CHAPTER SEVEN
‘You have to let me do something in return for your hospitality,’ Maeve insisted. ‘I’m not a brilliant cook, but I’m willing to help out in the kitchen. Or wash up. Or do the laundry. Whatever you need, really.’
She was sitting in the inner courtyard of Chateau Rémy, sheltering under a striped umbrella from the blazing summer sun. At the table sat Madame Rémy and Nonna, while Bernadette, a few feet away, was down on a kneeler, tending to the plants growing in urns around the courtyard. It was a little oasis of peace in the centre of a busy city. Every now and then she would hear a car horn or sounds of raised voices from the streets below. Yet here in the courtyard it was peaceful, somehow apart from the busy metropolitan life going on around them.
Maeve still felt stunned by what had happened. And not entirely sure she understood. An anomaly, Mr Whitehead said. A red flag. Some kind of error that meant her British citizenship was now in question. She had no idea how that was possible.
All the way back from the embassy, she had sat white-faced and sickened, while Leo tried to reassure her, insisting that it must simply be a clerical error or a computer cock up, and that she would soon be on her way back to the UK. And that was the most logical way to approach her situation. Except she wasn’t feeling very logical right now.
Frankly, she felt more like bawling her eyes out or going back there and begging Mr White on her knees to let her back into the UK.
Britain was the country where she’d grown up. She’d always considered it her own. The fact that she had been born in Paris was not significant, as far as she was concerned.
Yes, her mother had been French, according to her birth certificate and her dad. She still had French relatives somewhere. Possibly in Paris itself. There was also that faded photograph with an address scrawled on the back. Her grandmother’s old address? She had not yet felt brave enough to pursue that lead. And now she couldn’t, because that old photo had been in her rucksack, which would have been dumped somewhere, with anything valuable taken out… Just the thought of it made her want to weep.
But her father had been British. And she’d barely spent any time in France. She’d left there while she was still a baby. It was insane to suggest she was no longer British.
It had to be a mistake.
Meanwhile, she was stuck here in Paris without any money and being forced to accept charity from these lovely people who were basically strangers. Naturally enough, she was feeling horribly guilty. And Mr White had been right about one thing at least. She needed to pay them back in some way. And the only way possible was through her labour.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Madame Rémy replied, tutting and wagging a finger at her. ‘No, not at all. You are a guest here.’
Nonna, who was knitting, made some incoherent comment which Maeve guessed was her agreeing with her daughter.
‘But I feel so… parasitic.’
Both women stared at her.
‘Pardon?’ Madame Rémy sounded baffled.
‘Parasitic,’ she repeated. ‘It makes me feel parasitic to be just living here, leeching off you…’ When they still turned blank faces in her direction, Maeve hesitated, and then mimed sucking blood, along with sound effects. Now they looked horrified. ‘Erm, like a bug… You know, a mosquito?’ She pretended to suck on her arm. ‘Mmm, lovely blood. Slurp, slurp.’
Nonna crossed herself.
‘Is it the bang on your head?’ Madame Rémy asked in a sympathetic tone, and now even Bernadette had turned from her gardening and was gazing at her, wide-eyed. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘No, no, I’m just trying to say… Oh, it doesn’t matter. But please let me take a turn washing up, at least? Unless you have a dishwasher?’
‘I’m the dishwasher,’ Bernadette said darkly.
Nonna muttered something under her breath, and the other two women stared at her.
‘Oh, Maman, I’m not sure about that.’ Madame Rémy shifted in her seat.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ Bernadette said more bluntly.
Maeve blinked. ‘What… What did she say? Sorry, I missed that.’
There was a short silence, then Bernadette sighed. ‘Nonna thinks you should sit for Leo. She says if you want to help out, that’s the best way to do it.’
Maeve sucked in a breath, instantly on the alert for danger. ‘Sit for a portrait, you mean?’
Instinctively, she distrusted that idea. It sounded like the kind of thing other people did, not her. She was far too dull and sensible to be an artist’s model. Besides, it would mean spending hours alone with the man. And that was out of the question. She had no room in her life for ambiguities. And Leo Rémy was definitely…ambiguous.
Madame Rémy said hurriedly, ‘You don’t need to do it, Maeve. Please understand, my mother is obsessed with encouraging Leo back into painting, that’s all.’
‘Back into painting? I don’t understand.’
Another short silence left Maeve worried that she had said something wrong.
‘It’s a sensitive topic,’ Madame Rémy said quietly. ‘You see, Leo hasn’t produced any new paintings for some time. Since his older brother died, in fact.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Maeve felt awful. ‘I didn’t even know his brother had died.’
‘Oh, it was three years ago now. Poor Francis. They weren’t close, of course. More like enemies than brothers. But his death meant Leo had to come home and take over running the family business.’
The family business.
It sounded thoroughly Godfather-esque. She saw in her mind’s eye a dry, dusty landscape and Leo Rémy as Michael Corleone, ordering some violent assassination in a bored, laconic voice.
‘What is the, erm, family business?’
‘We have a vineyard in Bordeaux and sell our wines internationally.’ Madame Rémy’s prosaic answer was at odds with Maeve’s ridiculous imaginings. ‘You met Sophie and Marie at breakfast. Their father Henri is my other grandson, and he runs the vineyard. But it’s very expensive, the wine business, and we’ve had a succession of difficult years, weatherwise.’ Madame Rémy swallowed, looking away. ‘It’s been a heavy burden for Leo to bear. I’m worried about him.’
Maeve frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand fully… Why didn’t you inherit some of the business too, Bernadette? You’re his sister.’
Bernadette flushed, and Maeve realised she had once more put her foot in it with this complicated family.
‘Half-sister,’ the young woman corrected her in an angry mutter. ‘My mother…’ Her mouth tightened and she abruptly changed trajectory. ‘My real father wasn’t a Rémy,’ she finished awkwardly.
‘I see.’ Maeve didn’t see at all. But what else could she say?
She bit her lip, wishing she was not so ready to blunder into other people’s business. But it sounded as though Leo’s mother had not conceived Bernadette by Leo’s father. And she hadn’t mentioned a second marriage for her mother, which rather suggested his mother had slept with some other man behind her husband’s back. Goodness…
Not wanting to pursue that prickly subject, she asked hurriedly, ‘So Leo doesn’t paint anymore?’
Nana shook her head, evidently having understood that part in English at least, and tutted, her knitting needles clacking noisily.
‘That’s so sad.’ Maeve sat forward, eager to learn more. She recalled the gendarme’s admiring recognition. ‘I knew Leo was an artist, but… Is he really well-known?’
Madame Rémy smiled sadly. ‘My dear, he was once one of France’s most notorious young painters.’
‘He still is,’ Bernadette said pointedly, without looking round, having returned to her garden name. She was weeding now below the fig trees that grew against the sunny wall.
‘But we no longer see so many stories about him in the press.’ Madame Rémy clasped her hands together, staring down at them. ‘We were all so proud of him, Maeve. Even Francis, in his own way, though he would never have admitted it. But that was all a long time ago. Now Leo is… broken.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘No, there’s no other word for it. Leo is a broken man.’
‘But what about Liselle? Nonna said…’ Maeve tailed off, uncomfortably aware that she had only guessed Nonna’s meaning when she spoke of Liselle being Leo’s “Muse”.
Perhaps she had misunderstood.
‘Liselle was his model once,’ Madame agreed. ‘But she hasn’t sat for him in ages.’
‘So why does she still…?’
‘Live here?’ Madame Rémy gave an unhappy smile. ‘Liselle is his manager now. She organises exhibitions of his work in France and around the world, and deals with sales of his paintings.’ She paused, her brows knitting together, her eyes troubled. ‘But he has so few unsold paintings left, and nothing new to come. So she’s had to, erm, double up, as you say in English.’
‘Double up?’ Maeve didn’t understand.
Nonna shushed them, pointing with her knitting needles.
Loud footsteps behind them made Maeve turn her head. Liselle was headed their way out of the chateau, a tray in her hands. She was wearing an apron over a pale green summer frock and what looked like clogs on her feet. The slap of the heavy shoes on the stone was almost menacing.
‘These days Liselle is our housekeeper,’ Bernadette said, jumping up and dusting off her hands on navy blue culottes. ‘Did you bring out the little cakes I made?’
‘Of course,’ Liselle replied in French, her voice disdainful. ‘And a pot of coffee and some cold drinks, as Madame requested.’ She slammed the tray down on the ironwork table beside Maeve, shooting her a resentful glare as all the glasses and cups rattled. ‘I don’t like people talking about me behind my back,’ she snapped in English. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Maeve replied, sitting up very straight and returning her glare. She didn’t know what Liselle’s problem was with her. But she was not going to be cowed into submission. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you could hear me.’
‘Evidemment.’ Liselle’s lips were pursed, her eyes snapping.
‘Now Liselle,’ Madame Rémy said uneasily, ‘please don’t be impolite to our guest. I was the one who mentioned you first, not Miss Eden.’
Nonna grumbled something.
Maeve suspected it might’ve been, ‘It was me, actually,’ but she hadn’t yet got a grasp on the old lady’s gnomic utterances, so couldn’t be sure.
‘I know what you all think of me, Madame,’ Liselle began angrily but then fell to silence as the door behind her opened.
Liselle turned her head to look at the newcomer, red-flame hair glinting in the sunlight, and a strange look came over her face. It was an expression of vulnerability, and it made Maeve feel bad, seeing that change. Liselle might come across as quite unpleasant at times but she wasn’t as iron-plated as she appeared. No doubt her feelings had been hurt by what she’d overheard.
‘Ah, Leo, Madame Rémy exclaimed nervously, sitting up and reaching for the tray, ‘you’re just in time. Liselle has made coffee. Or perhaps you’d prefer something cold. It is quite hot today, isn’t it?’
Maeve felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck as she realised that the man himself had arrived in the courtyard garden.
No wonder Liselle was looking so unhappy.
Fleetingly, she wondered why Leo had stopped painting Liselle, if she’d been his long-term model before his brother’s death. Though that was none of her business, of course.
Knitting her hands together in her lap, she smiled round at him and tried to suppress her curiosity. She was a stranger to these people, and she certainly had no intention of becoming his model, despite Nonna’s repeated urgings, so it would be best simply to stay out of it.
‘Yes, Paris is stifling today,’ Leo agreed calmly. ‘And you really shouldn’t gossip on such a hot day when all the windows are standing open,’ he added, a distinct edge to his voice.
Tilting his head, he indicated the chateau above them. Maeve looked up along with the others, and realised guiltily that some windows were either ajar or fully open, with others shuttered but no doubt with the windows thrown wide behind them, meaning their voices would easily have carried in this still, sunny air to the upper storeys.
‘Unless, that is, you want the subject of your gossip to hear everything you’re saying,’ he finished.
With a furious narrowing of her eyes, Liselle flounced back into the chateau. As much as anyone could flounce wearing clogs.
‘Oh dear,’ Maeve said.
‘Oh dear, indeed,’ Leo agreed, and looked down at her, one dark brow high and crooked.
Was he blaming her for their gossiping? That seemed unfair. Though since she had just been blaming herself, maybe the lady did in fact protest too much, as the saying went…
‘Coffee?’ Madame Rémy asked her politely.
‘Oh, em, yes please,’ Maeve gushed, jumping up to accept a cup of coffee from her.
She didn’t much like their strong, sludgy black coffee – which never came with milk except at breakfast time, it seemed – and had originally intended to drink something cool and refreshing. But it gave her an excuse to break free from the hypnotic stare of Leo Rémy without looking like a coward, as she suspected his grandmother had realised.
Goodness though, if there was ever an Olympic staring contest, her host could successfully compete for France. And win gold!
‘However,’ Leo drawled in a voice like melted chocolate, so close to her ear that she jerked away, startled, and spilt her coffee into her saucer, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing Nonna’s excellent suggestion.’
She had almost backed away into an urn of bright, tumbling geraniums. Their thick fragrance was intoxicating. ‘You… You couldn’t?’ Maeve turned her gaze on the old lady, who at once bent her head industriously over her knitting, and then looked back at him warily. ‘Which, erm, part?’
‘It’s true that I’ve been looking for a new model for the past year or so. Someone to sit for me… Liselle won’t mind me saying this, I’m sure, but she no longer suits me as a sitter. If you always use the same model, your work becomes a bit… ‘
‘Samey?’
His mouth twitched but he shrugged. ‘All right, yes, we can say that if you like. Samey.’ He helped himself to a tall glass of something citrus-smelling, a pale yellow drink poured over ice, with a sprinkle of tiny blue flowers bobbing about in it. ‘I haven’t been able to decide which new direction I want to take, artistically speaking. So I’ve been considering my options.’ He threw an ironic look at his grandmother. ‘No doubt the long delay has caused some to wrongly view me as… What was the word, Grandmère? Broken?’
‘I didn’t know you were listening,’ Madame Rémy said, her brows drawn together, chagrin in her face.
‘I am not broken.’ He hesitated. ‘Just… conflicted, perhaps.’
‘Of course,’ his grandmother agreed.
Leo sipped his drink and gazed at Maeve over the rim of his glass. ‘When I saw you in the street yesterday – ‘
‘You mean, when I was unconscious?’ she demanded.
He blinked. ‘Yes, but afterwards too.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When I saw you, it was a significant moment. I experienced a kind of…’
‘Seizure?’
‘Epiphany.’
‘Isn’t that a religious thing?’
‘Maybe a little.’ His smile was dry. ‘I just mean I got some ideas about a potential new direction for my work.’
‘Okay,’ she said slowly, worried about where this was leading.
‘Oh Leo!’ Madame Rémy exclaimed, clapping her hands in obvious delight. ‘How marvellous. I’m so glad.’
Even Bernadette was smiling. ‘Good for you, brother,’ she said in French, and raised her glass to him. ‘Salut.’
‘Salut,’ he murmured, and they both drank.
‘I’m sorry, have I missed something?’ Maeve was confused, looking at brother and sister. ‘How is that significant?’
‘My brother… has not had any… thoughts of this kind since Francis died,’ Bernadette explained slowly in English. ‘It is a… a big thing.’
‘Very, very big,’ Madame Rémy agreed.
‘Well…’ Leo said modestly, and the others all laughed.
Maeve, still wrestling with a feeling of uncertainty, felt his gaze on her face and blushed. ‘No,’ she said preemptively.
‘No?’
‘If you’re about to ask me to be your model, it’s a no.’
‘I see.’ Leo drank again, watching her contemplatively. ‘You have a reason for saying no?’
‘It’s just not my kind of thing.’ She raised her coffee to her lips, hoping it was cool enough to drink now.
‘There would be no nudity.’
She spluttered coffee everywhere and had to reach for a napkin. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Nudity. You perhaps think I want to paint you with no clothes on?’
‘I certainly do not.’ She dabbed at her mouth, her heart pounding wildly. ‘I mean, that is… Do you?’
‘Non, non.’ He shook his head vehemently, and then paused, looking her up and down before repeating firmly, ‘Non.’
She couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or offended. ‘Non?’
‘Non.’
‘Okay, then.’
‘So now that you feel safe in accepting an invitation to sit for me, will you do me the honour, Miss Eden?’
‘Oh.’ Maeve had assumed he’d given up. But evidently not. ‘But why on earth would you want me as a model? Why not someone else? Bernadette, maybe?’
Bernadette choked on her drink.
‘Bah, non,’ Leo exclaimed, chuckling as he smacked his sister helpfully between the shoulder blades a few times. ‘Bernadette is not… Ah, she does not… inspire.’
‘Merci,’ Bernadette said, baring sharp white teeth at him.
‘Je t’en prie,’ he replied easily.
‘I know nothing about art,’ Maeve told him frankly.
‘You don’t need to know anything.’
‘I’ve never sat for an artist before.’
‘There’s nothing to it. The simplest thing in the world.’
‘And what if my face gets itchy?’
‘Pardon?’ He was looking perplexed.
‘What if my nose needs to be scratched, for instance? How long do these sittings last? I don’t think I could hold still for hours on end,’ she said flatly. ‘In fact, I’d ruin everything within ten minutes by forgetting to hold the pose or needing the toilet or something. You really don’t want me.’
‘But I do want you,’ he said firmly, a gleam in his eye that unnerved her. ‘And of course you can scratch your nose or take comfort breaks or move about, if you need to. It will make no difference to my work.’
‘I don’t want to do it,’ she said desperately.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Madame Rémy there, sympathy in her kind face. ‘Nobody will force you to do this,’ she insisted. ‘Including Leo.’ She threw a stern look at her grandson. ‘Will you?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said heavily, and turned away, his head bent as though examining the tiny blue flowers in his drink.
‘There,’ Madame said, smiling. ‘You can relax, Miss Eden. Please, sit down. Enjoy the garden.’
Maeve thanked her and sat down, but she felt awful.
She had asked specifically if there was some way she could repay the Rémy family’s hospitality. And then, when a way was provided, she had refused pointblank to do it. And for what reason?
Because she was too shy to be a model? Because it all felt a bit too exciting and exotic? A bit too wild and bohemian, perhaps, for Miss Maeve Eden of North London? Because she wasn’t that kind of girl?
‘No nudity, you said?’ she queried.
Leo stopped pacing and came back at once, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Absolutely not,’ he told her gravely.
‘And I can move about?’
‘Within reason.’
Maeve took a deep breath, feeling as though she were about to plunge hundreds of feet into an icy ravine, which might have been a relief in this scorching heat, and said, ‘All right, then. If you must.’
‘You’ve changed your mind? You’ll sit for me?’ His voice was blank, carefully neutral.
‘Better take the offer before it’s withdrawn,’ she warned him.
Leo smiled, and raised his glass to her. ‘Can you start tomorrow morning?’ When she gave some incoherent reply, not having thought it would be so soon, he went on, ‘At this time of year, the light in my studio is usually best in the early hours of the morning. Shall we say, a five o’clock start?’
‘Five o’clock?’
She must have sounded as horrified as she felt, because Leo grinned at her expression and said, ‘Six, then.’
He threw himself down onto the bench next to his great-grandmother, who was beaming with pleasure at the two of them. Affectionately, he kissed her on her wrinkled cheek. ‘I’m going to try painting again, Nonna,’ he murmured in French, and took her hand gently in his. ‘You were right. Thank you.’
Watching this, Maeve had a funny feeling in her tummy. She suddenly had no idea why she had agreed to sit for him. But it was too late to back out now. Or not without looking ungrateful and a bit mean.
You were right. Thank you.
What on earth had he meant by that, though?
Rightabout what?