Page 45 of The Paris Trip

Briefly, he explained about Maeve and her grandmother’s photograph. ‘I’ll ask her to show it to you.’

‘Please do.’

Abruptly, he realised he hadn’t yet told her about Uncle Henri’s call. ‘I’ve some bad news, by the way. There was a fire at the premises at Cave Rémy.’ When she exclaimed in horror, he held up a hand. ‘It’s okay, the damage wasn’t too extensive and Henri’s dealing with it. But I promised him I’d try to fit in a visit soon, so I can assess the situation with my own eyes.’

‘Oh dear.’ His grandmother hesitated, and he saw a shadow in her face. ‘Leo, there’s something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t just call you downstairs for a chat. The thing is, I… I have some other rather difficult news for you too.’

He had raised his coffee cup partway to his lips, but put it down when she said that. ‘What do you mean? What news?’

She indicated a newspaper lying folded on one of the chairs. ‘Bernadette showed me that newspaper report this morning. One of her friends had seen it and brought it round. A horrible rag, but… We both thought you should be told. Especially since it seems likely we may have a visitation soon.’

‘A visitation?’ Puzzled, he got up to fetch the newspaper, but stopped dead, his eye instantly falling on the gossip column article ringed in red ink. And the photograph that accompanied it. ‘Good God. This must be a joke.’

‘I only wish it were.’ His grandmother looked at him with sympathy in her large, dark eyes. ‘I fear we must steel ourselves, Leo.’

He felt his stomach contract. He was looking at a photograph of his father.

Sébastien Louis Rémy.

He hadn’t seen him in years. But he would have known him anywhere, his own father, even under the hat tilted at an angle to half conceal his face, his arm about the shoulders of a young woman smiling beatifically into the camera.

He shifted his gaze to study the woman. Dressed in an exotic print caftan, with long, blonde hair, heavily made-up and dripping with jewellery, she was holding up a slender hand to the photographer, showing off a diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band on her ring finger.

The caption beneath read, Theatrical impresario Sébastien Rémy, 56, wed 23-year-old model Chanelle Plaget in St Tropez this weekend.

His skin grew cold and he swallowed hard. ‘What the hell?’ he said thickly, rooted to the spot as he read aloud the scanty gossip column that followed the photograph. ‘A whirlwind romance. Met at a rock star’s party. Good God… It’s widely believed Chanelle is carrying Sébastien’s child.’ His voice shook. ‘Private wedding held at romantic getaway… Couple to honeymoon in Paris.’

He threw the newspaper down and turned away, running a hand through his hair. He swore under his breath, barely able to contain his fury and frustration, despite his grandmother’s presence.

‘I don’t believe it. He’s more than twice her age. What was my father thinking? And she’s pregnant? Will the man never stop making a complete laughingstock of our family?’

His grandmother said nothing but sat with her hands in her lap. ‘I regret everything my son has done to disgrace his family name. But this, perhaps, more than anything else. That poor girl. She can’t have any idea what she’s walking into.’ She gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘But he will bring her here, that’s for sure.’

‘Why? He hasn’t been to Château Rémy in years.’

‘They’re honeymooning in Paris,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘Of course he’ll come here. We shall have to be polite.’

‘I won’t be polite,’ Leo responded savagely, and then caught her barely concealed flinch, and dropped to his knees before her, catching her hand. ‘Forgive me, Grandmère. I know this hurts you more than it hurts me.’

‘Don’t forget, if she’s pregnant,’ she said softly, meeting his eyes, ‘that baby will be my grandchild too.’

He bit back another swear word at the horrifying realisation. ‘I can’t stop him, of course,’ he said grudgingly, aware that she was right. ‘This place is his. But I hope he’s not expecting to walk back in here after all these years and take over. I’ve done what he asked when Francis died and run the business for him. At a profit too, even though it was never my forte. And he’s lived handsomely off my skills. What my father knows about business management could be written on the back of a postage stamp.’

‘I agree, and I doubt he would ever do that. I’m sure he just wants to show off his inheritance to this girl he’s married, this Chanelle. And he’s not all bad. Your father loved Francis very much, you know.’ Her voice faltered as she saw his face close up. ‘He loved you too, Leo. But Francis was always…’

‘His favourite, yes,’ Leo agreed heavily. ‘That was never a secret.’

‘I was very grateful when you agreed to take over from Francis. It was a selfless act. The alternative, that Sébastien would come back and try to run things himself, was too horrible to contemplate.’

He nodded. ‘That was the only reason I agreed. To spare you that horror.’ He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘But what a time to pick to roll up here and start interfering in the business.’

She searched his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘With me painting again.’ He stood up, uneasy under her scrutiny. ‘I had intended to devote all my free time to producing new work for this exhibition. Now this…’

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