Page 19 of The Paris Trip

He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at the clock on the wall. ‘Leave it with me and we’ll get back to you. We’ll need your contact details though and an assurance that someone can vouch for your whereabouts while this is resolved.’

‘Are you joking?’

Mr White grimaced. ‘I wish I was. But the French don’t take kindly to foreign nationals without passports wandering the country freely. Your friends from last night… Will they agree to house you?’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps you could phone them?’

‘My phone was stolen. Along with everything I had. I told you all this.’ She had tears in her eyes and was choked up. ‘Oh, this is… intolerable.’

He watched her for a moment, looking conflicted, and then pulled some tissues out of the box on the table and handed them across to her with the weary air of someone who’d done the same thing a thousand times. She wondered how many other people had sat where she was sitting and been flatly told no, you can’t go home.

‘Here, please don’t be upset.’ He hovered, frowning. ‘Do you have a number for these people?’

‘Rémy. Their surname is Rémy.’

‘I can ring them if you like.’

‘Do we really have to do this? I mean, two whole weeks? Isn’t there a way to resolve this more quickly?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

‘For goodness’ sake.’ Reluctantly, she fumbled for Leo’s number, still in her pocket, and passed it to him. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I’m a British citizen. I have documents in my name. I rent a flat. I… I had a British father, for God’s sake. Though he’s passed away now.’ She blew her nose, watching as Mr White punched Leo’s number into his phone. ‘Could you at least try to contact my father’s family to confirm it? I may have some cousins somewhere…’

Oh, why hadn’t she made more of an effort to keep in touch with her father’s side of the family?

‘It’s not that simple,’ Mr White muttered, but did not elaborate further, as Leo had answered at the other end.

A swift and brief conversation in French followed, ending abruptly. Mr White shrugged and put down the phone.

Maeve stared at him. ‘Well?’

‘Monsieur Rémy has agreed to put you up while we sort this out and to vouch for your whereabouts. He’s on his way back.’

‘Oh, how embarrassing.’ Mortified, she dropped her head in her hands.

Mr White waited a moment, and then said uncomfortably. ‘I have another appointment, I’m afraid. You can wait outside for Monsieur Rémy.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Someone at reception will prepare his paperwork. He’ll need to provide ID details and sign a release form before you leave.’

Stunned, Maeve forced herself up out of the chair. ‘This is really happening, isn’t it?’ But at the door, she halted beside him, stammering, ‘You’re sure you… you haven’t made a mistake? Got me confused with someone else, maybe?’

He gave her a perfunctory smile. ‘Good luck, Miss Eden.’ He shook her hand. ‘Hope springs eternal.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘You have to let me do something in return for your hospitality,’ Maeve insisted. ‘I’m not a brilliant cook, but I’m willing to help out in the kitchen. Or wash up. Or do the laundry. Whatever you need, really.’

She was sitting in the inner courtyard of Château Rémy, sheltering under a striped umbrella from the blazing summer sun. At the table sat Madame Rémy and Nonna, while Bernadette, a few feet away, was down on a kneeler, tending to the plants growing in urns around the courtyard. It was a little oasis of peace in the centre of a busy city. Every now and then she would hear a car horn or sounds of raised voices from the streets below. Yet here in the courtyard it was peaceful, somehow apart from the busy metropolitan life going on around them.

Maeve still felt stunned by what had happened. And not entirely sure she understood. An anomaly, Mr Whitehead said. A red flag. Some kind of error that meant her British citizenship was now in question. She had no idea how that was possible.

All the way back from the embassy, she had sat white-faced and sickened, while Leo tried to reassure her, insisting that it must simply be a clerical error or a computer cock up, and that she would soon be on her way back to the UK. And that was the most logical way to approach her situation. Except she wasn’t feeling very logical right now.

Frankly, she felt more like bawling her eyes out or going back there and begging Mr White on her knees to let her back into the UK.

Britain was the country where she’d grown up. She’d always considered it her own. The fact that she had been born in Paris was not significant, as far as she was concerned.

Yes, her mother had been French, according to her birth certificate and her dad. She still had French relatives somewhere. Possibly in Paris itself. There was also that faded photograph with an address scrawled on the back. Her grandmother’s old address? She had not yet felt brave enough to pursue that lead. And now she couldn’t, because that old photo had been in her rucksack, which would have been dumped somewhere, with anything valuable taken out… Just the thought of it made her want to weep.

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