Page 67 of The Paris Trip

The thought was so alien, Maeve fell silent, feeling a little lost and bewildered. Then she realised that Nonna, walking very slowly with Leo just ahead of them, had stopped before a tall, stately apartment block that she recognised at once as the one from her mother’s old photograph.

Again, she felt a sickening jolt of nerves and struggled to control them. Her chest tightened as she gazed up at the familiar balconies and rows of shuttered windows that she’d studied so often…

‘Oh, I think we’re here,’ she whispered.

With a reassuring smile, Madame Rémy squeezed her shoulder and then rang the bell for Apartment One, clearly the ground floor flat.

A crackling female voice spoke over the intercom, asking who it was. Maeve got the shivers just listening…

Was that her grandmother?

‘C’est moi, mon amie,’ Leo’s grandmother told the disembodied voice, and a second later the door buzzed open.

Maeve followed the others into a high, echoing hallway with a steep flight of stairs and a large set of postal lockers to one side. Its stone-tiled floor gleamed from a recent cleaning. The door to the ground floor apartment was to the left of the entrance, and as they approached, it was opened.

‘Bienvenue,’ a woman’s voice said, low and guttural, but as Maeve stopped, anxious to see her grandmother for the first time, she saw a wheelchair in the doorway, a woman sitting in it, wrapped in a cardigan with a tortoiseshell cat curled up on her lap.

The woman had a shock of silvery hair, huge blue eyes – almost identical to Maeve’s – and pale, powdery cheeks. Her bright eyes searched for Maeve and fixed eagerly on her face.

‘Ah, it’s you at last,’ she cried in hoarse English, ‘my granddaughter. Your name is Maeve, yes?’ She beckoned her inside the apartment, hurriedly wheeling backwards. ‘Come in, Maeve… Come in, please… I am delighted to meet you at last, ma petite.’

As Maeve hesitated in the hallway, now horribly nervous, her hands clasped tightly together, her pulse thundering in her ears, the others stood back, allowing her to enter first.

‘After you,’ Leo murmured when she didn’t move, gesturing her inside.

She couldn’t even look his way, too afraid to meet his eyes in case he was looking sympathetic and it made her break down. Oh, what had made her dream this would be a good idea? Her father had always said the French side of the family was trouble and best left well alone.

She supposed it was far too late to run away.

And where would she run to, anyway?

Maeve took a deep, unsteady breath, and followed her grandmother into the elegant old apartment from the photograph.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The apartment was crowded with quaint old furniture, shutters over the windows that had been partially opened to let in the sunshine, paintings on almost every available square inch of the wall, and every surface covered with dusty photograph frames, ornaments, bric-a-brac, vases stuffed with wilting flowers. The room smelled musty, and she suspected some of that came from the brightly coloured parrot, watching her from a cage beside the window. It squawked loudly and ruffled its feathers as they all piled into the room which, she imagined, must ordinarily be rather quiet.

Despite the crowding of the furniture, it was clear that Maeve’s grandmother had a navigable route through the space, as she demonstrated by thrusting her chair furiously forward, before spinning it around so she could face her visitors.

‘Please, sit down.’ She indicated the sofa and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs. ‘I made coffee. I’m sure it’s still warm. And there are cakes.’ She pointed to the low table, and Madame Rémy, having seated her own mother on an upright chair, began pouring coffee for them all.

‘Come here, girl, and kiss me.’ Agathe beckoned her forward, turning her cheek for the anticipated kiss. Shyly, Maeve bent to kiss her. Meanwhile, her grandmother made strange smacking noises, as though to indicate a kiss of sorts had occurred on her part too. ‘I thought you would be older. But maybe my memory…’

‘Everyone under forty looks like a baby to me these days,’ Madame Rémy said, handing her old friend a tiny cup of coffee on a dainty saucer. ‘Do you still take it black, Agathe? Or should I add a dash of milk?’ she asked in French.

‘Black, of course,’ Agatha said dismissively, her gaze still on Maeve’s face. ‘Dear child… I couldn’t believe it when Virginie rang to tell me who was staying with her. But how is this possible? How do you know the Rémy family?’ Her gaze narrowed sharply between Maeve’s sudden embarrassment and Leo’s hard profile. ‘Has young Leo been painting you?’ She smiled when Maeve bit her lip, embarrassed. ‘After Virginie called me, I admit, I made a few enquiries. No need to look so surprised. I have a computer. And a phone. I am not a technophobe. I saw that photo of you and Leo at dinner. All very romantic, I thought. But then today I see another story where he denies it and says you are only a visitor. So I ask myself, what is the truth here?’

Taken aback by this question, Maeve found herself blinking and tongue-tied, grappling with the coffee cup that Madame Rémy had passed her. The coffee looked strong enough to strip wallpaper. But there was at least some milk in it. Maybe enough to fill a third of a thimble.

‘Erm…I, um…’ Her gaze swivelled to Leo, who looked abruptly away as though to say, ‘You’re on your own, kid.’ Fiercely, she stuck her chin out and blurted out, ‘The Rémy family were very kind, taking me in when I lost my bag and passport. I owe them a great deal. So when Leo asked if I would sit for a painting…’ She gulped and stopped, unsure where that sentence was going.

‘Our guest will be going back to England as soon as the Embassy allows her to leave,’ Leo said crisply. ‘There’s nothing between us, Madame. It was just a story my cousin Jean made up for the paparazzi so he could make some money out of us.’

Agathe didn’t look convinced, but she pulled thoughtfully on her lower lip before shrugging. ‘If there is money to be made, be sure someone will always try to make it.’ She studied Maeve avidly. ‘I am glad you’re here now but it’s been a long time. You were a baby last time I saw you. Why have you never written?’

‘Because I didn’t know you even existed?’ Maeve felt a little aggrieved at this accusation. She took a sip of her coffee to steady her. It was so strong, her eyes smarted and she was surprised she could even make coherent sounds afterwards. ‘After my mum left, I had no contact with anyone from your side of family. Not even Mum. I had the photo… Of this place, I mean. But I didn’t really know if you were still living here. Or even if you were actually my grandmother. Yes, the address was on the back of the photograph, but my father wasn’t sure if the lady in the photograph was my grandmother. I’m sorry, if I’d known that you were alive and still living here, of course I would have written. But to be honest,’ she finished in a sudden hot rush, ‘I assumed nobody from my mother’s side of the family was interested in me. After all, you never wrote to me.’

She half expected her grandmother to look offended by this forthright speech. But Agathe merely gave a sharp burst of laughter. The cat, shocked by this, jumped off her lap and ran away, while the parrot squawked as though taking enjoyment in its departure. ‘Brava, my petite,’ she said. ‘Quite right. I should have tried to contact you. I am as much at fault as anyone in this business. But my daughter… Your mother… She asked me never to contact you.’

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