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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The bar-café at the end of the street, now simply called Chez Jean, had belonged to the Rémy family for decades. His father had taken a hand in managing the bar at one time, but his love of alcohol had made it a dangerous place for him, and Leo’s grandfather had soon replaced him. Leo himself had grown up there, threading through the tight-spaced tables on the pavement with lunch plates or fresh carafes of water. He had watched football games on the television inside the bar and, as he got older, had played cards with the pot washers between shifts, until his grandfather had found out and forbidden him entry for a few years. Francis had also briefly managed the place, but having always been groomed for the top position in the family, the café at the end of the street had been more of a side hustle then a position of prestige. So Cousin Jean had been parachuted in to look after it in the years before Francis’s death, while Leo was still living in the South of France, painting by night and sleeping all day, like an artistic vampire.

When he’d taken over the family business in Francis’s stead, Leo had left Jean in his managerial position at the café. His cousin was eccentric, to say the least, and occasionally annoying, but he had a sound mind for business and enjoyed turning a profit. In these difficult times, profit was hard to come by. So Jean remained at the café and Leo ate there once or twice a week, less to keep an eye on the place and more to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the chateau.

He loved his grandmother and his Nonna deeply, and held Bernadette in great affection, of course. But with Liselle at home too, he often had the sensation of walking on eggshells, trying not to provoke a scene. She could be difficult and unpredictable, though sometimes sunny and generous too, and then abruptly vile.

The plain truth was, Liselle was a complicated and contrary person, and his life felt calmer when she wasn’t around.

He and Maeve wandered along to Jean’s bar after eight o’clock. He had half suspected she might back out. That would have been frustrating. Ever since last night, he’d become increasingly obsessed with the idea of painting her, and he knew he wouldn’t feel easy until he’d made a proper attempt to get something down on canvas.

As they approached the café, Maeve gasped, ‘Oh, it’s lovely… How beautiful.’

Jean, with one of his eccentric touches, had placed large tubs of foliage outside the café, and set up strings of coloured lights among the leaves, so that it was permanent Christmas for the customers, the red, white and blue lights flashing merrily away as they drank and dined. Inside, the wall was also an aquarium, where fish darted and shimmered among thick green weeds and miniature shipwrecks.

Leo opened the door for her, ‘I usually eat inside in the evenings. Unless you’d prefer an outside table?’

She rubbed her arms, glancing about at the busy outdoor tables. The evening was cool, and she was wearing a sleeveless summer dress that Bernadette had lent her. ‘No, inside is perfect.’

‘You can borrow my jacket if you’re cold.’

She smiled at that but shook her head. ‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

Jean emerged from the back of the café on seeing them, his smile broad. He was wearing a white, open-necked shirt with a black velvet choker about his throat, a large fake pearl dangling from it. More eccentric dressing, Leo guessed. But it seemed to draw the customers.

‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ Jean cried softly, kissing them both several times on each cheek, while other customers turned to stare at them. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, Mademoiselle. I’ve arranged a corner alcove table for you and Leo. Maximum privacy.’ And he gave Leo an exaggerated wink, who bristled.

What the hell was his cousin trying to insinuate? He wanted Maeve to think of this as a business arrangement, not a seduction. But at least Jean seemed to catch his frown, for his smile disappeared, as did he a few seconds later, muttering, ‘I’ll fetch the menus, shall I?’

Leo waited while Maeve slid into the booth, and then followed her. ‘I apologise for my cousin. He’s not very sensible.’

‘I think Jean’s rather sweet. Funny, you know.’

‘No, I don’t know.’ He grimaced, realising he must sound like a jerk, and added diplomatically, ‘Don’t get me wrong. I like Jean. And he runs this place extremely well. But he’s not a subtle person.’

‘Maybe I”m not, either,’ Maeve said tartly.

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Actually, I’d say the opposite. You’re not brash, at any rate.’

She had been gazing about the noisy café with interest, but now frowned round at him, leaning forward to ask above the hubbub, ‘Sorry… what? Did you say I have a rash?’

‘No, I said you weren’t brash.’ He frowned, instantly wondering if he’d mispronounced the word. He spoke English fluently but it had been a long while since he’d spoken it regularly with anyone.

‘Oh, I see. No, I’m not brash. And I don’t have a rash either.’ Maeve raised her brows but sat back again. She seemed distracted, looking down, apparently fascinated by the pattern on her summer dress.

Was she nervous?

Did she too think this was a ‘date,’ perhaps?

Leo was about to dismiss the idea as ludicrous when he realised she might have a point. He could have spoken to her anywhere, after all. Instead, he had chosen to take her out to this intimate little bar where they played soft jazz and the lighting was kept permanently low…

Maybe it was a date.

Maybe he was the one who was behaving unpredictably this time.

Frustration churned inside him.

He still couldn’t understand why this mousy little Englishwoman attracted him so much. Because Liselle had been unkind but unerringly correct in her assessment of Maeve, who was indeed quite ordinary-looking.

Leo studied her covertly. Her hair was the darker side of fair rather than blonde, the colour of old straw. She wore it in a neat bob too, well-regimented strands dropping to just above her shoulders and rather too perfectly framing her face, which was also not striking in any way. It was the kind of no-nonsense style he associated with schoolteachers from his youth, and indeed she had told them she was a teacher, as he recalled. Her eyes were blue, but not an electric or deep blue, more like the soft, generic blue on a faded willow-pattern plate.

And she wore no make-up to highlight her eyes or lips. Her mouth was on the generous side though, and his gaze did keep dropping to it. She had a habit of licking her lips when nervous, and he was uncomfortably aware that he found that sexually provocative.

Other than that tiny detail, she was not his type. If he even had a type anymore, which was doubtful.

Maybe once upon a time, he might have had a ‘type’ of woman he routinely fell for… And that would have been someone like Liselle, he suspected. Bold, vibrant, showy, and yes, hard work…

In the past, and especially in his late teens and early twenties, he’d routinely become obsessed with difficult women, the type who baffled and intrigued him, and who always behaved unpredictably. A psychologist would probably have said that was the result of losing his mother so young. He preferred to think of it as a fervent desire to avoid commitment, the sort of women who attracted him tending to be those with zero interest in settling down and starting a family.

But endless work and grief over his brother’s death had all but driven women from his mind in recent years, much to Liselle’s frustration.

Suddenly, he was interested again. Yet couldn’t grasp his motivation. Maeve was no pushover, it was true. But neither was she a firebrand.

At that moment, she stopped staring down into her lap and shifted to study the massive fish tank instead, situated immediately behind their alcove.

He caught his breath, his gaze narrowing on her profile.

Again, a vision struck him.

Maeve sitting beside an open fire in a darkened room, her face turned away, light glinting in her hair, perhaps a half-smile on her lips…

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked abruptly, and she turned back, a startled look on her face. ‘Just then, looking at the aquarium… What were you thinking about?’

‘I was thinking how strange it must be,’ she said slowly, ‘to be a fish.’

Leo threw back his head and laughed at the unexpected absurdity. ‘A fish?’

‘Well, you did ask.’

‘And let that be a lesson to me.’

She gave a little chuckle herself, seeming to relax. Though he had the impression she was never really relaxed, even when smiling. That she was always waiting for something bad to happen. That she feared making a mistake, perhaps.

‘Would you call yourself a perfectionist?’ he asked, and saw surprise widen her eyes.

‘I don’t think it’s possible to be perfect,’ she muttered.

‘But you try to be perfect.’

It hadn’t been a question. He was starting to understand her.

Maeve hesitated. ‘I try not to get things wrong, I suppose,’ she said, sitting very straight, her back stiff. Jean came back with the menus and she gave him a dazzling smile. The kind of smile she had never given Leo. ‘Merci, Jean.’

Jean grinned at her, and then encountered another hard stare from Leo. Hurrying away, he said, ‘I’ll fetch you both an aperitif. On the house.’

They perused the menu in silence, and when Jean came back with the drinks, they gave him their orders. His cousin seemed to have taken a liking to Maeve, he noted, Jean even going so far as to put a hand on her shoulder while he was laughing and explaining the intricacies of one of their signature dishes.

Leo glared at that hand until it was withdrawn.

Once Jean had disappeared again, Maeve sipped at her aperitif and choked on the strong alcohol. ‘What on earth is this?’ she enquired, peering at the milky pink substance in her glass.

‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t take much interest in this place. Jean designs all the food menus and invents his own speciality drinks. Though this,’ he said, indicating what he was drinking, ‘is my usual when I come through. A non-alcoholic aperitif. Ruby Fruit, he calls it. Mainly orange and pineapple juice, with a kick.’ He bit into one of the cherries bobbing about at the top of his glass, and caught Maeve’s curious glance. ‘What’s the matter? You don’t approve of non-alcoholic drinks?’

‘I thought that you…’ She bit her lip. ‘That is, I assumed…’

‘I used to have a problem with drinking,’ he said bluntly. ‘Which is why I try to avoid it these days. I’m okay most of the time. But when things get stressful, I like to drink and I can take it too far, if you see what I mean. So it’s best avoided altogether.’

‘I understand,’ she said earnestly, leaning forward again with her gaze on his face.

‘Do you? Do you really?’ He saw her wary expression and pulled a face. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean…’

He stopped himself and grimaced. How was it possible to keep sticking his foot in his mouth every five minutes? She seemed to bring out the idiot in him. Or maybe she made him nervous, which was a novel thought.

‘Look, I brought you here to escape my crazy household,’ he said in a more level tone. ‘So we could relax and enjoy each other’s company. Perhaps we should just concentrate on doing that.’

Her brow wrinkled. ‘I thought you bought me here to tell me why you stopped painting.’

Leo had forgotten that promise, so focused on getting her alone. He stared back at her, winded, unable to say a thing.

She seemed to sense his horror.

‘Of course, if you’d rather not… But since we’re here and nobody else is listening…’

At that moment, Jean arrived with their order, both of them having ordered a light one-course supper, perfect fare for a bar meal.

‘A carafe of water for you both. Moules frites for mademoiselle, steak frites for you, Leo.’ He set the plates before them with a flourish as though serving the finest cordon bleu. ‘Mustard? Mayonnaise?’ He directed these queries at Maeve, already aware that Leo never took any bottled sauce with his steak, though he had been known to enjoy the occasional aioli.

‘Do you have tomato ketchup?’ Maeve asked.

A shudder ran through Jean but he maintained his professional smile. ‘But of course… All the American and British tourists, they ask for ketchup. So we always keep ketchup.’ He whisked away, returning briefly with a dish of tomato ketchup which he placed before her, bowing. The long silver earring he habitually wore jiggled and caught the light. ‘Bon appétit!’

When Jean had gone back to the kitchen, Maeve chewed cautiously on the mussel, and then smiled.

‘That tastes good, I take it?’ he asked her.

‘Delicious,’ she enthused. ‘I’d never had moules-frites before coming to Paris, can you believe it? But I love them now. In fact, this is my third time of ordering them.’

‘Not very adventurous, are you?’

‘I’m working on it,’ she said defensively. ‘How’s your steak?’

‘Bloody.’

She shuddered. ‘How awful. Better send it back.’

He shook his head. ‘Bloody is exactly how I like it,’ he explained. ‘Whenever I come to Chez Jean, I nearly always order their steak-frites, so the chef knows how to prepare it for me.’

Her brows rose. ‘Oh, so you always order the same meal when you come here? Not very adventurous, are you?’

He grinned. ‘Touché.’ Reaching for the carafe of water, he pouring them both a large glass. ‘Santé.’

‘Santé,’ she echoed, taking a sip of her aperitif instead, which she had barely touched, he noticed. Too strong, perhaps.

‘Would you like something else to drink? A glass of wine?’

‘This is fine.’ She set down the aperitif and began to eat again, demonstrating a healthy appetite. But five minutes later, just as he was starting to relax and enjoy his meal, she caught him off guard him by saying, ‘You’ve done a fine job of distracting me. But it’s no use, Leo. I haven’t forgotten.’

He stared, taken aback. ‘Sorry?’

‘You were going to tell me why you don’t paint anymore.’ She popped a crispy golden chip into her mouth, raising her calm gaze to his face. ‘I’m still waiting.’

She was a determined creature, wasn’t she? Almost to the point of making his teeth grind.

‘Fine, all right, I’ll tell you.’ Finishing a last mouthful in a leisurely way, he picked up his plate and slipped out of the booth, leaving her staring. ‘But I need to check something first, if you’ll excuse me for just a few minutes.’

With a smile, Leo carried his empty plate through the double swing doors into the kitchen to speak to the chef, Pierre, and sous chef, Anton.

Whenever he came to Chez Jean, he always took a few minutes to touch base with the kitchen and waiting staff, and make sure everyone was happy and working productively.

It was a bore.

But it was also a key part of his duty as head of the family business to make sure things were running smoothly.

Before he’d taken over, he had never thought much about the people preparing his meals or serving him drinks at the bar, or considered the business side whenever he paid a bill. His only world had been painting. He had been a blinkered, self-obsessed idiot.

Now things had swung too far the other way though, and he was lucky if he could spare a few minutes to think about art occasionally. And it was turning his world grey.

With noisy greetings above the sounds of a busy kitchen, they all shook hands and discussed how business was going, while Pierre continued to dress plates for customers and Anton chopped fish heads, whistling as he prepared a spicy bouillabaisse for tomorrow’s Plat Du Jour.

On his way back to the table, he encountered Jean, a wiping cloth over one shoulder, juggling dirty plates from a table he’d been clearing.

‘That was a good meal,’ he told his cousin, ‘thank you. I don’t think we’ll bother with dessert though. We’ll just have coffee and head back to the chateau.’

Jean frowned. ‘Must you leave so soon? You see how busy we are, and that’s largely down to you being here.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re still a big name in Paris, Leo. You bring in the custom. Especially when you have such a lovely young lady with you.’ He glanced towards Maeve. ‘It’s got everyone’s tongues wagging, wondering who she is.’

‘Oh, come on, Jean. I doubt anyone’s interested in who’s having dinner with me.’

‘Don’t be na?ve. Look around.’

Nettled, Leo glanced about the bar, and realised with a shock that his cousin was correct. People were indeed looking round at him and Maeve. The curiosity in the air was palpable.

‘I hear Liselle is setting you up with Sascha for a new exhibition soon,’ Jean went on, also watching him avidly. ‘I didn’t know you were painting again. Congratulations.’

Leo’s gaze arrowed back to his cousin’s face. ‘You know perfectly well I haven’t been painting. It’s a mistake on Liselle’s part even to have spoken to Sascha without checking with me first. I don’t have any new work to exhibit and she knows it.’

‘Is that so? But if the little Englishwoman will sit for you…’ Jean winked.

Leo felt a surge of annoyance. ‘Keep your nose out of my business,’ he said flatly. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ his cousin replied, his tone surly as he pushed through the swing doors.

Wishing that people would stop interfering in his life, Leo made his way back to the table.

‘Come on then… You still haven’t told me why you haven’t been painting,’ Maeve said impatiently as he sat down opposite. ‘I’m beginning to think you brought me here on false pretenses.’

She was tenacious, he had to give her that.

But Leo felt cornered, staring at her as he struggled to respond without letting anything too personal slip. Was that even possible though?

Thankfully, he was saved by the coffee arriving, courtesy of a young waitress he didn’t know. But he knew he couldn’t put this off forever.

‘Give me a minute,’ he muttered.

She pushed his cup of coffee towards him. ‘Maybe this will help.’

‘Thanks.’ He took a sip and grimaced. ‘After my brother died,’ he began slowly, ‘my inspiration died with him. Francis despised art and painting. You would think it would have been a liberation. But I was forced to take over the family business and that became my life. There was no more time for painting. A few months ago, I set up a studio at the chateau and decided to produce some new work.’ He stared at nothing, remembering. ‘But I ended up just standing there, paintbrush in hand, staring at a blank canvas.’

Tentatively, she placed her hand on top of his, and he jerked at the unexpected contact. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’

‘That’s because nobody outside the family knows. They still think of me as Leo Rémy, famous artist,’ he said bitterly. ‘People stop me in the street and ask when my next exhibition will be.’

‘But you said… You want to paint me?’

His heart thumped uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘How strange.’ She removed her hand, frowning. ‘Though I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to try again. And I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment.’

Unexpected joy swept through him as he realised she was agreeing to let him paint her. ‘You’re serious?’ His eye caught by a gleam of light, he spotted Jean on the other side of the bar, staring in their direction and lowering his phone. His brows contracted. ‘Excuse me a moment again, would you?’

Getting up, he strode across the bar, grabbing Jean’s arm before he could escape. ‘What the hell are you up to? Were you taking a photograph of us?’

Jean looked at him in astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just checking something on my phone.’ Wresting his arm free, he headed back into the kitchen.

Leo stared after his cousin, suspicious and conflicted. He didn’t trust Jean. But he couldn’t make a scene here in the bar. People were already staring.

He went back and sat down.

‘What’s the matter?’ Maeve asked, frowning.

‘Nothing.’ But he was now keen to get out of there, restless and impatient. ‘Shall we head back? They can put the bill on my tab.’ He saw her surprise and added brusquely, ‘I can’t wait to paint you.’

‘Paint me?’ Her eyes stretched wide. ‘You mean… Right now? Tonight?’

‘Why not?’