CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘I need you to put these on, if you don’t mind.’ Leo deposited a pile of clothing in front of Maeve, a strange look in his face. ‘Don’t worry… I’ll step outside while you change. I’ll get us some coffee, how’s that?’
‘You don’t happen to have tea, do you?’ Maeve asked, verging on desperation after days of coffee drinking. ‘With a dash of milk?’
Leo pulled a face. ‘I think we probably have tea somewhere in the house. And milk. But I can’t guarantee that it will taste anything like what you think of as “tea”.’
‘As close as you can get it would be fantastic, thank you,’ Maeve said, aware of a ridiculous desire to fall on her knees and beg for tea. ‘Addiction is a funny thing, isn’t it?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Am I being intolerably British?’
‘Not at all,’ he said politely. ‘Get changed. I’ll do my best to produce some drinkable tea.’
Once he’d gone, Maeve’s troubled gaze dropped to the clothes he’d left in front of her. They were very, um, colourful. She picked them up and examined them at arms’ length. The material was flimsy, screaming orange and scarlet… Some kind of robe? Plus what appeared to be a matching headscarf or bandanna. And a pair of dangly earrings. Thankfully, they were clip-on, for although she wore studs in her ears, she didn’t fancy sticking second-hand earrings in there.
It was like putting on clothes from a childhood fancy dress box. Or picking a bold new look and reinventing herself.
Why on earth did he want her to wear these? Presumably he had some vision in mind for his painting. But it wouldn’t be a vision that matched up to her personality.
Well, she had agreed to help him out in return for bed and board, so it would be mean-spirited now to back out. Hurriedly, she pulled off the summer frock that Bernadette had so kindly lent her, which was tighter-fitting than all the other clothes in her meagre store. Then she cautiously wriggled and shrugged her way into the brightly-coloured robe that he wanted her to wear, all diaphanous, multi-layered folds, like a fairy costume or something out of a pantomime.
There was a full-length mirror on the wall. She did a twirl in the bright costume, arms wide, staring at herself, and was astounded by her reflection. She didn’t look like Maeve anymore.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she looked like instead, of course.
But not herself. Maeve had gone.
And in her place was this strange, exotic, floaty creature.
Feeling a bit out of her depth, she clipped on the dangly silver earrings and arranged the bandanna about her head. It was orange and blue, a truly violent combination.
But if this was what he wanted…
Now she looked odd. There was no other word for it. And something else… Yes, she looked daring. Pirate girl meets Kate Bush. As though she would do anything. Be anyone.
Apart from Maeve, that was.
How her colleagues at school would chuckle to see her in this outlandish outfit. They would point and make jokes. She heaved a sigh of relief, in fact, that they would never see her.
Then a terrible thought struck her.
Leo was going to exhibit his paintings, wasn’t he? And those paintings would be of her.
Maeve Eden.
She shuddered at the realisation and had to suppress a frightened urge to pull all these clothes off and dash back to her attic bedroom. Though she would need to pull on her other clothes first. She had no intention of running amok in the nude through Chateau Rémy. She wasn’t Liselle, she thought with a touch of acid.
As soon as Leo returned to the studio, carefully balancing a tray of hot drinks for them, she pounced on him. ‘When these paintings go into the exhibition,’ she demanded, folding her arms and glaring at him, ‘will my name appear anywhere? Beside the paintings or in the brochure, if there is one.’
He set down the tray. ‘I don’t believe so. Many artists’ models like to be named.’ His gaze moved over her strange, colourful outfit, his face expressionless. ‘But if you prefer to be anonymous, that’s not a problem.’
‘Yes, that’s it, exactly. I want to be anonymous. No name anywhere associated with the exhibition. Otherwise I won’t sit for you.’
He seemed amused rather than annoyed by her insistence. ‘Fair enough.’ He nodded to the dainty teacup. ‘Bernadette and my grandmother put their heads together and found some tea leaves for you. Bernadette heated milk but Grandmère said you would prefer cold milk.’ There was a small china jug of milk on the tray. ‘Is that right? Cold milk for tea?’
‘Absolutely.’ Maeve knew a moment of horror at the thought of warm milk in her tea, and bent to examine the teacup, which was fairly brimming with black tea. It smelt fragrant. Picking it up, she added a dash of cold milk and took a sip.
He was watching her. ‘Well?’
He was right. It didn’t taste like tea back home. The milk was wrong. And the tea tasted… funny. But it wasn’t coffee, and that would have to be enough for now.
‘It’s perfect,’ she lied politely, and took another sip. ‘Thank you.’
His gaze narrowed on her face, and she had the uncomfortable suspicion that he knew she was telling porkies. But what had he expected her to say? This is grim? Even with her not quite stable childhood, she had been raised better than that, or she hoped so.
‘How do I look?’ she asked shyly, hoping to distract him,
‘You look like the woman I want to paint.’
She met his eyes, and shivered, even though the room was warm, the windows open on a hot sunny Paris. She had been suppressing her memory of that kiss. Oh, that kiss! But it came rushing back now, suffusing her with tingling sensations that had no business occurring in an artist’s studio in the middle of the afternoon.
She thought he might be remembering too. His eyes had widened and he seemed to be breathing faster, as she was too.
Brusquely, he pointed to the stool she had occupied last night. ‘Take a seat.’ He turned away to grab up some equipment – a pallet with paints already mixed, a pot of brushes from which he withdrew a couple, sticking one brush behind his ear and wielding the other, and a paint-streaked cloth which he draped over one shoulder – and said gruffly, ‘I’ve taken all the preliminary sketches of your face and outline I need… Now it’s time to get something down on canvas.’
‘You want me like this?’ She attempted to adopt the same position again that she’d held for so many hours the previous night.
‘Maybe a little more…’ He adjusted her. ‘And these sleeves… Let the material hang down like this… That’s it.’
At last, he stepped behind the easel, which he’d set up with a large canvas, glanced towards her and then began to paint.
For a long while, there was silence in the suffocatingly warm studio. Every now and then, when he wasn’t looking directly at her, Maeve dared reach for her teacup and take another quick sip, though it was rapidly growing cold. She noticed that he had knocked back his own coffee in a couple of gulps. His mouth must be lined with asbestos, she thought.
At last, when he stepped back to consider what he’d achieved so far, she asked tentatively, ‘Did you speak to your grandmother about that photograph?’
His head turned towards her, his eyes narrowing on her face. ‘Sorry?’
He was obviously in another world, far, far away…
‘My grandmother’s photograph, the one I showed you?’
‘Of course. Yes, I showed it to her, and I was right. She does know your grandmother. They used to be friends but there was a falling out, she says. Though not such a serious one that she could never go back again.’ He grinned at her expression. ‘Don’t worry, she’s going to get back in touch with her. I don’t know whether she’ll say that you’re here. Perhaps you should talk to her about it before she makes contact?’
‘That’s so marvellous, thank you.’ Flushed, Maeve clasped her hands to her cheeks, her heart thumping. There was a chance she might meet her grandmother. It was such an incredible thought, she couldn’t focus on anything else. ‘So she’s alive?’
‘Well, I suppose she must be. We haven’t heard anything to the contrary. And my grandmother keeps a close eye on the obituary columns in the newspaper.’ He stepped back to the canvas, paintbrush in hand, and began working again, intent and frowning.
She didn’t want to disturb him while he was painting. But he had given her so many questions and only a few answers. Threadbare answers, at that.
Eventually, she couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted out, ‘But what’s her name?’
He didn’t respond at first. Then he seemed to grasp that she’d spoken to him, and gazed around at her, distracted. ‘Pardon? Whose name?’
‘My grandmother’s name. I presume if your grandmother was once friends with her, she must know what her name is. They can’t just have addressed each other, “Hey you!” or something.’
‘I see what you mean.’ He hesitated, brush poised above the canvas, then dabbed in some paint, apparently fascinated by whatever he was doing. ‘Erm… Her name is Agathe Saint-Yves.’
‘Agathe Saint-Yves,’ she breathed.
It was a magical name. It sounded absolutely perfect for the woman in the photograph. Elegant, Parisian, yet also from another age. She looked out of the window, where she could just see higher buildings around the chateau, sun gleaming on the rooftops of Paris, and wondered what her grandmother would be like.
Would she want to meet Maeve though? Perhaps she had broken off contact with her daughter, Maeve’s mother, and would refuse to see her. That was a possibility and one she had to face. But maybe she would be delighted. Her long-lost granddaughter. It might be a fairytale reunion. Or something in between those two extremes.
She couldn’t wait to find out. And yet, she was also scared. It was the same fear that had prevented her from contacting her grandmother during those few days on the Paris coach tour. Because sometimes there wasn’t a fairytale ending when people met up with long-lost relatives. She had seen enough family tree documentary shows on television to know that. Sometimes, they met up only to discover exactly why they were long-lost rather than still friendly with everyone.
Besides, right now, her grandmother was a wonderful image of kindly, wise perfection in her head. But once they’d met, the reality might be very different. She didn’t want to be disillusioned by her grandmother and go back home to England disappointed.
Yet, if she didn’t go and meet her, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it.
‘Stop it,’ Leo said sharply, and she realised that she’d been slumped on her stool for several minutes now, chewing on her lip and breathing gustily as she gazed out of the window.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, and turned back to face him, sitting up straight in the designated position, the diaphanous folds of her strange outfit hanging exactly as he’d requested.
Goodness, he was a hard task master. Though she didn’t really mind. She was rather fascinated by the dedication with which he worked.
Being a professional artist wasn’t all dreamy creative moments and whimsical brushstrokes, she was discovering. It was about hard work and long hours, and she respected that, whilst secretly wishing she didn’t have to put in the long hours too.
But she could see similarities between them now.
Leo Rémy was as focused on her portrait as she’d ever been on teaching a class or marking up a huge stack of schoolbooks.
As she watched though, she realised that the frantic brushstrokes were gradually slowing down. He seemed more hesitant now than in the beginning. Certainly, he was not working as swiftly and obsessively as he had been last night. But no doubt paint was a slower process, she decided. Less about inspiration, more about technical know-how.
Leo stopped and lowered his head. His brush hand dropped to his side. Closing his eyes, he gave an audible groan.
‘Are you okay?’ When he didn’t answer, she felt unexpectedly anxious. ‘Leo? What’s wrong? Should I fetch someone?’ She jumped off the stool, concerned.
But he raised his head and backed away as she came towards him, holding up the paintbrush as though to ward her off. ‘No, no… I’m fine. Sorry, I had some bad news earlier. I’d hoped that by painting you today I’d be able to put it out of my mind. Forget about it for a few hours.’ She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. ‘Who was I kidding?’
He threw down the paintbrush in disgust and strode towards the window. He stood there rigid for a moment, unspeaking. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m not the man I was, that’s the plain truth of it. I’m not Leo Rémy anymore. I’ve lost my way. And this…’ He gestured behind him at the canvas. ‘It’s just a poor shadow of what I used to be capable of. I’m going to look like a fool at this exhibition. I need to tell Liselle to cancel the arrangement before they start to publicise it.’
She wanted to help him but didn’t know how. Her gaze drifted curiously to the canvas, still turned away from her.
‘May I see?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Absolutely not.’ He spun around, gesturing her furiously back to the stool. ‘It’s no good. It’s rubbish. But I’ll finish it.’ He picked up the paintbrush and returned to his place before the canvas. ‘I’ve never left a painting unfinished in my life and I’m not starting now. Even if it’s destined for the rubbish heap.’
‘What makes you think it’s rubbish?’
‘Would you sit down again, please?’
‘No.’ She didn’t move, ignoring his impatient gesture. ‘Something has triggered this.’
‘Spare me the psycho-babble,’
That dismissive attitude annoyed her. But she could see how defensive he was. Which meant she was close to the truth.
‘Some of the kids I teach,’ she said quietly, ‘are excellent mathematicians. Then suddenly, one day, they decide they’re no good at it. They just close themselves off from maths. And there’s always a reason. A single bad test result, perhaps, or an issue at home that’s knocked their confidence generally.’ She studied his inverted profile. ‘It’s none of my business, I know. But if you want to talk about it…’
A muscle jerked in his jaw, then Leo gave another groan and muttered, ‘If you must pry, it’s my father.’
‘Your father?” She was taken aback. Hadn’t he told her that his father no longer had anything to do with the family?
‘He got married again last weekend… Some young woman half his age. Apparently, he may be bringing her here to Chateau Rémy.’
‘Goodness. When?’
‘Today? Tomorrow? I’ve no idea. But I can’t stop thinking about it.’ He paused. ‘That man tortured my mother. Oh, not literally. I mean, with his affairs… All the women.’ He added bitterly, ‘In the end, she killed herself.’
‘Oh, Leo, I’m so sorry.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘Why would you? It was a long time ago. But sometimes I think about my mother and…’ He expelled a harsh breath. ‘It doesn’t matter. This thing with my father though. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing to me, I know. But it does. Because it’s brought it all back. And I don’t think I can face him…’ He grimaced. ‘Or not without punching him.’
She was shocked. ‘But he’s your father, Leo… Whatever he’s done, you can’t punch him.’
‘Then you’d better tie me up if he comes to the door.’
Tie me up.
Maeve said nothing. But the mental image he’d just conjured up wouldn’t go away. Her lips tightened to stop her from smirking, and her eyebrows rose and fell, doing a quirky little dance above eyes that simply didn’t know where to look…
‘Okay, now what are you thinking?’ he demanded, staring at her with his paintbrush poised above the canvas.
Oh my goodness, she thought, blushing. There was no way to answer that.
‘Nothing. I’m just, erm, hungry,’ she fibbed.
‘Hungry?’ He looked unconvinced but shrugged. ‘Then I’ll wrap this up quickly, so you can go and eat.’
She didn’t like telling fibs. Though she was genuinely hungry, she realised with an internal shock, watching the Frenchman bend to his work again.
Just not for food…