A French Wedding (15 page)

Juliette watches Soleil's face. It hasn't changed a bit. Smooth and unruffled and almost expressionless.

‘Spoken like a rich girl,' Max replies.

‘Max. That's unfair,' Helen says quickly.

‘Didn't you take advantage of low cost tertiary education?' Nina asks. ‘Max, you went to
arts
college. How would you have paid for it if it'd been more expensive? Don't you think it served you? Even if you didn't finish it?'

‘That's my point. I have never used it. It was a waste of time.'

It's too much for this hour of the day, light still in the sky, not enough alcohol in their systems to take the bitter edge off of it. Max, not completely in control, not being the steady, charming, happy centre. Juliette bites her lip.

‘But that's how you met us,' Rosie says softly, wounded.

Max doesn't reply.

Lars lifts his head to look at Soleil. ‘If you're a big advocate of education, how come you won't be completing your PhD?'

‘Exactly,' Max mutters.

Soleil glances at Max and Juliette notices the first flash of irritation flit across her face. ‘The university board wouldn't
approve my research.'

‘Why?' Lars asks.

Soleil clears her throat. ‘The official line was that it didn't fit within the scope and remit of the Department of Environmental Science and the subject was too broad and unwieldy.'

‘Soleil was looking into the effect of organically farmed food on the brains of developing children,' Helen says, proudly.

‘Sort of,' Soleil replies.

‘That sounds interesting,' Rosie says.

‘More helpful than ceramics,' Lars adds amiably.

‘They said it would be too difficult to establish controls, the research period would be too long and too expensive, and that the topic is more aligned with nutritional medicine,' Soleil explains.

‘That's a real shame,' Beth says.

‘I agree,' says Helen, nodding.

‘What was the unofficial reason?' Max asks.

‘Sorry?'

‘You said that was the official reason. What was the unofficial reason?'

Soleil lifts her chin and faces Max. ‘I fucked my professor.'

Eddie chokes on his drink and starts coughing.

‘And then I stopped fucking him.'

There is a short silence.

‘Where is Sophie?' Nina murmurs, glancing around.

Soleil continues, ‘He wasn't happy about that.'

‘Well,' says Lars, with a trace of admiration in his voice. ‘That'll do it.'

‘I didn't know about that,' Helen murmurs.

The song changes. Max leans forward for the remote and turns up the volume. The conversation breaks up. Like rainwater splitting into streams and puddles. Lars stands up to look for his daughter.

Max gestures to Juliette with his glass. ‘Can I get another drink?'

‘Do you want –' Juliette starts to ask.

‘Not gin,' he says firmly. As though he's suddenly formed a distaste for it. When he passes her the glass the condensation wets her fingers. It mists the glass like the rain now dotting and running down the windows.

*

Douarnenez, 2000

Juliette came in with a wet wind that threatened to blow her sideways, one she struggled against in order to close the door. The Jeunet Boulangerie-Patisserie usually had pots by the door and under the windows – plants that flowered in garish pinks and reds – and a vine that climbed up the corner of the stone building; unkempt and bushy, green shoots waving about. But now it was winter and the vine was a mass of dead-looking branches and the pot plants had been taken indoors to survive the cold.

‘Juliette!' Stephanie was wearing a red high-neck top, the same colour as the map of broken capillaries on the apples of her cheeks. She came out from the counter to embrace her and put soft kisses on either side of Juliette's face.

‘
Bonjour
, Stephanie.'

‘You are back.' She held her at arm's length and surveyed her. The long dark hair sticking to her pallid face, her jeans loose, her father's bright yellow rain jacket too long on her. ‘You look wonderful.'

Juliette shook her head, ignoring the misplaced compliment. ‘It's good to see you,' she said awkwardly, though in truth she'd not given Stephanie Jeunet a thought over the last few years. She barely gave anyone in the village a thought. She had been in Paris for almost a decade now, returning this winter when her parents reminded her she'd missed three out of four recent Christmases. She blamed work but really she didn't mind working over this period; restaurants were busy, bars were festive, there was always a party to go to.

‘
Bonne Annee, ma cherie.
'

‘Happy New Year to you too, Stephanie.'

Stephanie released her and patted her shoulder before heading back behind the glass counters. She smoothed her palms on the cream apron with the red piping that she always wore before pushing back a piece of hair, which was dyed dark, cut short and brushed fluffy, sticking out from her head like a kind of halo.

‘What can I get for you, darling? We've been busy this morning, despite the weather.'

Juliette peered into the cabinets, which were more bare than usual.

‘It's been a bitter winter, I'm sure your parents have said. Is it so bad in Paris?'

Juliette glanced up, Stephanie was smiling at her. She noticed a small glass vase next to the till. It held a tiny bunch of purple violets.

‘Sorry?'

‘Paris? The weather?'

‘Oh yes, yes, it's been cold.'

‘Were you there for the fireworks? Or did you come after?'

‘I was here.' Juliette tried not to sound bitter. The ringing in of a new year, a new millennium, and her parents had her stuck in Douarnenez. They hadn't forced her to stay, of course, but she'd felt so guilty after the comment about the Christmas absences, after hearing their voices on the end of the phone, practically dripping with sorrow as though she'd abandoned them in a tiny, two-person life raft that was sure to sink, that she had agreed to spend New Year's Eve with them, agreed to drive down after her Christmas shifts were done. They had paid for the rental car, which she much preferred to train or bus, so she couldn't be too petty about it all.

‘Oh, a shame. We saw them on TV,' Stephanie gushed. ‘Weren't they incredible? I cried. My husband says I am so silly about such things but what a time to be French. Did you see them?'

‘I watched.' Juliette had sat on the floor of the lounge, at her parents' feet, scratching the heads of their two old, blind dogs, feeling the churn of disappointment and entrapment in her stomach.

‘And the ones in Australia … and London … Nice, but you know, ours were … Oh, I didn't mean …'

‘The Paris ones were the best,' Juliette said quickly.

‘I always forget you are a bit English, dear.'

Juliette shrugged. ‘It's no bother.' Thinking that she did too. She bent down again and looked into the cabinets.

‘How are your parents? It's been so busy lately I feel as though I have barely spoken to them. You know my niece is helping me these days?'

There were only the basic things left – a few croissants surrounded by flakey crumbs, a couple of cakes inexpertly decorated (they weren't Stephanie's forte, she preferred the breads and traditional pastries), a pan of
kouign-amann
with only four wedges left, and a big
gâteau Breton
, intact.

‘Carrouselle,' Stephanie continued, tutting. ‘Oh, I know, the name is dreadful, but her mother is strange. She's my brother's child. We call her “Carrou”, not much better but … She's been helpful. No good in the kitchen but pleasant with the customers so I can be out back. She's got a head for numbers. Faster giving change than I am.'

‘That's nice …' Juliette murmured, distracted.

‘So your parents are well?'

‘Yes, both well.'

‘That's good. It's been a dreadful winter. What with the accident …'

Juliette decided on the
gâteau Breton
. It was her mother's favourite. She straightened. ‘What accident?'

‘On the boat. We're not used to it, see? But before, in my mother's day, it wasn't uncommon at all, of course. It was part of it. The sea takes … It's part of being from here. My great-uncle –'

‘What happened?' Juliette interrupted.

Stephanie tipped her head, like the dogs did when they heard a noise outside. They barked even more than usual these days, their voices worn and craggy, because they couldn't see and they were often anxious.

‘Your parents didn't …?' Stephanie mumbled. ‘A fishing boat, one of the older ones, was out in the storms. It had a problem making a distress call. The equipment was old and the weather it had been so bad. Still, a shock to many. We have become so used to having our men survive. Besides, not so many fishermen these days, as you know.'

Juliette frowned. ‘No.'
Le gâteau Breton, s'il vous plaît
, had been on her lips and now she couldn't quite remember what she had wanted.

‘Who …?'

‘Two souls, thank God, though the young boy … Thanh … did you know him?'

‘Thanh?'

Stephanie shook her head ‘No, you wouldn't. He was much younger than you and his family have only been in the village for ten years, maybe fifteen. Vietnamese boy. Twenty-one?'

‘His parents own the restaurant on Rue Eglise?'

Juliette couldn't recall the name of it now, which was odd, it wasn't like there were many Asian restaurants in Douarnenez. The exterior was painted red, with a gold coloured dragon above the windows.

‘Yes, that's them.'

‘That's awful.'

‘Yes, yes it was. We were all devastated. I didn't know the family well. They have a lot of children, five I think. Thanh was the eldest. You know …' Stephanie leaned over. ‘I didn't pay them much attention. Then when poor Thanh lost his life I couldn't stop seeing them everywhere. Thanh's brothers and sisters, his parents, I felt terrible for them. Many people came in, to buy bread and cakes for the family, to talk. I think I wasn't the only one to feel guilty that I had never paid them much notice.'

Juliette nodded. A shiver moved over her skin, perhaps a chill from the wind and rain outside. She glanced at the front door, the frame painted blue, and out to the alley. It was a typical winter's day – the light lifeless and dull, the drizzle relentless. She tucked her arms closer to her sides.

‘I'll take the
gâteau Breton
, Stephanie. Just half. Thank you.'

‘Demi? No problem.'

Stephanie reached into the cabinet for the cake, cutting it down the centre to reveal the prune paste inside. It was the prune paste Juliette's mother especially loved; though most
gâteau Breton
these days came without, Stephanie always included it. Stephanie Jeunet was not fussed about fads, about making what was popular. The
boulangerie-patisserie
had not changed at all since Juliette was a child. The same woven baskets on the windowsill behind the counter, thick layers of dust on their wicker handles, the same good luck charms and ornaments on the counter. The floor worn, the two small tables for customers to eat at, cardboard wedged under the legs to make up for the undulating stone floor. A sticker of the
Gwenn-Ha-Du
, the black and white flag of Brittany, stuck to the bottom right of the front window. Perhaps being back in this village was giving Juliette the shivers. It was like a time warp. Douarnenez, forever unchanged and unchanging, made her feel off balance, feel unlike herself. Or, more accurately, like an old version of herself. A teenage version; riddled with anxieties and resentments. Watching it become a new year and a new millennium from the thick, brown carpet of her parents' lounge had all those old, angry feelings bubbling up like stew in a pot. She'd been invited to at least three different parties in Paris for New Year's Eve, all of which would have involved too much alcohol, laughing, a long kiss with someone, anyone, at midnight. Instead her mother had hugged her too tight, even cried a little, and she'd had to make do with the dogs as her company in bed, their bodies warm at least, but their snoring syncopated, keeping her awake. She'd basically been sober too, which made the injustice of it all the more sharp and piercing.

Stephanie Jeunet slid the
gâteau
into a box and then pushed it gently towards Juliette. Juliette retrieved her purse from her father's raincoat and counted out notes and coins.

‘I'm surprised your parents didn't say, about the accident. Your mother knows Madame Reynauld so well. Does she still teach her?'

‘I'm not sure.' Juliette passed the money to Stephanie. She still had her old cash register, which made a chiming noise when she opened the drawer.

‘It was her nephew –'

‘Thanh?'

Juliette took the cake box, thinking about how she would carry it so it didn't get wet.