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

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was cool in the shadow of the apartment block as Leo stood waiting for their taxi, watching as Maeve exchanged a few last words with her mother. They had both gone into another room in the apartment once Maeve had introduced herself, after the initial shock had passed, her mother clearly unable to believe her long-lost daughter had finally tracked her down. Once she understood who this English visitor was, Sylvie had embraced Maeve in a warm enough manner, but he could tell the woman had been shaken by her unexpected arrival.

He wished he knew what had gone on between the two women behind closed doors, especially given Maeve’s pale and almost scared expression when they’d emerged over an hour later. But there had been no chance to ask her yet. Or not without being overheard.

Once his grandmother had run out of anecdotes about their wild younger days in bohemian Paris, he had waited patiently for her and Nonna to take their leave of Agathe and make their leisurely way out into the sunshine, and then had aided them into Bernadette’s car, his half-sister having been called to collect the two older ladies.

‘Shall I wait for you and Maeve?’ Bernadette had asked, tapping the steering impatiently.

‘No, we’ll come back on the metro. Maeve is still speaking with her mother,’ he had told her, and waved them off into busy afternoon traffic, not expecting to be held up much longer than another ten or fifteen minutes.

Yet here he was, still waiting outside… nearly an hour later.

At last, Sylvie raised a cool hand to him and disappeared back inside the apartment. He raised his brows to Maeve.

‘Well?’

‘Oh, not here… Not here,’ she whispered, looking flushed and agitated. ‘Where… Where’s your mother? And Nonna?’

‘Gone home. Bernadette came to collect them. I”ll hail a taxi for us.’

‘Okay, but not yet. Let”s walk for a bit first.’ Together, they began to walk briskly down the street. ‘My goodness,’ she muttered, glancing back once at the apartment building, bathed in the soft golden glow of afternoon sun, before setting her face forwards with a determined expression.

He was curious but waited until he’d hailed a taxi and they were safely on the way home. Maeve folded her hands in her lap and stared out of the window at nothing, tight-lipped and still, but it was clear she was disturbed. Her usual composed demeanour seemed fractured…

As the taxi snaked its way through heavy traffic, he touched her hand. ‘You can tell me what your mother said, if you like. I won’t repeat it to anyone else.’ He searched her averted face. ‘You seem upset. Talking about it might help. Unless you can’t?’

‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed to tell you,’ she said after a minute, shooting a quick glance at the taxi driver, who was listening to music and swaying about in the front, hopefully oblivious to their conversation, which after all was in English.

‘Not allowed?’ he repeated, mystified.

‘I think the word is, classified.’

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘My mother… She’s…’ Maeve gave an exasperated gasp. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ She leant sideways and put her mouth to his ear, whispering, ‘I think she’s a spy.’

The warmth of her breath so close to his ear made him shiver. He was aware of a wave of urgent desire. Only what she had said stopped him from turning and kissing her mouth.

‘What?’

‘I know it sounds crazy. And she wasn’t really that clear about it. She didn’t say that in so many words… But I understood what she meant. That is, she told me she works for the French government. But can’t talk about it.’ She was still close, speaking in a whisper, and he sat very still, breathing in the subtle scent of her perfume. ‘It’s all very complicated and hard to grasp. But she suggested that might be why I’ve had so much trouble at the British Embassy since losing my passport. Because of my connection to her.’

He frowned. ‘Mon Dieu.’

‘Apparently, she’s going to try and sort it out for me. I hope she can, but…’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to think.’

He quirked a brow. ‘You’re not alone in that.’ He considered what she’d said, then asked delicately, ‘And did she explain why she left England while you were still so young? And never got back in touch?’

‘She said the French government had demanded her return. That she had no choice if she didn’t want to fall foul of her bosses. So she asked my dad to live with her in Paris instead. Only he refused point-blank and said he’d fight for custody if she took me away.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘She claims Dad was worried it would be too dangerous for me, growing up with a mother like that… And that he was the one who told her not to keep in touch.’ She bit her lip. ‘Dad was probably right to try and protect me from all that. It does sound like a precarious existence. But knowing that doesn’t make any of this easier to bear.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Maeve merely bowed her head, saying nothing more.

‘What can I do to help?’ he asked after a moment’s silence, warring with the desire to take her in his arms. He knew she was unlikely to welcome that kind of attention, and besides, they were in a taxi, and everything just felt wrong. But he knew this thing he felt for her was more than just a passing attraction to a girl he wanted to paint. It wasn’t like his relationship with Liselle, which had been tortured and yet oddly compulsive at the start, until it had finally burnt itself out some years ago. This was on a completely different level and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Deep-down, he was a little unnerved by his growing interest in Maeve. If he was honest with himself, and he did prefer to be honest with himself, this feeling had him poised to run away. Yet something was stopping him from doing precisely that. In fact, everything seemed to be tugging him further towards her…

‘Nothing,’ she said simply, but there was a desolate look on her face. ‘I met my mother at last. And my grandmother. It should be the happiest day of my life. And yet I feel like everything is falling apart. Be careful what you wish for, they say.’ She gave a crack of laughter. ‘Well, I wished for this. So that serves me right.’

‘I want to paint you again,’ he said on impulse, and saw her head turn towards him in amazement. Remorse swept through him. ‘Sorry… Feel free to say no. Bad timing. I’m just being selfish.’

But she shook her head. ‘No, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’d like that. I expected to be bored, modelling for you. But there’s something strangely calming about sitting still for hours. Your mind drifts away, and yet everything feels so centred.’ She looked out of the window again, blinking, a curious half-smile on her lips that had him transfixed. Her Mona Lisa smile… ‘That probably makes me sound a bit odd.’

But he understood perfectly, dismissing her suggestion with a gesture. ‘As soon as we get back to the chateau,’ he promised her, ‘we’ll grab something to eat and then go up to the studio. A longer session this time.’ His gaze caressed her, already imagining her in that small space, posing for him, the brush gliding silkily across the canvas. ‘Maybe you could wear something a little more revealing this time…’ Again he realised how that sounded, and cleared his throat, straightening up. ‘Unless that would make you feel uncomfortable?’ he asked in a more professional tone.

She had knitted her hands together in her lap, and now sat still, staring fixedly down at them. ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘something more revealing would be fine. If you think that’s necessary?’

Heat rose inside him and he struggled to suppress it. ‘Oh, quite necessary,’ he agreed, his voice unsteady.

‘But not nude?’ she queried, still not looking at him.

His brain spun.

Now he was on fire. Or one part of him was, at any rate.

Oh, for a fire extinguisher, he thought wildly.

‘Nude?’ He gulped at the thought of her in his studio without a stitch on her nicely rounded body, and then swallowed hard, carefully not looking at her either. The back of the driver’s head was suddenly fascinating to him. ‘Erm, no… Not this time. That won’t be… necessary.’

‘I see.’

Thankfully, the driver slewed to a halt near the chateau a moment later and he was able to focus on payment while she climbed out.

What on earth was wrong with him? He was behaving like a schoolboy with his first crush. He had painted beautiful women many times before, both clothed and in the nude, and thought nothing much of it, except to acknowledge the glory of the sitter. And, when it had been Liselle sitting nude for him, in the first flush of their toxic relationship, to take her to bed afterwards…

But this was Miss Maeve Eden, a sensible and well-behaved Englishwoman.

No, feeling anything beyond friendship for this woman was out of the question.

Nothing was ever simple, he found himself thinking shortly after their return to the chateau. Grabbing snacks for himself and Maeve in the kitchen, keen to get back to work, he had found Bernadette fuming and silent, bending over something bubbling on the stovetop, and got his head snapped off for asking what was wrong.

‘As if you don’t know,’ his sister snarled.

‘Sorry?’

‘Him!’ She waved a ladle expressively, gobbets of sauce flying everywhere. ‘Him! Him!’

‘My father, I take it you mean?’ His half-sister had never acknowledged Sébastien Rémy as her ‘father,’ or even as her stepfather, despite him still being married to her mother when Bernadette was born, and his grudging financial support after their mother died. But that was because Sébastien had lost no opportunity while she was growing up to point out her illegitimacy and make her feel bad about it. ‘I’m sorry he’s come back and that he’s being as difficult as ever. But the chateau belongs to him. I don’t have the authority to make him leave.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ she spat, then bent to her saucepan again. ‘He says he’s planning to stay indefinitely. Not just for his honeymoon.’

‘My God…’ He found himself grinding his teeth at the thought of his interfering father constantly underfoot. But while it was an inconvenience for him, Sébastien Rémy’s presence was more painful for his sister. He supposed it was a reminder of how she had been sidelined all her childhood and youth as the illegitimate child, the girl who didn’t quite fit… ‘I’m genuinely sorry, Bernie. I know it must be driving you mad.’ He touched her shoulder gently and she jumped, but didn’t push him away. ‘Look, do you want me to talk to him? Try to get him to modify his behaviour when he’s around you?’

‘Oh, what’s the point?’ But she hesitated, stealing a sideways look at him a moment later. ‘Would you though? He might listen to you.’

He laughed, though it wasn’t funny. ‘Hardly.’

‘You’re his eldest son now,’ she pointed out. ‘Papa’s only child.’ He saw how she flinched at that inappropriate word, Papa. ‘He’ll pay attention to you far more readily than to me.’

He didn’t like the idea but had to admit that was probably true. ‘Well, I’ll try then. But I can’t guarantee anything will change.’

She moved away, seeming calmer, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘How did it go? Maeve, I mean. Grandmère and Nonna wouldn’t tell me anything about her grandmother. They said it was private.’

He shrugged, aware that he couldn’t reveal what Maeve had told him. But it didn’t seem indiscreet to admit a few bare facts. ‘They seemed to get on well enough. But then her mother turned up.’

Bernadette stared round at him. ‘Seriously? So she really does live in Paris too?’

‘Erm, apparently so.’ He pretended to take an interest in the bubbling stew, peering into the pan, disliking having to lie to his own sister. But he had promised Maeve not to reveal her secrets. ‘I don’t think she got on as well with her mother. But that’s hardly surprising. Her mother left when Maeve was a baby.’

‘How horrible… Why did she do that?’ Bernadette sounded on edge, no doubt thinking of her own difficult childhood.

‘She argued with Maeve’s father, I believe, and he wouldn’t let her bring Maeve back to France.’

‘God, some parents!’ Her voice shaking, Maeve reached for the ladle again, and he hurriedly backed away in case of more flying sauce gobbets…

But he was saved by Maeve’s sudden arrival.

Her face was lit up, her whole being glowing, like a ball of light had just descended into the cavernous kitchens.

‘What is it?’ he asked at once. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The British Embassy just rang the chateau to say it’s all been sorted out. I can collect an emergency passport whenever I like and go back home. Isn’t that amazing? It’s barely an hour since we left my mother, and she’s already managed to get it sorted out as she promised.’

He was delighted for her, but his heart sank too.

‘Yes, that’s marvellous news.’ He paused, willing his heart to stop thumping. ‘So, when will you be leaving?’

‘Oh,’ she said, coming to a halt before him. She glanced at Bernadette, then said falteringly, ‘I hadn’t thought. I was just so pleased by the news that it’s all over… But now I remember, you wanted to do another painting session.’ Her hands clasped together tightly at her waist, as though she were fighting nerves. ‘Of course, another night won’t hurt. In fact, the man from the Embassy said there was no hurry. That I could enjoy Paris for as long as I like before going home.’

Bernadette was smiling. ‘Congratulations… I’m glad for you.’

‘Thank you.’

Leo felt oddly sick, but managed a smile too. ‘Yes, I’m very pleased. But I have to admit I’ll miss you. You’ve brightened up our lives.’

‘Me?’ Her voice was a squeak, her look incredulous. ‘That doesn’t sound like me. I’m more usually known for telling people off or dampening everyone’s spirits.’

Bernadette laughed, returning to her stew. ‘Not in this house.’

‘She’s right,’ Leo agreed, ‘you haven’t been like that here. Quite the opposite.’

‘Oh, well,’ she murmured, blushing.

He collected their snacks on a tray, his smile fixed, trying not to think of the future. Of the days stretching ahead when she wouldn’t be there to be painted or to exchange barbs with or to escort around Paris… But he had work to do, so he wouldn”t miss her that much, would he? He had been neglecting his duties since her unexpected arrival. Perhaps this was a good thing.

‘Shall we go up to the studio while the light’s still good?’ he suggested lightly, and she followed him without a word.

But they had barely got up there when someone knocked at the studio door.

He glanced at Maeve, who had just changed into the diaphanous wrap she’d worn for their last session. ‘Are you okay if I answer that?’

She looked uncertain but shrugged. ‘It’s probably just Bernadette. Maybe we left something in the kitchen.’

‘Come in,’ he called, for the sign on the studio door said DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION and most people stuck to that when they knew he was painting. Except Liselle, of course, who loved to barge in without knocking.

The door opened to reveal his father, dressed as though he were still in his twenties, in an awkwardly tight pair of white jeans and a tee-shirt that showed every bulge, large sunglasses on even though he was indoors. His hair seemed a darker shade than it had been yesterday, a few strands slicked oddly across his forehead to disguise a receding hairline.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Leo said in an unpromising way, his jaw hardening. This might be Sébastien”s property but he still disliked his father wandering about, lording it over them all, when he spent most of his life doing absolutely nothing towards running the estate. ‘Yes?’

Sébastien Rémy strolled in, smiling broadly, with his new bride on his arm as usual. Leo was beginning to wonder if they had been superglued together. ‘Ah, I’m happy to see you’re in here, working again. How wonderful. It’s just like old times. And you’re painting the English girl… Well, I suppose she has nice legs.’ He turned to his wife, telling her in conspiratorial tones, ‘My son will paint you next. Then you’ll be able to see your own portrait in this big Paris exhibition he’s got coming up.’

‘Ooh, I’d love that,’ Chanelle cooed.

‘Excuse me?’ Leo glared at his father. ‘I don’t think so. I choose who I paint and – no offense, Chanelle – but I’m not interested in painting you.’

His father frowned, removing his sunglasses as though to see Leo better. ‘Nonsense. Is this your famous pride speaking, son? Because I won’t stand for it. You’ll paint my bride. Yes, and then you can paint us both together, and it had better be a good likeness.’ He puffed out his chest in a ludicrous way. ‘Chanelle is pregnant, you know.’

‘I’m aware.’

His father blinked, clearly taken aback by that cool reply. ‘The child she’s carrying will be your little brother or sister. A portrait of us, perhaps showing just a hint of her pregnancy, would be ideal. Do you hear me, Leo?’

Leo counted silently to ten, then said as politely as he could manage, ‘I don’t think so. This isn’t like hiring someone to paint your walls, Dad.’ He met his father’s smirking gaze. ‘I’m an artist, not an interior decorator. And I choose who I paint.’

‘But we’re family.’ His father paused significantly before adding, ‘And I am your boss.’

Gritting his teeth at this implied threat, Leo replied, ‘As far as the family business is concerned, yes, you’re in charge. But not when it comes to my art.’

‘Your art?’ Sébastien made a derogatory sound. ‘All artists accept commissions. Or they do if they want to eat. What’s so different about this?’

Leo forced himself to take a deep breath and stay calm. Much as he disliked this situation, he was still talking to his father. ‘Dad, I’m sorry. Maybe another time?’ His smile was strained. ‘Right now, my whole focus is on Maeve. I want her face to form the centrepiece of this upcoming exhibition. Anything else will destroy the integrity of my vision.’

His father stared at him blankly, before turning to study Maeve. His own barely polite smile turned to a sneer. ‘You’d rather paint a complete stranger than your own stepmother?’

That was going too far. ‘Stepmother?’ Leo repeated, the word an explosion of contemptuous breath.

Legally, it might be true. But emotionally he refused to use that word. His whole being repelled against the idea that Chanelle, younger than him by some eight years, was now his stepmother.

‘I am technically your stepmother,’ Chanelle murmured, glancing around the studio with bored disinterest.

Leo decided to ignore her comment, since it was either na?ve or deliberately inflammatory, and he refused to rise to anyone’s bait. Also, he was conscious of her pregnancy and didn’t want to drag her into the argument. This confrontation was between him and his father, nobody else.

‘No,’ he said firmly, keeping his eyes on his father.

‘No?’ Sébastien frowned. ‘No to what?’

‘No, you’re wrong. Maeve isn’t a stranger.’

‘You said she wasn’t your girlfriend,’ Chanelle pointed out, her eyes abruptly narrowing on Maeve.

‘Please don’t argue over me,’ Maeve interrupted, strain in her voice.

‘She isn’t my girlfriend,’ Leo ground out with difficulty, wishing she was. ‘But she also isn’t a stranger. Not anymore. And yes, I’d rather paint her than you and your wife.’ He threw a not-terribly-apologetic glance at his stepmother. ‘No offence, Chanelle.’

Chanelle pursed her lips and tossed back her hair, her expression defiant.

‘Not your girlfriend,’ his father repeated slowly, ‘but also not a stranger.’ He looked Maeve up and down with derision. ‘In other words, she’s your whore.’

Leo sucked in a breath at that outrageous insult, his vision clouding with a red haze of fury. Without thinking, he took three short strides forward and came bang up to his father, staring directly into his eyes, the two of them now a bare few inches away from each other.

‘What the hell did you just say?’