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

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The apartment was crowded with quaint old furniture, shutters over the windows that had been partially opened to let in the sunshine, paintings on almost every available square inch of the wall, and every surface covered with dusty photograph frames, ornaments, bric-a-brac, vases stuffed with wilting flowers. The room smelled musty, and she suspected some of that came from the brightly coloured parrot, watching her from a cage beside the window. It squawked loudly and ruffled its feathers as they all piled into the room which, she imagined, must ordinarily be rather quiet.

Despite the crowding of the furniture, it was clear that Maeve’s grandmother had a navigable route through the space, as she demonstrated by thrusting her chair furiously forward, before spinning it around so she could face her visitors.

‘Please, sit down.’ She indicated the sofa and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs. ‘I made coffee. I’m sure it’s still warm. And there are cakes.’ She pointed to the low table, and Madame Rémy, having seated her own mother on an upright chair, began pouring coffee for them all.

‘Come here, girl, and kiss me.’ Agathe beckoned her forward, turning her cheek for the anticipated kiss. Shyly, Maeve bent to kiss her. Meanwhile, her grandmother made strange smacking noises, as though to indicate a kiss of sorts had occurred on her part too. ‘I thought you would be older. But maybe my memory…’

‘Everyone under forty looks like a baby to me these days,’ Madame Rémy said, handing her old friend a tiny cup of coffee on a dainty saucer. ‘Do you still take it black, Agathe? Or should I add a dash of milk?’ she asked in French.

‘Black, of course,’ Agatha said dismissively, her gaze still on Maeve’s face. ‘Dear child… I couldn’t believe it when Virginie rang to tell me who was staying with her. But how is this possible? How do you know the Rémy family?’ Her gaze narrowed sharply between Maeve’s sudden embarrassment and Leo’s hard profile. ‘Has young Leo been painting you?’ She smiled when Maeve bit her lip, embarrassed. ‘After Virginie called me, I admit, I made a few enquiries. No need to look so surprised. I have a computer. And a phone. I am not a technophobe. I saw that photo of you and Leo at dinner. All very romantic, I thought. But then today I see another story where he denies it and says you are only a visitor. So I ask myself, what is the truth here?’

Taken aback by this question, Maeve found herself blinking and tongue-tied, grappling with the coffee cup that Madame Rémy had passed her. The coffee looked strong enough to strip wallpaper. But there was at least some milk in it. Maybe enough to fill a third of a thimble.

‘Erm…I, um…’ Her gaze swivelled to Leo, who looked abruptly away as though to say, ‘You’re on your own, kid.’ Fiercely, she stuck her chin out and blurted out, ‘The Rémy family were very kind, taking me in when I lost my bag and passport. I owe them a great deal. So when Leo asked if I would sit for a painting…’ She gulped and stopped, unsure where that sentence was going.

‘Our guest will be going back to England as soon as the Embassy allows her to leave,’ Leo said crisply. ‘There’s nothing between us, Madame. It was just a story my cousin Jean made up for the paparazzi so he could make some money out of us.’

Agathe didn’t look convinced, but she pulled thoughtfully on her lower lip before shrugging. ‘If there is money to be made, be sure someone will always try to make it.’ She studied Maeve avidly. ‘I am glad you’re here now but it’s been a long time. You were a baby last time I saw you. Why have you never written?’

‘Because I didn’t know you even existed?’ Maeve felt a little aggrieved at this accusation. She took a sip of her coffee to steady her. It was so strong, her eyes smarted and she was surprised she could even make coherent sounds afterwards. ‘After my mum left, I had no contact with anyone from your side of family. Not even Mum. I had the photo… Of this place, I mean. But I didn’t really know if you were still living here. Or even if you were actually my grandmother. Yes, the address was on the back of the photograph, but my father wasn’t sure if the lady in the photograph was my grandmother. I’m sorry, if I’d known that you were alive and still living here, of course I would have written. But to be honest,’ she finished in a sudden hot rush, ‘I assumed nobody from my mother’s side of the family was interested in me. After all, you never wrote to me.’

She half expected her grandmother to look offended by this forthright speech. But Agathe merely gave a sharp burst of laughter. The cat, shocked by this, jumped off her lap and ran away, while the parrot squawked as though taking enjoyment in its departure. ‘Brava, my petite,’ she said. ‘Quite right. I should have tried to contact you. I am as much at fault as anyone in this business. But my daughter… Your mother… She asked me never to contact you.’

Maeve sank down into the chair beside her grandmother’s wheelchair. She felt like she was going mad. ‘I don’t understand. Mum told you not to contact me? But why?’

‘If you want to know that, it’s probably best if you ask her yourself.’

The cup shook in its saucer, Maeve was trembling so much. ‘Ask her…myself?’ she echoed in a hollow voice.

She gazed about the small, overcrowded room, as though half expecting her long-gone mother to pop up from behind the sofa or jump out of the cupboard. Her astonished gaze met Leo’s, then she looked at Nonna with her curious, bright-eyed stare and Madame Rémy, whose soaring brows showed she knew as little about this as Maeve.

‘Sorry, but do you mean to say she’s here? In Paris?’ She was breathless. ‘In this apartment?’

‘Not right now,’ her grandmother said flatly, dashing her hopes. She raised the dainty coffee cup to her lips and sipped noisily, followed by a series of appreciative lip-smacking noises, much like the ones she’d made when air-kissing Maeve’s cheek. ‘But she will be soon,’ she added as she put down the cup. Her gaze wandered to the clock on the wall. ‘I imagine Sylvie should be home from work within the hour. Unless she has some business to detain her.’

They had been speaking mostly in French and Maeve began to wonder if she had completely misunderstood everything that was being said.

Her mother, who had abandoned her as a young child, lived here? And would be home soon?

It couldn’t be true, surely?

‘I don’t believe it,’ she stammered.

‘I don’t tell lies, me,’ Agathe insisted, raising thin pencil-drawn brows at her, and then made an odd noise like she was blowing a raspberry.

Maeve stared at her, and then at the others. Heat flooded her cheeks. ‘But I have so much to ask. Why she left me, for instance? Why she never came back? Why she never bothered to keep in touch or ask how I was or anything.’ She ran out of breath, adding with a gasp, ‘Oh dear…’

And she burst into tears.

A firm hand took away her coffee before she could spill it, and she opened her eyes to find Leo kneeling beside her chair. His face swam. Or rather, her eyes were so shiny with tears, she could barely see him.

‘It’s okay, we’re all here with you.’ Leo squeezed her hand when she said nothing. ‘If you’d rather leave now, we can do that too. If you like, we could bring you back another day, maybe when you’re feeling more prepared.’

Maeve almost said yes to that suggestion. The idea of running away felt so appealing. But she knew it would be nothing but cowardice, and shook her head. ‘No, I have to face her sometime. That is, I’ll be thrilled to see my mother again. But there’s so much hurt too, you know?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, I do know,’ he agreed in a deep voice, his gaze locked with hers.

Of course he knew, she thought. His family was almost as dysfunctional as hers. If that were possible.

‘There are reasons why your mother was never in touch with you,’ Agatha said into the silence that had fallen. ‘But it’s not for me to discuss those reasons. Come, let us eat cake. Your mother made that one.’ She smiled at Maeve in what was obviously supposed to be a cheery way. ‘Orange and chocolate. So decadent. Too rich for me though, I’m afraid. But your mother loves it. Try some.’

There are reasons why your mother was never in touch with you.

What reasons? What on earth did that mean?

Nonna reached for a piece of cake, her hand trembling, and Madame Rémy got up to help her.

‘Mmm, oui, le gateau,’ Nonna mumbled, her look eager.

The parrot squawked, and bobbed up and down on its perch, rolling its eyes.

Everyone laughed, except Maeve, who was feeling deeply confused and on edge. She wiped her damp cheek with the back of one hand, sniffing discreetly. Yes, her nerves were in tatters at the thought of being reunited with her mother after all these years. But she couldn’t believe she’d just burst into tears in front of everyone. It was so horrifyingly non-British.

To her relief, Agathe and Madame Rémy began chatting about the old days when they had both been part of the thriving Parisian art scene, while Nonna chimed in with the occasional comment, usually something derogatory about male artists, her bosom and lap soon covered with cake crumbs.

She couldn’t entirely follow their conversation; it was too rapid and colloquial, and punctuated by raucous laughter. But she was glad the awkward silence was over and she was no longer the centre of attention.

‘Relax,’ Leo told her quietly. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

He was still holding her hand, kneeling beside her chair. Almost as though he intended to propose marriage…

She stared down at him.

Why did this man care what happened to her? They had barely known each other a few days, for goodness’ sake. Yet she welcomed his support, all the same. It genuinely made her feel less alone. And those ‘few days’ seemed to have occurred over an eternity, or that was how it felt.

But she summoned up a breezy smile and pulled her hand free. ‘Thank you. Yes, I know.’ She had been self-sufficient for so long, wholly independent and reliant on nobody for approval of how she lived her life, and though it was true she enjoyed having a network of friends and colleagues to fall back on when under stress, she was by no means helpless without them while here in Paris. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’

He got back to his feet. ‘Of course.’

The sound of someone unlocking the front door to the flat and coming inside stopped the chatter and laughter dead.

Agathe stiffened, glancing at Maeve.

Maeve bit her lip. ‘Oh my.’

There was a short, tense silence.

‘In here, Sylvie,’ her grandmother called in French. ‘We have visitors.’ She whispered to Maeve, ‘I didn’t tell her about you coming here. Just in case you didn’t turn up.’

The door opened and a woman peered in, her face blank as she took in all the people gathered in the cramped space.

She was about Maeve’s own height, immaculately made-up, with blue eyes and thinning blonde hair cut in a smart bob, dressed in a cream linen skirt and matching blouse, a green leather handbag hanging from one shoulder.

‘Maman?’ she queried, then her gaze drifted back to Maeve’s face and stopped there, widening slowly.

Maeve stood up, all eyes on her. ‘Hello,’ she said in English, her voice faltering, her heart beating a mad tattoo under her ribs. ‘I’m Maeve… Your daughter.’