Page 29 of The Paris Trip

‘Yes, it’s just that… You’ve been having a hard time of it lately. All the stress over the family business. And now this thing with Liselle.’ She paused, studying him thoughtfully. ‘And Maeve.’

‘Maeve?’ He took a sip of his coffee, which was still scalding hot, and grimaced. ‘I barely know the woman. I just thought she would make a good model. Plus, she wanted to help out, so why wouldn’t I accept? There’s nothing between us, so don’t build it up into some grand affair.’

‘Of course not, brother dear,’ Bernadette said sweetly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Enjoy your coffee.’

He glared at the closed door for some time after she’d gone. Why did everyone in his family insist on creating dramas for him where there were none?

It was ludicrous. Though not, perhaps, as ludicrous as that scene with Liselle this morning. He took another sip of his coffee and realised, guiltily, that he was remembering his former girlfriend’s naked body bouncing against his. The strange thing was, the memory didn’t arouse him. Once upon a time, he might have been tempted to accept her offer of sex. But this morning, he’d been more interested in getting her clothes back on and pushing her out of the door before Maeve arrived.

He had barely thought about that side of life for months, even years. At one point, he’d given up on it, sure his libido had died. All the stress of the family business, Bernadette had said. And she wasn’t far wrong. Stress could kill a man’s libido, couldn’t it?

But the truth was, his libido had been alive and kicking this morning. But not for naked Liselle. No, he had been entirely focused on Maeve instead. Thinking about her, waiting for her, anxious about how things would go…

What had Liselle said about her? That she was dull? Ordinary? And innocent? She was neither dull nor ordinary, and he didn’t know that she was sexually innocent either, which would be unlikely at her age. But she was certainly unsophisticated and inexperienced, because everything about her shouted that. She was like someone from another age. Or in this case, another country. So maybe it was just her Englishness that intrigued him.

Though he suspected her body was also fairly intriguing. Because he’d started to wonder, almost as soon as he’d seen her, what her lips would taste like and how she would look after making love…

So that put paid to the dead libido theory.

Somewhat heartened by this, Leo finished his coffee as quickly as was humanly possible, given its extreme temperature, and stumbled into the shower to wash off the night’s endeavours. Dried paint was streaked across his hands and forearms, even one cheek. He was surprised that Bernadette hadn’t commented on it. But he’d noticed her looking at him strangely.

No doubt his sister was trying to be discreet. They all hoped he would start painting again, after all, but he’d snapped at them so often when they enquired about his artwork that she was probably afraid to raise the subject.

He had to stop doing that. Snapping at people. He had to become a better person. It had been three years since Francis died, and it was time he stopped complaining about the responsibility he’d felt unable to evade. A responsibility he had never wanted and didn’t particularly enjoy – apart from the wine-tasting, which had its moments. But his life was what it was, and he needed to grow up and stop pining for a past he could never hope to retrieve.

In time, he might even become dull and sensible, like Maeve.

Leo threw back his head and laughed as the water cascaded over him. Dull and sensible? Him? Never in a thousand years…

Returning his coffee cup to the kitchen later, he was taken aback to find Maeve sweeping the tiled floor, an apron about her waist, her hair hidden under a blue head scarf that he vaguely recognised as belonging to his sister.

A sudden vision flashed through his head, leaving him transfixed… A portrait of her in apron, headscarf and kitchen clogs, going about some homely task, maybe with a toddler tugging on her skirts.

He was shocked by the way his imagination was leading him. His portraits had always been of women in wild, provocative poses or making political statements. He’d never been interested in what some people called ‘kitchen sink’ portraiture, considering that old-fashioned and disrespectful to modern women.

As for painting Maeve in an apron, cooking or cleaning, with a child in tow…

Talk about regressive imagery.

If she could read his mind right now, he thought grimly, she’d probably hit him with that broom, and quite blamelessly.

‘Good morning.’

She jumped at his soft greeting, jerking around to stare at him. Light from the kitchen window illuminated the turn of her cheek, a few strands of blonde hair peeping out from under her headscarf.

Hurriedly, to cover his growing fascination with her, he asked rather brusquely, ‘What are you doing? That’s not your job. You don’t have a job, in fact. You’re a guest.’ He took the broom away from her, just in case she was moved to use it as a weapon later on. ‘If the floor needs sweeping, I’ll sweep it myself.’

As the words left his mouth, he cast a swift glance about the place, hoping not to find it did indeed need sweeping.

But it was spotless, as usual.

She did not protest but looked back at him with her chin raised, folding her arms. ‘I told you yesterday, I want to help out around the château in return for board and lodging. It’s not right simply to lounge about, enjoying your hospitality for the next couple of weeks.’ A slight colour came into her cheeks as she added in a stilted voice, ‘Besides, it looks as though the painting thing isn’t going to happen. Not after what I saw this morning.’

He gripped the broom handle tightly. ‘That wasn’t my fault. She threw herself at me.’

Now she swung her head to stare at him, incredulous laughter in her face. ‘She threw herself at you? In the nude, no less? My goodness, you must be a regular Tom Jones.’

‘Sorry?’

---