A French Wedding (16 page)

‘Oh no!' Stephanie frowned. ‘No, not Thanh. A son of her much older brother's. They weren't close. But she was the only family left to do all the arrangements. I don't suppose you knew him, her nephew. Jean-Paul.'

Juliette lifted her head, sharply. ‘Jean-Paul?'

‘Yes, he was much older than you. You wouldn't know him. It was his boat. Really he should have had the equipment updated but I cannot pass judgement; I don't like new things either. But with Thanh on board … poor boy.'

Juliette stood, frozen, as Stephanie shut the till. Juliette felt his warm breath against her face, his bristles tickling her cheek.
‘
Take this pan,
ma cherie
. It was my father's mother's. Don't tell, they'll want it for themselves. Seasoned to perfection. You can't buy that. It comes from age. It's like wisdom. This pan has wisdom, see? Like me.'

Juliette could hear his laughter, close to her ear, like he was right there beside her. Loud, unapologetic.

‘Juliette? Are you okay?'

‘
Oui.
Yes. Sorry.' Juliette nodded. ‘I should go …' She stepped to the door, feeling her cheeks turning pink. Stephanie Jeunet frowned.

‘Are you –?'

‘I will pass your wishes to Mum and Dad.'

‘Yes …'

‘Thank you.'

‘Take care, Juliette.'

Juliette leaned hard against the door, pushing with so much force it swung quickly outwards, despite the wind. She took in big gulps of the cold air, which shocked her throat and made her eyes smart. She could hear Stephanie, behind her, calling, and it took her two streets to realise she had left her umbrella behind. The wind and rain lashed at her, cruel wet whips against her cheeks and fingers.

‘
This might not be good for you, my little bird. Me, no one cares about. I'm a lost cause. But you they have high hopes for.'

Juliette tried not to imagine Jean-Paul flung about in the foaming cauldron of the sea. Tried not to think of his throat filling with saltwater. His ears. His skin pricked and stung by the unbearable cold. She tried not to cry, biting her lip until she tasted her own warm blood.

‘You be different, Juliette. Go. Get out of this place. Be who you are. I'll watch on.'

She smelled his boots at the door, flecked with dried scales, the stones of his kitchen floor, the grease on his crepe pan, hanging by the pantry door. Cotton sheets he washed with old-fashioned, laundry soap, the pouch of tobacco he took out to sea.

The tears poured out of her as she rounded the corner, turning into her parents' small street, almost bumping into a boy on a skateboard who scowled at her. It wasn't anyone she knew, or anyone's son, but then Juliette had been gone for so long she no longer knew every face. Gone so long she didn't know what had happened to whom. Didn't know of marriages or funerals, of boats and bodies in pieces. She didn't even have friends who let her know of those things.

Jean-Paul had loved her when she felt unlovable. He had somehow known the things she had tried to keep secret, to keep private; the things she was ashamed of; scared of, even. Go, he had said, knowing that leaving would free her. He had held her, his little bird, so very lightly in his palm, unlike anyone else, that Juliette had never felt more safe.

Opening the front door, Juliette moved briskly up the stairs. Her mother called to her first. Both of her parents were sitting at the dining table. Her mother, glasses at the end of her nose, repairing something with a needle and thread. Her father, reading the paper. Juliette's lips trembled.

‘You got something, darling?' Juliette's father asked, eyeing up the sodden white box.

‘
Gâteau Breton
.' Juliette spat. Her voice cold and glassy.

Her mother peered over the top of her glasses and smiled. ‘I'll put the kettle on.'

She stood to go to the kitchen, pausing to lean on her chair for a moment. Juliette flung the box towards her. It bounced on the table and fell open. The cake inside broke in two ragged pieces, the prune jam spilling out. Her mother and father stared at her.

‘Juliette –'

‘When were you going to tell me?'

Her father glanced at her mother. ‘Tell you what, love?'

‘About Jean-Paul?'

Juliette studied her mother's face. That warm, round face that everyone loved. That nearly always had a smile on it. Her hand went to her mouth.

Her father cleared his throat and took a breath. ‘Juliette, your mother and me …'

Juliette's eyes did not leave her mother's. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?'

‘I … It was …'

‘You were just hoping I'd never find out?'

‘It was so long ago. I didn't know you were still … in contact …'

‘I wasn't!' Juliette heard her voice rising, felt herself falling into being that age again. ‘I wasn't in contact! That was the point, remember? Of sending me away?'

Juliette's father stepped closer to his wife. ‘Juliette, that wasn't the point. Your grandmother had wanted you to have a year in England. She left money. And your grades –'

Juliette shook her head, pointing at her mother who had taken off her glasses and looked like she might cry.

‘You sent me away because of Jean-Paul. I'm not stupid. The grades …' Juliette paused for breath. The grades had been bad, but there were other reasons for that. Reasons her parents would never understand. Reasons she had confessed only to Jean-Paul, who had kept them safe and made her feel like she wasn't so strange, so dirty, so wrong. Juliette felt her tears returning. ‘You made me see the Father, remember? To make me feel even worse … To make me promise …'

‘
Oh darling, you were so young.' Juliette's mother stepped towards her daughter but Juliette raised her palm. Her father's hand went to her mother's back, comforting. He frowned, his eyes pleading with her to stop.

‘He was my friend,' Juliette sobbed. ‘It wasn't about sex.' Juliette's mother flinched at the word. ‘It wasn't like that. He was my friend. I had no one!' Her voice was full of tears, almost a howl.

‘You had us!' Her mother begged, crying too, her hand reaching out.

‘No!' Juliette said, shaking her head. ‘No, I didn't have you.'

Juliette rushed past both of them and into the hallway. She yanked off the yellow raincoat and threw it, down the hallway, towards her parents' room.

‘We did what we thought was right!' she heard her mother call, voice desperate, but didn't turn around. She went into her room and slammed the door so hard it rattled on its hinges. She threw herself onto the bed. Her hair was wet, her skin covered in goosebumps, sobs rising up so thick and fast they hurt her throat. She was seventeen again. Seventeen and sentenced. Going to England to repeat her final year of high school. She would have no further contact with Jean-Paul. She would do as her parents thought best. It was all ‘for the best'. She would leave. Leaving was the only part that had felt bearable. Jean-Paul had been her unexpected ticket out of Douarnenez but the price of losing him was high, and Juliette had left feeling worse about herself than ever.

Jean-Paul had warned she would be the one who would be judged, but Juliette had not imagined the judgement from her own parents. She had seen in their faces the pity and the disappointment, the sad surprise. Their perfect little girl in a union with the village fisherman. The one who got drunk in bars, had greening, handmade tattoos on his arms and neck, and made no efforts to hide his affairs. Who had a woman in every port, they said, and not as a joke. Who didn't go to church, who didn't want a wife, who swore. Who was undesirable. But the Jean-Paul they saw and the Jean-Paul she knew were two different creatures. As Jean-Paul had known Juliette, so too had Juliette known him. She knew the softness of his touch, the kindness he had inside. The way he cooked, with so much love, and listened without interruption. Juliette had told him all her stories first; by the fire with a plate of fish and vegetables on her knees. Then her hopes, another time. Then, finally, her secrets. Jean-Paul had not baulked, he had seemed to know already. He had told her of much worse things; of cruelties he'd suffered and unkindnesses he'd endured. Bad things he'd seen, felt or done himself. He wasn't perfect, he had been cruel too. He told her these things not to get her pity but to show her there were darker acts and people worse than herself. He did love women, he did swear and smoke and drink too much. But those things weren't the sum of him. Not even close.

Juliette pulled the blue-floral pillow on her bed into her mouth and bit down and sobbed. Instead of seeing Jean-Paul sucked into the deep, white with cold, mouth open, and drowning, his soul ripped from his body, along with that poor boy's, she tried to think of him as she'd known him. Tried to think of the times they had laughed and sung and cooked. The warm smells of soup and fish and bread. Breton songs in her ear. His broad, generous laugh. His soft touch. His kindness. The times she had felt safe and warm and finally, enough, in his tiny cottage by the water. Replacing every ghoulish, drowning image of him with a memory was exhausting. After a while she fell asleep, gripping the pillow which was wet through with tears. When she woke someone had taken off her shoes and pulled up a quilt against the cold. But Juliette was already resolved. Resolved to harden her heart and sharpen her ambition.

Chapter 10

Max

T
he least charming person he has ever met.

Max has met some really uncharming people before. Some champs. Some medal winners. But Soleil would take out the podium. And what was truly irritating about Soleil was that she looked perfectly normal, as though she should be charming. Perfectly sweet, other than the hair; Max hates the hair. He wants to touch it, and that makes him feel weird.

He stands to join Nina who is perusing the lounge shelves, filled mainly with photography books.

‘She's something,' Max mutters, as Nina runs her index finger down the spines.

‘Who?'

‘Soleil.'

Nina frowns. ‘You didn't need to call her a rich girl.'

Max scowls.

‘I think that upset Helen,' Nina adds.

‘She's not exactly friendly herself,' Max replies petulantly.

‘She's young,' Nina says. ‘Hey, you've got some beautiful books here.'

‘She's not that young,' Max says. ‘She's not a teenager,' he adds.

‘Don't talk to me about teenagers,' Nina says in an almost wistful voice.

‘She's rude,' Max presses.

‘Oh, Max.'

Max
shifts his weight. He hasn't much experience with mothers; Nina
might come as close as he is going to get.
Something about the tone of her voice is the bittersweet
blend of love and disappointment. The kind that makes you feel both good and terrible about yourself at once.

‘Well, she is.'

‘She's Helen's sister.'

‘It's bloody hard to believe,' Max mumbles.

‘You should probably try being nicer.'

‘I don't see why that's my job. She should try being nice to me.'

Nina straightens and raises an eyebrow at him. ‘You sound like Hugo.'

‘Jesus Christ, Nina!'

Nina bursts into laughter.

‘Take that back.'

Nina's voice softens. ‘You can be nice, Max. It's your birthday. Have fun. Surely there are bigger things to worry about than Soleil. You seem wound up; it's not like you.'

Max glances across the room at Helen. Her head is resting in the cup of her hand. She is smiling at something Rosie is saying. He stares at her hand and takes a deep breath.

Next to Helen, Soleil is perched on the arm of the couch, stiff
and straight.

‘I'm
okay,'
Max
says.
‘Got
to
loosen
up
a
bit
though,
eh?
You're
right.'

Nina pats his shoulder and smiles, returning to scanning the books.

Max looks down at the drink Juliette has brought him. Tequila with big chunks of ice. It is meant to be sipped. He tips his head back and takes a swig that burns all the way down his throat. It feels just right.

*

The Cure.

The Smiths.

Jane's Addiction.

R.E.M.

These are the greats. These are the songs Max knows inside and out. Every beat, every moment between beats, any imperfection.

Max falls into music the way a person falls into cool water; he swims in it. It is tangible to him and yet fluid, like the silk of water against skin. It fills him. It makes him whole.

Music is his saviour, that much is clear to him and probably everyone else. It hadn't mattered that his father teased him about it, had once broken a record over his head; music is in Max's blood and veins, there is no getting rid of it. Music is the one constant. The thing he can count on. Music has kept Max alive.

Music saturates Max. It goes through to the bone. It changes his mood, moves his world, rearranges his cells. Makes him feel as though he can fly, makes him feel as though he cannot take another breath. It lifts and crushes him, soothes and lacerates him. It is better, worse and wilder than any drug he has ever taken.

As the song fades and Paul Simon, the master, starts to sing ‘Graceland', Sophie comes into the room with her father. Max notices, in a fuzzy, slightly drunk way that Sophie's clothes and hair are wet.

‘You're soaked,' Nina says from the couch.

‘I've been knocking on the door for about twenty minutes.'

‘Oh. Sorry, honey. The music –'

‘Yeah, no shit.' Sophie shoots Nina a look that could maim.

‘Sophie …'

Sophie shakes her head, wet hair sticking to her face. ‘You all swear,' she grumbles.

Lars laughs. ‘You've got to give her that. I'll get you a towel.'

Sophie looks pointedly at Nina. ‘Thanks, Dad.'

‘Why didn't you just come around the back? We would have seen you.' Nina gestures to the big glass doors. Sophie crosses her arms.

‘Are you hungry?' Nina asks, changing tack.

‘All we do here is bloody eat. And drink,' Sophie mutters.

Lars returns with a big towel, which he drapes around his daughter. Nina steps out of her seat and starts rubbing Sophie's arms.

‘Mum!'

‘You'll catch a cold.'

Sophie backs herself into a chair so her mother cannot reach her.

‘You should have a shower and get into some dry clothes,' Nina says.

‘I'm fine.'

‘Be nice to your mother,' Lars instructs, in a sharp tone. Sophie looks to the floor.

Song change.

‘Aha!' Lars cries out. He raises both fists in the air, closes his eyes, nods his head.

Eddie looks over approvingly. ‘Oasis.'

‘Oh my God,' Sophie mutters.

Max wants to laugh out loud but the tequila has made him dozy. Helen flashes him a smile that makes him feel like a boy with a present to unwrap. This is how it is supposed to be. This is how music saves people's lives. Lars winks at Sophie, who rolls her eyes. Nina returns to the couch and is now laughing at Lars, who is dancing, or his version of it. Helen shakes her hair over her eyes. It reminds Max of that girl from Feist he met once. Intense and sexy and cheekbone-y. Or she had reminded him of Helen. Helen being the yardstick against which everyone else is measured.

Eddie plays air guitar, picking over imaginary strings, all the wrong notes. Max laughs and slaps his thigh. When he glances outside he notices the light has faded and the rain is slowly easing up.

‘Kate Bush!' Helen calls out.

‘The Clash!' Eddie shouts over the top of her. Helen, who has lit a cigarette even though Max doesn't normally let anyone smoke in the house – it makes the place smell like he's on tour – blows smoke in Eddie's face and he pretends to choke.

‘Fleetwood Mac?' Rosie pleads.

Everyone groans, the standing joke.

Nina, who isn't requesting anything, stares around at her friends. She holds a full glass of wine delicately in her fingertips; her eyes are glazed. The others start arguing about the music but Nina is set apart from all of that; watching them all, loving them all. Looking at them like they are the brightest, shiniest things she has ever seen. She reminds Max of one of those old photographs of Elizabeth Taylor, perhaps, a candid shot, like the one he used to have in his bedroom at college. She is radiant and still and … something. Fragile? Max tips his head. He is drunk. Not very drunk but enough. He isn't seeing her right. Fragile is not a word for Nina. Nina is tough. Solid. Dependable. But something about her, about the light, makes her look like she might softly, silently dissolve.

She turns to him and her expression changes, the spell broken.

‘You okay, Max?' she asks, her face as Max remembers it. Sweet but stern. Relief floods through him.

‘What do you want to listen to?' he asks her.

Nina glances at Hugo, who has come into the room and accepted a glass from Juliette. He stands behind the couch that Rosie is sitting on. Max wishes he could cleanly subtract Hugo from Rosie like a mathematical equation.

‘Put on Fleetwood Mac,' Nina says. ‘Hugo hates it.'

‘The Mac it is,' Max replies, smiling.

*

Getting older happened too suddenly for Max. He hadn't noticed it – the years flicking by; he had never given his age a thought. But now, when he looks in the mirror it can make him feel a bit queasy. He isn't ugly; he has enough confidence to know that. Women still want to fuck him. That much is evident. But when he sees himself he suddenly sees someone else too. His father. He is the reason Max sounds like a Tory. Not because he is but because the ‘I'm owed' mentality reminds him of his father. His father, who had fleeced every system he could lay his thick-knuckled hands on. Who, on paper, had been a cripple, was traumatised by a brutal childhood (while inflicting a worse one on his own son), had been in the army for five minutes and, thus, considered himself a war hero. His father, who despite paying practically no tax in his life thought the world should give him something. Everything. His father: the cheat, the liar, the bully. Getting older and looking more and more like him disgusted Max. Made him feel like things were getting out of control. Made him take more drugs. Though nothing had changed, Max started waking up in the night, mouth dry, feeling his face, feeling his arms, checking his legs, checking his dick. As though he might have disappeared in his dreams, slipping away from this world without having done half the things he should have.

Helen lays a hand against Max, the one that isn't holding the cigarette to her lips.

‘This is nice, eh, Maxie?'

‘Bloody perfect,' he replies softly.

Helen is beaming. She loves these people as much as he does.

Helen's childhood was the polar opposite to Max's yet essentially the same. Two parents who added up to less than one. Either completely ignoring her or on her case, reinforcing that she was never, would never, be good enough. Helen's father, appalled at her choice of college and career, told her that artists never made any money, that they were leeches upon society and she would be the laughing stock of the family. Though Camberwell College of Arts had changed its name years earlier, and counted several famous artists amongst its alumni, Helen's father still referred to it as ‘Arts and Crafts School'. Worst of all, Helen's father told her that her art wasn't any good. The dark knot of doubt that probably led to Helen owning an art gallery rather than contributing to one. On the other hand, Helen's mother, unfussed about her art, bemoaned how Helen looked. She constantly told her that her clothes were too dark, too boxy, not feminine enough, that some girls could get away with no makeup and Helen was not one of them. Helen wasn't the daughter she'd expected or hoped for, though God knows what kind of daughter would have made her happy. Together, Helen's parents were a narcissistic and inadequate sum. They alternated between using Helen as a pawn in their own manipulations and completely forgetting she existed. She was less of a daughter and more of a pet, a fancy piece of furniture, something to show off, something to shoo when the party was over, something that fell out of favour and fashion, something to send away to be looked after.

‘I got something for you,' Helen says to Max.

‘I got something for you too.'

Max is smiling. The tequila, he's had a few glasses, has made his blood move slow and sweet.

‘You did? It's your birthday.'

Max shrugs.

‘Well, I'm going first,' she says.

‘Okay.'

Helen pats his leg before leaping up and heading upstairs. Max watches her go. The swish of her skirt, the fine bones of her ankles, the way her arse moves beneath the soft, dark fabric. He wants to press her against a wall and lift the dress up above her waist, feel the warmth of her thighs under his palms.

When she is gone from view he glances at her side of the couch. Soleil is still perched on the arm.
Be nice
. He gives her a forced smile. She returns it.

It is baffling that the miracle of Helen came from the same nursery as Soleil. It shouldn't surprise Max that Soleil is such a pompous little shit, but he is surprised because of the way Helen isn't. Soleil clearly does not take after her sister. Max reminds himself they aren't really sisters at all; their relationship is a result of circumstance, an accident. They don't share anything other than history, a history that hadn't even been their choosing.

Helen isn't Soleil's. Helen is his.

Max leans over. ‘So. What else are you into?'

‘Other than?' Soleil asks.

Professors, he wants to say and the thought almost makes him laugh out loud. ‘University?'

‘Oh.'

Soleil takes a drink of gin. Max can smell it. He loves the smell of gin.

‘I guess I am really into university,' she mumbles. ‘Um. Yoga. Environmental activism. Watercolours.'

‘Watercolours?' Max asks, laughing.

‘Yeah, watercolours.'

‘Of what?'

‘Flowers.'

‘Jesus, I thought I was old,' he mutters.

‘I find it calming,' she replies, icily.

‘Okay. Fair enough.'

‘What are you into?' Soleil asks Max.

Your sister, he thinks.

‘My work takes up most of my time. I'm on tour a lot.'

‘Do you like it?'

‘Work? Or touring?'

‘Both.'

Max looks at his glass. ‘I love my work. I like touring less than I used to.'

‘Is it lonely?'

‘
Yes, it's lonely,' Max replies slowly, trying not to lose the confidence he felt a moment ago. He loves performing. He loves being in and of the music. He just wishes there wasn't the getting there and sitting around and next-day hangovers that seem to be getting worse and worse. Plus, increasingly, he dislikes the people he meets on tour. A parade of ageing PR women with makeup spread like wedding cake frosting, doe-eyed, hopeful girls who won a competition on the radio, the young guys, pretending to be apathetic, who want to give him songs they have written. Max longs for less touring. He yearns to be somewhere quiet and safe; he wants to write more. Some of the music The Jacks have been releasing lately seem like repeats of tunes they wrote before. Max has the sinking feeling that their winning formula has become formulaic. He hasn't told anyone that, though. Least of all Frank.