Chapter One

Max

He is probably driving 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 country house, Juliette fetching them long, cool glasses of Pimm's with fresh garden mint stuffed in. They will be travel weary but impressed. Eddie and whoever he'd said his new girlfriend was--the American one, Betty? Nina and Lars, bless them. Their kid, though she probably wasn't a kid anymore. Hot Rosie and her awful husband, Hugo . . .

Helen.

Max had missed her earlier call but listened to the message. The deep, soft whir of Helen's voice, edged by the effects of cigarettes and New York, saying she was looking forward to it, that frankly she needed a break. Telling him she'd be there by nightfall and that later she'd be picking up her sister, the half sister technically, Soleil. Max found it hard to pay attention to the details. Something shifted inside him at the sound of her voice. Something uncoiled.

Max rubs his eyes. He has been touring and drinking too much. He's been operating on about five hours of sleep a night and it is no longer enough. The cocaine takes the edge off and keeps him awake, but he'll lay off it after today; he has promised himself.

Max turns the music up even louder till he feels the blood pounding in his ears and blinks away tiredness. His eyes, those strange khaki-colored eyes, the color of dark bay leaves, of swamp water, are his father's eyes. Not that he ever tells anyone that.

Helen is the only one of Max's friends who knows about his father, his family. The whole lot of it. He can count on one hand the number of people who know much about his childhood. Him and his dad, Helen--that's already three fingers. The other two are for social workers.

It never works to try not to think of something once you've started thinking about it. Max knows that from thinking about Helen every single day of his life since he can't even remember when. Actually, that isn't true. He does remember. It was summer. Helen was sitting next to Rosie on the grass in the common area outside one of the lecture blocks. She wore a long skirt hitched up to her thighs and she was laughing. Rosie's hair was white blond and cut just like Debbie Harry's on the Blondie record Max's dad owned, while Helen's was long and tangled at the back, dark as Christmas pudding, the kind other people's families ate. She wore swingy earrings that moved when she did. Her thighs were the color of cream. Max watched her for longer than was socially acceptable. She must have felt his eyes on her. He remembers her getting up and walking over, barefoot. He remembers not being able to look away and grinning like a young boy, which he never did. Especially not when he was a boy. She asked him for a light and he pulled a green plastic lighter from his pocket. "I'm Helen," she said.

Helen.

Helen.

Dear Helen.

Max has said her name in his head about ten million times since that day. He knows the texture of it in his mouth without even having to say it aloud. He knows how it would feel to call it out in the middle of lovemaking or to say it in a whisper into the pale shell of her ear, among the darkness of her hair. Max shudders. He feels himself growing harder and presses down on the accelerator.

Helen.

Max wills himself to stop thinking about her. It is stupid. It is always stupid. This is the hopelessness of trying not to think about something once you have started. His thoughts ti

HANNAH TUNNICLIFFE is the author of two previous novels, The Color of Tea and Season of Salt and Honey. She is founder and co-author of the blog Fork and Fiction, which, unsurprisingly, explores her twin loves--books and food. She currently lives in New Zealand with her husband and three daughters.