Page 72 of The Paris Trip

He collected their snacks on a tray, his smile fixed, trying not to think of the future. Of the days stretching ahead when she wouldn’t be there to be painted or to exchange barbs with or to escort around Paris… But he had work to do, so he wouldn't miss her that much, would he? He had been neglecting his duties since her unexpected arrival. Perhaps this was a good thing.

‘Shall we go up to the studio while the light’s still good?’ he suggested lightly, and she followed him without a word.

But they had barely got up there when someone knocked at the studio door.

He glanced at Maeve, who had just changed into the diaphanous wrap she’d worn for their last session. ‘Are you okay if I answer that?’

She looked uncertain but shrugged. ‘It’s probably just Bernadette. Maybe we left something in the kitchen.’

‘Come in,’ he called, for the sign on the studio door said DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION and most people stuck to that when they knew he was painting. Except Liselle, of course, who loved to barge in without knocking.

The door opened to reveal his father, dressed as though he were still in his twenties, in an awkwardly tight pair of white jeans and a tee-shirt that showed every bulge, large sunglasses on even though he was indoors. His hair seemed a darker shade than it had been yesterday, a few strands slicked oddly across his forehead to disguise a receding hairline.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Leo said in an unpromising way, his jaw hardening. This might be Sébastien's property but he still disliked his father wandering about, lording it over them all, when he spent most of his life doing absolutely nothing towards running the estate. ‘Yes?’

Sébastien Rémy strolled in, smiling broadly, with his new bride on his arm as usual. Leo was beginning to wonder if they had been superglued together. ‘Ah, I’m happy to see you’re in here, working again. How wonderful. It’s just like old times. And you’re painting the English girl… Well, I suppose she has nice legs.’ He turned to his wife, telling her in conspiratorial tones, ‘My son will paint you next. Then you’ll be able to see your own portrait in this big Paris exhibition he’s got coming up.’

‘Ooh, I’d love that,’ Chanelle cooed.

‘Excuse me?’ Leo glared at his father. ‘I don’t think so. I choose who I paint and – no offense, Chanelle – but I’m not interested in painting you.’

His father frowned, removing his sunglasses as though to see Leo better. ‘Nonsense. Is this your famous pride speaking, son? Because I won’t stand for it. You’ll paint my bride. Yes, and then you can paint us both together, and it had better be a good likeness.’ He puffed out his chest in a ludicrous way. ‘Chanelle is pregnant, you know.’

‘I’m aware.’

His father blinked, clearly taken aback by that cool reply. ‘The child she’s carrying will be your little brother or sister. A portrait of us, perhaps showing just a hint of her pregnancy, would be ideal. Do you hear me, Leo?’

Leo counted silently to ten, then said as politely as he could manage, ‘I don’t think so. This isn’t like hiring someone to paint your walls, Dad.’ He met his father’s smirking gaze. ‘I’m an artist, not an interior decorator. And I choose who I paint.’

‘But we’re family.’ His father paused significantly before adding, ‘And I am your boss.’

Gritting his teeth at this implied threat, Leo replied, ‘As far as the family business is concerned, yes, you’re in charge. But not when it comes to my art.’

‘Your art?’ Sébastien made a derogatory sound. ‘All artists accept commissions. Or they do if they want to eat. What’s so different about this?’

Leo forced himself to take a deep breath and stay calm. Much as he disliked this situation, he was still talking to his father. ‘Dad, I’m sorry. Maybe another time?’ His smile was strained. ‘Right now, my whole focus is on Maeve. I want her face to form the centrepiece of this upcoming exhibition. Anything else will destroy the integrity of my vision.’

His father stared at him blankly, before turning to study Maeve. His own barely polite smile turned to a sneer. ‘You’d rather paint a complete stranger than your own stepmother?’

That was going too far. ‘Stepmother?’ Leo repeated, the word an explosion of contemptuous breath.

Legally, it might be true. But emotionally he refused to use that word. His whole being repelled against the idea that Chanelle, younger than him by some eight years, was now his stepmother.

‘I am technically your stepmother,’ Chanelle murmured, glancing around the studio with bored disinterest.

Leo decided to ignore her comment, since it was either naïve or deliberately inflammatory, and he refused to rise to anyone’s bait. Also, he was conscious of her pregnancy and didn’t want to drag her into the argument. This confrontation was between him and his father, nobody else.

‘No,’ he said firmly, keeping his eyes on his father.

‘No?’ Sébastien frowned. ‘No to what?’

‘No, you’re wrong. Maeve isn’t a stranger.’

‘You said she wasn’t your girlfriend,’ Chanelle pointed out, her eyes abruptly narrowing on Maeve.

‘Please don’t argue over me,’ Maeve interrupted, strain in her voice.

‘She isn’t my girlfriend,’ Leo ground out with difficulty, wishing she was. ‘But she also isn’t a stranger. Not anymore. And yes, I’d rather paint her than you and your wife.’ He threw a not-terribly-apologetic glance at his stepmother. ‘No offence, Chanelle.’

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