A French Wedding (14 page)

‘Yeah? Why is that?'

‘It's stupid. It never lasts.' Sophie pinches the shell between her thumb and index finger and it crushes to a fine, white powder.

‘What about your parents?'

‘They're not married.'

He did keep forgetting that. ‘Yeah, but they practically are.'

Sophie shrugs. Max feels a little reassured. There are exceptions to every rule.

‘It never lasts,' Sophie repeats, under her breath.

Max is strangely relieved when Soleil joins them. Her nipples are sticking up beneath the silky orange crop top. It's got a paisley pattern embossed on it. Max tries not to look at her nipples directly.

‘It's windy,' she declares.

Sophie glances up and nods.

‘Is everyone going back?'

The three of them turn towards the house and watch Hugo's figure receding in that direction. Max glances back at Eddie and Beth but they're against the sand and Eddie's shorts are tented in the crotch.

‘Yeah, might be time to head back,' Max says quickly.

‘I should check on Mum.' Sophie looks down at the collection in her hand.

‘Good idea,' Max agrees.

They walk together, Sophie trailing behind.

Helen should be on this beach, Max thinks again, allowing himself a small moment of sulking.

Then Soleil says, ‘I need a drink.'

*

London, 1990

They were smoking in bed. At the time there was that advert about not doing just that. But Max and Helen were wired for rebellion. From completely, utterly different worlds but programmed to behave the same way. Contrary. Angry. Disbelieving. It used to make Max laugh. Especially when Helen spoke. Nothing she could do about that voice. It was like cut crystal, like points of a diamond; like polo and dark carpets and wood panelling. It made Helen sound like she came from another planet. Max could have listened to her speak twenty-four hours a day.

Helen blew smoke towards the ceiling. The room was in a fug anyway. It was cold so they were under the duvet. Helen's flat was cold in winter, the heating wasn't good. Because it was never supposed to be a flat, Max guessed, it was supposed to be an attic in a big, old house. Helen inched closer to him, put her cold, bare feet on top of his. Max baulked. Helen laughed.

‘You are such a wimp, Max.'

‘Fuck you. It's cold.'

‘Surely you've lived in cold before. It's not that bad.'

‘Council flats are heated better than this.'

‘We'll just have to use body heat.' Helen laughed. Max shot her a look.

‘Kidding,' she said, still giggling. ‘What are they like? Council flats, I mean.'

‘You doing a social experiment?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Are you just an upper-class girl seeing what it's like to slum it with the common people?' Max asked.

Helen put her finger to her lips, pretending to consider. ‘Yes.'

Max laughed. ‘They are shit. Council housing is shit.'

‘But warmer than this?'

‘Everywhere is warmer than this. Fucking North Pole is warmer than this.'

Since Max met Helen they'd seen each other often. A lot. Almost every day. Max wasn't normally like that. Max made friends, but they came and went, like tides. He didn't get attached. Max got nervous when he saw someone too much; when they became too important to him, or him to them. It was better to move along. Besides, he was better with new people. New people didn't know his stories, weren't angry that he was late or that he sometimes stunk, was regularly drunk or stoned or both. New people thought he was ‘the craic' and ‘talented' and ‘funny' and ‘bohemian'. They saw Max's unreliability as a subsection of his creative talent and not just Max being a wanker.

‘You know, I saw your work the other day, Max. Bertie …' That's what they called Ms Bertrand ‘. . . had it hanging up. In her office.'

Max nodded. He had seen that too. It was a photograph Max had taken by the Thames. It was one of his not-quite-right photographs. The person in the background in focus, a homeless guy, napping on a bench. A guy with one shoe and blackened toenails and his open mouth full of holes where teeth should be. The foreground blurred, a pigeon, taking flight, leaving feathers from the effort. There was something about the man that had reminded Max of his father. So much so Max had almost gone to wake him up. Wake him and punch him in his toothless face. But it hadn't been Max's father. It wasn't his face. Just similar.

‘It's so good, Max,' Helen said.

Max shrugged. He was better with compliments when he was drunk. ‘Got any whiskey?'

Helen leaned out of bed and lifted up a bottle. It was her father's. She had been stealing his good booze and Max and the others had been drinking it. She passed it to him. The bottle glass was thick, the whiskey a good strong colour. Max opened the lid and Helen wriggled back down under the duvet, closer to him. The smell of the whiskey filled the space. Max poured some down his throat. It scalded, pleasantly. Helen stubbed out her cigarette and reached out for the bottle. Max passed it over.

‘Father saw me take it,' she confessed, before taking a slug. She shuddered as it went down.

‘Were you in trouble?'

Max's father would have beaten him to a pulp if Max had taken his liquor. Which Max had still done on occasion, because, well, fuck him.

Helen shook her head. Her hair was long and tangled, most of it tucked down behind her shoulders. ‘He didn't say anything. He just watched me.'

‘Lucky.'

Helen laughed.

‘Not really. Would have been better if he'd been furious. That was him telling me I'm a loss. A failure. A disappointment.'

‘Yeah?'

Helen's people behaved oddly. Max was still figuring them out. They didn't make sense to him. Helen lit another cigarette. She smoked more than Max did.

‘Yeah. But what's new?' Helen said. She smoked for a few moments and then turned her head to face Max's. She picked a bit of tobacco off the end of her tongue. The whiskey bottle was back in Max's hand now.

‘I have a bit of a problem, Max. I don't have the talent you have,' she said softly.

‘That's not true.'

‘It is. I'm not without talent. But it's not like yours. Yours is special, yours is authentic. I can't help but copy what I've already seen before. I've been conditioned to please and mimic. I've seen too much …'

‘I don't know what I'm doing. I don't care about it enough,' Max said.

‘But it works. I've seen it.'

Smoke rose in curls from her cigarette.

‘I don't know if it's what I want to do,' Max said. Helen nodded.

‘I've got to make something work so I can live on my own. Without his help, his money.' Helen spoke of her father a lot. Max had never met him. He was like a ghost that haunted Helen, an invisible shadow, always hanging around.

‘And his whiskey.' She added, taking the bottle and drinking.

It intrigued Max that someone so rich could be so wounded. He didn't expect that. He couldn't believe someone from a world of whiskey and posh accents and big country houses could be so much like him. He stared at Helen lying back in her bed. Her duvet was pink, obviously one she had nabbed from home. It was lumpy, unwashed, stinking of smoke and open-mouthed sleep. Underneath it Helen was wearing a turtleneck, the colour of beer bottle sea-glass, the top rolled just under her chin. Her dark, fluffy hair seemed to be everywhere – underneath her, underneath Max, covering all the pillows. Maybe Helen wasn't the most beautiful girl Max had ever met. She was too strange and wild and unkempt and weirdly tortured for that. She laughed like a man and her legs were unshaven. But her eyes shined like no one else's, her body near his made him yearn like he had never yearned before. She was a marvel, a broken marvel, like a bad pixie, or a wild horse, or some shit. Helen made Max feel odd. Odd in a tingling and alive way.

Max felt the whiskey working through his veins. That was better. That made him feel more like himself. He leaned against Helen and felt her breath on his cheek. Warm and slightly wet. She was right there. Max rolled his face towards hers. His lips touched hers for the briefest moment. Soft, a little dry and relenting. Max's body sang. His head spun. He moved closer without a single conscious thought. And Helen moved the other way. Her fingers were on his lips.

‘No, Max.'

Max felt suddenly suspended.

‘Please no. I can't.' Helen's voice was instantly close to tears.

‘I …' Max started to explain, but there was no explanation.

‘It's all I have. It's too good. If we do this it'll be a mess. You'll ruin it or I will. It's what we do.'

Max opened his mouth to protest. They could do this. They could make it work. But, with the smells of smoke and whiskey and unwashed sheets all around, Max knew it wasn't true.

‘I'll wreck it,' Helen implored, ‘I can't wreck it.'

Max scrambled for a joke and wished for a way to not care. To not think ‘I am not good enough for her' when that thought was now pulsing through him, flooding him, like a poison. At least they were familiar thoughts; his body seemed to soak them up.

Max cleared his throat. ‘Whiskey?' he asked and Helen handed it over.

‘I can fuck you,' Helen whispered, and for a second Max flinched. ‘But then I can't love you.'

Max looked at her. He studied her face. Something in him got it, really got it, though he felt stupid and inadequate and scared. Scared that now he knew Helen existed he was unsure anyone else would ever do, would ever live up to her. Max thought for a moment about leaving, about never seeing Helen again. But then Helen said, in a tiny voice, more to herself than to him, ‘And if we don't wreck it now then maybe it will be unbroken … for later.'

Max lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips. The lips that had felt Helen's lips against them. The lips that wanted to kiss Helen's lips and face and neck and skin all night until the sun came up and then sleep all day, like bats, wrapped around one another, so they could kiss again and again the whole next night. And on and on. Max would give up almost anything for that. School, booze, drugs, cigarettes, maybe even his music.

Max gathered up the word ‘later' like confetti in his palm. He drew up the hurt and confusion, which felt so normal anyway, he could live with that, and grinned back at her.

‘Okay,' he said. Like it was no big deal.

Chapter 9

Juliette

N
ina is s
itting on the edge of the deck when Juliette returns outside. The sky is darkening and the wind has picked up. Juliette stares at the outside table, where she had anticipated serving Max's birthday dinner, and mentally rearranges everything. Nina's head is tipped to one side and her eyes are closed. Her cheeks are pink, her hair askew, and her legs dangling down, shoeless. She has a mostly full glass of champagne beside her. She doesn't look like a woman who just woke up from a short nap. She looks like a woman who's been made love to. Juliette feels
m
elancholy
, small and hard, in the centre of her chest. Nothing much, just an apple seed of a thing. But enough to give a little pinch.
T
he memory of heartache, still tender.
Juliette hasn't been made love to in a long time.

Rosie comes up the path from the beach. Nina opens her eyes and calls out to her sleepily, ‘Rosie?'

‘Hey,' Rosie replies, voice a little choked.

Juliette waves.

‘Hi, Juliette.'

‘Can I get you something to drink?' Juliette asks.

Rosie glances at Nina's champagne. Before she can answer, Nina passes it to her. ‘Have mine.'

Rosie lowers herself next to her friend and accepts the slender glass.

‘Was the beach lovely?' Nina murmurs. ‘I've been listening to the gulls … doesn't the air smell good here? I should go down. But I think a storm might be coming in.'

Rosie stares. Juliette moves away to pick up her trug and herb scissors. She gets the impression Nina is rarely so wistful. She seems the type who would be down on the beach in a flash, storm or no storm, cut hands or not. Nina seems the type of person to be in the rock pools, sticking her fingers into sea anemones and picking up crabs. Rosie's face suddenly looks as though her features are going to slide off of it, mouth turning down, and eyes filling.

‘Rosie!' Nina says, alarmed. Juliette turns away to clip some purple sage.

‘Please …' she hears Nina plead. ‘Rosie … I told you. We don't know everything yet. Don't panic.'

Rosie begs. ‘Please, Nina. I need you. I can't bear …'

She sounds so much like a heartbroken lover Juliette wishes she wasn't in earshot. Rosie's voice is thick as syrup with emotion, pain and grief. It reminds Juliette of her own voice. The one that begged her mother not to be gone, the one that pleaded with the nurses for morphine for her father, the voice she heard in her head that explained everything to both her parents. The one that started and then grew so swollen with sadness it nearly strangled her. Juliette blinks, snipping at the herbs, her back to the women. She pauses at a cluster of violets, touching a purple head with her finger, her throat tightening. Nina is shushing Rosie like a child and Rosie is taking big, ragged breaths. The desperate sound cleaves Juliette's heart in two.

‘Shh shh …' Nina is whispering. ‘Not here, Rosie, please. Shh …'

*

From the sanctuary of the kitchen, Juliette watches the others returning home. Hugo first, fists jammed into pockets, expression as dark as the huddling rain clouds. He walks past Rosie and Nina on the balcony with barely a glance and straight upstairs. Max and Soleil are next; Max first and then Soleil, just behind. Juliette again curiously assesses Soleil's beauty, her lean frame, her smooth, browning-butter-coloured skin. Max pauses in front of Nina and Rosie and inspects Nina's hands, which she holds up reluctantly, rolling her eyes and looking, for a moment, like her daughter. Rosie has stopped crying, though her eyes are red and cheeks blotchy but Max doesn't appear to notice. He kisses both of the women on the tops of their heads as Soleil walks inside. The three of them, Max, Nina and Rosie, pause for a moment, waiting until Soleil is safely inside before leaning closer together to gossip about the newcomer. Who now strides into Juliette's kitchen.

‘Hi, Juliette.'

‘How was the beach?'

Soleil is already by the refrigerator door and opens it to peer inside. ‘Good. Think a storm's coming.'

‘Yes. We get a lot of those.'

Soleil retrieves a bottle of tonic water. ‘May I have this?'

‘Of course. Can I make you a drink?' Juliette offers.

Soleil shakes her head. ‘I can do it. I brought my own gin.'

‘We have gin …'

Soleil waves her hand. ‘It's no trouble. Thanks, though.'

Juliette goes to the cupboard and retrieves a glass that she passes to Soleil. Juliette smiles and waits for her to leave the kitchen but she doesn't. They stare at each other.

‘So. You grew up with Helen,' Juliette says slowly.

‘We were sisters for a while. But I haven't seen her much lately.'

‘That's a shame.'

There is a long pause. Juliette wishes she could get back to her planning and preparation for dinner. There are artichokes to ready, lamb and beans too, plus setting the table inside. But she waits while Soleil tips her head.

‘I missed her a lot when I was younger. I idolised her, I guess. Then I grew up and missed her less. Now …' Soleil shrugs. ‘Well, she's in New York.'

‘And you are in England.'

Soleil considers. ‘Was. I'm not sure where I am now.'

‘You're having some time out,' Juliette says supportively.

‘I guess so. Helen clearly thinks I need saving, though she doesn't say as much,' she mutters.

Don't we all, Juliette thinks.

‘Not that I don't … I mean it's lovely here. The food … it's not that I'm not grateful …' Soleil looks up to Juliette quickly.

‘I'm not offended.'

‘I've been told I don't have a filter,' Soleil confesses.

‘Filter?'

‘Something to stop me just saying what I'm thinking.'

Juliette laughs. ‘Oh. Maybe that's not so bad.'

‘I don't know. Anyway, I don't mean to be rude about Helen. She's the best person in my family. It's a rip-off that she's not actually family. Not technically.'

‘Ah well, what's “technically”?' Juliette asks, more forcefully than she means to. ‘Does it matter? She still counts.'

Soleil presses her lips together. ‘I guess so.'

Out of the corner of her eye, Juliette catches someone waving at her and turns to see Max gesturing at her beyond the window. He forms a circle with his hand and brings it to his lips. Juliette nods. She moves to the freezer but finds Soleil already in front of it, pulling out an ice tray.

‘I'll take him a drink,' she says.

‘Oh …'

‘Which glass does he use?'

Juliette fetches a crystal tumbler from the cupboard as Soleil waits with ice cubes and the bottle of tonic. ‘Do you want cucumber? Some garnish?' Juliette asks. Suddenly the word ‘garnish' seems laughable.

‘It'll just get in the way.'

‘Yes,' says Juliette, feeling superfluous herself. As Soleil heads back outside with the glass, Juliette turns back to the sink and the window. Max is frowning at her. Juliette opens her mouth to explain that Soleil is bringing him a gin and tonic, but of course Max would not be able to hear her.

*

When the weather darkens they move into the lounge, drawing closed the big glass doors, which are freckling now with light rain. Max puts on loud music that seems to fill every corner of the huge space. Juliette assesses each guest and hand in the room. Rosie has Nina's champagne, Max and Soleil hold glasses of gin and tonic, while Lars has come down from his room, grinning and empty-handed; he needs a drink. Helen is on the couch with her finger in a book she isn't reading – she needs a drink; Eddie and Beth are just coming in now, they need drinks. Juliette fetches glasses and bottles of champagne and wine. She sets up a drink station on the marble-topped table next to the wide leather couches and begins passing out glasses.

Max settles himself next to Helen on a couch. She leans against him.

‘Nina! Remember this?' Lars calls out.

‘Know this song, Soleil?' Helen asks her sister, who shakes her head.

Max glances at Soleil, who is perched on the arm of the lounge. ‘You have to know this one. The Cure. You know The Cure.'

‘Before my time.'

Helen laughs. ‘She's too young, Max.'

‘Yeah, but The Cure are classic. Everyone should know The Cure.'

Eddie points to Beth, saying proudly, ‘Beth knows The Cure.'

‘See!' Max enthuses.

‘I've been getting an education,' Beth says, tipping her head towards Eddie.

‘Should I know them?' Soleil asks Helen. ‘You don't have to know them.' Rosie mumbles, glancing at Beth.

‘Yes!' Max replies.

‘They were pretty big when we were young. A long time ago …'

‘Steady on.'

‘She's too young,' Helen soothes.

‘That's like saying someone is too young for Shakespeare,' complains Max.

‘I'm not that young,' Soleil mutters.

Lars changes the subject. ‘What do you do, Soleil? Helen said you were at college.'

‘I was.'

‘What were you studying?' Rosie asks, drinking the last of her champagne. Juliette moves to top up her glass.

‘Environmental science.'

‘Soleil is getting her PhD,' Helen adds.

‘Oh, wow,' Eddie says.

‘Was,' Soleil corrects.

‘You're not going to finish it?' Nina asks. She's on the couch with Lars's head in her lap, propped up on a cushion. She's idly pushing her fingers into his hair.

Soleil shrugs. ‘Seems unlikely.'

‘You don't know that,' Helen says.

‘University isn't everything,' Max says, gesturing around the group. ‘I didn't finish my studies. Neither did Lars. Those of us that did … Well, does anyone even use their qualifications?'

‘I do,' Nina replies.

‘It's mostly a waste of time,' Max says, ignoring Nina. ‘And the UK spends a ton of taxes on it. Look at the US, they don't spend anywhere near as much money on tertiary education.'

Beth frowns. ‘I don't know if that's a good thing –'

‘Plus we rush into it. If it cost more we might consider our choices better.'

‘Sometimes I think I should have done a gap year,' Rosie muses. ‘Between high school and college. If anything I was too
earnest …'

‘Society benefits from having an educated population,' Soleil asserts.

‘I agree,' Nina says and Helen nods.

Max
looks at Helen and then at Soleil. ‘Yeah, but educated in what?'

‘Anything. Keeping the costs low allows people to make choices based on their personal curiosities –'

‘Well, that's ridiculous,' Max scoffs. Juliette watches him tip inches of gin into his mouth.

‘Max …' Helen murmurs, frowning.

‘Which leads to a happier, more diverse society,' Soleil concludes.

‘Imagine winding up with an entire population educated in French art of the Middle Ages –'

‘That wouldn't happen,' Soleil interrupts.

‘Or ceramics.' Max waves his hand in Lars's direction.

‘Ouch.' Lars grins lazily. Nina's fingers are still in his hair.

‘Well, come on, it's a crazy idea. Where does it lead us? We need to be more practical.'

‘When did you become so “practical”?' Rosie asks.

Max's expression is irritated, though he is trying to mask it. Juliette hasn't seen him like this very often. Helen has shifted away from him a little.

‘Research clearly shows that the extent of education in a population, especially with regard to the women, affects all sorts of positive outcomes,' Soleil states.

‘Yeah? Like what?' Max counters.

‘Health, particularly that of the children; happiness; gross domestic product. It's an encouragingly simple equation with few contrary results. Educate people. Make things better.'

Max laughs into his drink. Helen looks at him, confused. ‘When did you become a Tory?'

‘I'm not.'

‘Who did you vote for? In the last election?' Soleil asks.

‘That's private. Besides, I live here. In France.'

‘But you still vote, right?'

Max doesn't say anything.

‘Max!' Helen cries.

‘He shouldn't get to vote,' Soleil says.

‘Oh yeah, why is that?' Max says, tersely.

‘I'm guessing you don't pay British taxes. That's part of the reason you live in France, right?'

‘I pay taxes!' Max is wide-eyed.

‘But not as much as you should,' Soleil retorts.

Lars laughs. Nina is smiling too. ‘I think you found your match there, Max.'

‘I have to pay tax twice,' Beth says with a sigh.

Max ignores Beth. ‘I pay my taxes. What I do and where I live is totally valid.'

Soleil shrugs. ‘I wasn't suggesting you do anything illegal.'

‘Too right I don't.'

‘But there is a difference between a legal obligation and a moral one. If you want to comment on British politics and complain
about a political system, including funding for education, then you have to contribute to it.'

Eddie claps. Juliette presses her lips against a smile that is threatening to rise up. She focuses on pouring drinks.

Max straightens. ‘So what, you'd make tertiary education free for everyone? You'd have a population schooled in pottery and renaissance handbags and … origami?'

‘That's an unnecessary leap. But yes, I think tertiary education should be free,' Soleil replies.

‘Do you know how many people would take advantage of that?'

‘I hope everyone would.'

‘And who would pay for it?'

‘Everyone.'