Eddie nods. ‘You make forty look pretty good, Max.’
‘Thanks.’ Max shifts in his chair. He hates this kind of talk. Eddie often wants to compliment Max and it makes him feel uncomfortable. ‘I’ll let you know if I change my mind about not being into blokes,’ he jokes. Eddie laughs and that shatters it. The images of Grahame Park, the faces, scattering.
Max really wants some coke.
He changes the subject. ‘You did well with her,’ he says, nodding towards the lounge, towards Beth.
‘Yeah. You said that,’ Eddie smirks. ‘Batting above my average.’
‘Hey, I call it how I see it,’ Max replies.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Eddie says ‘She’s young, she’s sexy and she’s not a nutcase. I mean, she’s actually really nice.’
‘Not many of those.’
‘We have a laugh. She gets my humour.’
‘Ah. That’s what’s wrong with her.’
Eddie grins. ‘Fuck you.’
Max raises his glass as though it is a toast.
‘’Spose you’ve got the girls on tap, eh, Max? It’s not as easy for blokes like me.’
Juliette comes into the dining room and nods at the two men. She is carrying a tray. They watch her pile it high with plates and glasses and dirty napkins before leaving.
Max is jiggling one leg. The itch-rash is still bugging him. He puts his hand against it. He turns to Eddie when Juliette is out of the room. ‘What do you think about Soleil?’
Eddie shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘She’s a bitch, right? Nina wouldn’t agree with me, but she’s a bitch.’
Eddie looks blank.
‘She told me my house was a monstrosity. Ha!’ Max’s laugh is short and bitter.
‘Well, that’s not right …’
‘And she hates The Jacks.’
‘Oh.’ Eddie considers and takes a drink. He has almost finished the glass. ‘But she’s Helen’s sister.’
‘Not really. Not technically.’
‘No, you’re right. Not technically,’ Eddie agrees.
‘She’s …’ Max tries to think of a way to explain what he means. Caustic. Venomous. ‘Nasty,’ he concludes, inadequately. Not even Hugo has bothered Max as much as Soleil over the last couple of days. Which is unusual considering how much Max dislikes Hugo.
‘I don’t know,’ Eddie says, testing. ‘I mean, she’s kind of … hot?’ He looks at Max. ‘In her own way. I mean, not my type, but you know …’
Max nods, reluctantly conceding. ‘Yeah, I know. Not my type either, but there is something.’
Eddie holds up his glass. ‘You want another drink? I’m going to get a drink.’
Max stares at his friend, now getting to his feet. Good old Eddie. Eddie had been getting Max drinks for years. Decades. They’d had some fun times. At college. Travelling around Australia together. Eddie had driven Max a bit crazy during that trip; there was such a thing as being too agreeable. But they always had fun, they always had a laugh. Not the deep and meaningful chats Max had with Helen but then guys weren’t like that. Max only ever had those kinds of conversations with Helen. She is something else, a different category.
Max knows that when Eddie is around he will have a good time. Eddie will drink with him till whatever hour, will agree to any misadventure, any hijinks. He is his wingman.
‘How about something stronger?’ Max says, before Eddie leaves the room.
Eddie hesitates. ‘I don’t know … Beth, sick … I –’
Max laughs. ‘You do like her.’
‘Yeah. I like her.’
‘Come on, mate,’ Max urges.
‘I’ve been laying off the –’
‘Eddie? Seriously?’
‘She is never sick,’ Eddie replies, uncomfortably.
Max gestures towards the lounge. ‘She’s being looked after by about a thousand people. Including Nina and Rosie and Helen and Juliette. She’s got a crew. She’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah,’ Eddie says, slowly.
‘Hey, mate …’ Max starts. He shouldn’t say it. He promised himself. Eddie is saying no, Max should leave it at that. But damn if that itch isn’t getting stronger and making him feel crazy. Feel like his father. Standing on the balcony at Grahame Park, his face pale and furious. Waiting for Max. Waiting to give Max a beating.
Max feels wrong before he says it. But he says it anyway.
‘Come on. It’s my birthday.’
*
Standing on the deck, before he lights his cigarette, Max smells kouign-amann cooking. If the scent were a colour it’d be honey, the yellow of summer afternoon sunshine, if it were a sound it’d be The National, played loud. Fuck, he feels better. He had needed to lighten up. See? That’s what Nina had said and Nina was always right.
Max hears a cough below him. Out on the grass Soleil is standing with a drink in one hand. She’s looking out, even though it’s dark and there’s nothing to see. She is a shadow, a black paper cutout, of a woman with a glass in her hand. Max feels pretty buzzed. He feels tall, ten feet tall, like he is a magician.
He walks down the steps towards her.
‘Nice night for it,’ he says, sounding old. It makes him laugh. The black paper cutout of her doesn’t turn.
‘Full moon,’ she says, lifting her glass to the sky. Max nods and offers his cigarette. Soleil takes it. It reminds Max of when Helen was that age, when they were both that age, lying in bed sharing a smoke between them.
‘Happy birthday, Max.’
‘Thanks,’ Max replies. She passes the cigarette back.
‘You can hear the sea.’
Max nods. ‘Thought you hated the place.’
‘I never said that,’ Soleil disagrees. ‘I said I don’t like what you’ve done with the house. There’s a difference.’
‘Ah.’ Max drags on the cigarette.
‘Douarnenez is nice. The sea, the garden, Juliette, the birds … I like all of that.’
Max doesn’t reply. He is looking up at the moon and studying its shadows. He can see shapes, he can see a face. A woman’s face, maybe. Soleil shifts her weight. Max passes her the cigarette again.
‘Your hair looks like snakes.’
‘Sorry?’
Max laughs. He didn’t realise he’d said it out loud. Soleil glares at him. He can’t really make out the glare in this light, but of course she is glaring. Max doesn’t care.
‘I was trying to be nice,’ Soleil mutters.
‘What’s not nice about snakes?’
Max’s body isn’t complying now. It doesn’t want to stand up straight. He falls from one leg to the other. He’s just steady enough not to fall over completely.
‘You’re wasted,’ Soleil accuses. Max laughs again.
Closer up and in the moonlight, Soleil’s skin is something to behold. Dark, shining and smooth. A conker. Unmarked. Taut. Firm and silk, both. The sequins on her dress wink and sparkle. They are little stars, they are little scales. She could be a sprite, a mermaid, a reptile. A wish, an illusion.
‘You know, if you really want to be nice …’ Max offers, ‘you could try harder.’
‘Yeah?’
Soleil’s voice is tinged with challenge.
‘Yeah,’ Max murmurs, reaching for her.
Women like that. They want to be told. They want to be shown. Led, like in a waltz. Max’s lips are on that pretty skin. It is as smooth as he thought and it tastes of something. Maybe sea salt. Maybe patchouli.
‘What are you doing?!’
Max runs his tongue across it. It tastes like something he remembers and feels like the skin of a fruit, of an apple. Cool and tender both. Makes Max want to bite in.
‘Get off me!’
Max hears but doesn’t hear at the same time. Soleil’s voice is like the m
uffled sounds of a party in another room.
Just like an apple, Max thinks, testing it with teeth. And then there is a memory of Helen that floods his brain, bright and vivid. Helen in bed, Helen laughing, Helen passing him a bottle of whiskey …
‘Get away from me, arsehole!’
Max is stumbling and falling now, his legs jelly, his will misplaced. His mouth is open when he drops down onto the grass. That’s what Max can smell now. Grass. Sweet, good grass, his face pressed into it, laughing. Then Soleil is close to him, above him. He cannot quite recall where she came from.
‘You fuckwit. You fucking … fuckwit.’ Soleil is so close to Max’s face he can feel the spray of her words.
‘What’s your fucking problem?’ Max says, the words coming out in a jumble. Soleil upends her glass, all over Max’s head. Max feels the wetness and then the bitter, quinine taste dripping down his lips. He wipes it away from his eyes. He cannot see properly. It’s too dark. But there are stars, coming closer.
‘I’m not stupid, fuckwit. I see the way you look at my sister.’
Max blinks, still unseeing.
‘I know you think you love her. Everyone knows. Well, guess what? You are never, ever, going to be good enough for her. Think you’re some big shot rock star? You are nothing. Nothing.’
Max feels his father’s voice in his head. Like smashing saucepan lids together. Hard and metal and mean. Nothing. You are nothing. Max reaches out for the stars, swipes at them and finds an arm. He pulls it towards him.
‘Fuck you, arsehole.’
He growls, reaching out with the other arm and belting whoever is at the end of it. He hears a groan before he falls back down again, off balance. There is movement against the grass. Footfalls. He opens one eye to see two figures on the deck. Someone made of stars and someone else reaching out for her as she runs past.
Max presses his head against the soft blades of grass, breathing in their damp greenness. All he needs is a nap. That always does the trick. As for his father, he had it coming. That’ll teach him, Max thinks, that’ll teach the fuckwit.
*
‘Max?’
Someone is gently pressing his shoulder.
‘Max?’
Max lifts his head. Someone helps him roll over.
‘Merde.’ The person swears, now trying to sit him up.
‘Hey Juliette.’
‘I was looking for you. The others thought you had gone to bed. What are you doing out here?’
‘I came …’ Max rubs his face, trying to remember, ‘I came for a smoke.’
Juliette helps Max to his feet.
‘Let’s get you inside.’ Juliette slings Max’s arm over her shoulder and they hobble together up the deck stairs. Juliette is strong and steady, despite her size.
‘Juliette, you are a gem.’
‘Thank you, Max,’ she says, distracted and huffing.
They get up the stairs and into the house. Max stands on his own while Juliette shuts the doors. It’s much warmer inside. Max steadies himself. Juliette goes to the kitchen and when she returns she is holding a cup of coffee and a piece of baguette, stuffed with ham and cheese.
‘Have this,’ she instructs. ‘It will sober you up.’
Max nods and backs into a chair. Juliette puts the coffee and food on a small side table. Max reaches for the coffee.
‘Food first,’ Juliette says. ‘The coffee is too hot.’
Max does as he is told. He is still unsure of the day, of the time, but he’s always found it best to let the details come to him. No need to kill the buzz too soon looking for things to feel guilty about.
‘Is it still my birthday?’ Max asks, chewing on his sandwich. Juliette has spread it quickly with mustard. It tingles his nostrils. Juliette checks her watch and shakes her head.
‘A few hours past, I’m afraid.’
‘So I am officially forty.’
‘Officially,’ Juliette says. She is watching him carefully. The sandwich is making Max feel better. They sit in silence for a few minutes while Max chews through it. Juliette passes him the coffee when he is finished. Max sips it slowly.
‘Did you have a good birthday?’
Max nods. Though he can’t quite remember most of it. That will come later. He’ll sleep it off and then remember things tomorrow. Max gives Juliette a thumbs-up. ‘All to plan, my friend. Thank you.’
Juliette blinks and frowns. ‘About that … I have a confession.’
Max feels a pinch of day-after guilt. It’s too early, or late, for confessing.
‘I burned the kouign-amann.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sorry, Max.’
Max puts his coffee against his knee and laughs. ‘Is that all?’
‘I got talking to Helen. I’ve never burned kouign-amann before.’
Max waves his free hand. ‘Shit, Juliette, I thought it was going to be something serious; someone hurt or something. It’s cool, mate. It’s just cake, right?’
‘Oui,’ Juliette replies, looking strangely guilty. Max reaches out to pat her shoulder. He can feel the food in his belly, the caffeine slowly working through his blood stream. He passes Juliette his empty mug.
‘I know what Helen is like. The girl can talk.’
Helen is now back on Max’s mind. Helen laughing. Helen tipping an oyster into her mouth. Helen giving him something. A pot plant. Helen. Helen. Helen. Her name thumps in Max’s head like a heartbeat. He stands quickly.
‘Are you okay? To get to bed?’ Juliette asks.
Helen’s head against his shoulder. Helen smoking in bed with him. Helen the first time he saw her. Her lean frame, her dark hair like a cloud behind her. The thick eyebrows, the smile, the long, pale fingers wrapped with his. Max remembers the ring box.
‘Max?’
But he is already going. Up the stairs, to his room, to get what is meant for the girl who told him ‘later’.
*
With every step Max sees Helen in all her incarnations: the girl in the park that day he first met her, at a bar buying beer, her legs in the air that time she fell off a wall and into sand and the rich laughter that followed, her fingers around a wineglass, her lips around a cigarette; Helen in heels at an exhibition opening, the way everyone in a room turns when she enters it, the way she holds her shoulders, the roll of her walk; Helen reaching for one of her friends, the way she closes her eyes when she hugs someone, the way she rests her head on Max’s shoulder, how when she laughs so hard she loses her laugh altogether and makes those funny wheezy noises, one hand pressed to her chest. Helen, drunk, on the bathroom floor, giggling. Helen on the trampoline Lars and Nina bought for Sophie when she was small. Hair and blouse flying. Helen smiling at him. Helen.
Her room is black but Max finds the bed. He sits on the edge and then rolls on to his back, beside her.
‘Max?’ she says. In the kind of voice that Max wants to wake up to every morning. Soft, a little raspy, full of love.
‘Helen.’
‘It’s only a number, Max. I know you’ve been feeling strange.’
‘It’s not that –’
‘I’ve been feeling strange about it too …’ Helen’s voice is sleepy. ‘We’re all getting older. It makes you think. What am I doing … what do I want …’
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘It’s going to be okay. You know that, don’t you? We’ll be okay.’
‘Yes,’ Max says. ‘We will be okay.’
Max hears Helen’s hand patting the sheets by his face. He grasps it.
She turns to him. ‘Do you want to turn on the light?’
‘No.’
‘Are you alright?’
Helen brushes the side of his face with her free hand. Max takes a full breath.
This is it.
‘Helen, I love you.’
Her fingers on his face. ‘Oh Max, I love you too.’
Max’s chest tightens. In the dark, without being able to see her, Max hears her voice so clearly. It describes more than she says, but not as much as he wants to hear. He must go on. No matter what.
He feels a bit woozy. Still drunk. Max squeezes his eyes shut, though there is no light, and forces himself to continue. This is later. Later is now.
‘Not like that, Helen. Like this.’
He finds her hand, gently opens the fingers and places the ring box in her palm.
There is a silence.
‘Max?’
‘I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you, Helen. I love everything about you. Every good thing, every tiny flaw, everything. There is no one I love more.’
‘Max …’ Her voice is thin and delicate, like tissue paper.
‘No one, Helen. You’re it. You are my family. You’re all I have. You’re the only one I want.’
Max finds her face in the dark and strokes her cheek with his finger. Beautiful Helen.
‘I want to wake up with you, Helen. I want to go to sleep next to you. I want to share it all. Everything.’
Please. Be mine.
Max finds Helen’s lips. He runs his fingertips over them. He leans towards her. To feel those lips against his.
‘Max.’
The weight of the word. It is solid. It is an anchor.
‘Max.’
It cleaves a space between them.
‘I …’
This is not happening.
‘No. I’m sorry,’ she falters. ‘I can’t.’
Sunday – dimanche
Chapter 13
Max
The sunlight slaps Max’s face. He squints. The beach rolls away from him like a page, makes him feel as though he is in the centre of things and at risk of tumbling and being closed up; both at once. He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again but the glare is worse. A long, white beach, the air throbbing with heat, panting like its own kind of beast and Max, half dressed, on his back and sweltering. He sits up and hugs his knees to him, feeling the grains of sand press into his skin like little diamond chips. This is not Douarnenez.
A French Wedding Page 19
