A French Wedding (13 page)

‘God, Max is lucky,' Helen says with a sigh. She leans back against the counter, crosses one slender ankle over the other and blows back the dark hair that has fallen over her face.

‘Yes, he is,' Juliette agrees.

Call up your friends, dilly dilly

Set them to work

Some to the plough, dilly dilly

Some to the fork …

Chapter 8

Max

M
ax presses his toes into the sand, pushing through the powdery layer to the cool, resistant sand beneath it. This is no tropical beach. Max has been to many of those in his travels.
M
ango lassi drinks, the sound of crickets, seawater as warm as a bath. Frank, lead singer of The Jacks, actually owned an island in the Bahamas. Like he is Richard Branson. Arrogant son of a bitch, Frank, but a charismatic frontman. Looked the part in his stovepipe jeans too. Long and thin, twitching over the stage like a spider.

Douarnenez is not the Bahamas. Not an island Frank has given a name that in Sanskrit means Hope or Freedom or some bullshit. Here, the wind glances off the ocean with a bracing chill, the seagulls hover and flap like sheets on a line. The sky is flat and grey and impassive. Max loves it. It feels a bit like England but it isn't. Which is perfect for Max.

Max made Paris his permanent address almost a decade ago. He hadn't meant to, exactly, but their accountant suggested they should spend less time in Britain if they didn't want to lose half their income in tax. A couple of the guys based themselves in the States; Frank had an address in Bangkok, as his wife is Thai; Max wound up in Paris. He considered New York, of course, but he hadn't come up with his Grand Plan then. He had been busy enacting the Plan Before the Grand Plan; which mostly involved cocaine and French women.

Helen should be on this beach with him. Cold in her thin dress so Max has to wrap his arm around her. Sharing a cigarette the way they shared joints in college – passing it between them without a word. Having her nestle into him, look up at him, that sweet, slightly crossed-over tooth, the hair that smells both lemony-clean and smoky. Max tries not to sulk. Nothing worse than a man sulking. Makes him look like a big baby. His father taught him that.

Max looks up from his feet in the sand and notices that the others, bar Rosie and Hugo, are far ahead of him. Sophie is picking something up from the sand; Soleil has let down her snake-hair and is walking alone. Eddie is holding Beth's hand. Beth laughs and bumps against his side. She is about the same size as Rosie. Max still remembers when it was Rosie walking with Eddie. Rosie + Eddie, Lars + Nina, those were the equations of that time. They were the pillars. The two x two that had made things solid. They had made love seem possible, desirable even. Max glances at Rosie and Hugo, closer to him now. How strange it is that Rosie is with someone else, has had children with someone else. Especially when that someone else is Hugo.

Rosie and Hugo dawdle and the wind blows their conversation over to Max. Their backs are to him and they're too engrossed to notice anyway. Hugo's hands are jammed in his pockets and Rosie walks with her head down and arms crossed.

‘You keep leaving me with your friends,' Hugo complains.

‘When?'

‘At lunch, for starters.'

‘Weren't you talking to Eddie?'

‘He didn't know where Madagascar was.'

‘Why were you talking about Madagascar?'

‘That's not the point.'

‘I'm not sure I know where Madagascar is,' Rosie admits.

Hugo cringes. ‘Jesus, don't say that, Rosie. You know where Madagascar is.'

‘Not really. Is it near Africa?'

Hugo gives a sigh. ‘Yes.'

‘You're too hard on everyone,' Rosie says. ‘Who cares if he doesn't know where Madagascar is?'

‘It's basic geography.'

Max resists the urge to interrupt. He wants to stick up for Eddie, and Rosie too. Rosie hates confrontation; it's a well-known fact. She is the good girl, the stickler.

‘It's not the measure of a good person, Hugo, whether they adequately know their geography,' Rosie says curtly.

‘It's
basic
geography.'

‘So?'

Max glances up to see Rosie roll her eyes. She looks worn out. Poor Rosie. She really should have stuck with Eddie. Eddie might be a bit thick about some things but he isn't a twat.

‘Not knowing where Madagascar is doesn't make Eddie a bad person. You're acting as though he's been convicted of something.'

‘Yes, well …'

‘That's enough,' Rosie warns.

‘I didn't realise there was a quota on marital discussion.'

They stop and Max pauses too. He has heard too much. But he can't stop listening now. And if Hugo lays a hand on Rosie he will have an excuse to punch his lights out. The thought is satisfying. Hugo pushes at a rock in the sand with the toe of his shoe.

‘For God's sake, Hugo,' Rosie says hotly, starting to walk again.

Hugo catches her arm. ‘Rosie.'

Max opens his mouth but Rosie gets in before he does. ‘What?' she shouts.

This is not the Rosie that Max knows. This is Rosie after years of being married to a person like Hugo. Max stays close, watching and waiting.

‘Don't speak to me like that.'

‘I'll speak however I want!' Rosie snaps. ‘Stop being such a prick to my friends.'

‘What has got into you?'

‘You don't like my friends, Hugo? Fine. But don't ruin my time with them. I
want
to be here. I
want
to be here with
them
. I don't care if Eddie knows where Madagascar is –'

‘Rosie.' Low, warning.

She continues, ‘I don't care if he knows where his fucking elbow is. He's my friend, Hugo. I
like
these people.'

‘Well, that's clear,' Hugo spits. He drops her arm. ‘I've always come second to these people, right from the start.'

Rosie stares. ‘You are being
ridiculous
!'

‘You've always chosen them.'

‘Are you kidding?' Rosie jabs her finger at her husband's chest. ‘I chose
you
for the last two decades! It's all been about
you
. Hugo fucking Winstall. Orthopaedic surgeon. King of the fucking jungle.'

‘I put bread on the table!' Hugo yells, his face pink.

‘You put
nothing
on the table. You never set the table, never cooked the food for the table, were barely ever home for dinner … One time I bought a new table and you didn't notice for six months. Six months!'

A breeze lifts Rosie's hair and flicks it across her face. Max is frozen, watching.

‘Don't you dare blame my job. My job provided for us. My job got us the house you wanted, it pays for our sons' educations. We wouldn't have been able to have Patrick without my job. Don't act like you didn't want any of it. You wanted it all. You wanted to stay at home, you wanted three kids …'

Rosie throws her arms up into the wind. ‘It
always
comes to this!
You wanted this, Rosie.
Like that makes it okay for you to be a total cunt –'

Hearing Rosie say ‘cunt' makes Max feel both exalted and a little ill.

‘Jesus, Rosie!'

Hugo shakes his head as though Rosie has let him down. As though she's an embarrassment.

‘I gave you everything. Everything you ever wanted. You treat me like some … some …
boil
, some virus, like you don't want to get close …'

‘Oh, Hugo.' Rosie looks up to the sky. ‘Is this the “why don't we have sex?” conversation? Really? Again?'

‘You ignore me!'

‘I'm
exhausted
,' Rosie replies. ‘I give everything I have to the boys. I'm making dinner and cleaning the house, doing the school runs, worrying about whether Henry has his football boots … I have nothing left, Hugo!'

‘You have enough for Fleet.'

‘Don't.'

‘Our marriage is less important than Fleet. Can't you see that?'

Rosie cuts him off, raising her index finger. ‘It's the only thing. The
only
thing. That is mine. Don't –'

‘So you'd rather give up –'

‘Don't!' Rosie screams.

Hugo keeps shaking his head and then looking at the ocean and down at his feet and back up again. ‘So where do I fit? Huh? Where do I fit, Rosie?'

Rosie rubs her forehead. ‘Hugo –'

‘Where am
I on the list? There's the boys, okay, there's Fleet …' He is checking them off on his long, surgeon's fingers. ‘Where am
I? Huh? Oh, and we can't forget to add Nina to the list …'

Rosie shoots him a murderous look. Hugo carries on regardless. ‘You talk to her almost every day, don't you? That's a whole lot more than I get. I get told to remember to put the rubbish out and pay for school uniforms. The fucking rubbish … the fucking bills! Nina gets more of you than I do; your
husband
.'

‘You are not going to bring Nina into this, Hugo.'

‘Why not? She's on the priority list well ahead of me. You have lunch, what, at least once a week? That's more dates than you have with the person you said
vows
to.'

Rosie shakes her head. Max has never seen her so mad. She stops and glances back towards the house and when she does she sees Max. Her face is pale and brimming with rage. Max shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be listening. But Rosie quickly looks past him and down the beach. She starts walking in the direction of the house.

‘Rosie …' Max murmurs.

Her gaze is flat.

‘Are you okay?'

She points her finger at him. ‘You got it right, Max. Don't get married. Don't
ever
get married. It's a joke.'

‘I –'

‘A fucking
con
.'

‘Rosie?'

But Rosie is walking fast. Both Max and Hugo stare at her.

‘Nina is my best friend, Hugo!' Rosie shouts over her shoulder, voice close to tears.

‘Don't you walk away. Stop!' Hugo demands.

But she doesn't. And despite his posh, booming voice, his education and his arrogance, Hugo looks as though he wants to throw himself in front of her like kids do when they want something. Milk, a piece of toast, a favourite toy.
Stop. Notice me. Stop.
Hugo looks pathetic.

Max walks past him, towards the others, and neither man says anything to the other.

*

Max takes in a big mouthful of cold sea air, the mineral taste hitting the back of his throat. Rosie's words ricochet around his head.
Don't get married! Don't ever get married!
Max stares ahead, where Sophie is picking something out of the sand.

When Sophie looks up at Max he is reminded of the girl on her fifth birthday. Nina had sent him invitations to all of Sophie's birthday parties. Her first one, held at Nina's parents' house; her second, a picnic in Hyde Park; her third, pirate-themed; her fourth, a pink invite with a fairy stamped on the back of the envelope. He had finally made it to her fifth. He'd had a break in his touring schedule and it was July, the month for leaving Paris. He came direct from a tour in the States, buying a teddy bear at LAX. He felt stupid carrying it on the plane but there was no room in his carry-on luggage, as he'd jammed clothes and toiletries in there so he could send his other luggage on with their manager. He had been hungover when he'd decided to shift his flight to London instead of Paris but he slept the entire flight and by the time he wolfed down a prawn sandwich from the airport Boots store, he was feeling pretty refreshed.

Sophie had liked the teddy bear. She was probably too big for teddy bears by then but didn't say so. Everyone was pleased to see him. Helen hadn't been there, but Nina and Lars and Rosie and Eddie were. They felt like family. They felt like home. Max hadn't realised he'd been needing that.

Sophie's expression now is equal parts hopeful and careful. Wondering if she can trust him, never quite making up her mind. It's a disconcerting look for Max. He is used to adoration, even used to disdain, he could usually turn that around, but Sophie's girl-face seems to unstitch the very fibres in him. He doesn't need any help with that after witnessing Rosie and Hugo's argument.

‘What are you collecting?' Max asks.

Sophie opens her hand and shows him. Shells, a crab pincer, desiccated seaweed.

‘Cool,' he says dumbly.

Max could turn around now and head back to the house but Hugo is in that direction and Max does not want to talk to him. Eddie and Beth are sitting on a dune, kissing. Max is not about to interrupt that. Eddie is an ugly kisser, Max observes, disconcertedly.

‘Were they fighting?' Sophie asks. She nods towards Hugo. Rosie has already vanished down the path that leads back to the house.

Max wonders if he should lie. The rules of talking to children are never clear to him. He was told not to lie, at school for example, but he got lied to all the time. Your mum'll come back. Your old man loves you, ya know. You're gonna be alright. ‘Ah, yeah.'

Sophie seems unmoved. She plucks a small white shell from the sand. It is a perfect, almost transparent spiral.

‘Do they do that a lot?' Max asks.

Sophie nods. She's not looking at Max, but down at the shell. ‘All the time.'

Further down the beach Soleil is gazing out over the water. Her hair is flying back in those thick tendrils. She sees him and lifts a hand in a wave. Max waves back. She looks back out over the water.

‘I don't know why anyone gets married,' Sophie mutters, as though she heard Rosie's advice.