Page 17 of The Paris Trip

‘Bonjour,’ Maeve told them all politely, feeling very much on show. ‘Thank you for letting me stay. The bed was so comfortable. And I love the view from the window. You saved my life last night. I’m really very grateful.’

‘The bed was comfortable?’ Leo repeated, his eyebrow arched in much the same way as his sister’s. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I’m not sure any of us believe you.’

‘Leo, enough,’ Madame Rémy warned him, and smiled benignly as Maeve sat in her allotted seat. A cup was pushed towards her and filled with steaming coffee. ‘Do you take milk? But of course you do… You’re English. The English are so funny.’ Madame Rémy glanced at the wicker breakfast baskets set at intervals down the middle of the table. ‘Um, we have home-made croissants and fruit, and a selection of cold meat and cheese if you want something more substantial.’ She paused. ‘We do not do sausages, I’m afraid.’

‘Bacon and eggs,’ the young man next to Leo said in thickly accented English, adding in French, ‘That’s what the British eat for breakfast. Bacon and eggs. And “black pudding”.’ He pronounced it delicately in English, and then shuddered.

Bernadette shot the young man a disbelieving look. ‘Black… pudding? ‘ she repeated. ‘What is that?’

‘Some kind of sausage made with blood, I think,’ the young man replied in French, and they both gave cries of horror and amusement.

Over this exchange, Leo said calmly but clearly, ‘English only, please. Let’s be polite to our guest. Her French is…’ His gaze lifted and locked with Maeve’s, and his mouth twitched. ‘Minimalist,’ he finished at last, and then looked down at his plate, spearing a small piece of what looked like Camembert with his knife.

‘I’ve never eaten black pudding,’ Maeve told the assembled family, and felt herself blush as all eyes turned towards her. ‘Or bacon and eggs. At least, I don’t eat them for breakfast. Except maybe a few times a year, when I’m on holiday.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose I’m on holiday now. Though, bacon and eggs are probably a bit thin on the ground in Paris. But I do love croissants. Home-made though? Who makes them?’

Everyone pointed or looked at Bernadette.

‘They take a long time,’ Bernadette said flatly.

‘Well, I’m very impressed. I’d love to see how you make them. And whatever that sliced meat is… It looks delicious. Like, um, pink waxed paper. I shall have some with a croissant. And maybe a piece of fruit too.’ She smiled determinedly as a very elderly gentleman opposite her pushed a wooden fruit bowl in her direction. It scraped across the table in the silence. ‘Merci, monsieur.’

The old gentleman raised a shaking finger. He looked about eighty-five years old, maybe older. ‘Alphonse,’ he told her in a deep voice. ‘I am Alphonse. Pleased to meet you, Mlle Eden.’

‘Yes, quite right, Uncle Alfonse… I apologise for not introducing Mlle Eden to everyone.’ Leo pointed to each person in turn around the table. ‘Maeve, you already know my grandmother, Madame Rémy, and this is her mother, my great-grandmother, whom we all know as Nonna. And the gentleman who passed you the fruit bowl is my great-uncle Alphonse, Nonna’s brother-in-law.’

‘The others are all dead,’ Nonna muttered in French, her bright gaze on Maeve’s face. ‘All dead.’

Alfonse grimaced and nodded. ‘All dead,’ he echoed gloomily.

Maeve felt awkwardness strike and heard herself tell the old man, ‘Je suis desolée,’ meaning she was very sorry. Though for what, she wasn’t quite sure. There was no evidence any of them had died an untimely death, given his own advanced age…

Leo nodded to the young man on his left. ‘And this is my cousin, Jean. Pay no attention to him. Nobody ever does, and it’s by far the best policy.’ The young man protested, but laughing. Leo indicated his sister. ‘You met Bernadette last night. And the two young ladies to your left are Sophie and Marie, yet more of my cousins, though not on Jean’s side of the family. They’re seventeen and here on a visit from Bordeaux. We own a vineyard there.’

The two young ladies, who looked to be twin sisters, giggled and waved shyly at Maeve. They reminded her of girls at her school back in the UK, though more sun-tanned, both with long, slightly unkempt chestnut hair worn loose, in pretty summer frocks.

There was a delicate cough from the one person at the table who had not been included in this round of introductions.

Leo took a sip of his black coffee, his gaze steadily on the table. ‘And the lady with the tickly throat is Liselle. She is not related to anyone here.’

‘God, Leo, you are such a bastard,’ Liselle said in such perfectly enunciated English that it was almost impossible to detect an accent. She rose, throwing down her napkin, and stalked dramatically from the room, tossing back a wave of thick Titian hair as she did so. On her way, she flashed Maeve a dismissive look. ‘You’re welcome to him, Mademoiselle. Just don’t let him break your heart, that’s my advice.’

And with that, she left the room.

They sat in silence, listening to the click of heels on the uncarpeted stone flags as she headed out.

Maeve didn’t know what to say. But something seemed to be required, as everyone was now looking at her. Even Leo, whose gaze was steady and sardonic.

‘Oh dear,’ she said at last.

Nonna gave a low, mischievous chuckle. ‘I told you,’ she said in French, pointing at Maeve. ‘Liselle… she is finished here.’

Shaking his head, Leo got up.

Maeve looked at him nervously. ‘Are you still okay to run me to the Embassy?’

‘Of course. But enjoy your breakfast in your own time first. My study is just along the hallway. I’m sure Bernadette will point you in the right direction once you’re ready to leave.’

He left, and Maeve bit into a ripe pear, looking about the table and wishing she knew what on earth all that tension with Liselle was about.

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