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

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Shocked by a loud crash, Maeve sat up groggily and realised she must have dozed off. Either that or she was still asleep and no longer dreaming of Leo and his enormous paintbrush, but of some imperial palace in China, where some dignity in rustling silks had just been announced and everyone was bowing down to them. Because she could have sworn that a gong had just been struck somewhere below her in the house.

A gong…

Hadn’t Beatrice mentioned something about a gong?

She blinked, confused. How long had she been asleep? It was still sunny outside her window and she could hear birdsong. Yet there was a golden-orange glow to the light now that told her the time must be well into evening.

The gong sounded three more times, each resounding GONG louder and more insistent. She got the impression someone was standing there with a large gong mallet, enthusiastically whipping a large, gold-foil-wrapped after-dinner mint for all they were worth…

Come down to the terrace when the gong sounds.Wasn’t that what Beatrice had said, or words to that effect?

Jumping up guiltily, Maeve splashed her face with cool water, using the handy corner sink in her room. Then she dragged a cool summer dress over her head and fastened a slightly loose pair of sandals borrowed yet again from Bernadette, before descending to the terrace as quickly as she could in flapping sandals without falling downstairs. Talk about clown shoes…

Embarrassingly, she found the whole family already assembled under burgeoning vines supported by a lattice structure of wooden slats and wire cables, soft purplish grapes dangling here and there, thick foliage providing gentle shade as everyone sat enjoying pre-dinner aperitifs on the terrace. There, a glass of some milky substance called ‘pastis’ was pressed into her hand, and she was introduced to Henri and Beatrice’s other grown-up children, several of whom still lived at home and worked in the vineyard.

After much handshaking and cheek-kissing, followed by a gulp of the aniseed-flavoured pastis that left her gasping and spluttering, she was directed to a seat opposite Leo.

He grinned at her. ‘Glad you could make it. I was nearly dispatched to find out if you’d got lost on your way downstairs.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she hissed across at him, ‘I fell asleep. I was tired.’ She frowned at him, trying not to be resentful of the fact that he still looked fresh and clear-eyed. ‘Why aren’t you tired?’

‘I was, but I had a power nap,’ he told her calmly, rising to shake hands with a late arrival, yet another of Henri and Beatrice’s children, this one called Francois, a shambolic young man whom Leo introduced to Maeve in such a flurry of dialect that she was left without a clue what was being said.

The long dinner table was set with a cheerful, red-striped tablecloth and matching red linen napkins, with glassware sparkling by the light of many fat candles flickering inside glass containers. Bowls and dishes piled high with colourful salads, vegetables and succulent-looking meats had been arranged all the way down the middle, interspersed by water bottles and stoppered pichets of red wine.

Having carried out the last dish, which looked like trout sprinkled with almonds, Beatrice sat down, shaking out her napkin with a flourish and a comfortable smile. ‘Bon appetit, tout le monde!’

Following the others’ example, Maeve began to help herself to salad and roast chicken, deeply aware of Leo’s gaze on her face.

Okay, what was he looking at?

Paranoia began to work on her, aided and abetted by the milky pastis, which tasted less fierce after a few mouthfuls. Maybe her hair looked like a haystack. Or maybe she had red marks on her cheek from having slept so long and so deeply in one position…

Leo was looking strangely presentable in a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt opened at the neck to reveal a broad chest with a few manly hairs curling just within view. His shoulder-length sleek black hair had been recently washed, she suspected, and combed into a John Wick lookalike style. He had not shaved again though, so there was a faint dark shadow about his chin and jaw that gave him a broodingly sexy air…

A power nap, eh?

‘I, um, hope the fire damage wasn’t as extensive as you feared,’ she said at last, addressing Leo in English while the others were chatting around them.

He broke apart a crusty baguette and dipped a fragment into a spicy bean mix dripping with olive oil. ‘No, it wasn’t complete devastation, you’re right. And it’s almost sorted now. They’re just waiting on an inspector to check and sign off on the rewiring. Then the showroom will be back in business.’ He ate for a moment, then poured both her and himself a large glass of water. ‘The timing couldn’t have been worse though. Henri relies heavily on coachloads of tourists stopping here to taste the wine. Still, the place has only been out of commission a short time.’ He grimaced. ‘The insurance premium will be through the roof when we renew, unfortunately. But that can’t be helped.’

Clearly having caught some of their conversation, Henri muttered something in agreement, and gestured her to try one of the pichets of red wine. ‘Let me know what you think,’ he told Maeve. ‘It’s drawn from a cask of our own Rémy label. Rich and earthy, with intense notes of raspberry and a lingering plum aftertaste.’ He grinned as his son Pierre guffawed at this, and clapped him on the back. ‘According to a recent review, that is,’ he added with a wink. ‘But I’d welcome your opinion.’

Feeling all eyes upon her, Maeve gingerly poured herself half a glass of the fragrant red wine, and took a cautious sip.

She wasn’t a big wine drinker, it had to be admitted. Nor did she know the first thing about viticulture. But the knowledge that this had been produced on their own land, with grapes cultivated and picked by their own hands, lent a beguiling charm to the rich taste rolling around her tongue.

‘I love it,’ she told them, and raised her glass. ‘Thank you all for welcoming me into your home so generously. Your health.’

‘Santé!’ they chanted in return, raising their own glasses.

Leo smiled at her across the table before drinking deep from his own wine glass, and she felt a blush creep across her cheeks at the look in his eyes.

He planned to paint while he was down here. And he’d told her that he intended to paint her, in particular. Maybe out in the vineyards.

Was it wrong to feel excited by that prospect? After this brief holiday in France, she might never see him again, even though he had politely offered to visit England. But she knew how things worked with these short-lived holiday romances. It all seemed so magical in the beginning. But once the holiday was over, the magic dwindled and was soon forgotten.

She felt a pang at the thought of all this magic and romance dwindling before it had even properly begun. But she was sensible Maeve, after all. She wasn’t the sort of woman to throw herself into a fling with a Frenchman, however intriguing. Nobody back home would believe it possible.

No, she must not break the habit of a lifetime by doing something wild and foolish. Something she might quickly regret, and perhaps forever…

Dusk fell with surprising suddenness over that glorious landscape of cultured vines and dusty hills and cypresses piercing a violet dusk. The evening was thick with cicadas, their never-ending chi-chi-chi made by millions of insects out there in the shadowy landscape: invisible, omnipresent, loud. The family sat drinking on the veranda for over an hour after supper had finished, chatting amongst themselves, everyone relaxed and enjoying the evening’s warmth.

Maeve listened to the French language weaving in and out of her ears, washing over her like a delightful piece of music, and looked up at the heavens as the first stars began to prick tiny silver lights across the thickening dark.

She was in love, she realised. In love with this country. In love with France itself. Oh, she still loved her cosy little corner of Britain. The everydayness of rainy streets and fish and chips and the school bell that she heard even in her sleep. France was more like a lovely dream to her, somehow perfect and magical in that moment, even though she knew it wasn’t really like that, and that criminals like the mugger who’d stolen her bag existed there too, thieving passports and money and cards, and ruining people’s lives. But just for that one evening at least, France was special. It was the mythical landscape she inhabited whenever she fell asleep and her subconscious took over…

‘Care for a walk?’ Leo asked softly at her elbow, startling her. He’d moved round to sit beside her when Sophie and Marie had disappeared upstairs to bed. ‘I know it’s getting dark but there’s still enough light to see by.’

Maeve hesitated, pushing aside her empty wine glass and checking to be sure she wouldn’t be needed. But apart from a few remaining glasses and pitchets of wine, the table was already clear. She had helped Beatrice carry the plates out to the kitchen, and the dessert bowls to the table and back again once consumed, and then had helped the twin girls load the dishwasher while Henri had collected the dirty cutlery. Now Henri and Beatrice were chatting together at the other end of the table, discussing a film they had recently seen, and there was nothing for her to do.

Yet still she hesitated.

She was afraid to be alone with Leo, she realised, shocked by this realisation. No, afraid was the wrong word. She felt… apprehensive. Not because she didn’t like Leo or found him intimidating. Quite the contrary, in fact. She was nervous about being alone with him because she knew they would likely kiss again once nobody was looking. And in this wine-sweetened dream of dusty vineyards and warm night air, goodness knows where that might lead.

This was the land of romance, after all.

‘I’d like that,’ she said in typically contrary fashion, and even let him take her hand as they left the veranda with a soft farewell to their hosts, and wandered out along the dusty track in the purple gloom of evening.

She must be in a dream, she decided. Because people can do things in dreams that they wouldn’t dare attempt when awake. Or perhaps she’d just had too much wine and was tipsy.

Embarrassingly, to add weight to this suspicion, Maeve hiccupped.

‘We make good wine here, don’t we?’ he murmured.

‘Delicious,’ she agreed, and suppressed another hiccup as best she could.

Oh, for goodness’ sake…

They walked for some time in companionable silence, and then around a bend where they were hidden from the house. They were a long way out in the countryside, she realised, listening to the quiet air. The evening would have been deathly silent if not for the incessant thrum of cicadas.

After another few paces, Leo stepped off the track into the dust soil of the vineyard, pulling her with him.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I just want to show you something.’ He stopped at the vines growing closest to the edge of the track. ‘Look,’ he said, his voice low in the stillness, ‘see these grapes, how dark they are, how well-rounded? This bunch is almost ripe. And the one next to it too. Only a few weeks now and most of these will be ready for harvest. Though we’ll have been back in Paris a long time by then. And just as well. This place is utter chaos at harvest time. I know… I’ve been part of the workforce myself.’ He brought her hand to the vine, her fingers rustling aside the warm leaves. ‘Here, touch the grapes… Don’t they feel round and firm and full of life?’

She choked. ‘Um, yes, I suppose they do.’

It was almost dark but there was a soft glow to the sky that meant she could see his face clearly, even there in the gloom. He was staring directly into her eyes, both their fingers tangling around the warm, tightly-packed, nearly bursting bunch of grapes.

She felt breathless, and had to laugh despite herself. ‘Do you often come out here at night to fondle the grapes?’

‘This is my first time,’ he admitted, and released her hand, drawing her close against his body. ‘Maeve…’ he murmured, and his arm slipped about her waist.

She tilted her head instinctively, her eyes closing as his mouth came down.

Oh goodness, she thought, as fireworks burst behind her eyes and her heart began to race.

His mouth worked persuasively on hers as they stood together, cuddling under a black velvet sky, the balmy night air caressing her bare shoulders. But she didn’t just passively let him kiss her. She kissed him back, as she had done before, her own arms twined about his neck, pulling his sleek dark head down to hers, as if he needed any more persuasion.

It was just as well, she thought at one point, gasping as his hands moulded her body through the silky summer frock, that making love in a vineyard was not likely to be a terribly comfortable experience.

If they had been in an English meadow, for instance, she suspected they would probably have been rolling about in the clover long ago. Instead, they stayed discreetly on their feet and merely explored each other’s bodies by touch and largely through clothing.

Talk about fondling, she thought hazily.

All the same, it seemed like a century before Leo pulled back, also breathless, and gazed down into her face. ‘Wow.’

‘Wow indeed,’ she whispered back, hot-cheeked.

He glanced at the vines they’d been leaning against. ‘I think we may have crushed a few grapes.’

‘Your uncle won’t be pleased.’

‘You think you’re kidding… Henri takes damage to even a single bunch of grapes very seriously indeed. He’d probably send us straight back to Paris.’

‘I like him. And Beatrice.’

‘They’re a wonderful couple,’ he agreed, smiling.

‘Nine kids though…’

‘I know.’ With a sharp nod, Leo ran a hand through his hair, still badly mussed from where she’d been gripping onto it as though planning to yank the hair from his head, strand by sleek black strand. ‘I wonder if they ever worked out what was causing that.’

She snorted with laughter, burying her face in his broad chest. His heart was beating as fast as hers. ‘Probably not,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘Though we could ask them for some pointers. Because I’m not sure I know what’s causing this.’

‘Yes, it’s strange. I thought I had this under control,’ Leo agreed, his voice uneven. He raised a hand to play with her hair as though mesmerized by it. ‘You’ll be going home soon too. It’s insane to be making something out of this… And yet, I can’t seem to help myself.’

‘Me neither,’ she agreed with a croak of laughter, even though it wasn’t that funny. They were both grown adults. Yet they’d clearly lost sight of commonsense. Because this thing between them had to be impossible. He lived in France. She lived in England. He was a painter and a businessman. She was a teacher at a secondary school. And she taught maths, not even art.

In other words, they had zero in common. This relationship had disaster written all over it. Probably printed in triplicate, in capital letters and with red ink too. Yet neither of them seemed able to see the warning signs. Or were studiously ignoring them.

Leo said huskily, ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

Her laughter died. She stared up at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

He swallowed before repeating in a dogged fashion, ‘I said, I think I’m in love with you.’

‘Oh good,’ she somehow managed to rasp in reply, her throat dry. ‘I thought that’s what you said. But it didn’t make any sense. So I was thinking, well, either I’m going mad or my hearing is failing. It’s good to know neither of those were correct.’ She bit her lip. ‘But you may be crazy.’

He didn’t smile. ‘Love is a kind of insanity, it”s true. Yet I’ve never felt saner.’

‘Perhaps we could find a doctor to corroborate that.’

‘I’ve been lost for years, wandering in the wilderness, unsure what I wanted for life. Then I met you and suddenly saw the right path, shining ahead of me.’

‘And that’s me, is it? The right path?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said solemnly, and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. ”I have no doubt, at any rate. Not anymore.”

The warmth of his mouth on her skin… The promise in his eyes… Her heart was thumping hard, loud enough to rival the cicadas.

‘This c-can’t work,’ she stammered. ‘You and me. It’s impossible.’

He nodded. ‘You think I don’t know that? It doesn’t stop me from being in love with you though. If anything, it makes me more determined to find a way through the difficulties.’

‘But you said, you only thought you might be in love with me. Not that you definitely are.’ She shrugged, watching him. ‘I’m just saying…’

He kissed her again, and for a long time there was silence in the vineyard. Then he murmured in her ear, ‘Pedant.’

‘That’s me.’ So many people had called her a pedant over the years, she had become accustomed to it. It was almost a badge of honour. ‘So you agree, what you said doesn’t make sense. Or rather, I shouldn’t take it too seriously.’

‘No, let me rephrase,’ he said briefly, and took a deep breath. ‘Maeve Eden, I’m in love with you. For real and forever. I want to marry you.’ He stuttered the last three words, his voice having started to shake. ‘If you’ll have me, that is.’

She felt as though someone had put a tube down her throat and sucked all the air out of her lungs. Though obviously she would have noticed that happening, so it had to be her own nervous system playing havoc with her head.

‘Now my hearing is going wonky. I”m sorry. Did you just ask me to marry you?’

‘Actually, I merely stated that I would like to marry you.’

‘Pedant,’ she whispered.

‘If the shoe fits…’ He was watching her closely, his hands hovering just above her shoulders but not touching. She sensed he wanted to kiss her again but was giving her a chance to reply to his proposal first.

But which way to swing?

‘Oh. My. Gooodness,’ she mumbled as the realization of what was happening began to sink in properly.

Marriage?

She couldn’t seem to breathe properly. The world blurred to his dark face above her, a mauve-dark halo of night behind his head. Had Leo Rémy, a man whom she had only met, gosh, less than two weeks ago, really just proposed marriage to her? Or suggested it as a possibility, at least. Mentally, she went back through their last few exchanges… Yes, apparently he had. And now her brain was a hot mess of nonsense.

She groped for words that wouldn’t come, and ended up making a strange bleating noise instead.

His brows tugged together. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Meh…’ More bleating.

She’d definitely lost the use of human language. Hopefully, he wasn”t against marrying a goat.

‘I’m sensing my proposal may have come as a shock to you,’ he mused, studying her thoughtfully.

A shock?

The man had such a talent for understatement, Maeve was stunned into respectful silence. Which meant no more bleating, mercifully.

He bent his dark head, blotting out the sky. ‘I seem to recall that kissing a woman in shock can be helpful,’ he murmured just before their lips met again.

It was another long kiss. And by the time it was over, she had somehow processed the rapid influx of information – love, marriage, bleating – and come up with a more appropriate, adult response.

‘We can’t get married,’ she told him flatly, pulling back from his lips, though still within the alluring circle of his arms.

‘Why not?’

‘Okay, let’s see… We’ve only just met. We both have intensely complicated lives already without getting tangled up in someone else’s complicated life. Also, you live in France, and I live in England,’ she went on, carefully enunciating all the reasons she had already given herself to explain why this would not work. ‘You’re, like, really arty and a bit of a wild child.’

‘A child?’ His brows shot up.

‘A bohemian, then.’ She struggled to return to her list before he could kiss her again and commonsense fled in a rush of desire. ‘And I’m just a maths teacher. I have equations living in my brain. People call me sensible. Pedant, remember? I’m completely ordinary. While you…’ She sucked in a ragged breath. ‘You’re extraordinary. So this will never work, can’t you see that?’

His smile had grown during her little speech, and now he shook his head. ‘It will work precisely because of those things. Because we’re such opposites. Have you never heard of the saying, opposites attract?’

‘People only say that to explain really strange marriages.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Then let them say it about our marriage. Because it will be nobody’s business but our own.’

‘You father might have something to say about you marrying an Englishwoman.’

‘He can hardly talk, given his recent choice of bride.’ Leo paused, frowning. ‘Though you’re right about one thing.’

Maeve blinked. ‘Good to know.’

‘I haven’t properly asked you to marry me. Not in the traditional manner. An omission I intend to remedy at once,’ he insisted, then sank down on one knee in the dust of the vineyard, a bunch of purple-dark grapes nestling against his shoulder.

Oh my, she thought dizzily.

Gently taking both her hands in his, Leo gazed up at her through the gloom, though she wasn”t sure he could possibly distinguish her features. Why, in this darkness she could be anyone…

But she was wonderfully glad that she wasn’t.

Because her heart was flooding with love too. Love for this man, this complex, talented artist. For this gorgeous country. Even for the night thickening around them, the scent of vines and dust, a slight breeze blowing warmly from the south and lifting her hair…

She just found it hard to express in words what she was feeling.

‘Will you marry me, Maeve Eden?’ Leo asked deeply, and when she tried to protest, shook his head. ‘No, hear me out before rejecting me, please… I’ve spent my whole adult life wishing I could find a woman who would be my muse but also my friend. Someone to give me good advice but also excite me. I’d given up ever finding such a woman. In fact, I thought she didn’t exist. Until I met you.’ He drew a long, unsteady breath, going on earnestly, ‘I knew almost as soon as we spoke to each other that first day that this would be something miraculous in my life. I wanted to paint you at once, which is very unusual for me. But I pushed those feelings away, because I was afraid what it would mean. I was afraid of how my world would change if I let you in. And it has changed. I’ve changed. But I realise now, that had to happen. This is a good thing. I’m embracing the changes… And I’d like to embrace you with it,” he added with a sheepish smile that rapidly faded. ”As my wife, not just someone I’ve known for a few days and may never see again.’ His grip on her hands tightened, his voice hoarse. ‘Will you give me a chance, Maeve? A chance to love you and maybe, just maybe, if you help me get this right, to make your life miraculous too?’

There were tears in her eyes. She was weeping with happiness. Either that, or she was allergic to their Bordeaux vines. Which would be awkward, to say the least, given what she was about to say.

‘Yes,’ she choked out breathlessly, ‘yes, I will marry you, Leo Rémy. And maybe I’m a bit crazy too for saying that. Because everything I told you was true. This is a huge bloody gamble. But I don’t care anymore. I want to take a risk for the first time in my life. I want to be the one who does the eccentric thing, the crazy thing, the wild thing, so that everyone tuts at me and wags a finger.’ She gasped. ‘I don’t want to be sensible Maeve anymore.’

‘Then you won’t be,’ he promised her. ‘And I’ll show you how that might work.’

He rose and took her in his arms. They kissed under the soft purple haze of nightfall among the dusty vines, the rhythmic chi-chi-chi of cicadas accompanying their love.

‘Do those insects ever shut up?’ she muttered between kisses.

‘Never.’

She swore under her breath.

‘You get used to them. After a while, you don’t even hear them.’

‘Like nagging wives?’

He laughed, and kissed her again. ‘I can’t wait for you to nag me, Maeve, ma cherie, mon amour.’

Maeve shivered in delight. ‘Ooh, French love words.’

‘You like?’

‘J”adore.’

‘There’s plenty more what they came from,’ he said easily, and began to make love to her with his tongue, so to speak, using all the French love words she knew and dozens more she didn’t…

‘I’m going to be so happy with you,’ she whispered after another hot searching kiss, clinging onto him so she didn’t fall over, because her head was spinning and her knees were frankly weak.

‘We still have to tell Liselle,’ he whispered back.

‘Oh… Damn.’

Leo held her close for a while in the warm night air, his arms a comfortable support, his mouth nuzzling through her messed-up hair.

She knew they ought to return to the house. That would be the sensible thing to do. Henri and Beatrice would be wanting to lock up soon. Besides, with her delicate skin, she was probably being eaten alive by unseen mosquitos and would be covered in itchy red bitemarks by the morning.

But she wasn’t sensible, dependable Maeve anymore, was she? Mosquitoes be damned. And she wanted to stay out here in the vineyard forever, loving Leo and being loved by him, and not thinking much beyond tonight…

‘Do you really have equations living in your brain?’ he asked.