CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘I still can’t believe you did that,’ Maeve said in a discreet hiss, then pursed her lips, her head tilted at a disapproving angle as she studied the vast, gilt-framed painting on the wall before them. ‘He’s your father. It was… Well, it was rude.’ She glanced at Leo sideways. ‘And forcing me to come with you today… That was rude too.’
Leo ran a frustrated hand through his hair, but turned on his heel, studying the framed paintings on the other side of the gallery.
They were at the Louvre, meandering slowly and without purpose through the vast network of art galleries. He had escaped the Chateau at the earliest possible opportunity that morning, after a horrifying evening spent dining with his father and Chanelle, making small talk to honour his grandmother’s wishes, rather than exploding at his father’s reappearance in their lives after all these years.
Not to have even attended his own son’s funeral… Nonna had said wisely at one point, it did no good to rake over the cold ashes of the past. But he had so many questions, and so much fury still boiling inside, it was hard to keep it all bottled up.
And now his father was back, in Paris, with a new bride who was almost the same age as Bernadette.
Why?
It had to be about money. What else could it be?
Sébastien must be hoping somehow to persuade him into parting with some cash or position within the family business. But he wouldn’t do it. It would be going against his grandfather’s wishes.
Besides, he knew his father would either quickly squander the money or make a mess of whatever job he was given.
‘If I was rude, I had good reason for it,’ he responded, more curtly than intended. ‘You don’t know the whole story. There’s a difficult history between me and my father. But I’m sorry if you had other plans for this morning. I thought you enjoyed looking at art. I certainly didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’
‘I do enjoy looking at art. But you could try simply telling me the whole story.’
‘I brought you here to look at art, not talk about my father. Besides, we’re short on time,’ he said practically. ‘A quick look around the Louvre, then a river trip for lunch. We’re due to meet my grandmother and Nonna at a café on the left bank at two o’clock, and we’ll walk together to your grandmother’s apartment, which isn’t far. So there’s not much time for lengthy explanations.’
It was a pathetic excuse and he knew it. But the past was so painful, he couldn’t bring himself to discuss it. Not when his father had just turned up out of the blue and his wounds were still smarting and raw.
‘Maybe we could talk over lunch on the river?’ Maeve suggested.
He almost ground his teeth. He had brought her to the Louvre because art soothed him. Plus, coming here on his own would have drawn too much attention, not just from the paparazzi but his own family. He didn’t want people saying he was upset by his father’s arrival, even though he was. He might be an artist, but he’d outgrown the dramatic tendencies of his youth, increasingly now a private person.
In particular, he hated people poring over his every reaction and trying to second-guess what he was thinking and feeling.
This way, he could study the paintings and lose himself in the art, and nobody would question it, for he was here to introduce Maeve to the greatest treasures Paris had to show. Though she’d already admitted to having been here before, which rendered this visit almost obsolete.
‘If you insist,’ he said testily, not sure why he was agreeing to share intimate family details with a stranger, except that she had an excellent way of getting under his skin. ‘First though, you asked me to teach you something about art. So let’s look at the old Masters. Here, for instance,’ he said, pointing up at the nearest painting, ‘what you think of that?’
‘Erm… a woman with her boobs out, surrounded by men with guns?’ Maeve pulled a face. ‘Yes, I know it’s a famous painting. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. But honestly, why do men always feel this ridiculous urge to paint women topless? You’re not going to tell me it’s necessary.’ She indicated the rest of the revolutionaries. ‘None of those men are topless, are they? Only the woman.’
Leo suppressed a burst of wild laughter. It really wasn’t funny. Delacroix had painted the goddess or personification of Liberty topless to indicate her uncompromising, revolutionary spirit, not simply to titillate the viewer. Or had he?
But she had a way of making him smile, this fussy, eccentric Englishwoman. And not merely smile but think. Yes, she challenged his way of seeing the world. And not just the world, but her too.
With a shock, Leo realised he was looking at her in a way he’d never looked at any other woman. He didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. Perhaps that when he looked at her, he saw more than a face and body, or a female mind with ulterior motives behind it, or the person he had to deal with in a business situation, or any of that.
With her, he saw the whole package. He saw Maeve Eden. Whole and complete. Fully rounded, as it were, with nothing missing.
Except how it would feel to hold her close and make love to her. To merge and become one with Maeve. And that was something he wanted. Not just for sexual satisfaction, but to experience her. To discover who Maeve was behind the neat bob and pursed lips and occasionally frivolous replies.
The epiphany of such an unfamiliar longing struck him dumb, and he stood staring at her, his mouth slightly open.
‘I take it that was the wrong thing to say?’ she demanded, again tilting her head to study him as though he were an alien specimen. He wasn’t sure if it was amusement or irritation he read in her face. There were small rosy apples in each cheek, and her fair hair was slightly mussed, which was unusual for such a tidy, well-presented creature, and she had her arms tightly folded across her chest in a defensive posture.
‘I…’ Leo frowned, genuinely unsure what to say. Embarrassed, even flustered, he stuck his hands in his pockets and jerked his head towards the next gallery. ‘Delacroix not your style, I take it? Okay, so let’s see if we can get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, shall we? It’s not far… Besides, you said you weren’t sure what you thought of da Vinci’s masterpiece when you were here last time.’ He crooked an eyebrow at her. ‘Though you didn’t have me with you when you saw the painting.’
‘Oh, and having you with me will make all the difference?’
Now he really did laugh. ‘I just mean you’ll have someone to bounce ideas off. Someone who knows a thing or two about art, and about the Mona Lisa. I wrote a thesis on her in art school.’
‘Goodness,’ she said innocently. ‘So art school wasn’t just splashing paint around and building towers out of toilet roll inners?’
‘Oh, we did all that as well,’ he threw back at her, leading the way through the busy gallery towards the room where the Mona Lisa was housed. ‘But now and then, our tutors expected us to write to actual words about art and come to a few conclusions. They didn’t have to make sense, you understand. But I happen to enjoy looking at the Mona Lisa. There’s more to that painting than a mysterious smile.’
They had to queue, of course. And they were not alone in jostling about in front of the painting, which was housed safely behind bullet-proof glass. But soon they were standing in front of the Mona Lisa, and to his relief there was nobody forcing them to hurry past, despite the portrait’s universal popularity. It was coming up to lunchtime and the crowds in front of the Mona Lisa had briefly thinned.
Side by side with Maeve, he gazed up at the portrait that had so obsessed him in his youth, and found himself smiling back at the woman smiling down at him.
If that was a smile on the Italian lady’s beautiful face, which he sometimes doubted…
‘So, what do you think?’ he asked after a moment’s silent contemplation.
‘I think you’re holding my hand,’ Maeve told him softly.
His head jerked round and he stared at her, astonished. ‘What?’ Looking down, he realised with a jolt that she was correct.
Somehow, in some moment of unconscious craziness, he had taken her hand and was holding it close, their fingers interlaced. It had felt so natural he hadn’t even noticed.
He released her at once, muttering in a wave of heat, ‘I… I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.’
She was looking rattled too. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Thrown, he stood rigid, arms by his sides, and stared fixedly up at the painting without seeing the long-dead woman depicted there.
What was happening to him?
Is this how da Vinci had felt, faced with his famous Muse? Dumbfounded, lightheaded, possessed by a strange urgency…
Maeve cleared her throat.
‘I… I was in such a tearing hurry when I came through here on my first visit,’ Maeve began to say, also gazing up at the painting, ‘that I didn’t even pay much attention to the history behind the painting. Too worried about falling behind schedule and missing my coach. Ironic, really, given what happened.’ She took a deep breath. ‘All right… I know this was painted by Leonardo da Vinci, of course. Everyone knows that. But I don’t know who the “Mona Lisa” is. Or why she seems to be smiling. If she is smiling.’ She frowned, glancing at him briefly as though for confirmation. ‘Do you know?’
‘Some background might be useful here.’ With a roll of his tense shoulders, Leo tried to relax, casting his mind back to the thesis paper he had written about this painting when he was younger. ‘The woman in the painting is generally considered to be Lisa Gheradini, who was married to a Florentine silk merchant called Francesco del Giocondo. Because of that, someone later nicknamed this portrait “La Gioconda” in Italian.’ He saw her confusion and added, ‘It’s a pun on her married name. “Giaconda” also means a happy or smiling woman, you see. The “jocund” one, you might say in English. So the nickname of the portrait is La Joconde in French. Or “the laughing lady” as my grandmother calls her.’
He studied the painting, confidence surging back as he warmed to his subject. ‘You want to know if she’s smiling? That’s always been a vexed question. Some people think it depends on which part of the painting you look at. If you look at it from one angle, she does seem to be amused. But if you shift your eye to another area, she suddenly looks serious. Or ironic, perhaps. Certainly her smile, if it is a smile, is known to be enigmatic.’
‘Is that why the painting is so famous? Because of her smile?’
‘Yes, mostly.’ He hesitated, studying the soft, delicate brushwork. ‘But also because of Leonardo da Vinci’s great skill in painting this. It’s so realistic, it could almost be a photograph.’ He pointed to the face of Lisa Gheradini. ‘You see the way light and shade are used to suggest her cheekbones and the orbital ridges around the eyes? That technique is called sfumato. Here, it indicates that the artist understands more than the surface of what is looking at. In this case, we’re seeing the skull beneath the Mona Lisa’s skin.’
‘That sounds macabre.’
Leo grinned. ‘Maybe. But what it demonstrates is how skilled da Vinci was at observation. Don’t forget this was painted in the Renaissance. That’s five hundred-odd years ago. Back then, painting was still at quite an early stage in terms of realism. And there are other things about the painting too that make it special. The intricate way he’s depicted the folds of her clothes, for example, and the way each lock of her hair is differentiated… So very realistic for its age.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there may have been other equally skilled painters alive at the same time. But because da Vinci had a powerful patron, he quickly became famous, and his paintings grew in fame too. I often wonder about lost paintings, lost painters… How much great art has been forgotten or destroyed over the centuries?’
She was frowning. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s so simple to destroy a painting, that’s all. The work of a moment, really. To slash, burn, deface… It’s a miracle we have any art left from the Renaissance at all, when you consider how fragile these paintings are.’
He saw her shiver, and was surprised by that reaction. She must be a sensitive creature if the mere suggestion of destroying works of art had the power to distress her. It distressed him too, of course. But he was an artist, so was always mindful of how ephemeral some art could be. Besides, it was also a fact of life in this business.
Art had to be preserved and protected, especially in their age of cultural terrorism. That was why the Mona Lisa was kept safely behind bulletproof glass. But not everyone could appreciate why it mattered so much to preserve art for future generations.
‘Are you all right?’ Leo asked softly, concerned that he might have genuinely upset her.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, but shakily, turning to face him. There were tears in her eyes. He was taken aback, wondering what on earth he had said to make her so unhappy, until she added quickly, ‘No, honestly, I’m fine. I was just thinking about the last time I came here, that’s all. That awful day… Getting my bag snatched by that fiend on the motorbike, being knocked out, missing the coach home, and my lost passport…’ She bit her lip, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘It feels like such a long time ago. And yet everything has happened so quickly too. I suppose I’m just a little homesick and wishing I knew when I’ll get back to England and start my life again.’
‘Of course, it must be upsetting.’ He noted that others behind them were waiting impatiently for their turn in front of the famous painting. ‘Shall we move on?’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s time to catch a river boat along the Seine, anyway, and grab a quick lunch on board.’
She was wiping away tears. ‘Yes, thank you. I’m looking forward to that.’
Making their ways through the crowded, noisy galleries, they eventually reached the exit and emerged into bright sunshine. She was wearing Bernadette’s sleeveless dress again. Today though, she had found a belt so that it didn’t hang so loosely, and her narrow waist was emphasized where it cinched in, folds of material falling softly to her knees.
He stopped dead, fixated by her again, urgently wanting to paint her in that dress and that position. But of course they were far from the studio.
He dragged out his phone and said roughly, ‘Hold still a moment, please.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Hush.’ Hurriedly, he took a variety of photographs of her as she stared back at him, turned at an angle towards him, the sun slightly behind her, turning her gold hair into a halo, a burst of light that streamed past one cheek…
‘You’re very strange,’ she said, not for the first time.
Putting away his phone, he grimaced, aware that he had behaved erratically. ‘Sorry. It’s an old habit. I often sketch from photographs. And just then you looked…’ Leo stopped himself from saying something he would later regret. ‘Well, I liked the way you looked.’
There was colour in her cheeks. She bent her head, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear as though embarrassed by this.
‘Lunch, you said?’
They waited on the quayside a short distance from the Pont de l’Alma. There was quite a crowd queuing for tickets in the midday heat. Maeve had not bought a hat, and was looking flushed. Leo studied her with concern, and then slipped away to a stall he had seen further along the quay selling scarves, sunglasses and hats. Among the vast array of ‘I Heart Paris’ baseball caps he spotted a floppy-brimmed straw hat and bought it.
He took it back to her. ‘Here, this will stop you getting sunburnt.’ When she protested, he shook his head. ‘No, I insist.’
‘Thank you,’ Maeve said shyly, putting on the oversized straw hat, her face instantly shaded.
He was deeply conscious of the fact that her funds were limited. Bernadette had taken her to a bank where she had been able to access a few hundred euros to tide her over this enforced stay in Paris. But that would hardly stretch to luxury items. To his mind though, a hat was an essential in this baking summer weather.
Besides, she looked strangely alluring in the straw hat, glancing up at him occasionally from under its floppy brim…
Having been brought up in Paris, Leo was thoroughly bored by the time they were able to board the lunch boat. Maeve seemed delighted though, and as they sat at a table inside, he pointed out landmarks along the river, while she exclaimed and took a keen interest in the tourist commentary being piped through speakers. It was only a quick lunch service, as they would be disembarking at Notre Dame on the boat’s second pass around the Isle of France. But the boat went slowly enough and he enjoyed studying her profile as she gazed eagerly up and down the river.
She really was quite ordinary-looking. And yet…
The Mona Lisa was ordinary-looking too, when studied in detail. Yet hers was a face that had captured millions of imaginations, he considered.
For some reason, Maeve Eden had captured his artistic imagination. He had hoped that, in beginning to paint her, he would gradually work out the puzzle of his attraction. Yet all it had done was increase his desire to spend time with her. Which was disastrous, really. Soon she would get her passport back and be on her way home to England.
‘Have you heard from the embassy yet?’ he asked abruptly, just as she was chatting about the other people on her coach tour, who sounded to him like a bunch of very dull people.
She blinked. ‘Oh, yes, I did… There was a phone call this morning. Just to let me know they’re still working on it. There’s still some complication over my place of birth. I don’t understand it myself. The fact that I was born in Paris has never been a problem before. But then,’ she mused, ‘I’ve never left the country before.’
He was astonished. ‘You’ve never left the United Kingdom before?’
‘I suppose you think I’m terribly parochial. A real country bumpkin.’
They had been speaking in English, which he enjoyed practising. But this expression threw him. ‘Country… bumpkin?’
‘Yes, a bumpkin is a sort of peasant…’ She gurgled with laughter at his shock, and her face was transformed. ‘It’s an awful expression. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have used it. I’m sure people who live in the country are every bit as clever and educated as people live in cities. I only meant… Oh, forget it. I’m just babbling.’
‘I don’t think my great-grandmother has ever left France,’ he remarked mildly. ‘She’s still the wisest woman I know.’
‘Your Nonna? Oh, I love her. When a marvellous woman.’ She frowned. ‘I hope she’ll be all right, walking about this afternoon in this heat. She really didn’t need to come too.’
‘You’d have to tie her to a chair to stop her. My great-grandmother is a deeply curious woman. Though I think the best English word for her is… nosy.’
Maeve grinned. It lightened his heart, looking into her laughing eyes. ‘I shall be just the same if I ever get to her age. Nosy and determined to keep up with everyone.’
Leo thought back to what she’d said about her Embassy call. ‘So you’ll be going back to England soon?’
Her laughter died. ‘It does look that way, yes. They suggested I come back to the embassy in person in about three or four days. For another interview.’ She frowned, biting on her lip. ‘I hope it’s just a formality. I find that place rather intimidating. I keep thinking they’re going to arrest me and drag me off to the Bastille and I’ll never be seen again.’
‘The Bastille doesn’t exist anymore. It was demolished.’
‘Oh.’
The boat was juddering as it slowed, backing gracefully toward a wooden jetty where tourists could disembark for the Ile de la Cité and Notre Dame, although repairs to the great cathedral were still ongoing, following extensive fire damage, so no visits were yet being permitted.
‘This is our stop, I believe,’ he said. They had pre-paid for lunch as part of the boat ticket price, so it only took a moment for them to leave the restaurant area and climb up onto deck into the sunshine. The wind snatched at her dress and made his trouser legs flap. But at least it provided a little relief from the heat. ‘If you were arrested, I would come and rescue you. Even if I had to blow the prison gates off.’
It was a silly joke, and yet he meant it. The realisation surprised him. He was becoming oddly protective of their English guest. What did that mean?
‘Then you’d end up in prison too,’ she pointed out.
‘I wouldn’t mind if I was in the same cell as you.’
Another joke. Wasn’t it?
‘Do they have unisex prisons in Paris?’ Her look was cool. She thought he was mocking her. And he probably was. That made the most sense, he decided.
‘I’m sure if I bribed someone, it could happen. So I wouldn’t go to prison. I would simply rescue you and we’d ride off into the sunset together, never to be seen again.’
‘I can’t ride.’
He loved how prosaic she always was. Or was irritated by her down-to-earth replies. He couldn’t be sure which. ‘Not a problem,’ he insisted, and ran a smoothing hand through his hair as the wind ruffled it. ‘I’ll bring a large motorbike. You can ride pillion and hold onto me.’
‘Oh well, in that case… I’ve always had a soft spot for a biker boy.’
He looked round at her with raised brows, but Maeve was already drifting away, threading her way between tourists planning to disembark, apparently keen to watch the boat’s slow approach to the quayside.
He raised his head to the sun and closed his eyes as the gangplank was set in place, enjoying the heat.
He had been cooped up indoors for too much recently, he thought, absorbed by family business, like Henri’s fire disaster at the vineyard. Or just painting…
‘Alight here, mesdames et messieurs’ the crew member on the gangplank was announcing, ‘for the cathedral of Notre Dame and the left bank…’
‘Maeve?’ She had disappeared into the crowd, he realised. ‘Maeve? We have to go.’
At last, he spotted her leaning over the side of the riverboat a few metres along the open deck, just past the jetty, as though straining to see something in the murky waters below.
He hurried towards her, but the tourists blocked his way, shuffling towards the gangplank. She must have seen him coming though, because she pointed down into the river, her face animated.
‘Oh, Leo, look… Is that a fish?’ she asked, her voice muffled as she leant even further. ‘I’m sure that’s a – oh no!’
It was famously gusty along the Seine, summer and winter alike. Shorts or jeans were de rigueur on the river.
As he elbowed his way towards her, Maeve’s over-large borrowed dress was caught by one of those sudden gusts and blown upwards, granting him – and everyone else in the vicinity – a view of pale rounded thighs and an equally rounded and delectable derrière.
Leo stopped dead, his eyes widening at the sight of her bottom in tight white underwear. He didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.
‘Mon Dieu…’ he breathed.
Meanwhile, Maeve had gasped in consternation as the dress blew up, as well she might, given what was now on show. Releasing the floppy hat she’d been holding in place, the modest Englishwoman clamped both hands to the hem of her dress instead, swiftly dragging it down…
But the treacherous wind instantly snatched the unprotected hat from her head and dashed it into the river. Or would have done, if the protective bumpers fixed to the lower side of the boat hadn’t got in the way, leaving the hat hooked close to the lapping water.
With a shriek of horror, Maeve made an automatic grab for it, leaning precariously over the rail as she cried out, ‘My hat… Oh no, my lovely hat!’
‘Maeve, no, leave it,’ Leo warned her.
A startled crew member darted forward at the exact same time as Leo.
But neither of them could reach her in time to prevent the inevitable from happening.
Somehow majestic, Maeve tumbled over the railing, pale legs waving in the air, and disappeared with a splash and a despairing wail into the filthy waters below.