Page 69 of The Paris Trip

Why did this man care what happened to her? They had barely known each other a few days, for goodness’ sake. Yet she welcomed his support, all the same. It genuinely made her feel less alone. And those ‘few days’ seemed to have occurred over an eternity, or that was how it felt.

But she summoned up a breezy smile and pulled her hand free. ‘Thank you. Yes, I know.’ She had been self-sufficient for so long, wholly independent and reliant on nobody for approval of how she lived her life, and though it was true she enjoyed having a network of friends and colleagues to fall back on when under stress, she was by no means helpless without them while here in Paris. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all.’

He got back to his feet. ‘Of course.’

The sound of someone unlocking the front door to the flat and coming inside stopped the chatter and laughter dead.

Agathe stiffened, glancing at Maeve.

Maeve bit her lip. ‘Oh my.’

There was a short, tense silence.

‘In here, Sylvie,’ her grandmother called in French. ‘We have visitors.’ She whispered to Maeve, ‘I didn’t tell her about you coming here. Just in case you didn’t turn up.’

The door opened and a woman peered in, her face blank as she took in all the people gathered in the cramped space.

She was about Maeve’s own height, immaculately made-up, with blue eyes and thinning blonde hair cut in a smart bob, dressed in a cream linen skirt and matching blouse, a green leather handbag hanging from one shoulder.

‘Maman?’ she queried, then her gaze drifted back to Maeve’s face and stopped there, widening slowly.

Maeve stood up, all eyes on her. ‘Hello,’ she said in English, her voice faltering, her heart beating a mad tattoo under her ribs. ‘I’m Maeve… Your daughter.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was cool in the shadow of the apartment block as Leo stood waiting for their taxi, watching as Maeve exchanged a few last words with her mother. They had both gone into another room in the apartment once Maeve had introduced herself, after the initial shock had passed, her mother clearly unable to believe her long-lost daughter had finally tracked her down. Once she understood who this English visitor was, Sylvie had embraced Maeve in a warm enough manner, but he could tell the woman had been shaken by her unexpected arrival.

He wished he knew what had gone on between the two women behind closed doors, especially given Maeve’s pale and almost scared expression when they’d emerged over an hour later. But there had been no chance to ask her yet. Or not without being overheard.

Once his grandmother had run out of anecdotes about their wild younger days in bohemian Paris, he had waited patiently for her and Nonna to take their leave of Agathe and make their leisurely way out into the sunshine, and then had aided them into Bernadette’s car, his half-sister having been called to collect the two older ladies.

‘Shall I wait for you and Maeve?’ Bernadette had asked, tapping the steering impatiently.

‘No, we’ll come back on the metro. Maeve is still speaking with her mother,’ he had told her, and waved them off into busy afternoon traffic, not expecting to be held up much longer than another ten or fifteen minutes.

Yet here he was, still waiting outside… nearly an hour later.

At last, Sylvie raised a cool hand to him and disappeared back inside the apartment. He raised his brows to Maeve.

‘Well?’

‘Oh, not here… Not here,’ she whispered, looking flushed and agitated. ‘Where… Where’s your mother? And Nonna?’

‘Gone home. Bernadette came to collect them. I'll hail a taxi for us.’

‘Okay, but not yet. Let's walk for a bit first.’ Together, they began to walk briskly down the street. ‘My goodness,’ she muttered, glancing back once at the apartment building, bathed in the soft golden glow of afternoon sun, before setting her face forwards with a determined expression.

He was curious but waited until he’d hailed a taxi and they were safely on the way home. Maeve folded her hands in her lap and stared out of the window at nothing, tight-lipped and still, but it was clear she was disturbed. Her usual composed demeanour seemed fractured…

As the taxi snaked its way through heavy traffic, he touched her hand. ‘You can tell me what your mother said, if you like. I won’t repeat it to anyone else.’ He searched her averted face. ‘You seem upset. Talking about it might help. Unless you can’t?’

‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed to tell you,’ she said after a minute, shooting a quick glance at the taxi driver, who was listening to music and swaying about in the front, hopefully oblivious to their conversation, which after all was in English.

‘Not allowed?’ he repeated, mystified.

‘I think the word is, classified.’

He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

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