Page 4 of The Paris Trip

Betsy pursed her lips. ‘Yes, Maeve?’ Her eyes had narrowed, and her tone was distinctly unfriendly. Which was unfair, given that she hadn’t even heard Maeve’s query yet.

‘When you say five o’clock sharp –’

‘I mean, not five past five. Or ten past five. And definitely not half past five.’ Betsy glanced at Petunia, who had proved herself notorious as a latecomer when returning from other so-called ‘free time’ excursions, which simply meant times when they could explore alone rather than with the tour guide in charge. ‘Our sailing back to Dover is fixed in stone, I’m afraid. So please note, we won’t be waiting for anyone who misses the 5pm rollcall. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…’

5pm rendezvous at the coach. DO NOT BE LATE!

Maeve scribbled those last four words in large block capitals in her large, leather-bound travel notebook, which also usefully accommodated her passport, travel documents, and even her mobile phone in a handy pocket.

As she fastened the clasp on her notebook and thrust the whole thing safely down into her backpack, she caught sight of her reflection in the window next to her seat. Her blonde hair looked neat and unfussy, a shoulder-length bob that made blow-drying quick and simple in the mornings before she had to dash out to school. She rarely wore make-up, except for a little flattering foundation when term had dragged on too long, and had not even bothered with lipstick that morning, feeling confident enough to go au naturel for the last day of this wonderful short break. She could have wished her eyes were a little brighter or more vivid; her particular shade of blue had always struck her as insipid. But she looked ready for anything, and Maeve took that as a win.

Sliding out of her seat, she met Petunia’s hard gaze and felt a sudden urge to reassure her less well-organised fellow traveller.

‘Plenty of time before five o’clock,’ she said encouragingly, pulling on her jacket. ‘I’ll aim to be back here half an hour early though, just to be sure.’

‘Of course you will, Little Miss Perfect,’ Petunia muttered and pushed past her down the coach steps.

Taken aback, Maeve stared after the other woman in surprise.

That was rather uncalled-for, she thought, blinking. She was certainly not perfect. Far from it, in fact. She hoped she hadn’t been giving off that impression, though she also knew from experience that her insistence on dotting every i and crossing every t could be irritating to less-organized people. Most people managed not to be mean to her about it though.

Still, maybe Petunia was just having another of her ‘dodgy tummy' episodes; these had been a feature of their tour, even causing unpleasant odour issues when the onboard toilet began to malfunction. Not that anyone would have said anything to Petunia’s face, of course. But Maeve had spotted a few hankies clasped to noses and requests to turn up the air con.

She’d never been on a coach tour before, and it had been a revelation. On a whim, desperate for a break from her usual ‘stay home and vegetate’ summer holiday, she had paid for this five-day sightseeing and shopping trip to Paris. And it had been wonderful so far, despite a demanding itinerary.

They had spent a whole day exploring the vast, imposing palace and formal gardens at Versailles; climbed hundreds of steps up to the famous white basilica of Sacré Coeur; taken in dinner and a show at the exotic Moulin Rouge; and even spent a leisurely afternoon wandering around the fascinating Latin Quarter on the Rive Gauche.

Today was their final day though, and she was very much looking forward to a more artistic day visiting the Louvre and viewing its priceless paintings and objets d’art.

Maeve taught Maths in a North London secondary school. She was not particularly artistic, knew next to nothing about art and paintings, but had always been in awe of creative people like her best friend Sally, who taught art in the classroom opposite hers. She might be at home discussing symmetry and mathematical shapes with her school students, but she had no idea how people managed to make beautiful works of art.

Artists were such curious and fascinating creatures. Where did all their ideas come from? How did they learn their craft? Was it natural or did it involve hard work too? Could anyone become an artist?

How marvellous it must be, Maeve thought, jumping down from the air-conditioned coach into hot sunshine and slinging her trusty rucksack over one shoulder, to be talented and skilled enough to create a work of art. To draw or paint a picture worthy of exhibition and then have people stand and admire it.

There was a family legend that her maternal grandmother had been a Parisian artist, or perhaps an artist's model, she wasn't sure which. But since her mum had abandoned Maeve when she was a toddler, she knew next to nothing about that side of the family, except a few hazy details that her dad had reluctantly provided. Hence the alluring shroud of mystery around this French grandmother, whose name she didn’t even know.

One day, she had resolved, she would investigate her family tree. She had even brought her grandmother’s last known address with her on this trip, thinking perhaps…

But it would have been ludicrous to turn up on some unknown and possibly long-gone Frenchwoman’s doorstep, wouldn’t it? So she had not acted on that impulse, burying it deeper with every day that passed.

‘Maeve will know the answer,’ someone said close by, and she turned, instantly eager to help.

‘Yes?’

‘Which way is the River Seine?’ Mr Endersley asked in his thick Yorkshire accent.

His dainty wife added with a smile, ‘We fancy the idea of a boat trip down to the cathedral of Notre Dame and back. Such lovely weather for going on the river, isn’t it?’

‘What a good idea. Though don’t forget the sunscreen this time,’ Maeve said, glancing at Mr Endersley’s reddened forehead. ‘Those open-top boats are suntraps.’ She paused, biting her lip as their query sunk in. ‘Actually, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to get to the river from here,’ she admitted. ‘We’d better ask Betsy. Or look at a map. I’ve got one in my rucksack.’

Mr Endersley frowned. ‘Eh? But we heard you telling someone you was born right here in Paris.’

Oh dear, Maeve thought, seeing a few interested glances turning their way.

‘I was born here, yes,’ she agreed hurriedly. ‘But my parents took me to live in the UK as a baby and I’ve never been back to France since. Until now, that is.’ She flushed, catching Mrs Endersley’s look of disbelief. ‘So my birthplace is purely a technicality, I’m afraid.’

Betsy came bustling past, intent on some errand of her own, and the Endersleys turned to ask her for directions to the river.

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