Page 39 of The Paris Trip

It was long past midnight when Leo finally allowed her to move. By then, Maeve had grown so stiff and wooden that he had to help her get up. She walked about the room like someone who'd been riding a horse for hours, bow-legged and slow, and stretched her back out cautiously while he examined the sketches he’d made.

She was exhausted. But at least the studio was warm. She could imagine what it must feel like to sit completely still in here for hours in the dead of winter.

He had a kettle in the room and got up to make chamomile tea for them both. They sat sipping it, with Maeve still on her stool and him sitting cowboy-style against a chair back, also looking every bit as exhausted as she felt.

‘Perhaps we could pick this up again in the morning?’ she suggested, and found her throat dry. She hadn’t realised how dehydrated she was until she tried to speak. ‘Goodness, it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Past my bedtime.’

His brows soared. ‘Past your bedtime? Why? You don’t have work in the morning.’ He studied her. ‘Do you never relax?’

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. ‘Of course I relax,’ she said defensively. ‘Maybe being a schoolteacher has made me a little institutionalized, it’s true. But there’s nothing wrong in preferring to get an early night whenever possible. I’m still recovering from the other night when I was up until goodness knows what time,’ she reminded him. ‘Wandering the streets of Paris and wondering what was going to happen to me.’

He nodded, his intent gaze on her face. ‘What would you have done if we hadn’t been able to offer you somewhere to stay?’

The question threw her. Though she’d already thought about it and been thankful that she hadn’t been left in that awful position. It would have been a disaster.

‘I… I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know anyone in Paris. At least, not really.’

His brows drew together now. ‘What does “not really” mean?’

‘Oh, only that I have a grandmother here.’

He lowered his cup, his stare astonished. ‘I didn’t know you had any family living in Paris.’

‘I didn’t know either,’ she said with a shrug, ‘or not until recently. I lost my father not so long ago, but while he was still alive, he talked to me about some old photographs that he said belonged to my mother. One of them was of a woman in Paris holding a baby. My father said that was my grandmother and that the baby was my mother. But my mother left us when I was still a very young child myself, and we’ve never been back in touch. So for all I know my grandmother could have passed away by now.’ She gazed dismally into her cup of chamomile tea. ‘And I never knew her.’

There was a lump in her throat as she looked away, feeling ridiculous. She didn’t know why she was getting so emotional over an old lady she’d never met and probably never would now.

‘What’s her name, this grandmother of yours?’

‘I don’t actually know. And I only have her address.’ Regret gnawed at her. ‘Or rather, had, past tense. Because I don’t even have that anymore. It was written on the back of the photograph which was –’

‘In your rucksack,’ he finished for her.

‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘It was in a zipped side pocket. So whoever took my rucksack has the photograph now.’

‘And you can’t remember the address?’ He tipped his head to one side, regarding her in mild surprise. No doubt he thought her a prize idiot. ‘Didn’t you even write it down somewhere else?’

‘I suppose it might be in my search history. But that’s on my phone too. In my stolen rucksack.’ She found herself wiping away a tear. It was tiredness, that was all. She’d had a very busy day and it was late. ‘Perhaps I should go to bed.’

‘Drink your chamomile tea. I want to take a few more sketches of you in a different position. Do you mind?’ He got up and fetched his sketchbook without waiting for a response.

‘Yes, actually, I do mind.’

‘Hmm… Ten more minutes. I promise. Maybe fifteen.’

She glared at him resentfully. But what could she do? He had made the point himself just minutes ago. She would have been sleeping on the streets that first night alone in Paris if he hadn’t offered her a bed at Château Rémy. Or if his grandmother hadn’t offered her a place to stay, more accurately. No doubt he would have had no qualms about her wandering the streets. But she felt infinitely safer at the château, especially given how few funds she had available.

She had savings, yes, but they were locked up in a special deposit account that was strictly reserved for putting down a deposit on a house one day. Whenever she’d saved enough to make a mortgage affordable rather than crippling… Surely she could put up with a few more days’ hardship rather than break into her precious savings?

‘That’s it. Perfect. There’s that hatred again…’ His smile was almost feral as he dashed off a few strokes of his pencil, and then moved her about like she was a rag doll. ‘Tilt your head slightly that way? That’s it, stop.’ He continued sketching. ‘Maybe twenty minutes. Then you can go to bed, I promise.’

She gave him a fulminating look and his smile widened.

It wasn’t hatred though. She wasn’t sure of much when it came to Leo Rémy. But one thing was for certain. She didn’t hate him.

Half an hour later, there was a tentative knock at the door. Leo’s head shot around and it was his turn to glare now. ‘Come in.’

It was his sister.

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