A French Wedding

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  ‘What will you do?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Win Lotto,’ Nina replied.

  ‘Nina –’

  ‘Is Prince William too young to marry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A shame.’

  Rosie wanted to say so many things all at once – you’re not married, you don’t have enough money, Lars doesn’t have a proper job, you haven’t got a house, you are only twenty-four – but Nina interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Everything is going to be fine, Rosie.’

  Rosie watched Nina eat more salad. She was too calm. Rosie glanced at Lars. He was a bit drunk. He lolloped across the grass, like he always did, with too much legginess, as though he might tumble over at any moment. Lars was likeable, but he wasn’t someone to bank your whole life on. The same was true about Eddie and exactly the reason Rosie had broken up with him. Lars wasn’t going to look after Nina the way she should be looked after. Nina was so smart, fearless and practical. She could be a publisher one day, she could run a business. Lars, on the other hand, had no ambition. He worked at a record store. He had worked at the same record store for years. Part time through college and now full time; the pay and prospects were terrible. The manager, Bob, with the ZZ Top beard and the endless wardrobe of black t-shirts, was not going to quit until he died, probably on the shop floor. Rosie worked in retail too, for now, but it was different, she had other options. She had Hugo.

  Max waved goodbye to the girl-fan and hoisted Helen onto his back, piggybacking while he kicked the football to Eddie and Lars. His sunglasses were slipping down his nose. Max looked good these days. He kept his hair shaved short all the time now and his leather jackets were new instead of worn and faintly stinking. The rock star thing suited him. Helen’s bare feet stuck out from the bottom of her skirt, grass stained, with a silver ring on her second toe. She bounced up and down as Max raced after the ball. She laughed, with her head back and barely holding on to him.

  ‘Those two,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Those two,’ Nina agreed.

  ‘They should just get together.’

  Nina laughed. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘They seem more like brother and sister to me.’

  ‘But Max wants to sleep with her so badly you can practically smell the …’ Rosie searched for a word Hugo had used once ‘Pheromones … coming off him.’

  ‘They’re too much the same. They’d wreck it. They’d wreck each other.’ Nina frowned.

  Rosie watched as Helen finally fell back on to the grass. She laughed in big gulps as Max rolled on top of her. She slapped him away and he tumbled off the other side, onto his back. He squeezed his hand into his jeans pocket and wiggled out a packet of smokes.

  ‘Helen knows it. But she can’t let him go.’

  Rosie looked at her friend. ‘You think so? Isn’t that kind of mean?’

  Nina shrugged. ‘She loves him. In her own way.’

  Eddie and Lars continued with the football as Max and Helen lay blowing smoke into the blue sky. Eddie was holding a beer bottle. Lars kicked the ball into a group of girls and the one who’d been talking to Max threw it back. Rosie tried to imagine Hugo with them, tried to imagine Eddie, Lars and Hugo playing football together. Hugo did like football, he supported Chelsea. But somehow Rosie couldn’t envision Hugo amongst them. Hugo had been meant to come today but he was needed at the hospital. Rosie felt smug when Hugo was called away, when he was needed. He was important. He knew things. He could recite poetry. He was smart. He had his act together. Plus, he looked so good in a suit. He would look so good on their wedding day. Hugo hadn’t proposed, but he would. Rosie already knew the ring she wanted and the dress she wanted and the house she wanted with a nursery for the babies. It was all ahead of her.

  A song came on the stereo they’d brought with them and Rosie watched Lars flap his arms about. Lars’s enthusiasm sparked through his whole body, sending his limbs flailing.‘

  Yes! Turn it up, Nina!’ he called.

  Nina reached over to the stereo. Rosie snuck a glance at her stomach. It looked exactly the same. And yet there was a tiny life in there. Rosie shook her head. No money! No house! No proper job!

  ‘You okay?’ Nina asked, peering at her.

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Just say it, Rosie. You haven’t stopped frowning.’

  She wanted to know if they would get married. She wanted to know if Lars would get a proper job now. Instead she said, the truth of it all coming out in one, ‘I just don’t get it.’

  Nina sighed and leaned over, putting her head on Rosie’s shoulder, ‘I’m scared too. I am. But we’ll make it work. Somehow.’

  ‘But Lars …’

  He was fist pumping to the music now. He really did look like some kind of caricature.

  ‘I love him, Rosie.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  Eddie was joining in now; hopping about on the grass, spilling his beer. Rosie stared at him. Helen sat up, nodding in time. Max passed Helen the cigarette and laughed at the two, dancing men.

  ‘But can he give you … what you want?’

  Nina lifted her head and looked into Rosie’s face. ‘What more do I want, Rosie?’

  Chapter 15

  Max

  Max stares, his legs and feet hanging over the edge of the deck like a kid. He rubs his face. The clouds are wispy and streaky, as though painted with a dry brush, the lawn dark and thick. Juliette brings him coffee in a large bowl, dusted with chocolate powder and thick slices of hot bread with melted butter and fragrant strawberry jam. Max lifts a piece of toast to his mouth, bites and chews. Max is used to avoiding thoughts and feelings that do not serve him; that make him feel uncomfortable. The judgements of others, the unsettling sense he might be drinking too much. Thoughts of his mother, his father, his childhood. Grahame Park. All of that. There is a place, like a black hole, that he tips it all into. It’s deep and vast. It is a sinkhole. But right now last night’s memories shower him in tiny, disjointed pieces. Snake hair, Helen’s hand, grass against his face, his lips. Shame sloshes over him.

  Max watches Sophie at the edge of the garden. She has brushed her hair and put on a bit of makeup; or at least Max assumes so; it’s hard to tell from where he is. She has a dress on. Max waves. ‘Hi,’ he calls out but Sophie doesn’t reply. Beth walks from the other side of the garden towards her carrying a handful of flowers. They stand next to each other, looking out. Talking, but Max can’t hear what they are saying; they’re both too far away. Sophie looks at her bare feet.

  Women are mad. Whenever Max finds a way to understand them, off they go being stranger and more baffling than before. Like when they start wanting promises and pieces of him, tokens to show Max is theirs. Girls were always asking for things from Max’s apartment. Can I take that book? This t-shirt? Do you mind if I borrow this record? And the photo taking – her arm stretched out, holding her mobile phone, lips pushed into the side of his face. Checking out her face in the screen – the way her lips look, whether the angle gives her a double chin. Lifting the phone higher, adjusting, giggling, taking photos of the giggling too. Then, after, the messy, unravelling stuff. Max doesn’t get involved with all that. The tears and the questions. The conversations late in the night, in the dark, that go round and round. Max, already thinking about the next gig, the next place, the next drink. He isn’t cruel. At least he doesn’t think he is. They both get something out of it. Sex. A t-shirt. A selfie. A blowjob. It works out for everyone, he tries to convince himself.

  Juliette and the girls, Helen and Nina and Rosie, are setting up the outside table for brunch. Max glances over to them, trying not to look at Helen who is apologising to Juliette.

  ‘I just checked my phone; she sent a message a few minutes ago. She says she is going back to Paris.’

 
Nina is holding a fistful of cutlery. ‘Did she say why?’

  Helen shakes her head. Max turns away. Snake hair, grass.

  ‘She’s been acting kind of … erratic lately.’ Max hears Helen sigh. ‘I don’t know if that is unusual or not. I mean, we were closer when we were kids. Sorry Juliette, she won’t be here for lunch.’

  ‘It’s no problem for me,’ Juliette says.

  ‘I’m sure she will be okay,’ Rosie reassures.

  ‘She did mention a friend living in Paris …’ Helen murmurs.

  Max squeezes his eyes shut, urging the thoughts into that dark recess of his mind. Breathe. Don’t think. The sea, nearby, makes the air taste so clean and fresh he wants to drink it up all day, like a milkshake. It isn’t the same in Paris; the air is full there. Full of dust, car exhaust, hopes and worries. Max’s thoughts travel down through his body. It is a miracle it still works like it does, given the way he regularly punishes it. A miracle of blood moving through veins, oxygen in the blood, lungs expanding and falling without conscious thought. Max takes a few deep breaths and opens his eyes. Sophie and Beth have settled on the grass, Sophie cross-legged and slouching and Beth kneeling behind her. They could almost be the same age from this distance. Beth is braiding Sophie’s hair into a kind of crown, the black tips woven through. Sophie looks happier than she has been. Beth glances up at Max and Max smiles but she doesn’t return it. In fact it seems that she is frowning at him.

  Juliette lays a hand on Max’s shoulder. ‘Brunch is ready.’

  A linen tablecloth spread on the outdoor table, the corners weighted by small silver drops on clips. The glasses sparkle in the late morning light and the silverware glints like mirrors. Helen and Nina have placed fat, open roses into short vases and Rosie has rolled a sprig of rosemary into each napkin. There is a breeze against the nape of Max’s neck as he reaches out for a piece of warm bread.

  In France, Max has eaten food he could barely have imagined in England – oysters sweet and salty, periwinkles, liquorice-like fennel, soft cream cheeses with ripe fruit. For brunch today Juliette brings out steaming pots of mussels cooked with cider and herbs, local sardines and violet artichokes marinated in garlic with thin slivers of mint. Max eats furiously, trying to avoid watching Helen talking to Juliette, their heads close together.

  The mood today is electric and prickly. It reminds Max of accelerando; the drumbeat getting very slowly faster and faster. The crowd growing anxious. Feverish. Desperate. Wanting, wanting, wanting. Like it could go either way – break into the song or dissolve to nothing – everyone driven mad with the urgent hope it will go to song. Timing is everything.

  Max glances around the table. Rosie is listening to Lars tell a long story and down the end of the table Hugo is glaring at her. Nina is attempting to engage Hugo in conversation about his son, Patrick.

  ‘It’s a challenging age,’ Max hears her say.

  ‘They’re all challenging ages,’ Hugo replies, still avoiding eye contact.

  ‘They just want their mummies,’ Nina says. ‘Except Sophie, a daddy’s girl from day dot.’

  Max looks to Sophie now seated at the table. She is staring out at the garden with her mouth slightly open. Like she is waiting for someone.

  ‘I want their mummy,’ Hugo says, in a weird voice. Nina and Max glance at each other. Hugo’s expression is mutinous.

  ‘How long have you known about Eddie and Rosie?’ he asks without looking at anyone in particular. Then, loud enough for almost everyone to hear, ‘Eddie and Rosie? Fucking?’

  ‘What?’ Max asks, half laughing. He looks around the table. Sets of eyes, blinking back at him. No one else laughing. Rosie and a few others not yet listening. Beth staring.

  ‘Jesus!’ Nina hisses. She cocks her head at Sophie, who is looking at Hugo now too. Nina leans over towards Beth. ‘I’m so sorry, Beth.’ Then back to Hugo, voice lowered. ‘They’re not … fucking, Hugo. God.’

  Beth’s cheeks have turned as red as her hair. She’s blinking fast and glancing around without saying anything, trying to work it all out.

  ‘They’re not anything. Other than friends.’

  Hugo glares. ‘No? But they were.’

  ‘That was a thousand years ago, mate,’ Max protests.

  Sophie looks between the three adults. ‘What?’

  Nina shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Rosie and Eddie used to date. A long, loooong time ago.’ She tries to sound light-hearted. Max glances at Beth, who is slowly returning to a normal colour.

  ‘Oh right,’ Sophie says, shrugging. ‘That.’

  Max looks back to Hugo. He seems enraged and terrified all at once. His face is both red and pale – it seems impossible, but there it is. He throws his head back. ‘Ha! Of course you know. Everyone knows, right?’

  Rosie is looking over now. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks Nina.

  ‘Everyone knows what?’ Helen asks, narrowing her eyes at Hugo.

  ‘Eddie and Rosie. Fucking,’ Hugo replies.

  ‘Steady on …’ Max says, holding up both his hands.

  ‘Hugo!’ Rosie glares at him and then glances at Sophie.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sophie says, unfussed. ‘I already know.’

  ‘See!’ Hugo cries out.

  ‘We talked about this –’ Rosie starts.

  ‘Hey, dude, language … I don’t think …’ Lars adds, frowning.

  Hugo ignores him. Eddie holds up his palms. ‘Whoa, Hugo. Like Nina said – that was a looooooong time ago.’ He blinks at Beth before adding, ‘There’s my lady, right there, man.’

  ‘Yeah, this week,’ Hugo mutters.

  Rosie catches Beth’s eye. ‘Don’t listen to him, Beth.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t listen to me, Beth. No one else does. Join the club,’ Hugo snorts.

  ‘Hugo, please …’ Rosie begs.

  ‘Please what?’ Hugo shouts.

  Helen answers for her. ‘Stop being a despicable piece of shit.’

  Max’s breath quickens. This is exactly it – accelerando. Hugo sits up straighter in his chair. ‘Excuse me?’ he says, his face blotchy, eyes wide.

  ‘You heard. Stop bullying your wife. Stop making everything about you. We’re sick of it.’ Helen is leaning forwards in her chair now.

  ‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Hugo hisses.

  ‘Yeah?’ Helen asks, jabbing her index finger at him. ‘We know you’re making Rosie feel bad. That’s all we need to know.’ She looks at Max. ‘Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Max replies. His heart is thumping. His hands are making fists under the table. It feels good that Helen needs his back-up, that they are back on the same team.

  Please let me hit him, he thinks, please let me hit him. Feeling like he’s back in the schoolyard; in Grahame Park.

  ‘Helen …’ Nina murmurs, she is rubbing Rosie’s back.

  ‘What?’ Helen demands. ‘Helen, what?’

  ‘It’s their marriage,’ Nina says softly.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Helen cries, shaking her dark head and pointing again. ‘Hugo is an arse. He’s always been an arse.’

  Max is nodding. Let me hit him, let me hit him. He’s almost twitching in anticipation.

  ‘You know nothing about me, Helen!’ Hugo roars. ‘Or marriage. Or any kind of commitment. And you.’ Hugo points at Max as he stands. ‘Especially fucking you!’

  Max rises to standing and they eyeball each other.

  Let me hit him!

  But Hugo sinks back down into his chair. ‘Actually, I’m not going anywhere. You can fuck off, Helen.’

  ‘You can’t speak to her like that, mate,’ Max warns, jabbing at the table. ‘This is my fucking house. And my fucking birthday.’

  Helen stands now too. Max and Helen, standing together, pointing at Hugo.

  ‘Hugo, don’t you dare upset Rosie any
more! You can’t bully me. So your wife slept with Eddie, it was a lifetime ago. You don’t have a past? For fuck’s sake. Get over it.’

  ‘Please!’ Rosie suddenly cries out. ‘All of you … please!’

  ‘Any more secrets, Rosie?’ Hugo yells at her.

  ‘Hugo, man, this isn’t a big deal,’ Eddie says soothingly. ‘It was well before you were on the scene. Like Helen said, it’s in the past.’

  Hugo shakes his head. ‘It’s not in my past, Eddie. It’s here, right now, and I’m wondering what else my wife has to share with me. Things I should have known about. Reasons why she doesn’t want to sleep with me, barely looks at me anymore.’

  Nina pulls Rosie closer to her. She is sobbing hard now, Max can tell by the way her shoulders are trembling.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Max’s fingers uncurl. Hugo’s lips are quivering. He looks less threatening than he did a second ago. Max glances at Helen but she is still standing. Just in case.

  ‘I don’t think this is the place …’ Lars says, looking to Nina.

  ‘I think this has got out of hand,’ Nina agrees. She looks a little pale. ‘Perhaps we all need some time out to think. Breathe.’

  ‘Rosie?’ Hugo asks for his wife but her head is hanging. ‘Rosie?’ he tries again, now begging. ‘Talk to me. I’m your husband. Why can’t you even talk to me?’ His colour is returning to normal, his expression more wretched than angry.

  Rosie doesn’t lift her head; she leans back into Nina.

  Hugo stands up. ‘Goddamn, Rosie,’ he says sadly. ‘Why can’t you choose me? Us. For once.’ He looks around the table. ‘It’s always them. You always choose them.’

  Nina pats Rosie’s back in long, consoling strokes. She gives Hugo a funny look, a little like pity, a little like an apology. Everyone is staring at Hugo. He blinks and sways.