Read Online A French Wedding by Hannah Tunnicliffe - Free Book Online Page A

given up being experimental, exotic or avant-garde; it no longer appeals to her. Now she cooks as she learned to from Jean-Paul; same name as the pope and the fashion designer, though he was neither pious nor stylish. Jean-Paul had been a fisherman in his late forties when Juliette was still in her teens. Juliette’s parents had been horrified at the match, but Juliette really did adore him for a time – his age, his disregard for convention, for rules. He’d been on oceans and seen cities with names that sounded like spices. Juliette always complained that Douarnenez never changed, that it was suffocating – un filet de peche – but her mother had just laughed. ‘You’ll want that one day, Juliette. A place that never changes, that is exactly as you left it.’
    The irony was that in many ways Jean-Paul had been Douarnenez through and through. He smelled of the sea, of iodine and salt and rope, like a winter oyster, and his skin, aside from his calloused hands, was strangely soft and smooth. He was a magnificent, intuitive cook. Juliette thought of him a lot since returning to Douarnenez, even though he had died some years ago. She had learned a lot from Jean-Paul. About cooking. About herself. If she closes her eyes she can imagine herself back in his tiny, clean, galley-like kitchen. The smell of hot butter and the softening, relenting garlic; the sound of the sea and gulls calling. Juliette opens her eyes. She removes the sole from the pan and piles the fillets onto a large platter, taking them out to the group.
    The salads and grilled sardines, accompanied by pink onions and herbs, are already on the table. Juliette passes around plates.
    â€˜ Manger. Please, eat.’ She notices Eddie leans over the fish while Beth beside him holds her plate to her chest. Hugo takes two pieces of fish and Rosie chews a spear of asparagus. Juliette goes over to Beth and curls her hands over the back of her chair. She whispers, ‘It’s sole. It’s very mild. There should be no bones; I think you’ll like it.’
    Beth looks up at her, lips parted. Juliette lets go of the chair and smiles.
    â€˜Is there anything else I can get for you?’ she asks the group.
    â€˜Is there more lemon?’ Hugo asks.
    â€˜They’re right there,’ Rosie says, pointing to a bowl full of lemon cheeks.
    â€˜Oh, right,’ he mumbles.
    â€˜Anything else?’ Juliette checks.
    Heads shake. Juliette watches Beth swallow a mouthful of fish before she leaves the table. On top of the bar is the plate she made for herself. A piece of fish and some bread. It was arguably the best fillet of the lot. The one she imagines Paol Reynaud, whom she bought most of her fish from, had thrown in for free, just for her. She is almost inside when she spots a figure at the edge of the patio, in the dim light. Her pale blonde hair hangs over her back in one piece like cloth. She wears a grey sweatshirt that is much too big for her. Juliette pauses for a moment. The girl is focused on something in front of her, on the grass.
    Juliette knows not to approach a person front on, if she can help it. Another restaurant trick, perhaps, or something she observed with her father, in the way he had handled their dogs. Juliette moves slowly and lowers herself down next to the girl, but not too close.
    â€˜It’s a pretty night,’ Juliette says.
    The girl looks to the sky and nods. It is close to being a full moon, the night sky deep blue rather than black, the stars golden rather than silvery. The light has faded to grey-green at the horizon. There are no gull cries but the air is sea-scented. Juliette eats a forkful of fish.
    â€˜Have you eaten?’
    The girl’s head twitches. Now that she is closer Juliette notices that the ends of the girl’s hair are dyed black. Irregularly, as though hand-dipped, a handful at a time, into an inkpot. Her fingers, gripping the ends of her sleeves, have nails that