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

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jerking to his feet, his skin cold, heart thudding violently, Leo spun to glare at his father. He had intended to say something cold and cutting, to put his long-absent father back in his place. But a hand had already reached out to grab him, and he found himself being hugged and kissed ferociously.

Sébastien Rémy took a step back to study him, with a shout of amusement. ‘I think you’ve grown, boy… My God, yes, you’ve grown. But what happened to the beard? I’ve been telling Chanelle here about this mad artist son of mine with his long hair and beard and his Bohemian ways… And now look at you. You could be any idiot in an office job.’ He shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘Where’s my wild, handsome Leo gone, eh? What have you done with him?’

Without waiting for an answer, which was just as well, as Leo had been knocked speechless by this extravagant entrance, his father squeezed him tight again, still laughing, before moving to grip Jean’s hand and kiss his cousin on the cheek too.

‘Jean, my friend… You look well. And this is your place now? Ah now, that’s a shrewd business move. I like it… ’ He clapped Jean on the shoulder so violently that Jean staggered, spilling his drink. ‘But not as much as I’d like some of what you’re drinking. What is that you’re throwing about the place? Cognac? Excellent choice, my boy. But let’s open a bottle or two of champagne. We have something to celebrate… ’ Sébastien Rémy turned, indicating the beautiful young woman who had trailed in behind him, wearing a tailored, open-necked white blouse with baggy green culottes and a gold sash knotted about her waist. ‘This is my new wife, Chanelle. Isn’t she the most gorgeous piece of ass you’ve ever seen?’

‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ Leo ground out furiously, ‘keep it down, would you?’

Everybody was staring eagerly at them, listening to every word. Some of the customers were even filming on their phones or taking photographs. None of that seemed to have deterred his father from making a public spectacle of himself.

To his surprise, Leo felt sorry for the young woman, who was smiling in a slick, professional way – she was a model, after all, and no doubt used to being the centre of attention – but with her hands clasped before her chest, indicating anxiety, perhaps? The gossip column piece had said she was carrying a child. That could also account for the strain he thought he could detect in her face, especially as Sébastien made a point of guiding her forward to be introduced to them.

‘Leo, my son, I’d like you to meet your new stepmother.’Sébastien gave a chuckle, slipping a possessive arm around Chanelle’s waist. ‘Your stepmother! What a thought, hein? Why, you’re not much older than her. You’ll wonder at us two getting hooked, I imagine. An unconventional couple… But there’s no accounting for love.’

Pulling her close, his father kissed the young woman on the lips, who stood mute and still under this very public show of affection.

‘Dad, please,’ Leo muttered, horrified now.

‘Oh, stop fussing. My God, who put that stick up your backside? As if I need ask… Your grandmother is to blame for this new prudery, I have no doubt. She tried that nonsense with me, you know. Guilt tripping. But I wasn’t interested in living like that, with my head in a damn yoke. That’s why I left Paris, even if it meant not being there for you and Francis. And look what I caught… Come, Chanelle, don’t be shy. Shake your stepson’s hand.’ And again, he laughed.

‘Congratulations on your wedding to my father.’ Politely, Leo shook Chanelle’s hand, and kissed her on the cheek as was expected.But all the while, he was aware of his father turning to Liselle and embracing her instead, whispering something in her ear that made his manager shriek with laughter. Something about him? Or was that paranoia?

His father was extremely skilled at inducing paranoia. One of his superpowers, in fact.

‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Chanelle was murmuring as she looked him up and down, her gaze sharpening with interest. Her voice was soft and breathy. Was she channelling Marilyn Monroe? No doubt that approach had worked well with his father, who had very specific tastes in women. These days, at any rate. Leo’s mother had been a very different sort of woman. ‘Your father was right. You are very handsome.’ She leant closer. Rather too close, in Leo’s opinion, for a recently married woman. Her perfume was cloyingly sweet. ‘And I’m glad you lost the beard.’

She had blue eyes. Like Maeve’s.

And yet Chanelle’s eyes had zero impact on his libido. The only thing he felt for her was pity. She was too young and, he felt sure, too inexperienced in love to understand what kind of man his father was. Once Sébastien Rémy had used this beautiful model for his own purposes, mostly embarrassing his family and getting himself back into the public eye, he would dump her as he had dumped his previous lovers, and no doubt leave her broken-hearted.

While Chanelle was shaking Jean’s hand and kissing Liselle on the cheek, his father clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But enough about us,’ Sébastien said, grinning. ‘I saw that cosy snap of you with the English girl. You sly thing… Where did you meet her, eh? Should we expect wedding bells soon?’

Leo met his eyes with cold dislike. ‘There’s nothing between us. It was just Jean making mischief.’

‘Of course, of course.’ His father winked, his smile knowing. ‘And you have an exhibition soon. May we be permitted a sneak preview? Perhaps when we come to the chateau for lunch tomorrow?’

Leo stiffened. ‘Tomorrow? Have you checked with Grandmère that it’s convenient?’

‘I rang her before coming here. She invited us to lunch.’ Sébastien looked about the café-bar, his keen eyes taking in every detail. ‘I knew you’d probably be here. Francis had a better head for business than you, God rest his soul. The ruthless touch… So important for making money. But you’ve not been too bad at keeping an eye on things, I’ll say that for you, and Jean is a good manager here. I’m glad you’ve been running the estate so well for me.’ He paused, his gaze returning to Leo’s face. ‘Though I’m disappointed not to find the little English girl with you. I’d rather hoped to introduce myself.’

Over his dead body…

Leo was aware of a surge of aggression, and was surprised by his desire to protect their guest from his father’s intrusive, over-the-top personality.

‘You didn’t come to Francis’s funeral,’ he said bluntly. ‘Why not?’

His father looked taken aback by this direct demand. Shocked, even. Then, to Leo’s amazement, his eyes welled with tears. ‘Ah, my poor son. My dearest boy… ’ He shook his head, a tear trickling down his rugged cheek. ‘I couldn’t be there, don’t you see? It would have killed me too, being asked to stand at the graveside and watch as my darling son… No, the whole thing was impossible.’

He laid a heavy arm about Leo’s shoulders, lowering his head to mutter in his ear, ‘But I saw it on the internet afterwards. And it brought me to tears, what you said at… at the funeral.’ His voice had broken to a barely audible croak. ‘Thank you.’

Leo was not prepared for the wave of raw pain that hit him, listening to this. His brother’s death was still a weight on his heart. Now this…

‘Let’s take this back to the chateau, shall we?’ he said hoarsely, and turned without waiting for his father to follow. ‘This place is too public.’ His voice thickened with emotion as he strode from the bar, muttering, ‘I need to get out of here.’

He didn’t want his father and his new stepmother setting foot inside the chateau. But what could he do? Sébastien Rémy had every right to be there, as owner and chef de famille. And Chanelle was apparently pregnant. It would be extremely discourteous to turn either of them away. But there was no doubt in his mind that his father had come to make trouble and interfere in Leo’s plans. No doubt he’d want Jean kept on as the café manager, for instance, and would insist on that, undermining Leo’s authority.

Worse, judging by the phones that had been trained on their reunion, all this would be front page news tomorrow…

Maeve was downstairs in the labyrinthine kitchens at the base of the old chateau, a medieval-like maze of pantries, walkways, nooks and crannies, watching with interest as Bernadette demonstrated how to make croissants, when the distant jangle of the chateau bell sounded above them.

‘It”s rather late for a caller,’ Bernadette said in surprise, reaching for a cloth to wipe her hands. ‘But I”d better answer the door. Grandma usually goes up to her room for a nap before supper, and Nonna’s too deaf to hear the doorbell. Though she always hears when I offer to make her chocolat chaud, funnily enough.’ She began removing her apron. ‘Why don’t you stay here and try folding and rolling the dough yourself?’

The process of making home-made croissants had been so lengthy and involved, Maeve was too terrified to touch the dough herself. If she messed it up, she might ruin the whole batch. Bernadette had already explained how she’d made the dough yesterday, kneaded it and rolled it several times, then left the dough wrapped in plastic in the fridge overnight. Now slabs of butter had to be folded into it before another chilling and rolling session, after which they could finally make the special croissant shapes ready for baking.

Given how complicated the process was, Maeve had no idea how people who made croissants themselves instead of buying them from a boulangerie had any time left for actually eating them…

‘Or I could answer the door,’ she said hurriedly, ‘if that’s okay. I’m not sure what the croissants would look like if I tried folding the dough myself. Like an advanced yoga position, I expect.’

‘I’d like to get back into yoga,’ Bernadette said, grinning. ‘I am so unfit.’ They had been speaking an uncomfortable blend of English and French but Bernadette was using simple words and going as slowly as she could when using French, often repeating sentences so that Maeve could catch up. ‘Still, I could do with rolling this batch for the last time before the dough dries out… Either that or I’ll need to wrap it in plastic and put it back in the fridge to finish later.’

‘I’ll go,’ Maeve said firmly.

‘Merci. It may be Monsieur Duvalle with our weekly grocery order, though he usually comes earlier than this.’ Bernadette looped the apron back over her head and reached for her rolling pin. ‘Ask him to carry it down, would you?’

Maeve hurried up to the ground floor, the vast kitchen complex being situated below stairs. No doubt to keep the servants out of sight and out of mind in the olden days. Before the days of the French Revolution, that was, when the servants had risen up and done unspeakable things to their employers, guilty and innocent alike, unfortunately. Though presumably things had settled down again within a few generations, and servants and masters had come back into fashion. Rich people tended to prefer paying other people to light their fires and cook their dinners and wash their linen. When they were not getting their heads lopped off, of course.

As she reached the grand entrance hall, the doorbell jangled again, a more prolonged, noisy summons this time.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming… Keep your string of onions on, Monsieur Duvalle,’ she muttered under her breath.

But even as she reached the door, it was flung open by none other than Leo Rémy.

‘Get away from me,’ Leo was shouting, waving a hand, not looking at her as he plunged into the hall. ‘Go on, get lost!’

Maeve stopped in her tracks. What on earth?

She half expected to see an irate French grocer come chasing after him into the hall, perhaps brandishing a baguette or a bag of radishes.

Instead, an absolute throng of people on the doorstep met her astonished gaze, all lifting phones and cameras and other equipment in her direction, a barrage of flashes going off to illuminate both her and the dim interior.

Others hurried after Leo into the chateau. One was Liselle, her brows tugged together with irritation, a flushed look on her face. Behind her was Leo’s cousin, also rather flushed and out of breath. Had they been running? After them came a large man who looked so startlingly like Leo that it was impossible not to recognise who he was.

Leo’s father, Sébastien Rémy. Leo had told her about him earlier, and she backed away instinctively, recalling how much animosity lay between them. On his arm was a pretty young blonde. His new wife, presumably. Maeve had forgotten her name, if Leo had even mentioned it, which she didn’t think he had.

But who were all these other people? Sébastien Rémy’s fan club?

If so, they were surprisingly demanding.

‘How about just one picture of you with your father and his new bride?’ One of the men was trying to get a foot in the door, despite Leo’s struggle to close it. ‘Or maybe a foursome… You and your girlfriend, Mademoiselle Eden, with the other two. How about it, Leo? Come on, the publicity would be great.’ The man gave a grunt of pain as Leo attempted to amputate his foot with the door and he hurriedly withdrew it. ‘Just you and your father, then?’

The door finally shut, and Leo sank his back against it, growling like a wild animal.

But not for long.

‘This is all your fault, Jean. I hold you responsible for that baying mob outside our home,’ Leo rattled off in French. ‘You’ll be lucky if you have a roof over your head by the end of today, let alone a job. What the hell were you thinking, letting the paparazzi loose on me and Maeve?’