Juliette waits for him to leave but instead he hesitates.
‘Are you coming today? You’re invited. We weren’t sure if you …’
Juliette takes a breath. Carrou, Stephanie’s niece, had become Max’s housekeeper. She had been telling Juliette how the garden had been tidied, all the flowers in bloom, the boxes of fine champagne that had been delivered. Never married herself, Carrou was giddy with the details. A celebrant from Rennes, a jazz singer – from Paris! – chairs hired, lanterns and candles for the evening, a caterer – she would hardly have to do a thing. Just a tidy up here and there, the bathrooms and bedrooms for the guests, fresh towels, pass around a few canapés. Carrou had even bought a new dress from one of the expensive tourist shops in Locranon. Coral pink with a lace collar. Juliette had been imagining it, them, the whole morning as dawn broke and sleep evaded her. Eddie and Beth and the new baby. Sophie, older now, standing next to Etienne, who, Mari had informed her over drinks at the local bar, was madly in love with the pretty English girl he wrote to, every word painstakingly translated into English. Rosie, wearing jewellery she had made herself, looking strong, looking elegant. Carrou, to one side, in the dress the colour of flamingo feathers. Helen.
Juliette almost winces.
‘Maybe,’ she replies.
‘Come,’ Max urges.
‘We’ll see.’
Max nods, understanding, and half-turns to leave. ‘I’m sorry all the same, you know, whether you need me to be or not. I was selfish.’
‘Thank you, Max,’ she replies.
Juliette thinks about her own selfishness, about how much she wishes Helen had come instead of him. Knowing it would be a kind of torture to see her in person, rather than in the sleepy daydreams of her mornings, the half-formed imaginings she had when business was slow. Half-hoping and half-dreading that if she saw her the thoughts and fantasies would evaporate.
Juliette had last seen Helen in Musée de l’Orangerie, Juliette’s favourite museum. Inside, the haziness and colours of Monet’s huge works were soothing, the space was light and quiet and unknown to many of the tourists that flooded the other museums. It had serenity. Juliette had stood with Helen in front of one of the massive, concave paintings, staring at the pale greens, soft blues, violets. Wishing she could reach for her hand.
‘I’m not asking for anything,’ Juliette had said, calmer than she imagined she might feel. ‘I just want to be honest. I need to be honest.’
Being with Helen in that space, confessing, had felt like the times Juliette had written messages and stuffed them into bottles, casting them out to sea with her father on one of their Sunday beach walks. Both of them with their hands above their eyes, squinting at the vessel bobbing on the waves, watching till it disappeared, knowing it was unlikely to reach someone but trying all the same. Hoping, simply because there was joy in it, because there was nothing to be lost.
Juliette and Helen had walked slowly around the same gallery once, twice, Juliette lost count, with those magnificent, blurred waterlilies in the backdrop, as Juliette explained it all, just as she had promised herself in the kitchen that she would. She confessed her past and confessed her secrets. She told Helen all of it. Violette. Celine. Maman and Dad. Regrets. Sadnesses. Hopes. Desires. Helen had listened, just like a priest she had listened and when Juliette was finished, when all Juliette had wanted was to pull Helen towards her and hold her, Helen had stood at arm’s length and whispered, ‘It’s too much.’ Her voice had been shaking with tears.
As Max leaves Juliette watches him through the windows, wedding cakes in his arms, sunglasses returned to his face. She follows him until he is out of sight and then returns to the kitchen to help Xuan bring the trays of food to the counters. Juliette distracts herself with the work, making rows of buns and tarts, elevating cakes onto stands, stacking baguettes into the bread bins. Xuan chats while Juliette listens and quietly quality-checks all the goods Xuan has made, though she doesn’t really need to. When all the food is laid out Juliette stands back and assesses the display before heading out to snip herbs from the planter box for garnishing.
A woman with dark hair sits with her back to the window on the stone bench. She is wearing a plain, white silk top and narrow, light grey trousers, the same colour as Max’s suit. Her hair, loose, is much longer than it was before and wavy. She is, of course, beautiful. As beautiful as Juliette remembers. It sends a shiver through her. Juliette feels her name in her mouth, hesitating before saying it out loud.
‘Helen?’
‘I didn’t want to bother you. You looked busy.’ She gestures towards the inside of the boulangerie.
Oh.’ Juliette replies, heart racing.
‘It’s really lovely. The tiles, paint … You’ve done such a good job.’
‘Thank you,’ Juliette replies. Her throat is drying up, the words sticking. ‘Max came in,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘He seems well.’
‘Yes, he’s doing much, much better,’ Helen says, nodding. ‘He needed what happened. The charges. Rehab, of course.’ She’s speaking quickly, nervous. ‘He has taken a break from the band. Did he tell you? He is writing new songs.’
‘That’s great.’
‘You know Eddie and Beth had their baby?’
‘Sonny. Yes, I heard.’
‘And Rosie?’ Helen pauses, voice slowing. ‘Her and Hugo? No longer …’
‘Yes, I heard that too.’
Helen glances at her feet. ‘The split has been tough on her. But she has the boys. And Fleet. She will be okay.’
‘Of course,’ Juliette reassures. She looks down at the brass herb scissors in her hand. Helen reaches out to her, holding a small gift. A tiny bundle of dark purple flowers, tied with a green ribbon.
‘I haven’t stopped thinking about what you told me in Paris,’ she says softly. ‘Will you sit with me for a moment?’
Juliette lowers herself onto the bench. Helen breathes in deeply, the ivy leaves behind her shimmying in the breeze. ‘Do you remember when you told me about Tristan and Iseult? In the kitchen that day?’
Juliette nods.
‘When I got back to New York I bought a book about the legend and read it I don’t know how many times. I guess I kept hoping it might end differently.’
Juliette thinks of the book she still keeps in the room her mother and father used to share. It is her room now. With new paint and a new bed, new bed linen.
Helen shifts and straightens. ‘I said tragedies are the stories that stick, remember that? And that I had never seen it … happily ever after.’
‘I remember,’ Juliette murmurs, looking away from her. It is enough to be this close to Helen, to see the skin of her legs below her trousers and before her shoes, patent ballet flats, to sense the warmth of her body right there, and the movement of her hair out of the corner of her eye.
‘I’m still not sure it is for me. I don’t know if it is possible. Or if I deserve it.’
Juliette looks at her then. Helen’s eyes are round and dark. She reaches out and takes Juliette’s hand in hers. Her skin is soft and cool, her fingers lacing with Juliette’s easily, like they’d been made to do so. ‘But I’d like to try.’
‘Helen, I –’
‘I know it took me too long.’
‘It’s not that …’
‘Juliette, I’ve thought about it a lot. There is no King Mark, no curse or poisoned arrows. Nothing to befall us unless we ruin it ourselves.’
Juliette runs her thumb along the side of Helen’s hand. She marvels at the way her skin feels and at the combination of peace and buzzing, racing joy she feels flooding her chest.
‘I know it might hurt.’ Helen whispers. ‘But I’m not going to change my mind.’ Juliette nods.
‘Please come to the wedding,’ Helen urges, gently squeezing Juliette’s fingers. ‘Nina looks so beautiful, you have to see her
. So well. She wants you there and Lars does too. Sophie, Rosie … All of us, Juliette, truly. It wouldn’t be the same without you. That weekend changed us all.’
Juliette knows it did, she had felt it too. An unravelling that meant rearranging herself, her life, in a whole new way. Weaving the threads back together differently. It had been that way for all of them. There was no unbinding them now.
‘Please?’ Helen’s voice is light and sweet, Juliette meets her gaze again. ‘With me?’ she adds.
‘Okay.’ Juliette whispers.
Helen shifts closer and places her head against Juliette’s shoulder. She exhales like a weight has lifted. Juliette looks down at Helen’s face, her lips soft, her hand still tightly wrapped around hers. Like a gull stretching out to ride the invisible currents in the air, trust in its pointed wings, Juliette feels hope broaden and open her heart. She looks up for a brief moment at the pale, cloud-veiled spring sky and smiles.
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly
Lavender’s green.
When you are king, dilly dilly
I shall be queen
Who told you so, dilly dilly
’Twas my own heart, dilly dilly
That told me so.
Lars Johnsson and Nina Wright, together with their daughter, Sophie, warmly welcome you to their wedding
Processional song: ‘Landslide’ by Fleetwood Mac, performed by Claudine Moreau (singer) and Etienne Reynauld (violin)
Reading: ‘i carry your heart’ by e.e. Cummings, read by Rosie O’Connor
Recessional song: ‘Wonder’ written and performed by Max Dresner
Every thing you gave me, saved
Every word, every gesture
Is a treasure,
Lock of baby’s hair
A wisp, a curl
A thing no longer
Makes you wonder –
What a wonder
To wish you well
To wish you better
To be better too –
What is left
After the notes have faded
A Nothing Something
Riches of Nothing Somethings.
A wisp, a curl
A thing no longer
Makes you wonder –
What a wonder
To wish you well
To wish you better
To be better too –
Join us for eating, drinking, dancing and laughing after the ceremony. Take your shoes off. Let your hair down. Stay as long as you like.
Thank you for sharing this day with us and the days before and the ones that will come after.
With all our love
Acknowledgements
As always I am indebted to a great many people for their contribution, kindness and support, without which this book simply would not exist.
So much love and gratitude to: Veronique Guilloteau, Sid and Monique Nedjar, Agnes and Claude Francois, Marie Chesneau, Mahé Correlleur and the people of Douarnenez, Brittany for sharing their magnificent country and language with me; the dedicated teams at Inkwell Management and Pan Macmillan Australia including Alexandra Craig, Catherine Drayton, Emma Rafferty, Mathilda Imlah, Clare Keighery, and Karen McKenzie for essential, often invisible hard work; Brianne Collins, Elizabeth Ireland, Ria Voros, Glenys Tunnicliffe, Kendall Stewart and Lucie Geappen for reading drafts and providing tireless encouragement; Alayna Wilton and Sam and Jo Hallinan for research assistance; and Moana Salmon, Tunnicliffes, Ballestys, Wattses, Olds, Stewarts, all the friends and family who make up the very best team of cheerleaders a person could wish for. Plus, a huge serving of appreciation and adoration to my girls: Wren, Noa and Bonnie, who save me from too much selfishness, solemnity, overthinking and going to the bathroom without company; and my guy: Matt, comic, enthusiast, protector, co-ringleader of this crazy circus and true love. Life is a beautiful, madcap adventure with you four to share it with.
Finally, this book is dedicated to my parents: Robert and Glenys Tunnicliffe, for reading and telling my siblings and me so many stories and, most importantly, giving us the love and courage to write our own. Merci mille fois.
About Hannah Tunnicliffe
Hannah Tunnicliffe is the author of two previous novels, The Colour of Tea and Season of Salt and Honey. She is founder and co-author of the blog ‘Fork and Fiction’, which explores her twin loves – books and food. Although a self-confessed nomad, she currently lives in New Zealand with her husband and daughters.
Also by Hannah Tunnicliffe
The Colour of Tea
Season of Salt and Honey
First published 2016 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Hannah Tunnicliffe 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available
from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781925479003
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group
Cover image: Trevillion Images; Getty
Cover design: Emily O’Neill
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
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