Free A French Wedding by Hannah Tunnicliffe Page B

says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Lately she has been drinking a local chouchenn , a honey wine, in the evenings, made by the beekeepers who have a stall at the market.
    â€˜Probably a good idea.’ The woman nods. ‘Some of the people I met could have done with drinking a little less tequila.’
    â€˜What took you to Mexico?’
    â€˜Work. An artist. I have a gallery,’ she says, tapping cigarette ash into a saucer. ‘He does very large-scale sculptures.’ She looks into the distance. ‘They’re beautiful pieces. He uses a lot of collected material and the colours are very vivid. His village is so small it’s barely there. They make tequila, that’s about it. Now, though, a lot of them are helping him with his art. It’s changed the place. I’ve only been twice, but the difference …’ She breaks out of her stare to glance at Juliette. Her voice is soft and deep, affected by the smoking, but not raspy. Buried in her accent, something about the way she makes vowel sounds, reminds Juliette a little of her mother’s voice. Her mother, who had laughed so easily and charmed everyone in Douarnenez despite her dreadful French.
    â€˜It’s really quiet here. New York is never like this. There’s always noise.’
    â€˜Paris is like that too. I’m from here but I lived in Paris,’ Juliette says. Juliette thinks of the apartment near Rue de Mouffetard with windows that open out to the street and the constant noise – day and night. Pigeons arguing, lovers drunk and shouting, motorbikes, laughter, high-heeled footfalls, delicate autumn rain. Someone else lives there now.
    The woman is still. ‘Did it take you a while to get used to …’
    Juliette notices the tinge of fear in her voice. ‘It can feel lonely at first,’ she replies. The woman nods slowly. She is not just a beautiful woman, she is a girl too. With fears barely below the surface. Juliette understands why Max is in love with her.
    â€˜I’m Juliette. I work for Max.’
    â€˜I’m Helen.’
    Juliette takes the hand Helen extends, as she is now used to doing, and finds it to be cold and smooth, not unlike the satin of an oyster shell, not unlike Jean-Paul’s skin had been, in his softest places.
    â€˜Juliette,’ Helen says, softly. ‘Max has told me all about you … Was I the last to arrive?’
    â€˜Yes. I can make you something to eat, if you like. You’ve come from New York?’
    Helen straightens and stretches. ‘Yes, I hired a car at Charles de Gaulle. But no, don’t make me anything, I’m not hungry. I ate on the plane.’ She picks up the tequila and drinks from the neck, not spluttering as Juliette had.
    â€˜Did the rest of them treat you well?’
    â€˜Oh, yes –’
    â€˜Even Hugo?’ Helen raises one eyebrow.
    â€˜Yes,’ Juliette says, politely. ‘Everyone is very nice.’
    Helen grins, crossover teeth showing. ‘They are, aren’t they? I wish I’d got here earlier. We haven’t been together like this for a long time. Maybe Rosie and Hugo’s wedding … No, it can’t be that long. Max got most of us to Paris for the Disque d’or award but I think Rosie was pregnant with Patrick …’
    Helen’s soft, rolling voice is soothing. Juliette stifles a yawn.
    â€˜Sorry, I …’
    â€˜No, I should go to bed too. I’ve got to pick up my sister tomorrow morning. And you must be exhausted.’
    â€˜It has been a long day,’ Juliette admits.
    â€˜Where am I sleeping?’
    â€˜Bedroom right at the end of the hallway upstairs, past the bathrooms. Sophie is down that end too, in the studio.’
    â€˜Oh, dear little Sophie, how old is she now?’
    â€˜Fifteen, I believe.’
    â€˜Fifteen …’ Helen says, drawing breath. ‘How did that happen?’ She stands up. ‘Thanks