Page 16 of The Paris Trip

It would simply be an awkward conversation, that was all.

‘But where’s your key, Maeve?’

‘Well, I was robbed by a young man on a motorbike. He stole my rucksack, which contained my passport and money and phone and keys… I had to rely on the kindness of strangers. One of them was a very good-looking Frenchman. An artist, in fact. And yes, Mrs Fletcher, I know I shouldn’t have accepted his offer of a bed for the night, but what choice did I have? Besides, he lived in a simply vast château and it was a four-poster bed…’

‘Oh my goodness, Maeve. And did anything happen?’

She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Maybe that was a very small cloud in the distance, a tiny patch of white scudding across the Parisian skyline. Where there was one cloud, others might follow, and before you knew it, the sun would have gone in and it would be pouring down.

At least, that’s how British weather worked.

But maybe French weather was contrary. Or hadn’t got the cloud memo.

She would need to make something up.

‘But where’s your key, Maeve?’

‘I dropped it into the Seine by accident, Mrs Fletcher. I was distracted while on a lunchtime pleasure cruise. One of the other passengers was a young child with a red balloon, you see, and her balloon popped very loudly right next to me just as I was examining my key fob while holding it out over the water…’

‘Oh my goodness. How unfortunate. Well, it’s lucky that I keep a spare set hanging in my kitchen then, isn’t it?’

‘My thoughts entirely, Mrs Fletcher.’

Yes, it would be awkward.

She disliked awkward things. Like having to tell a little white lie to avoid an over-complicated conversation. Awkward things made her nervous and even sometimes gave her digestive issues.

She hugged herself, turning away from the beautiful view of the blue Parisian sky. That tiny cloud had faded away before it could reach their part of the city, and she knew it must be about breakfast time by now. She wished she’d invested in a watch before coming to Paris but had assumed her smartphone would do the job perfectly well on its own.

She also had an app on her phone that reminded her when to meditate, and told her every time she logged in that she needed to relax and not worry so much. She was missing that app right about now.

It was hard not to worry, given her situation. Whoever designed that app had probably never lost their passport in a foreign country and been parted from their luggage and had to stay in a strange house of sobbing women…

Had she imagined hearing that lamentation in the night?

‘Focus on the positive,’ she told herself, channelling the relaxation app. ‘The Embassy will sort it all out for you, Maeve.’

Having washed and dressed in Bernadette’s rather over-generous clothes, she went downstairs to find out where breakfast was being eaten.

The château, she realised, was big, but not as huge as it had seemed last night, being led her through countless corridors and up-and-down staircases. Leo must surely have gone the long way round, she thought, exploring the ground floor and finally popping her head round an open door to what had to be the breakfast room, judging by the delicious wafting scent of food and lively chatter of voices.

She cleared her voice, feeling like an intruder, and the conversation died to silence as everyone turned to stare at her…

CHAPTER SIX

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Eden.’ Leo’s grandmother rose in welcome, indicating a chair to her left. ‘I trust you slept well. Please, join us.’

In the centre of the dark, wood-panelled room, its ceilings so staggeringly high she imagined they must need a crane to change the lightbulbs, stood the longest breakfast table Maeve had ever seen. It could probably seat an entire football team, she thought. Maybe the opposition as well.

Not all seats were taken, though. Some stood empty or were just spaces with no chair set there. Leo, who was eating his breakfast at the far end, looked up and raised a hand in welcome, his mouth full. Beside him, a young man with purple hair and an earring gazed back at her and put down his croissant. ‘Hello,’ he said in French, studying her with undisguised curiosity, ‘so you’re our mystery guest.’

Maeve smiled, unsure if an answer was required.

Seated in the middle of the long table, two young women sat opposite each other, both glowering round at her.

One was Bernadette, Leo’s sister, whose sharp gaze took in the clothes she’d lent Maeve in the night before her mouth quirked and one brow rose steeply. The other woman was older, maybe in her mid-thirties. She had long Titian hair, with flawless skin and large glowing eyes, gold jewellery glinting at her throat and in her ears. She had a generous mouth, eyes outlined in black kohl, and wore rather too much blusher, especially for a summer’s day. Long scarlet-tipped claws drummed on the table as she looked Maeve up and down, and then transferred her glare to Leo, who ignored her.

There were also several other people at the breakfast table, none of whom she recognised from last night, except for the very old lady who had visited her in the night. Leo’s great-grandmother.

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