clicks. He blinks and smiles but she's pointing it at Juliette now, busy clearing plates.

‘She was having none of it,' Eddie sighs.

‘Rosie was with that lawyer in the broom cupboard, wasn't she?' Max asks, smiling.

‘She was? Glad I didn't know that at the time. I would have been heartbroken.'

‘Oh, please.' Nina rolls her eyes.

‘Anyway, all of us blind, including you and Lars, if I recall …'

‘Surely not,' Lars says, with mock sincerity.