Page 20 of The Paris Trip

But her father had been British. And she’d barely spent any time in France. She’d left there while she was still a baby. It was insane to suggest she was no longer British.

It had to be a mistake.

Meanwhile, she was stuck here in Paris without any money and being forced to accept charity from these lovely people who were basically strangers. Naturally enough, she was feeling horribly guilty. And Mr White had been right about one thing at least. She needed to pay them back in some way. And the only way possible was through her labour.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Madame Rémy replied, tutting and wagging a finger at her. ‘No, not at all. You are a guest here.’

Nonna, who was knitting, made some incoherent comment which Maeve guessed was her agreeing with her daughter.

‘But I feel so… parasitic.’

Both women stared at her.

‘Pardon?’ Madame Rémy sounded baffled.

‘Parasitic,’ she repeated. ‘It makes me feel parasitic to be just living here, leeching off you…’ When they still turned blank faces in her direction, Maeve hesitated, and then mimed sucking blood, along with sound effects. Now they looked horrified. ‘Erm, like a bug… You know, a mosquito?’ She pretended to suck on her arm. ‘Mmm, lovely blood. Slurp, slurp.’

Nonna crossed herself.

‘Is it the bang on your head?’ Madame Rémy asked in a sympathetic tone, and now even Bernadette had turned from her gardening and was gazing at her, wide-eyed. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘No, no, I’m just trying to say… Oh, it doesn’t matter. But please let me take a turn washing up, at least? Unless you have a dishwasher?’

‘I’m the dishwasher,’ Bernadette said darkly.

Nonna muttered something under her breath, and the other two women stared at her.

‘Oh, Maman, I’m not sure about that.’ Madame Rémy shifted in her seat.

‘That’s not a good idea,’ Bernadette said more bluntly.

Maeve blinked. ‘What… What did she say? Sorry, I missed that.’

There was a short silence, then Bernadette sighed. ‘Nonna thinks you should sit for Leo. She says if you want to help out, that’s the best way to do it.’

Maeve sucked in a breath, instantly on the alert for danger. ‘Sit for a portrait, you mean?’

Instinctively, she distrusted that idea. It sounded like the kind of thing other people did, not her. She was far too dull and sensible to be an artist’s model. Besides, it would mean spending hours alone with the man. And that was out of the question. She had no room in her life for ambiguities. And Leo Rémy was definitely…ambiguous.

Madame Rémy said hurriedly, ‘You don’t need to do it, Maeve. Please understand, my mother is obsessed with encouraging Leo back into painting, that’s all.’

‘Back into painting? I don’t understand.’

Another short silence left Maeve worried that she had said something wrong.

‘It’s a sensitive topic,’ Madame Rémy said quietly. ‘You see, Leo hasn’t produced any new paintings for some time. Since his older brother died, in fact.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Maeve felt awful. ‘I didn’t even know his brother had died.’

‘Oh, it was three years ago now. Poor Francis. They weren’t close, of course. More like enemies than brothers. But his death meant Leo had to come home and take over running the family business.’

The family business.

It sounded thoroughly Godfather-esque. She saw in her mind’s eye a dry, dusty landscape and Leo Rémy as Michael Corleone, ordering some violent assassination in a bored, laconic voice.

‘What is the, erm, family business?’

‘We have a vineyard in Bordeaux and sell our wines internationally.’ Madame Rémy’s prosaic answer was at odds with Maeve’s ridiculous imaginings. ‘You met Sophie and Marie at breakfast. Their father Henri is my other grandson, and he runs the vineyard. But it’s very expensive, the wine business, and we’ve had a succession of difficult years, weatherwise.’ Madame Rémy swallowed, looking away. ‘It’s been a heavy burden for Leo to bear. I’m worried about him.’

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