Page 21 of The Paris Trip

Maeve frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand fully… Why didn’t you inherit some of the business too, Bernadette? You’re his sister.’

Bernadette flushed, and Maeve realised she had once more put her foot in it with this complicated family.

‘Half-sister,’ the young woman corrected her in an angry mutter. ‘My mother…’ Her mouth tightened and she abruptly changed trajectory. ‘My real father wasn’t a Rémy,’ she finished awkwardly.

‘I see.’ Maeve didn’t see at all. But what else could she say?

She bit her lip, wishing she was not so ready to blunder into other people’s business. But it sounded as though Leo’s mother had not conceived Bernadette by Leo’s father. And she hadn’t mentioned a second marriage for her mother, which rather suggested his mother had slept with some other man behind her husband’s back. Goodness…

Not wanting to pursue that prickly subject, she asked hurriedly, ‘So Leo doesn’t paint anymore?’

Nana shook her head, evidently having understood that part in English at least, and tutted, her knitting needles clacking noisily.

‘That’s so sad.’ Maeve sat forward, eager to learn more. She recalled the gendarme’s admiring recognition. ‘I knew Leo was an artist, but… Is he really well-known?’

Madame Rémy smiled sadly. ‘My dear, he was once one of France’s most notorious young painters.’

‘He still is,’ Bernadette said pointedly, without looking round, having returned to her garden name. She was weeding now below the fig trees that grew against the sunny wall.

‘But we no longer see so many stories about him in the press.’ Madame Rémy clasped her hands together, staring down at them. ‘We were all so proud of him, Maeve. Even Francis, in his own way, though he would never have admitted it. But that was all a long time ago. Now Leo is… broken.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘No, there’s no other word for it. Leo is a broken man.’

‘But what about Liselle? Nonna said…’ Maeve tailed off, uncomfortably aware that she had only guessed Nonna’s meaning when she spoke of Liselle being Leo’s “Muse”.

Perhaps she had misunderstood.

‘Liselle was his model once,’ Madame agreed. ‘But she hasn’t sat for him in ages.’

‘So why does she still…?’

‘Live here?’ Madame Rémy gave an unhappy smile. ‘Liselle is his manager now. She organises exhibitions of his work in France and around the world, and deals with sales of his paintings.’ She paused, her brows knitting together, her eyes troubled. ‘But he has so few unsold paintings left, and nothing new to come. So she’s had to, erm, double up, as you say in English.’

‘Double up?’ Maeve didn’t understand.

Nonna shushed them, pointing with her knitting needles.

Loud footsteps behind them made Maeve turn her head. Liselle was headed their way out of the château, a tray in her hands. She was wearing an apron over a pale green summer frock and what looked like clogs on her feet. The slap of the heavy shoes on the stone was almost menacing.

‘These days Liselle is our housekeeper,’ Bernadette said, jumping up and dusting off her hands on navy blue culottes. ‘Did you bring out the little cakes I made?’

‘Of course,’ Liselle replied in French, her voice disdainful. ‘And a pot of coffee and some cold drinks, as Madame requested.’ She slammed the tray down on the ironwork table beside Maeve, shooting her a resentful glare as all the glasses and cups rattled. ‘I don’t like people talking about me behind my back,’ she snapped in English. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Crystal,’ Maeve replied, sitting up very straight and returning her glare. She didn’t know what Liselle’s problem was with her. But she was not going to be cowed into submission. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you could hear me.’

‘Evidemment.’ Liselle’s lips were pursed, her eyes snapping.

‘Now Liselle,’ Madame Rémy said uneasily, ‘please don’t be impolite to our guest. I was the one who mentioned you first, not Miss Eden.’

Nonna grumbled something.

Maeve suspected it might’ve been, ‘It was me, actually,’ but she hadn’t yet got a grasp on the old lady’s gnomic utterances, so couldn’t be sure.

‘I know what you all think of me, Madame,’ Liselle began angrily but then fell to silence as the door behind her opened.

Liselle turned her head to look at the newcomer, red-flame hair glinting in the sunlight, and a strange look came over her face. It was an expression of vulnerability, and it made Maeve feel bad, seeing that change. Liselle might come across as quite unpleasant at times but she wasn’t as iron-plated as she appeared. No doubt her feelings had been hurt by what she’d overheard.

‘Ah, Leo, Madame Rémy exclaimed nervously, sitting up and reaching for the tray, ‘you’re just in time. Liselle has made coffee. Or perhaps you’d prefer something cold. It is quite hot today, isn’t it?’

Maeve felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck as she realised that the man himself had arrived in the courtyard garden.

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