A French Wedding (25 page)

Chapter 19

Max

O
n the street, Max presses in his key and pushes open the heavy
door. Helen, then Juliette, Eddie and Beth, follow Max, single-
file, along the corridor and up the narrow stairs. Max never bought places with lifts, they remind him too much of hotels. He prefers the old apartment buildings, despite the inconveniences. The wooden stairs are worn in the middle, where decades of residents have trudged up, in the bitter cold of winter, in the sweaty heat of summer, during war, during peacetime. Max had a coded security lock put into his apartment door because he kept losing the key, one key was enough responsibility for him, so he pushes in the code and lets the others walk in while he holds the door. Even on the top floor the noises of people talking and fighting and laughing
and
music and car horns drift up from the streets below. Rosie comes over to embrace Helen. Max watches the two women. He is unused to the feeling he has, that nothing makes sense anymore. He tries to tell himself that there is still hope, that he, Max Dresner, knows Helen best of all. Better, perhaps, than she does. But the plan he had relied on, the one that was going to save him, seems to be slipping through his fingers. Like water. The women break apart.

In the lounge, behind Rosie, Sophie and Hugo are on the couch. Sophie waves.

‘Nina is having a rest. Lars is with her,' Rosie whispers.

Juliette goes to the open kitchen, putting things in the fridge and opening cupboards, seeing where everything is. She hasn't spoken to Max since the drive.

‘Claudine let you in?' Max asks Rosie. She nods.

‘You are okay with beds? Rooms?'

‘Lars and Nina are in yours, I thought Eddie and Beth could go in the room with the twin singles; Hugo and I will take the couches, then you and Helen in the guest room sharing the big bed? Is that everyone?' Rosie takes a breath. ‘I'm not thinking straight.'

‘I can sleep on a couch,' Helen offers too quickly. Max looks at her sharply. Her cheeks go pink. ‘If it's easier.'

‘Helen –'

‘I sent Soleil a message,' Helen interrupts. ‘To say we are here in Paris. I haven't heard back from her.'

‘Didn't she have a friend to stay with?' Max asks, trying not to sound resistant.

‘I think so. I'm not sure.'

‘There might not be enough room anyway,' Rosie says. ‘Though I'm sure we could work something out, right?'

‘Yeah,' Max replies, non-committedly. He watches Juliette unpack the box of food into the fridge and kitchen cupboards. Now she's placing teabags and sugar and spoons and cups on a tray by the kettle. Max wants a proper drink, not a cup of tea. And he wants answers. To the image he has seen over and over in his head during the hours they were driving. Who kissed whom? What do you want with her? How does she feel about you? What
is
this?

‘Juliette?' Rosie asks. ‘Where are you sleeping?'

Juliette turns from the fridge, glancing briefly at Max. ‘I won't stay.'

‘You're not driving back to Douarnenez.'

‘No. I'm not going to do that,' she replies. ‘I'll stay with a friend.'

‘Who –?' Helen starts to ask.

‘That might be better. Like Rosie said, there's not much room,' Max says tightly. Juliette faces him and pauses. Max waits for embarrassment to wash over her face, or for her to look away. But instead she holds his gaze and lifts her chin.

‘Max …' Helen murmurs.

‘Yes,' Juliette says slowly. ‘You have everything you need. I will leave you alone.'

‘I'll see you out,' Max offers. Helen drops her head as Juliette walks past her. Rosie, confused, looks between the three of them.

Max walks Juliette to the front door. Her leather bag is held tightly in her hand. Neither of them says anything until they are far from everyone else. Max holds the door open.

‘She's mine, Juliette.' Trying not to sound desperate. Trying to believe it is true.

Juliette holds her slender frame upright and steady, her eyes meeting Max's.

‘I haven't done anything wrong,'

‘Maybe. But she's all I've got.'

‘You've got more than that, Max,' Juliette says softly.

‘That's nothing,' Max replies, glancing for a moment back into the apartment. ‘It's just stuff. I thought it meant something once. When I didn't have it, probably.'

Juliette blinks. ‘I didn't mean the stuff.'

Max frowns. ‘Look, Helen and I go way back. We're the same. We understand each other. Don't make me spell this out.'

‘Spell what out?'

Max licks his lips. ‘You don't
know
her, Juliette. You don't know how we are. She's mine, okay?'

Juliette nods slowly and turns.

Max reaches out, placing his hand on Juliette's shoulder.

‘Hey, sorry,' he says. ‘It's been a long day.' He rubs his face. He is not handling this well. He needs a drink. ‘We'll see you tomorrow, okay?'

Juliette says nothing.

‘To go to the hospital,' Max adds, levelly. He is Juliette's boss, after all. ‘What time?' he asks, switching to the details, the practicalities.

Juliette's expression is intractable. ‘There are seven of you, Max. I think you can figure it out for yourselves.'

‘But –'

‘Goodbye, Max. Give my love to everyone.'

As Juliette descends, her caramel-coloured leather sandals make gentle slaps against each stair. Max is unsure whether he will see her again.

He suddenly wants to call out but doesn't know what to say.

*

They order food from King Falafel Palace for dinner. The restaurant is only a block away from the apartment on Rue de Rosiers and is open late. Lars and Hugo go out to pick it up and return with plastic bags bulging full of trays wrapped in silver foil. Flat bread, salad, sliced onions, hummus, taboulleh and hot silky eggplant with garlic and mint. Max tries not to think of Juliette. The things she said, the strange look on her face as though he just didn't get it. Would
never
get it.

I can find another cook.

I can find another housekeeper.

It's not a big deal.

Nina comes out of the bedroom with her hair askew. She scolds them all for coming but gives kisses and hugs all the same. She looks better. Rested. Helen, on the other hand, is quiet and pale and keeps glancing at him. Max distracts himself by finding enough plates for them all. Sophie distributes paper napkins from one of the bags; Max places cold bottles of beer from the fridge in the middle of the table. Beth fetches glasses of water for those that want one. Nina reaches for a beer and twists open the top. Then stands. Hands pause over the food.

‘Take a beer,' she demands. Everyone obliges. Max's is already open. Nina waits until all the bottles are popped open. All eyes are on her.

‘First of all, thank you. For coming here for me. I didn't expect that. I didn't expect any of this. And …' She pauses for a moment. ‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept it secret.'

She looks to Rosie. Rosie is looking down at her plate, which has nothing on it yet. She raises her head.

‘But this is not my party. It's Max's.' Nina reaches over and rubs Max's head. ‘Bloody ruined it, didn't I, Max?'

‘Nah, Nina, you didn't.'

Lars agrees, ‘You didn't.'

‘Well, maybe I did. But, we're all together, right? In Paris? Eating falafel?'

Lars lifts his bottle. ‘Hear, hear!' Even Sophie gives a fleeting smile.

‘We're all here and it's Max's weekend, so I want to say a toast. I didn't get a chance to yesterday.' Nina clears her throat. She takes a swig of beer. ‘That's better.'

‘You're supposed to toast first,' Eddie heckles.

Nina turns to Max. ‘Max, darling Max, I remember when I first met you. It was at the Amersham Arms. You probably don't remember …'

They all laugh.

‘You were wearing that horrible leather jacket. The black one. It stank. And you had hair then, of course. It was gorgeous hair. Truly it was pretty, wasn't it, Rosie? Helen?'

‘Very pretty,' Helen confirms, quietly. Max stares at her.

‘Lars took me to see a band and Max was in it.'

‘The Cold Foxes,' says Eddie.

‘The Cold Foxes. That's it.' Nina points her bottle at Eddie. ‘It wasn't a big gig, actually there was hardly anyone there, but Lars said I had to come, his friend was playing and his friend was good. And … he was. Weren't you, Max? You were really, really good. Much better than the rest of them. You were something special.' Her voice drops. Max shifts, uncomfortably, in his seat.

‘You got us drinks on
your band tab and made us laugh so hard – I can't
even remember what we were talking about, but my sides
hurt the next day, I remember that. And we got
home when the sun was coming up. And soon enough
we were seeing you all the time. Couldn't get rid
of you. More gigs, more pubs, more laughs. So many laughs.

‘And then there was Rosie and Helen, then there was Eddie, there were all of Max and Eddie's girlfriends …' Max watches Hugo glance down at his lap. Nina gestures to Beth. ‘Sorry, Beth. But, believe me, Eddie's girlfriends were always better than Max's. For starters, they lasted longer. And they wore more clothes –'

Max interrupts. ‘That's not true.'

‘Alright, Nina. We got the message,' Eddie groans, reaching for Beth's hand.

‘Anyway, that was that,' Nina says. ‘We were a … what? Gang? Gaggle?' She looks to Helen. ‘Give me a collective noun, Helen.'

‘Skulk?' Helen offers. ‘Like foxes?'

‘Yeah. A skulk. We were a skulk. And together we all grew up. Ish.' Nina gives Max a pointed look. It's supposed to be a joke but it makes Max feel a bit sick. The events of the last twenty-four hours want to flash in front of him like a horror movie you can only watch through your fingers. The shimmer of Soleil's dress, the wet, warm grass on his face, Helen's refusal, the pitying, resolute look on Juliette's face before she turned down the stairs. Helen is staring at him, he can feel it, but he doesn't dare look at her.

‘Can we be done with the birthday stuff?
The speeches?' Max pleads.

‘I can say what I want. I'm the sick one,' Nina retorts.

Everyone is silent. Sophie laughs. Nina smiles at her.

‘Okay, so the skulk, sort of, almost grew up,' Nina says. ‘Got married. Moved away. Travelled. Made money. Found ourselves, I guess. Stayed in touch, not seeing each other as much as we would like but … still friends. Still there for one another. And out of all of us, Max has done so, so well. We can all agree with that. I mean, look at him. He is doing what he loves … every single day. Making music. He lives in this beautiful place, in this beautiful city. Or Douarnenez when the mood takes him. With Juliette cooking! Bloody hell.'

‘Lucky bugger,' Lars agrees.

Max wants Nina to stop. Silently begs her to stop. But Nina continues, ‘He hasn't changed a bit. He's still Max. The Peter Pan. The life of the party. But he doesn't judge us and we don't judge him. We're proud of him. His achievements feel like our achievements. And … we love him. Isn't that right?'

Max looks around the table. Everyone is looking at him. There is a weird prickling sensation in his chest. He glances at Helen.

‘No matter how mental he is. How little we get to see of him these days. He's our mad, generous, famous mate. He's ours. He'll always be … our Max.' Nina lifts her bottle again. ‘I'll get the toast bit right this time … To Max,' she says, smiling at him. ‘Happy birthday.'

‘Happy birthday, Max!' echoes around the table.

Bottles clink against one another. Max reaches out his arm, on autopilot, and then withdraws it.

‘Max?' It's Eddie. ‘You alright, mate?'

‘Yup,' he lies. ‘I'm fine.'

*

Everyone arranges themselves into rooms and into beds as Max watches from the couch and drinks too much. They get into pyjamas, give each other goodnight kisses, give Max goodnight kisses and he hears the whir of electric toothbrushes and water running and bare feet padding over floorboards. Behind him the window is open and springtime Paris nudges its way in. Diners leaving cafés and calling out to one another, waitresses chatting after their shift, bike wheels on cobbled streets, high heels, whistles. Max just wants everyone to go to bed. To vanish. He puts on some music and lets it saturate him, just like the booze. Music, alcohol, taking him away, away, away like a tide, like sleep. In the morning everything will be different. In the morning he won't think about Soleil and Helen and Juliette. In the morning he'll be Max again. Everything will be fine. Max feels the bottle slip from his hand and doesn't reach out for it. Something thuds against his shoe.

‘Where do you think you're going?' his father roars. The backpack is light on Max's back. It has so little in it. A couple of pairs of shoes, some clothes; he didn't even take his toothbrush.

‘None of that is yours! I paid for all that!'

He's okay with screaming on the street now. He doesn't care. He's too drunk. Max watches a curtain in the opposite block being drawn across.

Max only took what he could grab. Other than the clothes he stuffed in some records and a couple of old photos. Truth is he could have left with nothing, could have lit a match and dropped it, could have watched the place covered in flames, could have cared less if his dad had been inside, bloated, drunk, fists slack. Now his father reaches for him, but misses and stumbles. He's not so strong anymore. Can still land a lucky punch, but not like he used to.