Page 47 of The Paris Trip

There was a full-length mirror on the wall. She did a twirl in the bright costume, arms wide, staring at herself, and was astounded by her reflection. She didn’t look like Maeve anymore.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she looked like instead, of course.

But not herself. Maeve had gone.

And in her place was this strange, exotic, floaty creature.

Feeling a bit out of her depth, she clipped on the dangly silver earrings and arranged the bandanna about her head. It was orange and blue, a truly violent combination.

But if this was what he wanted…

Now she looked odd. There was no other word for it. And something else… Yes, she looked daring. Pirate girl meets Kate Bush. As though she would do anything. Be anyone.

Apart from Maeve, that was.

How her colleagues at school would chuckle to see her in this outlandish outfit. They would point and make jokes. She heaved a sigh of relief, in fact, that they would never see her.

Then a terrible thought struck her.

Leo was going to exhibit his paintings, wasn’t he? And those paintings would be of her.

Maeve Eden.

She shuddered at the realisation and had to suppress a frightened urge to pull all these clothes off and dash back to her attic bedroom. Though she would need to pull on her other clothes first. She had no intention of running amok in the nude through Château Rémy. She wasn’t Liselle, she thought with a touch of acid.

As soon as Leo returned to the studio, carefully balancing a tray of hot drinks for them, she pounced on him. ‘When these paintings go into the exhibition,’ she demanded, folding her arms and glaring at him, ‘will my name appear anywhere? Beside the paintings or in the brochure, if there is one.’

He set down the tray. ‘I don’t believe so. Many artists’ models like to be named.’ His gaze moved over her strange, colourful outfit, his face expressionless. ‘But if you prefer to be anonymous, that’s not a problem.’

‘Yes, that’s it, exactly. I want to be anonymous. No name anywhere associated with the exhibition. Otherwise I won’t sit for you.’

He seemed amused rather than annoyed by her insistence. ‘Fair enough.’ He nodded to the dainty teacup. ‘Bernadette and my grandmother put their heads together and found some tea leaves for you. Bernadette heated milk but Grandmère said you would prefer cold milk.’ There was a small china jug of milk on the tray. ‘Is that right? Cold milk for tea?’

‘Absolutely.’ Maeve knew a moment of horror at the thought of warm milk in her tea, and bent to examine the teacup, which was fairly brimming with black tea. It smelt fragrant. Picking it up, she added a dash of cold milk and took a sip.

He was watching her. ‘Well?’

He was right. It didn’t taste like tea back home. The milk was wrong. And the tea tasted… funny. But it wasn’t coffee, and that would have to be enough for now.

‘It’s perfect,’ she lied politely, and took another sip. ‘Thank you.’

His gaze narrowed on her face, and she had the uncomfortable suspicion that he knew she was telling porkies. But what had he expected her to say? This is grim? Even with her not quite stable childhood, she had been raised better than that, or she hoped so.

‘How do I look?’ she asked shyly, hoping to distract him,

‘You look like the woman I want to paint.’

She met his eyes, and shivered, even though the room was warm, the windows open on a hot sunny Paris. She had been suppressing her memory of that kiss. Oh, that kiss! But it came rushing back now, suffusing her with tingling sensations that had no business occurring in an artist’s studio in the middle of the afternoon.

She thought he might be remembering too. His eyes had widened and he seemed to be breathing faster, as she was too.

Brusquely, he pointed to the stool she had occupied last night. ‘Take a seat.’ He turned away to grab up some equipment – a pallet with paints already mixed, a pot of brushes from which he withdrew a couple, sticking one brush behind his ear and wielding the other, and a paint-streaked cloth which he draped over one shoulder – and said gruffly, ‘I’ve taken all the preliminary sketches of your face and outline I need… Now it’s time to get something down on canvas.’

‘You want me like this?’ She attempted to adopt the same position again that she’d held for so many hours the previous night.

‘Maybe a little more…’ He adjusted her. ‘And these sleeves… Let the material hang down like this… That’s it.’

At last, he stepped behind the easel, which he’d set up with a large canvas, glanced towards her and then began to paint.

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