A French Wedding Read Online Free PDF Page B

food. He would do that if he thought it might make her stay longer. He would buy her favourite fruits, fetch a fresh loaf of bread and collect a broad, sticky wedge of kouign-amann in a brown, paper bag. He’d even buy new coffee grinds, though Juliette was the only one who drank coffee and there were three packets already in the pantry she had noticed last night. She pauses a moment and then opens the cover. On the inside is her mother’s name: Pamela Evans. Juliette peers at the name scrawled underneath, in fresher ink and an unsteady hand. A name she has never noticed written there before.
    Violette Evans.
    In a dizzying rush of memory Juliette sees her mother, at a time when her hair was dark and her skin smooth, sitting where Juliette sits now. Singing a lullaby. Crying. Pressing something to her chest. Something small and knitted. Juliette, the girl, watching from the door.
    â€˜ Maman?’
    Juliette closes the book quickly on her finger and yelps with fright when the phone in the kitchen rings at the same time. Putting the book back hastily she runs towards the sound. The phone once cream has aged to yellow. Juliette presses the receiver to her ear.
    â€˜ Bonjour? ’
    â€˜Juliette?’
    â€˜ Oui . Is that you, Dad?’
    â€˜Oh good, you’re still there.’
    Juliette feels a stab of guilt that he assumed she might have already left; escaped. In the short pause Juliette hears the sound of the rubbish trucks grumbling up the narrow lane towards the cottage. It must now be late morning.
    â€˜Where are you?’
    â€˜I’m … I’m at the hospital.’
    â€˜With Mum? Why didn’t you wake me?’
    â€˜I went early. I got a call. I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed so tired.’
    â€˜Dad. You should have –’
    â€˜Juliette?’
    The tone of her father’s voice, the urgency, does something to Juliette’s inner workings. Her breath catches in her throat. The sudden silence stretches thin and brittle, like toffee, about to shatter.
    â€˜What is it?’ Juliette whispers.
    Now Juliette hears everything. The rubbish trucks growing louder, her breath, the sounds of the hospital in the background, beyond her father’s laboured breathing, the sound of her own heart beating.
    The rubbish trucks.
    â€˜Darling …’
    Juliette drops the phone so it bounces on its cord and races down the stairs. Photographs of herself, her child self, her young self, watch as she passes, a blur of unbrushed hair and too-big t-shirt and leggings that sag at the knees. Juliette yanks at the door and bursts out onto the street. The men look at her, momentarily distracted, gloved hands gripping grey and black plastic sacks.
    â€˜ Arrête! ’
    Juliette tumbles onto her knees.
    â€˜ Pardon ?’ one asks.
    â€˜ Arrête! ’ she begs again, lifting up her palms, grazed and starting to bleed. And then in English, ‘Stop! Leave them! Leave the bags!’
    The two men glance at one another.
    â€˜It’s not rubbish!’ Juliette sobs, still in English. ‘Leave it. Please leave it.’
    The men lower the bags, placing them beside her. They stare. Juliette covers her face with her blood-flecked hands and cries.
    â€˜It’s not rubbish … It’s not rubbish …’

Friday – vendredi

Chapter 1
    Max
    H e is probably driving too fast. Too fast considering he isn’t on an AutoRoute, but he likes these back roads better. And he likes driving too fast. He likes the thrum of the engine coming up through the soles of his feet, through his legs, into his crotch. He likes gripping the steering wheel with just one hand, the wind biting the elbow of his other arm, hanging out the window. This car, slick and red as lipstick, purrs.
    Max is going to be late. The others will all be there soon, just as he had asked them to be. Waiting for him. He can see them on the lawn, staring back at his house, Juliette