Page 48 of The Paris Trip

For a long while, there was silence in the suffocatingly warm studio. Every now and then, when he wasn’t looking directly at her, Maeve dared reach for her teacup and take another quick sip, though it was rapidly growing cold. She noticed that he had knocked back his own coffee in a couple of gulps. His mouth must be lined with asbestos, she thought.

At last, when he stepped back to consider what he’d achieved so far, she asked tentatively, ‘Did you speak to your grandmother about that photograph?’

His head turned towards her, his eyes narrowing on her face. ‘Sorry?’

He was obviously in another world, far, far away…

‘My grandmother’s photograph, the one I showed you?’

‘Of course. Yes, I showed it to her, and I was right. She does know your grandmother. They used to be friends but there was a falling out, she says. Though not such a serious one that she could never go back again.’ He grinned at her expression. ‘Don’t worry, she’s going to get back in touch with her. I don’t know whether she’ll say that you’re here. Perhaps you should talk to her about it before she makes contact?’

‘That’s so marvellous, thank you.’ Flushed, Maeve clasped her hands to her cheeks, her heart thumping. There was a chance she might meet her grandmother. It was such an incredible thought, she couldn’t focus on anything else. ‘So she’s alive?’

‘Well, I suppose she must be. We haven’t heard anything to the contrary. And my grandmother keeps a close eye on the obituary columns in the newspaper.’ He stepped back to the canvas, paintbrush in hand, and began working again, intent and frowning.

She didn’t want to disturb him while he was painting. But he had given her so many questions and only a few answers. Threadbare answers, at that.

Eventually, she couldn’t stand it anymore and blurted out, ‘But what’s her name?’

He didn’t respond at first. Then he seemed to grasp that she’d spoken to him, and gazed around at her, distracted. ‘Pardon? Whose name?’

‘My grandmother’s name. I presume if your grandmother was once friends with her, she must know what her name is. They can’t just have addressed each other, “Hey you!” or something.’

‘I see what you mean.’ He hesitated, brush poised above the canvas, then dabbed in some paint, apparently fascinated by whatever he was doing. ‘Erm… Her name is Agathe Saint-Yves.’

‘Agathe Saint-Yves,’ she breathed.

It was a magical name. It sounded absolutely perfect for the woman in the photograph. Elegant, Parisian, yet also from another age. She looked out of the window, where she could just see higher buildings around the château, sun gleaming on the rooftops of Paris, and wondered what her grandmother would be like.

Would she want to meet Maeve though? Perhaps she had broken off contact with her daughter, Maeve’s mother, and would refuse to see her. That was a possibility and one she had to face. But maybe she would be delighted. Her long-lost granddaughter. It might be a fairytale reunion. Or something in between those two extremes.

She couldn’t wait to find out. And yet, she was also scared. It was the same fear that had prevented her from contacting her grandmother during those few days on the Paris coach tour. Because sometimes there wasn’t a fairytale ending when people met up with long-lost relatives. She had seen enough family tree documentary shows on television to know that. Sometimes, they met up only to discover exactly why they were long-lost rather than still friendly with everyone.

Besides, right now, her grandmother was a wonderful image of kindly, wise perfection in her head. But once they’d met, the reality might be very different. She didn’t want to be disillusioned by her grandmother and go back home to England disappointed.

Yet, if she didn’t go and meet her, she would spend the rest of her life regretting it.

‘Stop it,’ Leo said sharply, and she realised that she’d been slumped on her stool for several minutes now, chewing on her lip and breathing gustily as she gazed out of the window.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, and turned back to face him, sitting up straight in the designated position, the diaphanous folds of her strange outfit hanging exactly as he’d requested.

Goodness, he was a hard task master. Though she didn’t really mind. She was rather fascinated by the dedication with which he worked.

Being a professional artist wasn’t all dreamy creative moments and whimsical brushstrokes, she was discovering. It was about hard work and long hours, and she respected that, whilst secretly wishing she didn’t have to put in the long hours too.

But she could see similarities between them now.

Leo Rémy was as focused on her portrait as she’d ever been on teaching a class or marking up a huge stack of schoolbooks.

As she watched though, she realised that the frantic brushstrokes were gradually slowing down. He seemed more hesitant now than in the beginning. Certainly, he was not working as swiftly and obsessively as he had been last night. But no doubt paint was a slower process, she decided. Less about inspiration, more about technical know-how.

Leo stopped and lowered his head. His brush hand dropped to his side. Closing his eyes, he gave an audible groan.

‘Are you okay?’ When he didn’t answer, she felt unexpectedly anxious. ‘Leo? What’s wrong? Should I fetch someone?’ She jumped off the stool, concerned.

But he raised his head and backed away as she came towards him, holding up the paintbrush as though to ward her off. ‘No, no… I’m fine. Sorry, I had some bad news earlier. I’d hoped that by painting you today I’d be able to put it out of my mind. Forget about it for a few hours.’ She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. ‘Who was I kidding?’

He threw down the paintbrush in disgust and strode towards the window. He stood there rigid for a moment, unspeaking. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m not the man I was, that’s the plain truth of it. I’m not Leo Rémy anymore. I’ve lost my way. And this…’ He gestured behind him at the canvas. ‘It’s just a poor shadow of what I used to be capable of. I’m going to look like a fool at this exhibition. I need to tell Liselle to cancel the arrangement before they start to publicise it.’

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