The Paris Trip: A feel-good, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

CHAPTER SIX

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Eden.’ Leo’s grandmother rose in welcome, indicating a chair to her left. ‘I trust you slept well. Please, join us.’

In the centre of the dark, wood-panelled room, its ceilings so staggeringly high she imagined they must need a crane to change the lightbulbs, stood the longest breakfast table Maeve had ever seen. It could probably seat an entire football team, she thought. Maybe the opposition as well.

Not all seats were taken, though. Some stood empty or were just spaces with no chair set there. Leo, who was eating his breakfast at the far end, looked up and raised a hand in welcome, his mouth full. Beside him, a young man with purple hair and an earring gazed back at her and put down his croissant. ‘Hello,’ he said in French, studying her with undisguised curiosity, ‘so you’re our mystery guest.’

Maeve smiled, unsure if an answer was required.

Seated in the middle of the long table, two young women sat opposite each other, both glowering round at her.

One was Bernadette, Leo’s sister, whose sharp gaze took in the clothes she’d lent Maeve in the night before her mouth quirked and one brow rose steeply. The other woman was older, maybe in her mid-thirties. She had long Titian hair, with flawless skin and large glowing eyes, gold jewellery glinting at her throat and in her ears. She had a generous mouth, eyes outlined in black kohl, and wore rather too much blusher, especially for a summer’s day. Long scarlet-tipped claws drummed on the table as she looked Maeve up and down, and then transferred her glare to Leo, who ignored her.

There were also several other people at the breakfast table, none of whom she recognised from last night, except for the very old lady who had visited her in the night. Leo’s great-grandmother.

‘Bonjour,’ Maeve told them all politely, feeling very much on show. ‘Thank you for letting me stay. The bed was so comfortable. And I love the view from the window. You saved my life last night. I’m really very grateful.’

‘The bed was comfortable?’ Leo repeated, his eyebrow arched in much the same way as his sister’s. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I’m not sure any of us believe you.’

‘Leo, enough,’ Madame Rémy warned him, and smiled benignly as Maeve sat in her allotted seat. A cup was pushed towards her and filled with steaming coffee. ‘Do you take milk? But of course you do… You’re English. The English are so funny.’ Madame Rémy glanced at the wicker breakfast baskets set at intervals down the middle of the table. ‘Um, we have home-made croissants and fruit, and a selection of cold meat and cheese if you want something more substantial.’ She paused. ‘We do not do sausages, I’m afraid.’

‘Bacon and eggs,’ the young man next to Leo said in thickly accented English, adding in French, ‘That’s what the British eat for breakfast. Bacon and eggs. And “black pudding”.’ He pronounced it delicately in English, and then shuddered.

Bernadette shot the young man a disbelieving look. ‘Black… pudding? ‘ she repeated. ‘What is that?’

‘Some kind of sausage made with blood, I think,’ the young man replied in French, and they both gave cries of horror and amusement.

Over this exchange, Leo said calmly but clearly, ‘English only, please. Let’s be polite to our guest. Her French is…’ His gaze lifted and locked with Maeve’s, and his mouth twitched. ‘Minimalist,’ he finished at last, and then looked down at his plate, spearing a small piece of what looked like Camembert with his knife.

‘I’ve never eaten black pudding,’ Maeve told the assembled family, and felt herself blush as all eyes turned towards her. ‘Or bacon and eggs. At least, I don’t eat them for breakfast. Except maybe a few times a year, when I’m on holiday.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose I’m on holiday now. Though, bacon and eggs are probably a bit thin on the ground in Paris. But I do love croissants. Home-made though? Who makes them?’

Everyone pointed or looked at Bernadette.

‘They take a long time,’ Bernadette said flatly.

‘Well, I’m very impressed. I’d love to see how you make them. And whatever that sliced meat is… It looks delicious. Like, um, pink waxed paper. I shall have some with a croissant. And maybe a piece of fruit too.’ She smiled determinedly as a very elderly gentleman opposite her pushed a wooden fruit bowl in her direction. It scraped across the table in the silence. ‘Merci, monsieur.’

The old gentleman raised a shaking finger. He looked about eighty-five years old, maybe older. ‘Alphonse,’ he told her in a deep voice. ‘I am Alphonse. Pleased to meet you, Mlle Eden.’

‘Yes, quite right, Uncle Alfonse… I apologise for not introducing Mlle Eden to everyone.’ Leo pointed to each person in turn around the table. ‘Maeve, you already know my grandmother, Madame Rémy, and this is her mother, my great-grandmother, whom we all know as Nonna. And the gentleman who passed you the fruit bowl is my great-uncle Alphonse, Nonna’s brother-in-law.’

‘The others are all dead,’ Nonna muttered in French, her bright gaze on Maeve’s face. ‘All dead.’

Alfonse grimaced and nodded. ‘All dead,’ he echoed gloomily.

Maeve felt awkwardness strike and heard herself tell the old man, ‘Je suis desolée,’ meaning she was very sorry. Though for what, she wasn’t quite sure. There was no evidence any of them had died an untimely death, given his own advanced age…

Leo nodded to the young man on his left. ‘And this is my cousin, Jean. Pay no attention to him. Nobody ever does, and it’s by far the best policy.’ The young man protested, but laughing. Leo indicated his sister. ‘You met Bernadette last night. And the two young ladies to your left are Sophie and Marie, yet more of my cousins, though not on Jean’s side of the family. They’re seventeen and here on a visit from Bordeaux. We own a vineyard there.’

The two young ladies, who looked to be twin sisters, giggled and waved shyly at Maeve. They reminded her of girls at her school back in the UK, though more sun-tanned, both with long, slightly unkempt chestnut hair worn loose, in pretty summer frocks.

There was a delicate cough from the one person at the table who had not been included in this round of introductions.

Leo took a sip of his black coffee, his gaze steadily on the table. ‘And the lady with the tickly throat is Liselle. She is not related to anyone here.’

‘God, Leo, you are such a bastard,’ Liselle said in such perfectly enunciated English that it was almost impossible to detect an accent. She rose, throwing down her napkin, and stalked dramatically from the room, tossing back a wave of thick Titian hair as she did so. On her way, she flashed Maeve a dismissive look. ‘You’re welcome to him, Mademoiselle. Just don’t let him break your heart, that’s my advice.’

And with that, she left the room.

They sat in silence, listening to the click of heels on the uncarpeted stone flags as she headed out.

Maeve didn’t know what to say. But something seemed to be required, as everyone was now looking at her. Even Leo, whose gaze was steady and sardonic.

‘Oh dear,’ she said at last.

Nonna gave a low, mischievous chuckle. ‘I told you,’ she said in French, pointing at Maeve. ‘Liselle… she is finished here.’

Shaking his head, Leo got up.

Maeve looked at him nervously. ‘Are you still okay to run me to the Embassy?’

‘Of course. But enjoy your breakfast in your own time first. My study is just along the hallway. I’m sure Bernadette will point you in the right direction once you’re ready to leave.’

He left, and Maeve bit into a ripe pear, looking about the table and wishing she knew what on earth all that tension with Liselle was about.

You’re welcome to him, Mademoiselle. Just don’t let him break your heart, that’s my advice.

Could the dramatic redhead really believe she was Leo’s new lover? It seemed ridiculous, and yet…

She ought to ask Madame Rémy about it. But she would be gone soon anyway. Perhaps it was better to smile and ignore Liselle’s outburst. Yes, that would be the British thing to do.

‘Mmm, this pear is so delicious,’ she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, and turned politely to listen as Madame Rémy agreed and began enthusiastically praising the local fruit suppliers.

Another half an hour and she would be free of this chateau. And the Rémy family. And Leo’s tangled love life…

The man at the embassy was equally polite but adamant as he handed her a stack of papers to sign. ‘I’m afraid you’ll need to fill these out and come back in a week or two.’

She was aghast. ‘A week or two? But I can’t. I mean, I don’t have any money, for starters. Where am I going to stay?’

‘Didn’t you say you stayed with friends last night?’

She blushed angrily. ‘Friends is pushing it. More like bare acquaintances. And it’s one thing to beg a spare bed for a night, and quite another to throw myself on their charity for a fortnight.’

‘I quite understand.’ Mr White pursed his lips, a tall, reedy man in a dark suit, his receding hairline an unfortunate indication of early-onset baldness. ‘Well, I’m sure your bank will advance you some emergency cash.’

Since she had already made a further call to her bank Lost Card helpline, using Leo’s mobile, on the way to Chateau Rémy last night, and been told her bank balance wasn’t in the best shape for large-scale borrowing, this was a blind alley. But the bank, having already stopped her lost cards yesterday when she first reported them, had grudgingly agreed to loan her a few hundred until she could get home, via an emergency code at a cash till. But if she was to be stuck here for two more weeks, she would need far more cash than that…

‘Not enough,’ she said tightly.

‘Then I suggest you go back to your friends and ask for additional accommodation. Maybe if you were to offer to pay in kind?’

‘Sorry?’ She stared, horrified.

‘You could wash up and tidy the house in return for bed and board,’ Mr White explained mildly. ‘Just a suggestion.’

‘Oh.’

He frowned. ‘What did you think I meant?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

His eyes widened and his brows soared. ‘Oh.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Well, yes…’ He cleared his throat and shuffled his paperwork. ‘I’m very sorry about the delay. But an anomaly’s been thrown up, you see, and –’

‘A what?’

‘An anomaly.’ Mr White met her eyes frankly. ‘We found you on the system. But a red flag went up when we tried to issue you with an emergency –’

‘Red flag?’ she interrupted him, dumbfounded. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘There’s been some query over your status as a British citizen, I’m afraid. You were born here in Paris, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, and I was taken to the UK as a baby. So what? I’ve always had a British passport. Nobody’s given it a ‘red flag’ before.’

‘Well,’ he said delicately, ‘it seems your UK citizenship may have been issued in error.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We’re investigating the issue. No need to get worried. It will probably turn out to be a mere formality. These things sometimes do.’

‘Only sometimes?’

He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at the clock on the wall. ‘Leave it with me and we’ll get back to you. We’ll need your contact details though and an assurance that someone can vouch for your whereabouts while this is resolved.’

‘Are you joking?’

Mr White grimaced. ‘I wish I was. But the French don’t take kindly to foreign nationals without passports wandering the country freely. Your friends from last night… Will they agree to house you?’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps you could phone them?’

‘My phone was stolen. Along with everything I had. I told you all this.’ She had tears in her eyes and was choked up. ‘Oh, this is… intolerable.’

He watched her for a moment, looking conflicted, and then pulled some tissues out of the box on the table and handed them across to her with the weary air of someone who’d done the same thing a thousand times. She wondered how many other people had sat where she was sitting and been flatly told no, you can’t go home.

‘Here, please don’t be upset.’ He hovered, frowning. ‘Do you have a number for these people?’

‘Rémy. Their surname is Rémy.’

‘I can ring them if you like.’

‘Do we really have to do this? I mean, two whole weeks? Isn’t there a way to resolve this more quickly?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Reluctantly, she fumbled for Leo’s number, still in her pocket, and passed it to him. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I’m a British citizen. I have documents in my name. I rent a flat. I… I had a British father, for God’s sake. Though he’s passed away now.’ She blew her nose, watching as Mr White punched Leo’s number into his phone. ‘Could you at least try to contact my father’s family to confirm it? I may have some cousins somewhere…’

Oh, why hadn’t she made more of an effort to keep in touch with her father’s side of the family?

‘It’s not that simple,’ Mr White muttered, but did not elaborate further, as Leo had answered at the other end.

A swift and brief conversation in French followed, ending abruptly. Mr White shrugged and put down the phone.

Maeve stared at him. ‘Well?’

‘Monsieur Rémy has agreed to put you up while we sort this out and to vouch for your whereabouts. He’s on his way back.’

‘Oh, how embarrassing.’ Mortified, she dropped her head in her hands.

Mr White waited a moment, and then said uncomfortably. ‘I have another appointment, I’m afraid. You can wait outside for Monsieur Rémy.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Someone at reception will prepare his paperwork. He’ll need to provide ID details and sign a release form before you leave.’

Stunned, Maeve forced herself up out of the chair. ‘This is really happening, isn’t it?’ But at the door, she halted beside him, stammering, ‘You’re sure you… you haven’t made a mistake? Got me confused with someone else, maybe?’

He gave her a perfunctory smile. ‘Good luck, Miss Eden.’ He shook her hand. ‘Hope springs eternal.’