Page 68 of The Paris Trip

Maeve sank down into the chair beside her grandmother’s wheelchair. She felt like she was going mad. ‘I don’t understand. Mum told you not to contact me? But why?’

‘If you want to know that, it’s probably best if you ask her yourself.’

The cup shook in its saucer, Maeve was trembling so much. ‘Ask her…myself?’ she echoed in a hollow voice.

She gazed about the small, overcrowded room, as though half expecting her long-gone mother to pop up from behind the sofa or jump out of the cupboard. Her astonished gaze met Leo’s, then she looked at Nonna with her curious, bright-eyed stare and Madame Rémy, whose soaring brows showed she knew as little about this as Maeve.

‘Sorry, but do you mean to say she’s here? In Paris?’ She was breathless. ‘In this apartment?’

‘Not right now,’ her grandmother said flatly, dashing her hopes. She raised the dainty coffee cup to her lips and sipped noisily, followed by a series of appreciative lip-smacking noises, much like the ones she’d made when air-kissing Maeve’s cheek. ‘But she will be soon,’ she added as she put down the cup. Her gaze wandered to the clock on the wall. ‘I imagine Sylvie should be home from work within the hour. Unless she has some business to detain her.’

They had been speaking mostly in French and Maeve began to wonder if she had completely misunderstood everything that was being said.

Her mother, who had abandoned her as a young child, lived here? And would be home soon?

It couldn’t be true, surely?

‘I don’t believe it,’ she stammered.

‘I don’t tell lies, me,’ Agathe insisted, raising thin pencil-drawn brows at her, and then made an odd noise like she was blowing a raspberry.

Maeve stared at her, and then at the others. Heat flooded her cheeks. ‘But I have so much to ask. Why she left me, for instance? Why she never came back? Why she never bothered to keep in touch or ask how I was or anything.’ She ran out of breath, adding with a gasp, ‘Oh dear…’

And she burst into tears.

A firm hand took away her coffee before she could spill it, and she opened her eyes to find Leo kneeling beside her chair. His face swam. Or rather, her eyes were so shiny with tears, she could barely see him.

‘It’s okay, we’re all here with you.’ Leo squeezed her hand when she said nothing. ‘If you’d rather leave now, we can do that too. If you like, we could bring you back another day, maybe when you’re feeling more prepared.’

Maeve almost said yes to that suggestion. The idea of running away felt so appealing. But she knew it would be nothing but cowardice, and shook her head. ‘No, I have to face her sometime. That is, I’ll be thrilled to see my mother again. But there’s so much hurt too, you know?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, I do know,’ he agreed in a deep voice, his gaze locked with hers.

Of course he knew, she thought. His family was almost as dysfunctional as hers. If that were possible.

‘There are reasons why your mother was never in touch with you,’ Agatha said into the silence that had fallen. ‘But it’s not for me to discuss those reasons. Come, let us eat cake. Your mother made that one.’ She smiled at Maeve in what was obviously supposed to be a cheery way. ‘Orange and chocolate. So decadent. Too rich for me though, I’m afraid. But your mother loves it. Try some.’

There are reasons why your mother was never in touch with you.

What reasons? What on earth did that mean?

Nonna reached for a piece of cake, her hand trembling, and Madame Rémy got up to help her.

‘Mmm, oui, le gateau,’ Nonna mumbled, her look eager.

The parrot squawked, and bobbed up and down on its perch, rolling its eyes.

Everyone laughed, except Maeve, who was feeling deeply confused and on edge. She wiped her damp cheek with the back of one hand, sniffing discreetly. Yes, her nerves were in tatters at the thought of being reunited with her mother after all these years. But she couldn’t believe she’d just burst into tears in front of everyone. It was so horrifyingly non-British.

To her relief, Agathe and Madame Rémy began chatting about the old days when they had both been part of the thriving Parisian art scene, while Nonna chimed in with the occasional comment, usually something derogatory about male artists, her bosom and lap soon covered with cake crumbs.

She couldn’t entirely follow their conversation; it was too rapid and colloquial, and punctuated by raucous laughter. But she was glad the awkward silence was over and she was no longer the centre of attention.

‘Relax,’ Leo told her quietly. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

He was still holding her hand, kneeling beside her chair. Almost as though he intended to propose marriage…

She stared down at him.

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