A French Wedding (24 page)

‘No, it's in the wrong direction,' Juliette agrees.

Helen reaches out for Max. ‘I want to go. How many can you fit in your apartment?'

Max glances around the group. Juliette, Eddie, Beth and Helen all looking at him. Eyes wide and waiting. In the silence there is the sound of a car motor and Hugo clearing his throat.

‘Rosie?'

‘Yes, Max?'

‘You can stay at my place. I'll send you directions. I have a neighbour, Claudine … I'll get her to let you in.'

‘We're coming too,' Helen says, speaking into the phone.

‘So are we,' Beth adds, though Eddie looks pale and unsure.

‘It's a long drive,' Rosie warns.

‘It's nothing. We'll be there.'

‘Ask Lars what he wants me to pack for Nina and we will bring it with us. Give me a call back,' Helen adds.

‘Okay.'

Eddie kisses the top of Beth's head as she holds on to his arm. Max frowns, hands on hips and Helen glances at Juliette. ‘I'll come too. I can help.' Juliette whispers. Helen nods at her.

‘But …' Rosie says on the other end. ‘It's Max's birthday.'

‘Fuck that,' Max replies. Juliette looks at him, wondering if he is a bit drunk. ‘The birthday was yesterday.'

*

Juliette taps her forehead. Phone charger. Underwear. Toothbrush. She bursts out of her room into the hall towards the bathroom and walks straight into Helen. They smack into each other then fall apart, both of them reaching out for a wall.

‘I'm so sorry!'

‘
Merde
,' Juliette says, blinking hard. ‘It's my –'

‘No, it's my fault … sorry,' Helen says at the same time.

Perhaps, in another moment, they would have laughed. Instead Helen's eyes grow wide and fill with tears.

‘Helen?'

Her mouth turns down. ‘I'm so sorry …' she murmurs, voice quivering.

‘No. It's okay. I'm okay.' Juliette reaches out and Helen steps into her arms. Small frame in a soft dress. Helen's head against Juliette's shoulder. The fabric of Juliette's shirt becoming wet. Juliette shushes and moves her palm slowly over Helen's back. Helen's vertebrae are like the knucklebones Juliette used to play with in school. All lined up under the skin. Making her seem so much more vulnerable. Juliette takes a deep breath.

‘Are you alright?'

Helen nods. Then shakes her head. She doesn't lift it from Juliette's shoulder. ‘Oh, Juliette.'

Juliette keeps stroking her back. Keeps thinking:
It will be alright. It will be alright
. But not saying it. Because that's what people had said to Juliette about her parents. And they had made liars of themselves.

‘I had no idea,' Helen sobs.

‘I think she wanted it that way.'

‘But … I'm her friend.'

‘I know. I know.'

‘It's not fair.'

‘No.'

‘It's not right.'

‘No.'

‘What if they can't make it better?'

Juliette doesn't answer that. Her head fills with the sound of comfort, the sound of her mother singing softly.
We shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm's way
.

Helen cries a little more and then pauses. Lifts her head. Pulls away a fraction. ‘I'm so sorry. Everything just feels so … different now.'

Juliette's hands drop down Helen's arms. She takes Helen's hands in her own. ‘Don't be sorry.'

Juliette stares at Helen, studying her face. Her skin is pale golden pink, like sunset cast upon sand, and her cheekbones high and round and pinker still. Around her eyes the skin is soft and creased, showing how much she laughs, and now, revealing that she worries just as much too. Her eyes, still wet, are brown and green and flecked through with charcoal specks. Her mouth is slightly open. The whole of her is so vulnerable and yet beneath the vulnerability is strength, loyalty, courage, a belief in love and beauty, which makes Juliette want to pull Helen back in towards her and keep her there forever. The feeling rips through Juliette like something lit and sparkling bright in her chest.

She wants to tell Helen everything. All the hurt and hiding of the past year. All the hurt and hiding before that. The losses, so many losses. About ambition and lies. About the sister she never knew. About the feeling of being born into grief, into heartache.

‘Helen?' she murmurs.

Helen leans towards her and Juliette feels Helen's warm breath against her lips. Helen's lips against Juliette's lips. Soft and tentative. Hopeful. Juliette feels Helen's hair brush against her cheek.

‘Helen? Juliette?' It is Max's voice.

Closer now. Sounding hollow. ‘I think we're all almost ready. I was just … Juliette, do you know where my coat is?'

Chapter 17

Max

W
hat.
T
he. Fuck.

Chapter 18

Juliette

Paris, 2012

Juliette chose a café they'd never been to before. It was small and hidden and empty. It was neutral ground, so as to preserve Juliette's memories of other places. Places they had felt brave enough to hold hands, impetuous enough to kiss, to press close to one another, close enough to feel the heat of their skins through their clothes, the beat of hearts beneath cages of bone.

‘
Bonjour
, Juliette,' she said, sitting carefully in the bentwood chair, like a hen might lower down onto new eggs. She was already treating Juliette like she couldn't cope, like she was fragile. Juliette felt herself simultaneously harden and crack.

‘
Bonjour
, Celine,' Juliette replied.

Celine was wearing a white suit jacket. She had pearls around her neck. Her dark hair was pushed back over her shoulders and Juliette wanted to reach out for it. Just one more time.

‘How was Douarnenez?' Celine asked, out of politeness and some residual kindness. Juliette was about to answer when the waiter put himself into the space between them.

‘
Bonjour,
ladies.'

Celine seemed to recede even further from Juliette. She smiled at the waiter. It was one of the smiles Celine always had on hand. For staff, for strangers, for the press. Seemingly generous and genuine but Juliette knew better. Juliette had seen Celine's true smile. Seen her laugh so hard she could see the amalgam fillings in her back teeth she hadn't yet had removed. The ones she'd had put in as a child in Shanghai. Juliette had seen Celine laugh till she wheezed, till she cried. Juliette had seen the smile she made after she'd been made love to. The smile that was gentle and sweet, sweeter than any dessert Juliette had made. Precious in her memory but capable of shattering her heart to pieces.

Celine placed her order. A tea, no milk, lemon, please, thank you that would be perfect. Celine said that a lot –
parfait
– perfect. In her delicate, Chinese-tinted voice, as though saying it often would make it all so. Juliette ordered a café au lait.

‘Douarnenez,' Celine said again, when the waiter was gone.

‘Yes …' Juliette replied. On instruction she hadn't called Celine while she had been home. It was too risky, Celine had said, with Leon awaiting another Michelin star, with her running for office. It wasn't Leon that Celine had the loyalty to, per se, or the marriage, but the whole construction Celine had created and toiled at with her own blood and sweat and tears. The career, the profile, the children – the beautiful, brilliant, expatriate daughters who spoke four languages each – the apartment, the whole dainty castle of blocks. Each piece balanced upon another piece. It wasn't a good time, Celine had said.

‘How is your father?' Celine asked, briskly.

Juliette remembered when she had come home from her mother's funeral. Celine had sent the children to her mother-in-law's and booked a hotel room for two days, inventing a business trip. They had spent nights crying onto each other's skins. Celine's body next to Juliette's had felt so natural, so normal, she could barely stand the chill of being without it pressed next to her. Juliette resented even going to the bathroom or leaving for food. She had so wanted to introduce Celine to her mother, but the cancer had spread too fast and there wasn't a good time. There was never a good time.

‘He is sicker than we thought,' Juliette replied. Although there was no ‘we', unless you counted Violette or her mother, the ghosts that could not help anyone.

The waiter delivered Celine's tea first. He stared at her a little longer than necessary; placing her. Juliette wanted to speak out and solve the problem for him – ‘Yes, you've seen her before. She's a politician. You don't know her, you just think you do. Yes, she is pretty. But you don't know her. No one does. Not like I do.'

But Juliette said nothing. Juliette had become so good,
parfait
even, at saying nothing. The waiter stayed a beat longer before vanishing to retrieve Juliette's coffee.

‘That is no good,' Celine said, with a frown. Juliette studied her face. ‘What is the prognosis?'

Juliette paused for a moment. ‘Same as for all of us.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Death, Celine.'

The coffee arrived.

‘
Merci
.'

‘
De rien
.' The waiter did not look at Juliette. She might as well have been wallpaper.

‘You don't need to make a scene,' Celine begged her.

‘How am I making a scene?' Juliette asked, adding more sugar than usual.

‘I know you. When you say things like that … I don't want a scene.'

‘My father is dying,' Juliette said, looking into her face. Not adding that she would probably have to sell
Delphine
and move, not adding that her whole life seemed to be unraveling.

‘It's dreadful,' Celine conceded.

Juliette stirred the sugar in as Celine prodded the lemon slice in her teacup. ‘I want you to meet him,' Juliette said. ‘You never met Maman. I want you to meet my father.'

‘Oh, Juliette.' Celine's frown deepened.

‘Do me this one thing. Just meet him. If you still don't want me to say what you mean to me, what we mean to each other … well, that's fine.' Juliette heard the pleading in her voice. She wished she could steady it, sound more business-like, Celine always felt more comfortable when she used a steady, rational voice. ‘Just meet him. That Maman never knew you … it haunts me. I need to be honest with my father at least. I know you aren't the same way but …' Juliette took a breath ‘Celine, I can't bear it. I'm too old for this.'

‘Anything else?' the waiter asked. It's unnecessary. It's so he can engage with Celine a moment longer, have the chance to put her image straight in his mind.

‘
Non, merci!
' Celine called out cheerfully. Celine was cheerful with everyone. Everyone is a constituent. Everyone is a voter.

Juliette tried to engage her with eye contact. Please look at me, she begged, silently.

‘Celine?' she said, hopefully. But Celine shook her head.

‘I can't. I'm sorry I can't. It's –'

‘Not a good time,' Juliette finishes for her. ‘Christ, Celine.'

‘Juliette …' Celine hisses. Not Juliette – please don't be upset, but Juliette – please don't cause a disruption.

Juliette sipped her coffee. It wasn't good. She drank it anyway.

‘So what is this then? Us meeting?'

‘I think you know,' Celine said, allowing sadness to creep into her voice.

‘This is it? After all …' But Juliette couldn't bring herself to finish it. Because it sounded too much like a cliché. Instead she cleared her throat.

‘I'm sorry,' Celine offered, without looking at her, without reaching out her hand.

‘Sorry for which bit? For making me love you in the first place? For keeping us … me … a secret? For not meeting my mother? Refusing to meet my father? For breaking up with me over this … shit coffee?'

Celine looked down into her cup, looking for what Juliette could not determine.

‘All of it,' she said softly, so quietly Juliette could barely hear her.

‘All of it,' she said again.

Juliette took a deep breath. She wasn't surprised, but that didn't stop it from hurting. They weren't wrong when they talked about your heart breaking. That is exactly what it felt like. A deep, painful chasm, splitting in her chest. Juliette pressed her fingers to the top of her nose, to stop the tears.

‘I just can't,' Celine whispered. ‘You are braver than me. You have always been braver. This job, my parents, the children …'

Juliette had heard all the reasons before. They were reasonable. They made sense. But Juliette could no longer appreciate them. She hated them.

‘I need to ask you a favour,' Celine said, her voice stronger now, her chin lifted and eyes making contact. ‘I know I have no right to –'

‘No,' Juliette said quickly. ‘You don't.'

She broke off the eye contact, which Celine did not deserve. Besides which Juliette could not bear to look at her in this moment when her heart felt like it had been taken to with an axe.

‘Just listen for a moment,' Celine asked, gathering strength. ‘Juliette?' And then, like drawing out a trick card, ‘
Delphine
? My dolphin?'

‘
Merde
, Celine,' Juliette muttered.

‘I need what we had to be private. I know it's not fair. I know you've been … carrying this a long time. But I have a reputation and Leon has a profile, you know, and he can be unreasonable. The girls … Juliette …
Delphine
? It's not a good time.'

Juliette lifted her eyes just enough to stare at the rim of her coffee cup. She reached for the tiny handle and lifted the cup to her lips. The grinds had been overheated; even the milk and sugar couldn't mask that. It was acrid; it went down her throat with a burn. She replaced the cup on its saucer with a thunk. If it had been full, the coffee would have spilled and spread over the tablecloth. But Juliette had near drained it. A few loose grains sloshed in the milky remainder. She pushed the chair back and stood, put her handbag over her shoulder. She tried not to wince from the pain in her chest. She finally raised her eyes to meet with Celine's. The eyes Juliette had stared at one thousand times, observing the shape, the colour, and the love in them. But not now. It was as though a switch had been flicked off, Juliette could see that. She knew enough about Celine, about the many ways she had of looking at a person, the real versus the pretend, that it, whatever they had been or had, was extinguished. Celine had made her decision.

‘You think you need to ask?' Juliette said, throat closing over from the tears trying to rise up. ‘If there is one thing I have learned it is how to keep secrets.'

Juliette turned and left the coffee, the bill, the watching waiter and Celine behind her.

*

In the back seat: five bags, plus four coats.

In the middle seat: Helen – Beth – Eddie.

In the front seats: Max (cardboard box full of food at his feet) – Juliette (driving).

The trip will take approximately six hours, depending on how fast Juliette drives and how many stops they make and what the traffic is like in Paris. Juliette has made this trip many times, but less and less often over the last few years. Nothing changes on a motorway. Features on repeat. The same gas stations and attached restaurants selling packaged food. The same roadside parks with old-fashioned toilets that dismay the tourists – no seats. The same on and on-ness that Juliette doesn't miss. She knows Max prefers the back roads, and so does she, but it is not the time for driving back roads. They have to get to Paris fast and safe. From the silence and grim faces Juliette doesn't anticipate many requests to stop. The journey to Quimper is made without conversation. The light is already leaving the sky; it will be dark and late when they reach Paris. After Quimper Juliette switches on the radio, on low volume, and it is ‘Landslide' by Fleetwood Mac.

When she turns her head to change lanes, she notices Max staring at her. She gestures, politely, towards the cardboard box. ‘Help yourself to anything. I packed some baguettes, fruit, cheeses … There is a knife and a board in there.'

Stevie Nicks singing; voice raspy and sad. The thrum of the van motor. The sound of Max clearing his throat.

‘What is going on with Helen?'

Juliette checks her mirror. Helen is still staring out of the window.

‘She can't hear us.' Max is turned in his seat so he is fully facing Juliette. His face is pinched and strange.

‘Do you like her? Is that it?'

Juliette doesn't answer.