A French Wedding

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  ‘Was it Julie?’

  Juliette turns to see Eddie inspecting the fruit bowl. He picks up an apple.

  ‘Juliette.’

  ‘Right! Juliette. So French.’ Eddie grins, with dimpled cheeks. It makes him look like a boy. Despite the five o’clock shadow and the glinting grey strands in his hair. Max said Eddie is the manager of a whisky bar in a boutique hotel. Juliette can imagine it, the customers would love him.

  ‘I am French,’ she says.

  ‘You actually are French? From here?’ Eddie sinks his teeth into the apple. ‘You don’t sound French.’

  ‘My parents were from England.’

  ‘Ahhh. So you’re a bit English.’ He looks so pleased that Juliette laughs. She shrugs, although she wants to say, ‘Non. Je suis bretonne,’ which she has come to realise means even more than being French. She thinks about sinking her hands into the soft, swollen dough on the bench but doesn’t want to turn away so quickly as to be rude.

  ‘Max said he got himself a French chef from Paris.’

  ‘That’s me then. I was a French chef from Paris,’ Juliette says, smiling. ‘Now I’m the Breton girl who keeps the windows clean.’

  That has them both looking out the window towards Beth. Eddie steps closer, apple in hand. He looks down at her bowl.

  ‘Bread,’ Juliette explains. They are now standing side by side; the gardens and lawn ahead of them, Beth and her chair in the middle of the view, dotted appropriately, as she is, with raspberries.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Eddie murmurs. Juliette is unsure if he means his girlfriend or Max’s house and gardens. Then he says, ‘He should have had us here earlier. This place is amazing.’

  Juliette nods. She doesn’t explain that Max rarely has guests. Sometimes he brings a girl, someone he seems wholly unattached to, who might attempt small talk with Juliette in the morning, the conversation pocked with awkward silences. For the most part Max comes solo. He drives from Paris through the night or early morning, sending Juliette a quick message en route so she has just enough time to throw on a coat and wobble over on her bike from her parents’ cottage in the village. She keeps things in the house she knows he likes – Andouille de Guémené, the famous smoked and dried pork sausage, her version of piccalilli relish with local cauliflower, as well as hard cheeses, preserved sardines and tins of handmade crackers and sablés – in case he arrives before she does. She orders at least two dozen Cancale oysters if he is staying more than one night, more if he has company. There is always champagne, salted butter and cider in the fridge, including Baron’s Cuvee Carpe Diem, liqueurs, gin whiskey, buckwheat and Saint-Malo potatoes in the pantry.

  ‘You’ve known Max a long time?’ Juliette asks Eddie, out of politeness, knowing that he has. Max has told her about his friends from his London days, how they met and what they are each like.

  ‘We went to Camberwell together. It’s an arts college in London.’

  Eddie has almost finished his apple. ‘Well, we went to college – Lars and Nina, Rosie and me – Max did more drinking … and less classes.’

  Eddie holds the apple core by the stalk. Juliette remembers the rest of the names from stories she has been told and the list Max dictated to her.

  Rosie and Hugo.

  Nina and Lars and their kid, Sophie.

  Eddie and ?? (She had remedied the blank, of course.)

  Helen.

  Eddie laughs. ‘To be fair, none of us studied very hard. Mainly we were partying or trying to get laid.’ He glances around till Juliette opens a cupboard and shows him the rubbish bin. ‘Thanks.’ He wipes his hands on his shirt. ‘Then Max went and made a life out of that.’

  Juliette nods. Max Dresner, guitarist for The Jacks. The man who dated both of the Marceau twins. Party boy. Musical genius. Rogue. A man the press loved to write about because he fit a formula – good looking with bad behaviour. But Juliette knew Max was more complicated and compelling than what was written about him.

  ‘I forgot Helen,’ Eddie says. ‘You’ve heard of Helen, right?’

  Juliette nods again. Max had told her about Helen. His voice quickened whenever he spoke of her.

  Eddie gives a little laugh ‘Fortieth-birthday party … reunion … It’s really nice. I’m not complaining. But Max probably just wants to see Helen.’

  He glances back to Juliette’s bowl. ‘Sorry, you were in the middle of something.’

  Eddie leans over. The light from the window highlights the swollen curve of the dough. Juliette has the urge to run her fingers over it, to feel the firmness, the resistance, to tap against the gases that have made it rise. It seems too intimate to do so in front of a guest; her fingers twitch against the bench top. Beside her Eddie now lets out a hoot. Juliette follows his gaze out of the window.

  ‘That’s my little lady!’

  Beside Beth’s chair is a bundle of fabric, covered in tiny raspberries, fallen beside her magazine. Her palms face up to the sun; her eyes are covered with big dark glasses. And her breasts, high and rounded as Juliette’s dough, are exposed to the light. Nipples the colour of local eggshells, the surrounding skin creamy and unmarred.

  Eddie is laughing hard. ‘That girl has no shame.’

  Juliette shrugs and smiles. ‘It’s okay, Eddie. You’re in France, remember?’

  *

  ‘Has Eddie’s bird got her baps out?’

  Juliette is cutting the now baked bread into thick pieces. She already has a plate of cheeses, sliced Andouille, and crudités of spring carrots and the local green cauliflower with a mingaux cream cheese dip. She pauses, knife in hand, as a man comes into the kitchen. The sun is lower now, turning clementine and getting in her eyes.

  The man claps his hands together, his face a hundred happy creases. ‘Sorry!’ he laughs. ‘I thought you were one of the girls. I’m Lars.’ His height means he almost has to slouch due to the low ceiling.

  ‘Juliette,’ she says. ‘I work for Max.’

  ‘Aw, you poor thing.’ Lars shakes his head in mock sympathy. He has ruffled sandy-coloured hair. When he blinks, Juliette notices that even his eyelashes are blond.

  ‘It’s not so bad.’

  ‘Well, you’re braver than most.’

  Lars holds out his hand, which Juliette shakes. His hand is covered in pale freckles and his fingers are long, like the rest of him.

  ‘Welcome to Douarnenez,’ she says, offering him the plate of food.

  ‘Thank you.’ He beams, piling cheese onto bread.

  Two women follow Lars into the kitchen. They are the same height – the first one dark-haired and heavier than the other, who is blonde and wearing sunglasses. The dark-haired woman’s face is soft and round; she too shakes Juliette’s hand firmly.

  ‘I’m Nina.’

  ‘She’s with me,’ Lars adds.

  ‘Rosie,’ the blonde woman says. She is carrying a basket, and on one hand wears a rose-gold ring with a large stone the colour of jadeite.

  ‘I’m Juliette. I work for Max,’ Juliette says again.

  ‘You poor thing,’ both women say together, and then laugh at the same time. They don’t look at all alike – Nina dark, confident and plump, Rosie blonde, polite and trim – but they act like sisters. Max had described them to Juliette over the phone. Nina – publisher, top girl, smart as hell, she’s with Lars. Now he’s a great bloke. They have a daughter, Sophie and Lars is a stay-at-home Dad. He’d do anything for those two. Rosie – jeweller, talented too; unfortunately she’s married to Hugo …

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Lars cuts in. He slips his arm around Nina’s back.

  ‘Who’s here?’ Rosie places the basket down on a bench top. ‘Is Helen going to be late? When’s her flight in from New York?’

  ‘Tonight,’ replies Lars. ‘Where’s Hugo gone?’

  ‘He’s getting luggage from the car.’


  ‘Who has the boys?’

  ‘My parents.’

  ‘That’s the way.’ Lars says, comradely, lifting his palm to high-five Rosie. ‘So for now it’s us, you and Hugo, Eddie and …’ Lars looks to Juliette.

  ‘Beth,’ she offers.

  ‘Right. Beth McBaps.’

  Lars gestures out the window and the two women quickly crowd in. Juliette steps out of the way. She should probably take the bread to the outdoor table before it gets cold. It tastes so good warm, with a generous smear of Guérande salted butter.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Nina.

  ‘She’s got no top on,’ Rosie murmurs, frowning. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘She’s a firecracker,’ Lars says admiringly. Nina swats him and Rosie shoots him a pointed look.

  ‘How old is she?’ Nina asks.

  ‘Mid twenties maybe?’

  ‘Stop staring,’ Rosie scolds.

  ‘There’s just so much … boob,’ Nina says.

  Nina turns to Juliette with a wry smile. ‘I bet you’ve seen worse.’

  Juliette recalls the girl who came down to breakfast still tipsy from the night before, and the one who couldn’t find her shoes; Juliette lent her a pair of old slippers that had been her father’s and which she kept at the house to wear when she did chores. Gorgeous, giggling, smooth-skinned, half-naked girls. Girls smitten with Max, clinging to him like a bean plant to a stake.

  ‘Topless is okay in France,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, girls – topless is okay in France,’ Lars pipes up.

  Both women give him withering glares.

  Lars picks up the platters with the bread, cheese and crudités. ‘Do you want these on the table, Juliette?’

  ‘Oui,’ she says gratefully. ‘Yes, please.’

  When Lars has left, Rosie plucks two bottles from her basket and sidles closer to Nina, who is still standing at the window. Juliette busies herself, going to the fridge to take out a large tray of whole silver-bellied sardines.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rosie whispers.

  ‘I’m fine. Truly,’ Nina says. ‘Stop worrying.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to. Sophie is with us and this is supposed to be a nice weekend away. If anything, you can help me with her. She’s … having a hard time.’

  ‘You can’t blame her, Nina.’

  Nina glances over at Juliette. She is salting the sardines and doesn’t meet Nina’s gaze. The years spent running a restaurant and hearing the most personal conversations means Juliette knows how to be invisible. She’s seen it all – fights and confessions, breaking and making up. There isn’t much that shocks her anymore. Delphine had been known within a circle of high-ranking politicians and businessmen as the place to bring your mistress. It was small, dark, intimate and safe.

  Nina lowers her voice. ‘We’re not telling anyone. Not even Sophie, remember? We don’t know anything yet. Don’t say anything, please. Not even to Hugo.’

  The door opens and a thin man with glasses steps in. His back is ramrod straight, and he pushes his glasses up his nose to survey the kitchen. ‘Talking about me?’

  Rosie’s face brightens, a little too much. ‘Hugo! No. Do you mind putting these bottles in the fridge?’

  Hugo is almost as tall as Lars, but his hair is dark and thinning, and the creases in his face run in different directions, making him look worn and disappointed.

  ‘Anything else?’ His tone is exasperated.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve been getting instructions all the way from Paris.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Hugo’s voice rises, ‘Don’t be rude. Stop here so I can take one hundred photos of lavender. Be nice to Nina. Don’t say anything inappropriate. Don’t be too smart.’ Hugo pauses to lift his eyebrows to Nina and says in his regular voice, ‘Hey, Nina.’

  ‘Hey, Hugo.’

  ‘I did not say that.’ Rosie glances from Nina to Juliette back to Hugo. ‘Just take these, would you?’

  Juliette gestures outside. ‘There is a drinks fridge in the bar, by the deck. This one is full of food, I’m afraid.’

  Hugo takes the bottles then steps over to Nina. She lifts her head as he kisses her on the cheek. He looks over at Juliette. ‘Hi, I’m Hugo, husband who does as he’s told.’ Rosie sighs.

  ‘I’m Juliette. I work for Max. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  Hugo nods. ‘Do we put our things in any room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Juliette had anticipated Max being here by now to show his guests to their rooms. ‘There are four spare double bedrooms and one twin single upstairs, please help yourself.’ She doesn’t mention the little bedroom off the original hallway. That is hers. Max offered her one of the bigger, modern rooms, especially when it was just him and her in the house, but Juliette refused. She loves ‘The Blue Room’, as she has named it. The duck-egg coloured walls are thick and warped, the floor made of stones just like the kitchen, partially covered with a braided rug she transplanted from her parents’ cottage. It’s small but cosy, nostalgic somehow but none of the memories are hers or her parents. The walls block out both sound and light like a womb. The only window, dressed with wooden shutters on squeaky hinges, contains old glass, which makes the view wobbly.

  Nina starts ticking off her fingers. ‘One room is Max’s, I presume. Then one for Eddie and what’s-her-name … the boobs …’

  ‘Beth,’ Juliette supplies again.

  ‘Beth. You and Hugo. Lars and me. That’s four. Where is Helen sleeping?’

  Hugo snorts. ‘Are you kidding? In with Max, if he gets his way.’

  ‘It hasn’t worked for him so far,’ Nina says. ‘Juliette, is it okay if Sophie sleeps on a couch?’

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ Juliette replies. ‘I put spare linen at the top of the stairs. There is a day bed in the music studio or she can sleep in the lounge, whichever you think is best. The studio is further from the rooms, so you might not be very close to each other.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be happy with that,’ says Nina.

  Hugo adds, acerbically, ‘Max will be thrilled too. Thought we weren’t bringing kids.’

  ‘Jesus, Hugo,’ Rosie cries out.

  ‘You get out of the wrong side of bed, Hugo?’ Nina asks.

  Juliette remembers what Max had said next. Hugo … he’s a fucking twat.

  ‘It’s been a long drive. My wife has been battering me with instructions on social graces.’

  Nina smiles sweetly. ‘Maybe you need them.’

  *

  Despite missing guests – Max and Helen – Juliette prepares dinner. Tonight’s menu is fish – sole and silver-bellied sardines, a salad of beetroot, pink grapefruit, goat’s cheese and mint, spring asparagus with almonds and a lemon dressing. Max told her to keep the meals very casual, so she set a table outside with simple silver cutlery, tea lights in glass jars, a pile of paper napkins, and two little wooden bowls with flakes of fleur de sel and black pepper. Already there is a craggy pile of shells in the bin, the group having tasted their first Breton oysters, which Juliette served with lemon cheeks as a starter. In the kitchen, Juliette pan-fries sole fillets in a little butter, making mental notes about her guests and their eating habits. Eddie and Nina are enthusiastic about food; Hugo is more of an academic. He informs everyone that you shouldn’t eat oysters in a month without an ‘r’ in it and explains that Cancale is the most famous village in Brittany for them. Rosie eats only a little and then becomes distracted in conversation. Beth, now wearing a short, swingy summer dress with grey and white stripes, is curious but tentative. All of the group, barring Beth, drink a lot of Muscadet wine, direct from a wine supplier from Quimper who enjoys the opportunity to flirt when Juliette places her orders.

  Max’s friends, gathered around the candl
elit table, are polite but informal, much like a family. Eddie and Lars laugh and chat while Nina and Rosie have their heads close together, talking in cosy whispers. Beth and Hugo hang off to the sides, looking a little uncomfortable. That is the hazard of old friendships; other people, extras and in-laws, get left out. Lars is clearly in charge of the music, much to the chagrin of Hugo, who doesn’t seem to have the same taste as the others. Juliette is pleased she spent that year in an English boarding school because she recognises the tunes Lars chooses; old stuff – The Smiths, New Order, Stone Roses, R.E.M. Beth is quiet, somewhat baffled perhaps, but Juliette can’t be sure if that is because the music is unfamiliar, the food foreign, or the company overwhelming. She overhears her ask Eddie, in a whisper, why Max is not with them and looks away as he guffaws, murmuring something about girls or drugs. Hugo is visibly put out. He rests his hand on Rosie’s knee but it falls off when she twists her chair to face Nina.

  Juliette turns the fish fillets over, one by one. She wonders if the group will find the food too plain. She has become a traditional cook over the past year. She uses ingredients directly from Douarnenez whenever she can – sardines and other seafood, spring vegetables, local yoghurts and cheese. She has given up being experimental, exotic or avant-garde; it no longer appeals to her. Now she cooks as she learned to from Jean-Paul; same name as the pope and the fashion designer, though he was neither pious nor stylish. Jean-Paul had been a fisherman in his late forties when Juliette was still in her teens. Juliette’s parents had been horrified at the match, but Juliette really did adore him for a time – his age, his disregard for convention, for rules. He’d been on oceans and seen cities with names that sounded like spices. Juliette always complained that Douarnenez never changed, that it was suffocating – un filet de peche – but her mother had just laughed. ‘You’ll want that one day, Juliette. A place that never changes, that is exactly as you left it.’