Page 66 of The Paris Trip

‘Thank you, no, we don’t have time,’ Maeve told her, jumping to her feet again, far too wound-up and nervous to settle. ‘If we don’t leave now, we’ll be horribly late arriving at my grandmother’s place.’ Maeve ran her fingers through damp, frizzy hair, and despaired. ‘I don’t suppose you have a hairbrush I could borrow, madame? Or maybe a comb?’ she whispered to Madame Rémy. ‘What a nightmare. I must look a complete mess.’

As Leo helped Nonna to her feet and took her arm, supporting her along the street, Madame Rémy fished a comb out of her bag and handed it surreptitiously to Maeve. ‘You don’t look so bad,’ she said politely. ‘Perhaps just a bit… windswept.’

Following Leo and Nonna at the older lady’s leisurely pace, they crossed a narrow side street and wove carefully between tourists past a range of bustling cafés, restaurants and shops.

Despairingly, Maeve dragged the comb through her hair, wishing she had a mirror. Her shoes were still squelching, though not as loudly, and her sodden dress still clung to her thighs in an embarrassing manner. But at least there didn’t appear to be any more weed in her hair.

‘Thank you for waiting,’ she whispered to Leo’s grandmother. ‘I half expected you to have gone home by now.’

‘We were perfectly comfortable, enjoying a drink beside the river. Anyway, Leo warned us you would be late, so I called Agathe and let her know we would be delayed. So you don’t need to worry she’ll be angry.’

Maeve sagged with relief, her breath going out in one long sigh. She had been worried about that, there was no point pretending otherwise. Indeed, it felt as though she’d been holding that breath tight in her chest for ages. And why on earth had she behaved so recklessly before, almost dashing across the embankment road in front of rushing traffic?

That wasn’t like her at all.

She had always been a sensible pedestrian who waited at the crossing point for the lights to change, refusing to move before it was safe to do so.

Clearly, there must be something wrong with her brain at the moment. The signs were all there. Falling in the river. Kissing Leo twice. Trying to cross a road and forgetting to check she wasn’t about to be squashed flat by speeding Parisian rally-drivers…

‘Are you alright, my dear?’ Madame Rémy asked quietly, her brows tugging together in concern.

‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.’ But Maeve forced a smile to her lips. It wasn’t anyone’s business but her own what was going on inside her wacky, messed-up brain. ‘I suppose I’m just worried about this meeting,’ she admitted, and that wasn’t a complete lie, even though her fears were more amorphous than that. ‘I didn’t even know I had a grandmother before this trip. That is, I didn’t realise she was still alive and living in Paris.’ Shyly, she glanced at Madame Rémy. ‘You said you used to be friends… What’s Agathe like?’

The older lady thought about that for a moment. ‘Agathe… Yes, we were friends. Though that’s going a long way back.’ Her smile was guarded. ‘She’s a difficult woman.’

Maeve’s heart sank. ‘How so?’

‘She’s a very private person.’ Madame Rémy paused. ‘She never married, you see.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My apologies,’ she said hurriedly, looking embarrassed. ‘It’s none of my business. I really shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No, please, I was the one who asked.’ Maeve swallowed, startled by this unexpected new information about her family tree. ‘So you mean, my mother was… illegitimate?’

Madame nodded slowly. ‘These days, it’s barely worth mentioning. So few young people care about the sanctity of marriage. But back in my day… Well, it was a serious problem for Agathe when she found herself pregnant. Not least because she couldn’t carry on working and earning a living.’

Maeve frowned as a memory came back to her. ‘My father once said that my grandmother had been an artist’s model when she was younger. But I always assumed that was a family myth.’ Maeve handed back the comb. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Madame Rémy returned it to her handbag, her expression distracted. ‘Yes, Agathe was a model. Like me, in fact.’

‘You?’

‘Oh yes. That’s how we knew each other, of course. We were both part of the same close-knit circle… Artists, models, critics, writers… We both sat for various artists. And not always wearing clothes.’ She chuckled at Maeve’s widening gaze. ‘Oh, we lived rather wildly in those days. But when poor Agathe fell pregnant, she tried to go back home and her parents disowned her. They were strict Catholics, you see.’ She shrugged. ‘Things fell apart for her after that. She finally managed to share an apartment with a friend. But she never worked as a model again. It was such a pity because she really was very beautiful… The artists loved her.’

‘But what about the baby’s father? My grandfather? Why didn’t he - ?’

‘I’m afraid he couldn’t help. You see, he was a married man. An artist she’d often sat for. And not French.’ Madame Rémy sighed when she saw Maeve’s horrified expression. ‘I’m sorry. This must be hard to hear. And really, I should have let Agathe speak to you herself. It’s not my story to tell.’

‘No, I’m glad I know at least the basic facts. Thank you. It helps me feel more prepared. You say my grandfather wasn’t French, though? Was he English, then?’

‘No,’ Madame Rémy said with a grimace. ‘He was Russian.’

‘Goodness.’

So her grandfather had been a Russian artist. And already a married man when her mother had been conceived. What a mess that must have been.

But that made her… What, a quarter Russian?

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