Page 80 of The Paris Trip

She wasn’t a big wine drinker, it had to be admitted. Nor did she know the first thing about viticulture. But the knowledge that this had been produced on their own land, with grapes cultivated and picked by their own hands, lent a beguiling charm to the rich taste rolling around her tongue.

‘I love it,’ she told them, and raised her glass. ‘Thank you all for welcoming me into your home so generously. Your health.’

‘Santé!’ they chanted in return, raising their own glasses.

Leo smiled at her across the table before drinking deep from his own wine glass, and she felt a blush creep across her cheeks at the look in his eyes.

He planned to paint while he was down here. And he’d told her that he intended to paint her, in particular. Maybe out in the vineyards.

Was it wrong to feel excited by that prospect? After this brief holiday in France, she might never see him again, even though he had politely offered to visit England. But she knew how things worked with these short-lived holiday romances. It all seemed so magical in the beginning. But once the holiday was over, the magic dwindled and was soon forgotten.

She felt a pang at the thought of all this magic and romance dwindling before it had even properly begun. But she was sensible Maeve, after all. She wasn’t the sort of woman to throw herself into a fling with a Frenchman, however intriguing. Nobody back home would believe it possible.

No, she must not break the habit of a lifetime by doing something wild and foolish. Something she might quickly regret, and perhaps forever…

Dusk fell with surprising suddenness over that glorious landscape of cultured vines and dusty hills and cypresses piercing a violet dusk. The evening was thick with cicadas, their never-ending chi-chi-chi made by millions of insects out there in the shadowy landscape: invisible, omnipresent, loud. The family sat drinking on the veranda for over an hour after supper had finished, chatting amongst themselves, everyone relaxed and enjoying the evening’s warmth.

Maeve listened to the French language weaving in and out of her ears, washing over her like a delightful piece of music, and looked up at the heavens as the first stars began to prick tiny silver lights across the thickening dark.

She was in love, she realised. In love with this country. In love with France itself. Oh, she still loved her cosy little corner of Britain. The everydayness of rainy streets and fish and chips and the school bell that she heard even in her sleep. France was more like a lovely dream to her, somehow perfect and magical in that moment, even though she knew it wasn’t really like that, and that criminals like the mugger who’d stolen her bag existed there too, thieving passports and money and cards, and ruining people’s lives. But just for that one evening at least, France was special. It was the mythical landscape she inhabited whenever she fell asleep and her subconscious took over…

‘Care for a walk?’ Leo asked softly at her elbow, startling her. He’d moved round to sit beside her when Sophie and Marie had disappeared upstairs to bed. ‘I know it’s getting dark but there’s still enough light to see by.’

Maeve hesitated, pushing aside her empty wine glass and checking to be sure she wouldn’t be needed. But apart from a few remaining glasses and pitchets of wine, the table was already clear. She had helped Beatrice carry the plates out to the kitchen, and the dessert bowls to the table and back again once consumed, and then had helped the twin girls load the dishwasher while Henri had collected the dirty cutlery. Now Henri and Beatrice were chatting together at the other end of the table, discussing a film they had recently seen, and there was nothing for her to do.

Yet still she hesitated.

She was afraid to be alone with Leo, she realised, shocked by this realisation. No, afraid was the wrong word. She felt… apprehensive. Not because she didn’t like Leo or found him intimidating. Quite the contrary, in fact. She was nervous about being alone with him because she knew they would likely kiss again once nobody was looking. And in this wine-sweetened dream of dusty vineyards and warm night air, goodness knows where that might lead.

This was the land of romance, after all.

‘I’d like that,’ she said in typically contrary fashion, and even let him take her hand as they left the veranda with a soft farewell to their hosts, and wandered out along the dusty track in the purple gloom of evening.

She must be in a dream, she decided. Because people can do things in dreams that they wouldn’t dare attempt when awake. Or perhaps she’d just had too much wine and was tipsy.

Embarrassingly, to add weight to this suspicion, Maeve hiccupped.

‘We make good wine here, don’t we?’ he murmured.

‘Delicious,’ she agreed, and suppressed another hiccup as best she could.

Oh, for goodness’ sake…

They walked for some time in companionable silence, and then around a bend where they were hidden from the house. They were a long way out in the countryside, she realised, listening to the quiet air. The evening would have been deathly silent if not for the incessant thrum of cicadas.

After another few paces, Leo stepped off the track into the dust soil of the vineyard, pulling her with him.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I just want to show you something.’ He stopped at the vines growing closest to the edge of the track. ‘Look,’ he said, his voice low in the stillness, ‘see these grapes, how dark they are, how well-rounded? This bunch is almost ripe. And the one next to it too. Only a few weeks now and most of these will be ready for harvest. Though we’ll have been back in Paris a long time by then. And just as well. This place is utter chaos at harvest time. I know… I’ve been part of the workforce myself.’ He brought her hand to the vine, her fingers rustling aside the warm leaves. ‘Here, touch the grapes… Don’t they feel round and firm and full of life?’

She choked. ‘Um, yes, I suppose they do.’

It was almost dark but there was a soft glow to the sky that meant she could see his face clearly, even there in the gloom. He was staring directly into her eyes, both their fingers tangling around the warm, tightly-packed, nearly bursting bunch of grapes.

She felt breathless, and had to laugh despite herself. ‘Do you often come out here at night to fondle the grapes?’

‘This is my first time,’ he admitted, and released her hand, drawing her close against his body. ‘Maeve…’ he murmured, and his arm slipped about her waist.

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