A French Wedding by Hannah Tunnicliffe

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.
    â€˜Happy birthday, Max.’
    Both Nina and Rosie wheel around, and Rosie squeals.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Happy birthday,’ they say, together, then laugh.
    â€˜My gorgeous, gorgeous girls,’ Max purrs, pulling them both towards him. ‘You too, Juliette, feel free to join us,’ he says, glancing over.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Never enough,’ Max says with a grin.
    â€˜Where were you?’ Nina asks. ‘We were waiting for you.’
    â€˜We called you all night,’ Rosie adds.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Exactly,’ Nina replies.
    â€˜I fed them. I promise,’ Juliette says.
    â€˜She did,’ Rosie says, nodding. ‘Food was incredible.’
    â€˜Do you want a coffee?’ Juliette asks Max.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Thanks, Nina.’
    â€˜How you feeling about the big four-oh?’
    Max restrains a grimace. ‘Fine. Good. They say forty is the new thirty.’
    â€˜Yeah, but that’s bullshit,’ Nina replies, wryly.
    Max laughs. ‘I missed you.’
    â€˜You know where I am. You just pick up the phone and call