A French Wedding (9 page)

That if anyone is lost it might be her.

*

Brighton beach, 1993

They weren't supposed to be a couple. Not in Rosie's mind, anyway. Not that she told Eddie that, as they lay back against the stones digging into her skin. It was June but the weather was dreadful. That's England for you. That's Brighton for you. Grubby ocean scent in the air, the stink of the wet wooden boards of the pier, tobacco, sweat, Eddie's of course. Eddie was not part of Rosie's plan and yet here they were. Again. He passed her the smoke.

‘Supposed to be summer. Almost. Weather's crap.'

His hair was too long. His jeans were too short. His sweat smelled like onions and brine.

‘It's crap,' Rosie agreed.

Eddie rolled on to his side, looked her up and down and gave her a grin. ‘You're a picture, Rosie.'

‘I need a shower.'

‘You look good without one.'

Not long and they'd be done with study and Rosie would be somewhere else. With someone else. Not under the Brighton pier, sharing a smoke with Eddie.

‘Is Max going to class these days?' Rosie asked, still lying on her back.

Eddie looked out towards the sea. There were seagulls nearby arguing over something. Probably a cold chip. Their cries struck the air like slaps.

‘Not much,' Eddie replied. ‘I don't think he's fussed. He's getting good gigs. He says there was a producer at their last one. Came and had a word. Pretty famous apparently.'

‘He won't finish his degree?'

Rosie shivered from the cold.

Eddie shook his head. ‘Doubt it.'

‘He should finish.'

‘Think he's happier with his music to be honest.'

‘He spends too much time arsing about. He's almost finished.'

Rosie tried not to sound scolding, but failed.

‘
He's happy,' Eddie murmured. He reached over and touched Rosie's hair. The gel had lost its hold. It was limp and gritty-feeling. ‘I like it like this,' he said.

‘Dirty?' Rosie sniffed. She hated the sound of her voice. Too much like her mother's when she was looking at herself in the mirror.

‘No. Short,' Eddie replied.

Eddie and Rosie had first kissed at the pub, a night Max had been playing. It wasn't on purpose. It was cider. Rosie didn't usually drink cider and it made her feel weird, that was her excuse, so that when Eddie started chatting to her he suddenly seemed different. Maybe it was because Max wasn't with him and Rosie wasn't sure about Max. He was reckless and blunt, he took too many chances, he made Helen wild. He was the kind of person Rosie's mother warned her about and Rosie was inclined to agree with her mother about that kind of thing. But with Max on stage and occupied with the band, Eddie was on his own. He asked Rosie questions. He seemed kind and funny and sweet. Easy to be around. He seemed interested. It felt good to have someone interested. Then he leaned in too close and his lips were just there and he was, well, handsome enough.

‘Are you cold?' Eddie asked, fingers now on her bare shoulder. She should have brought a jacket.

‘A bit,' Rosie conceded.

‘Take my jacket.'

‘No, I'm fine thanks.'

Eddie's kindness was bothering Rosie. Because she was supposed to be breaking up with him.

‘Eddie –'

‘Oh Rosie, you are fucking freezing, just take the jacket,' Eddie interrupted.

‘I don't need it,' she replied, shivering.

‘If you don't take the jacket I'm gonna
smother you with something else.'

‘I don't want it, Eddie!'

‘You were warned …'

Eddie hoisted himself up and rolled on top of Rosie, squashing her further into the bed of grey stones.

‘Ow! Jesus, Eddie!'

‘I told you …'

Eddie was laughing and his breath was close to her face. She could smell the smoke and the salt and grease of the chips they'd shared before.

‘The stones …!' Rosie protested, her voice muffled.

Eddie was now sniffing at her neck. ‘God you smell good, Rosie.'

‘Get off me!'

‘You smell like roses,' Eddie said.

‘I do not. I smell like fags and booze. Get off!'

‘No, you smell good. I swear.'

Eddie started kissing her. Small, peppering kisses below her jaw growing bigger and more generous as he reached the top of her collarbone. Rosie felt her body, all muscles and bones and resistance, betraying her.

‘Eddie … Come on …' But Rosie's protest was half-hearted, Eddie could sense it. Kisses were pressed along her collarbone. Rosie felt her head tip back, just a little, encouraging.

‘You are so cold,' Eddie murmured, slipping his hand, softly and slowly, up her top. Rosie's voice vanished, along with her intentions. All the explanations she had practised – ‘It's not you, it's me', ‘It was always a casual thing', ‘You'll find the right girl, Eddie' – melting and dissolving in the wake of those kisses. In the heat of Eddie's breath against the base of her throat, the creeping desire of his hand moving towards the worn silk of her grey-white bra. Rosie breathed, heavily, against Eddie's hair, felt her eyes closing, her hips lifting. Eddie's fingers moved inside the cup of her bra, skimmed her nipple, closed over, took possession. Rosie had such small breasts. Some of the men she'd been with, the smart, brilliant, going-places ones, had told her so.

‘You are brilliant. God you are brilliant,' Eddie whispered on her skin.

Eddie wasn't good enough, Rosie reminded herself. He wasn't part of her plan. But he
was impossible to break up with.

Chapter 4

Max

Helen, in a green satin shirt, that makes her breasts look like slinky hillocks you want to lay your palms upon, and a black skirt with shiny black heels. Looking whatever it is that was beyond beautiful (‘radiant' comes close, but ‘fuckable' is all Max can honestly think of). That hair, swinging, that soft, wet mouth, open, laughing. Max tugs her away from everyone. Pulls her into a closet, which smells of dust and lemon cleaning products but muffles the sounds –
the
chitchat
and
har'har'har
and
clop-clop
of shoes against gallery floors. Her breath hot on his face, her breasts rising and falling. The fragrance of he
r neck, her skin. Undoing the buttons on her shirt, yanking up the skirt, pushing down the underwear. Feeling her warm and damp against his fingers,
Dear God
. Her mouth on his, tasting of her cigarettes, of red wine. Her hand reaching down into his trousers, urgent, searching for … finding …

Max sits up too fast. His head is spinning. It hits the visor. He rubs his forehead and groans. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is. He is in his car, with the seat pushed back. Sunlight floods in through the front window. His body is on a weird angle. Did he crash? Max looks out the side window at a grass verge, then blinks at the front of his car, checking for damage. He scans down his body. Legs, crotch, torso, all still intact. Then he remembers where he is headed and reaches for the box on the passenger seat, rolls it in his fingers. He spots his phone and touches the screen but it remains black. Dead.

Max laughs. He must have pulled over to sleep
on his way to Douarnenez. Like an old man. Shit.
He is an old man. Forty.
Today
. And while forty
isn't very old, it is old enough and it makes
Max feel rattled. Like he is sliding, faster and faster,
down a cliff and at the bottom is nothing. Not
even a smash of body against ground but absolutely nothing.
A grey nothing that is dull and damp and hanging.
Worse than a used dick. The thought makes him check
his own. Still there.

Max reaches over to the glove box, digs under the warranty and an old map and pulls out the small bag. He dips his finger into the powder inside and rubs it on his gums, blinking fast. An old man? Fuck that. He starts the car, shifts the gearstick and pushes down too hard on the accelerator, thinking of that green satin shirt.

*

The house is a marvel. The old half, the
cottage, with stone as grey as Breton clouds, masking the
new half at the back – glass and exposed wood, brass and
copper details. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Magic.
Max loves it every time he sees it; as though
it is a new thing. It's the kind of home
you see in
Architectural Digest
. He isn't sure the locals
appreciate it but Max doesn't care much for
good neighbourly relations. He pays Juliette to keep everything and
everyone sweet and she does a good job of it
too. Plus she makes a mean
kouign-amann
.

When Max pulls
up there is a van and three cars parked out
the front as well as Juliette's little blue Renault which
looks more like a toy than a car to Max
and has to be older than Max himself. Max cannot
tell if Helen's rental car is amongst the ones parked
but gets out quickly and strides to the front door,
pushing it open. He hears conversation coming from the kitchen.

Max
spots Rosie first. She's wearing pink flannel pyjamas with elephants
printed all over them and talking to Nina, who's
in a navy linen dress and sandals. Juliette is by
the bench. She's cut her hair. She
looks over and smiles.

‘Happy birthday, Max.'

Both Nina and Rosie wheel
around, and Rosie squeals.

‘Max!' She gives him a firm hug
and Max remembers just how small Rosie is. Short and
wiry, like a kid; you wouldn't guess she'd had three
of her own, boys no less. Nina kisses his cheeks
and Max inhales her perfume. Gardenia and something else, she's
worn it for years and years. She gives a gentle
smile that makes Max want to curl up next to
her and tell her all his secrets.

‘Happy birthday,' they say,
together, then laugh.

‘My gorgeous, gorgeous girls,' Max purrs, pulling them
both towards him. ‘You too, Juliette, feel free to join
us,' he says, glancing over.

‘Looks
like
you've
got
enough
on
your
hands
for
now,'
Juliette
jokes.
She's
cutting
a
brioche
loaf
and
stacking
the
slices
onto
a
large
plate.
There's
a
jar
of
jam
on
it
too,
with
a
bone-handled
knife
beside
it.

‘Never enough,' Max says with a grin.

‘Where were you?' Nina asks. ‘We were waiting for you.'

‘We called you all night,' Rosie adds.

‘Phone was dead,' Max says with a shrug, not explaining the nap. ‘What did you do without me? Go to bed early, without any supper?'

‘Exactly,' Nina replies.

‘I fed them. I promise,' Juliette says.

‘She did,' Rosie says, nodding. ‘Food was incredible.'

‘Do you want a coffee?' Juliette asks Max.

‘Fuck yes.'

Rosie returns to the bar stool she had been sitting on. Nina reaches over to the brioche and drops jam onto a slice. ‘Nice place you've got here, Max.'

‘Thanks, Nina.'

‘How you feeling about the big four-oh?'

Max restrains a grimace. ‘Fine. Good. They say forty is the new thirty.'

‘Yeah, but that's bullshit,' Nina replies, wryly.

Max laughs. ‘I missed you.'

‘You know where I am. You just pick up the phone and call me. Or, better yet, buy me tickets to Paris. Heard of the Eurostar?'

‘Have
you
heard of the Eurostar?' Max counters. ‘You could come see me.'

‘I'm not buying train tickets to come
see you when I don't know where you are from
one week to the next. You could be touring New
Zealand for all I know. I mean, you invited us here and then turned up late.'

Max reaches out for Nina's cheek. ‘I'm sorry, Mumma Bear. Will you forgive me?'

Rosie laughs but Nina pretends to be annoyed. ‘No.'

Lars comes into the kitchen. ‘Max!'

‘Lars, mate!'

They hug each other tight and then Lars rubs Max's bald head, tousling hair that isn't there. ‘Need a cut, mate.'

‘Yeah, yeah. Funny. The girls don't seem to mind.'

‘Bet the girls love it,' Lars says, winking, his blond eyelashes catching the light.

Nina shakes her head. ‘How old do we have to get before you stop calling us all “girls”?'

‘Do we offend you?' Max asks, smiling.

‘I don't mind it. Makes me feel young,' Rosie says, fingers wrapped around a teacup.

‘It's so belittling,' Nina grumbles.

Lars goes to her and kisses her head. ‘How you feeling about the big four-oh?' he asks Max.

‘Your girl just asked me that.'

‘First cab off the rank,' Lars says, warningly.

‘You'll all catch up soon enough.'

‘Not for a little while …' Rosie mumbles into her tea.

‘You cut the path, Max, we'll follow your lead,' Lars says.

‘God help us,' Nina replies.

Max inhales, puffing out his chest. ‘Well, I'm not planning on changing very much, mate. Am thinking of keeping up the same diet and exercise regime …'

‘Which is?' Nina asks.

‘Booze, smokes, drugs and shagging,' Lars answers and they all laugh, including Juliette, who is facing the window.

‘That's it,' Max agrees. ‘I'm going to write a book about it. You interested in publishing it, Nina?'

Nina grimaces. ‘Rock'n'Roll Method to an Early Grave?'

Max laughs. ‘Ouch.'

Juliette passes around the fresh bread and jam and serves Max his coffee. Rosie pats Max's arm and leaves to get changed and check on Hugo. After a few sips of coffee, Max clears his throat.

‘Where's Helen?'

Lars grins. ‘Was wondering how long it'd take you to ask that.'

‘Picking up her sister,' Juliette says.

‘Oh, right.' Max nods, remembering the message on his phone. His heart sinks.

He tries not to feel disappointed. But his body aches for the dream that vanished too fast this morning. The silk shirt, the scent of her skin. Max shudders, tries to shake it off. Disappointment is a pathetic wimp of an emotion. Useless. He has a brief memory of his father's breath on his face.
Don't give me that look! What have you got to be sad about?
Max takes a quick, bracing breath. He has his friends. He loves Rosie and Nina, he loves Lars. He has missed Lars. Lars's way in the world. Like there is never an emergency, like everything is gonna be alright, just like the song.

‘How does Helen suddenly have a sister?' Lars asks.

‘I don't think it's a real sister,' says Max. ‘She's her dad's daughter.
'

‘Half-sister,' Nina says.

‘No, not even. Her dad married that Spanish woman, what was her name?'

‘Oh. That's right. The one that looked like that actress … what
was
her name?'

‘Anyway, she had a daughter before they were married. Soleil? She and Helen were close; Helen practically raised her for a few years. Then her dad and what's-her-name –' Max says.

‘Mariposa!' Nina supplies.

‘That's it. Mariposa and Helen's dad split up. It was pretty messy.'

‘As all his splits are,' Lars says grimly. Juliette is stacking dishes into a dish drawer but glances over when he says that. ‘Sorry, Juliette, we're being so rude.'

‘
Non
. It's fine. Please go on.'

Nina turns to Max. ‘How old is Soleil now?'

‘Not sure. Mid, maybe late twenties? Helen hasn't seen her for a long time. She said something about Soleil having a hard time.'

‘Hard time?'

Max shrugs, chews on a piece of brioche, suddenly starving. The sweet, buttery bread dissolves in his mouth. ‘You'll have to ask Helen. You know what I'm like on details. Fuzzy at best.'

‘Helen said she should be back by midday,' says Juliette. ‘Soleil is coming by train. The nearest station is over an hour away.'

Max nods, distracting himself from his own impatience by eating more bread and watching Lars stacking the dishwasher with Juliette. He is nodding to some tune in his head. Lars loves music as much as Max does. He is a talented bass guitarist too, he probably could have been something and someone, but that isn't Lars's way. That would have meant leaving Nina and Sophie for long periods of time and that was never going to happen.

Juliette excuses herself from the kitchen. ‘I am going to the market later, if anyone would like to join me.'

‘I will,' Nina replies. ‘And I'm sure Rosie would love to.'

When Juliette leaves the kitchen, Max reaches over to Lars, now drying his hands on a tea towel, and shoves his shoulder.

‘It's good to see you.'

‘You too, mate. You too. I watched The Jacks' Tokyo tour, bits of it, online. Bloody brilliant. I can't believe you're still making music. You know, that it's your job.'

‘Still making music,' Max repeats.

‘It's brilliant.'

Max feels the discomfort he always has when one of his friends talks about his work. Lars and Nina had Sophie young, in their mid-twenties; she'd been a surprise. Lars had stayed at home with Sophie while Nina pursued her career in publishing. Lars had odd jobs here and there since – in retail, hospitality, he did carpentry every now and then, but he never charged enough and took too long getting it absolutely perfect so he was always late completing jobs. Nina's work took her away too, to book fairs or festivals; it was easier for Lars to be at home. Still, his eyes shine when he talks to Max about his music, his work. Max's world is so set apart that it makes Max feel both great and terrible at once. Better than them sometimes, it's true, but alien too.

‘How is life with you two?' he asks.

‘Three,' Nina says. ‘We have a teenager,' she reminds him. ‘She takes up a lot of emotional space.'

‘Where is Sophie?' Max asks.

‘Probably still sleeping.'

‘Probably out taking photographs, more like,' Lars says. ‘We bought her a camera.'