‘Are you cold?’ Eddie asked, fingers now on her bare shoulder. She should have brought a jacket.
‘A bit,’ Rosie conceded.
‘Take my jacket.’
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’
Eddie’s kindness was bothering Rosie. Because she was supposed to be breaking up with him.
‘Eddie –’
‘Oh Rosie, you are fucking freezing, just take the jacket,’ Eddie interrupted.
‘I don’t need it,’ she replied, shivering.
‘If you don’t take the jacket I’m gonna smother you with something else.’
‘I don’t want it, Eddie!’
‘You were warned …’
Eddie hoisted himself up and rolled on top of Rosie, squashing her further into the bed of grey stones.
‘Ow! Jesus, Eddie!’
‘I told you …’
Eddie was laughing and his breath was close to her face. She could smell the smoke and the salt and grease of the chips they’d shared before.
‘The stones …!’ Rosie protested, her voice muffled.
Eddie was now sniffing at her neck. ‘God you smell good, Rosie.’
‘Get off me!’
‘You smell like roses,’ Eddie said.
‘I do not. I smell like fags and booze. Get off!’
‘No, you smell good. I swear.’
Eddie started kissing her. Small, peppering kisses below her jaw growing bigger and more generous as he reached the top of her collarbone. Rosie felt her body, all muscles and bones and resistance, betraying her.
‘Eddie … Come on …’ But Rosie’s protest was half-hearted, Eddie could sense it. Kisses were pressed along her collarbone. Rosie felt her head tip back, just a little, encouraging.
‘You are so cold,’ Eddie murmured, slipping his hand, softly and slowly, up her top. Rosie’s voice vanished, along with her intentions. All the explanations she had practised – ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, ‘It was always a casual thing’, ‘You’ll find the right girl, Eddie’ – melting and dissolving in the wake of those kisses. In the heat of Eddie’s breath against the base of her throat, the creeping desire of his hand moving towards the worn silk of her grey-white bra. Rosie breathed, heavily, against Eddie’s hair, felt her eyes closing, her hips lifting. Eddie’s fingers moved inside the cup of her bra, skimmed her nipple, closed over, took possession. Rosie had such small breasts. Some of the men she’d been with, the smart, brilliant, going-places ones, had told her so.
‘You are brilliant. God you are brilliant,’ Eddie whispered on her skin.
Eddie wasn’t good enough, Rosie reminded herself. He wasn’t part of her plan. But he was impossible to break up with.
Chapter 4
Max
Helen, in a green satin shirt, that makes her breasts look like slinky hillocks you want to lay your palms upon, and a black skirt with shiny black heels. Looking whatever it is that was beyond beautiful (‘radiant’ comes close, but ‘fuckable’ is all Max can honestly think of). That hair, swinging, that soft, wet mouth, open, laughing. Max tugs her away from everyone. Pulls her into a closet, which smells of dust and lemon cleaning products but muffles the sounds – the chitchat and har’har’har and clop-clop of shoes against gallery floors. Her breath hot on his face, her breasts rising and falling. The fragrance of her neck, her skin. Undoing the buttons on her shirt, yanking up the skirt, pushing down the underwear. Feeling her warm and damp against his fingers, Dear God. Her mouth on his, tasting of her cigarettes, of red wine. Her hand reaching down into his trousers, urgent, searching for … finding …
Max sits up too fast. His head is spinning. It hits the visor. He rubs his forehead and groans. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is. He is in his car, with the seat pushed back. Sunlight floods in through the front window. His body is on a weird angle. Did he crash? Max looks out the side window at a grass verge, then blinks at the front of his car, checking for damage. He scans down his body. Legs, crotch, torso, all still intact. Then he remembers where he is headed and reaches for the box on the passenger seat, rolls it in his fingers. He spots his phone and touches the screen but it remains black. Dead.
Max laughs. He must have pulled over to sleep on his way to Douarnenez. Like an old man. Shit. He is an old man. Forty. Today. And while forty isn’t very old, it is old enough and it makes Max feel rattled. Like he is sliding, faster and faster, down a cliff and at the bottom is nothing. Not even a smash of body against ground but absolutely nothing. A grey nothing that is dull and damp and hanging. Worse than a used dick. The thought makes him check his own. Still there.
Max reaches over to the glove box, digs under the warranty and an old map and pulls out the small bag. He dips his finger into the powder inside and rubs it on his gums, blinking fast. An old man? Fuck that. He starts the car, shifts the gearstick and pushes down too hard on the accelerator, thinking of that green satin shirt.
*
The house is a marvel. The old half, the cottage, with stone as grey as Breton clouds, masking the new half at the back – glass and exposed wood, brass and copper details. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Magic. Max loves it every time he sees it; as though it is a new thing. It’s the kind of home you see in Architectural Digest. He isn’t sure the locals appreciate it but Max doesn’t care much for good neighbourly relations. He pays Juliette to keep everything and everyone sweet and she does a good job of it too. Plus she makes a mean kouign-amann.
When Max pulls up there is a van and three cars parked out the front as well as Juliette’s little blue Renault which looks more like a toy than a car to Max and has to be older than Max himself. Max cannot tell if Helen’s rental car is amongst the ones parked but gets out quickly and strides to the front door, pushing it open. He hears conversation coming from the kitchen.
Max spots Rosie first. She’s wearing pink flannel pyjamas with elephants printed all over them and talking to Nina, who’s in a navy linen dress and sandals. Juliette is by the bench. She’s cut her hair. She looks over and smiles.
‘Happy birthday, Max.’
Both Nina and Rosie wheel around, and Rosie squeals.
‘Max!’ She gives him a firm hug and Max remembers just how small Rosie is. Short and wiry, like a kid; you wouldn’t guess she’d had three of her own, boys no less. Nina kisses his cheeks and Max inhales her perfume. Gardenia and something else, she’s worn it for years and years. She gives a gentle smile that makes Max want to curl up next to her and tell her all his secrets.
‘Happy birthday,’ they say, together, then laugh.
‘My gorgeous, gorgeous girls,’ Max purrs, pulling them both towards him. ‘You too, Juliette, feel free to join us,’ he says, glancing over.
‘Looks like you’ve got enough on your hands for now,’ Juliette jokes. She’s cutting a brioche loaf and stacking the slices onto a large plate. There’s a jar of jam on it too, with a bone-handled knife beside it.
‘Never enough,’ Max says with a grin.
‘Where were you?’ Nina asks. ‘We were waiting for you.’
‘We called you all night,’ Rosie adds.
‘Phone was dead,’ Max says with a shrug, not explaining the nap. ‘What did you do without me? Go to bed early, without any supper?’
‘Exactly,’ Nina replies.
‘I fed them. I promise,’ Juliette says.
‘She did,’ Rosie says, nodding. ‘Food was incredible.’
‘Do you want a coffee?’ Juliette asks Max.
‘Fuck yes.’
Rosie returns to the bar stool she had been sitting on. Nina reaches over to the brioche and drops jam onto a slice. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Max.’
‘Thanks, Nina.’
‘How you feeling about the big four-oh?’
Max restrains a grimace. ‘Fine. Good. They say forty is the new thirt
y.’
‘Yeah, but that’s bullshit,’ Nina replies, wryly.
Max laughs. ‘I missed you.’
‘You know where I am. You just pick up the phone and call me. Or, better yet, buy me tickets to Paris. Heard of the Eurostar?’
‘Have you heard of the Eurostar?’ Max counters. ‘You could come see me.’
‘I’m not buying train tickets to come see you when I don’t know where you are from one week to the next. You could be touring New Zealand for all I know. I mean, you invited us here and then turned up late.’
Max reaches out for Nina’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Mumma Bear. Will you forgive me?’
Rosie laughs but Nina pretends to be annoyed. ‘No.’
Lars comes into the kitchen. ‘Max!’
‘Lars, mate!’
They hug each other tight and then Lars rubs Max’s bald head, tousling hair that isn’t there. ‘Need a cut, mate.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Funny. The girls don’t seem to mind.’
‘Bet the girls love it,’ Lars says, winking, his blond eyelashes catching the light.
Nina shakes her head. ‘How old do we have to get before you stop calling us all “girls”?’
‘Do we offend you?’ Max asks, smiling.
‘I don’t mind it. Makes me feel young,’ Rosie says, fingers wrapped around a teacup.
‘It’s so belittling,’ Nina grumbles.
Lars goes to her and kisses her head. ‘How you feeling about the big four-oh?’ he asks Max.
‘Your girl just asked me that.’
‘First cab off the rank,’ Lars says, warningly.
‘You’ll all catch up soon enough.’
‘Not for a little while …’ Rosie mumbles into her tea.
‘You cut the path, Max, we’ll follow your lead,’ Lars says.
‘God help us,’ Nina replies.
Max inhales, puffing out his chest. ‘Well, I’m not planning on changing very much, mate. Am thinking of keeping up the same diet and exercise regime …’
‘Which is?’ Nina asks.
‘Booze, smokes, drugs and shagging,’ Lars answers and they all laugh, including Juliette, who is facing the window.
‘That’s it,’ Max agrees. ‘I’m going to write a book about it. You interested in publishing it, Nina?’
Nina grimaces. ‘Rock’n’Roll Method to an Early Grave?’
Max laughs. ‘Ouch.’
Juliette passes around the fresh bread and jam and serves Max his coffee. Rosie pats Max’s arm and leaves to get changed and check on Hugo. After a few sips of coffee, Max clears his throat.
‘Where’s Helen?’
Lars grins. ‘Was wondering how long it’d take you to ask that.’
‘Picking up her sister,’ Juliette says.
‘Oh, right.’ Max nods, remembering the message on his phone. His heart sinks.
He tries not to feel disappointed. But his body aches for the dream that vanished too fast this morning. The silk shirt, the scent of her skin. Max shudders, tries to shake it off. Disappointment is a pathetic wimp of an emotion. Useless. He has a brief memory of his father’s breath on his face. Don’t give me that look! What have you got to be sad about? Max takes a quick, bracing breath. He has his friends. He loves Rosie and Nina, he loves Lars. He has missed Lars. Lars’s way in the world. Like there is never an emergency, like everything is gonna be alright, just like the song.
‘How does Helen suddenly have a sister?’ Lars asks.
‘I don’t think it’s a real sister,’ says Max. ‘She’s her dad’s daughter.’
‘Half-sister,’ Nina says.
‘No, not even. Her dad married that Spanish woman, what was her name?’
‘Oh. That’s right. The one that looked like that actress … what was her name?’
‘Anyway, she had a daughter before they were married. Soleil? She and Helen were close; Helen practically raised her for a few years. Then her dad and what’s-her-name –’ Max says.
‘Mariposa!’ Nina supplies.
‘That’s it. Mariposa and Helen’s dad split up. It was pretty messy.’
‘As all his splits are,’ Lars says grimly. Juliette is stacking dishes into a dish drawer but glances over when he says that. ‘Sorry, Juliette, we’re being so rude.’
‘Non. It’s fine. Please go on.’
Nina turns to Max. ‘How old is Soleil now?’
‘Not sure. Mid, maybe late twenties? Helen hasn’t seen her for a long time. She said something about Soleil having a hard time.’
‘Hard time?’
Max shrugs, chews on a piece of brioche, suddenly starving. The sweet, buttery bread dissolves in his mouth. ‘You’ll have to ask Helen. You know what I’m like on details. Fuzzy at best.’
‘Helen said she should be back by midday,’ says Juliette. ‘Soleil is coming by train. The nearest station is over an hour away.’
Max nods, distracting himself from his own impatience by eating more bread and watching Lars stacking the dishwasher with Juliette. He is nodding to some tune in his head. Lars loves music as much as Max does. He is a talented bass guitarist too, he probably could have been something and someone, but that isn’t Lars’s way. That would have meant leaving Nina and Sophie for long periods of time and that was never going to happen.
Juliette excuses herself from the kitchen. ‘I am going to the market later, if anyone would like to join me.’
‘I will,’ Nina replies. ‘And I’m sure Rosie would love to.’
When Juliette leaves the kitchen, Max reaches over to Lars, now drying his hands on a tea towel, and shoves his shoulder.
‘It’s good to see you.’
‘You too, mate. You too. I watched The Jacks’ Tokyo tour, bits of it, online. Bloody brilliant. I can’t believe you’re still making music. You know, that it’s your job.’
‘Still making music,’ Max repeats.
‘It’s brilliant.’
Max feels the discomfort he always has when one of his friends talks about his work. Lars and Nina had Sophie young, in their mid-twenties; she’d been a surprise. Lars had stayed at home with Sophie while Nina pursued her career in publishing. Lars had odd jobs here and there since – in retail, hospitality, he did carpentry every now and then, but he never charged enough and took too long getting it absolutely perfect so he was always late completing jobs. Nina’s work took her away too, to book fairs or festivals; it was easier for Lars to be at home. Still, his eyes shine when he talks to Max about his music, his work. Max’s world is so set apart that it makes Max feel both great and terrible at once. Better than them sometimes, it’s true, but alien too.
‘How is life with you two?’ he asks.
‘Three,’ Nina says. ‘We have a teenager,’ she reminds him. ‘She takes up a lot of emotional space.’
‘Where is Sophie?’ Max asks.
‘Probably still sleeping.’
‘Probably out taking photographs, more like,’ Lars says. ‘We bought her a camera.’
‘Thought it might make her more sociable,’ adds Nina. ‘Give her a hobby she could talk about.’
‘She talks,’ Lars mutters.
‘She’s obsessed with that thing.’
‘She takes really good pictures. You have to see them, Max. Even Rosie agrees.’
‘Pictures of dead things,’ Nina says.
‘Dead things?’
‘Yeah, rats rotting in the gutter, birds. She wants us to buy her a cow skull for her birthday.’
‘I think it’s an antelope. Something with those horn things …’ Lars says.
‘She likes macabre stuff. She’s “dark”.’ Nina uses her index fingers to make quote marks.
‘Wasn’t her mummy into Siouxsie and the Banshees at her age?’ Max teases.
‘Yeah! That’s rig
ht,’ says Lars.
‘Oh, stop it. They weren’t that dark,’ Nina scoffs.
‘They were. You said your mum used to have a fit. The makeup you wore … the hair …’
Both Lars and Max are laughing.
‘Okay, okay, settle down. I wasn’t asking for skulls and taking snaps of dead rats,’ Nina scowls.
Max can only imagine the intimidating, indomitable force Nina must be at work. She’s not backwards in coming forwards. She has gravitas. It’s no wonder Lars acts as though everything is gonna be alright; with Nina around it will be. She’d make sure of it. The secret is that Nina is soft and loving underneath it all: the intelligence, the wit, the drive, and the sarcasm.
Lars smiles at Max. ‘Sophie’s a good girl, really, mate. Stubborn as her mum and a bit of a creative, I guess. She’s even been talking about Camberwell, can you imagine? We’re really lucky.’
Nina looks down at her hands against the bench top.
Max notices the light spilling in from the kitchen window. He rarely spends much time in the kitchen, it’s Juliette’s domain. Now he notices it’s the prettiest light in the whole house. Gentle and dappled as it falls through the leaves of the linden tree. Out on the lawn he notices a couple leaning against each other, holding hands. The woman is wearing floral-patterned shorts and a white sleeveless blouse with tan sandals. Her thick red hair is tied up with a silk scarf. The man scratches the back of his head.
‘Eddie. There’s the bugger,’ Max says. Lars and Nina follow his gaze. ‘Is that his American girl?’
‘Girl …’ Nina tuts.
‘Had her tits out yesterday,’ Lars adds.
‘Huh. Is that right?’
‘It’s France. Women go topless in France,’ Nina says.
‘Are you going to go topless, Mumma Bear? Get the jugs out?’ Max asks with a laugh.
A French Wedding Page 8
