Chapter
1
In my gorgeous new dress and earrings borrowed
from Abbey, I walked as elegantly as possible, down the aisle. I wore a pale blue
set of underwear – apparently matching bras and knickers are the height of
sophistication – and my mother’s old gold watch, for good luck.
Sashaying now, I smiled at people to my left, and then my right. Ahead, Edward
caught my eye and winked. Stomach tingling, I stopped by his side and stared at
the lusciousness that was Lord Edward Croxley. *Sigh*. I grinned at the vicar.
Today, Friday the first of February, was possibly one of the happiest of my
life.
‘Move out the way, will yer?’ boomed a voice
from behind. Talk about rude! I fought the urge to indicate with two fingers,
in a “W” shape for “Whatever”, that I’d only be a couple of seconds. I slipped
off my jacket and dropped sideways, into my seat, next to my guy. The loud man
pushed past, towards the loo. Still standing, unsteadily, the vicar burped and
looked out of the window. Truth be told, he was a plumber called Jim and in
fancy dress for a stag weekend.
Despite all that something borrowed, something
blue malarkey, this was no wedding, but a trip on an aeroplane. Squirming in my
seat, I pulled down the short hem to my cherry red dress. Some of last year’s
training that helped me pretend to be modest, aristocratic Abbey for two weeks
had clearly stuck – thanks to my teacher, Lady Constance Woodfold (Lady C to me), and her crash course in how
to act in a more refined way.
‘I can’t believe we’re only ten minutes from Paris
Edward put away his travel guide and squeezed
my hand. ‘What’s more exciting, Gemma – your first flight or the prospect of
spending one month in the tremendous City of Light
I cocked my head, wanting to say neither – I was
most looking forward to working in restaurant Chez Dubois for the whole of
February and learning everything I could about French nosh. But that wasn’t a
very romantic answer, considering he’d proposed only a short while ago, at
Christmas – just moments after I’d decided to travel the world in order to
learn how to become a chef.
You see, Edward had tipped thirty whereas I was
still a couple of years off celebrating my twenty-fifth. Independent me, much
as I loved him, just wasn’t sure whether to say “yes” and sign on the dotted
marital line. So patient Edward was still waiting for my answer. I cleared my
throat and fortunately, at that moment, the air stewardess came by, to check
our belts. In fact she’d been mega attentive throughout our journey and
suddenly blurted out:
‘You two
were great on Million Dollar Mansion last year…’ Her cheeks tinged pink.
‘I’ve been longing to say that since we left Gatwick. It’s the best reality
show ever and I’m so glad your side won.’
Edward’s eyes shone. ‘How kind. Yes, it was
super to secure the financial future of my ancestral home.’
‘You
were excellent, passing yourself off as your classy best friend, Abigail
Croxley,’ she said to me and giggled. ‘Your antics were a real hoot.’
Even though I’d had the same conversation a thousand
times since being on telly last September, I never got bored of chatting to the
show’s fans. Not even when people exclaimed how “common” – whatever that meant
– I looked, away from the camera, nor when women ogled Edward, who looked even
hotter in real life.
It would
be strange in Paris
‘Are you two on a romantic getaway?’ the
stewardess continued, oblivious to the glares of the colleague in front of her,
trying to pass with the drinks trolley.
I avoided Edward’s eye. Not that he’d made a
fuss when I’d asked for more time to consider his proposal, but it was hard to
stay strong. The soppy part of me melted at the sound of his very English voice
– at the sight of his strong shoulders, that teasing mouth, those soulful eyes
– and didn’t want to think rationally about my jet-setting career plans.
‘Um… Not really,’ I said, cheeks tingeing pink.
‘I’m here for a month,
developing my cookery skills. One of the workmen renovating Applebridge Hall’s
top floor heard about me longing to travel. He spoke to his daughter who works
in France
‘It’s who you know, not what, don’t they say,’
said the air stewardess, nodding her head.
‘Too right! She passed on details of a bistro
that needed reliable, temporary English-speaking staff to help out during
February. Although there was some mix-up and we’ve ended up working at Chez
Dubois, a different restaurant.’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, a friend of hers lent us
her flat as she’d just taken on a cruise ship job for a month and didn’t want
it standing empty. Apparently she’d heard of Million Dollar Mansion
‘I’d love to live in Paris
‘The
restaurants over there are expecting business to boom due to a series of spring
events to commemorate the First World War,’ chipped in Edward and ran a hand
through his honey curls. ‘I believe Chez Dubois is one of the oldest in the
area. It was built in the seventeenth century, originally as a café where men
might drink and listen to the wit of visiting actors. Over the centuries it
became the haunt for many famous writers, so understandably Gemma and I – both
keen readers – are thrilled to work there.’
‘Aw, and you’re keeping Gemma company?’ said
the air stewardess and gave a flirtatious giggle.
Honestly! How did Edward manage to turn most
women to putty within minutes of talking to them?
He smiled. ‘Gem doesn’t need me to accompany
her – she’s capable of making new friends anywhere on this earth. No, the
magazine I write a weekly column for is interested in several pieces on the
First World War commemorative events in England
How chuffed Edward had been when Country
Aspirations magazine offered him the column, having been impressed with the
success of his daily blog during Million Dollar Mansion
The air stewardess wished us luck and moved on,
probably disappointed that we hadn’t announced we were eloping or on some sort
of honeymoon. As the plane tilted its nose and got ready to land, I leant past
Edward to look out of the aeroplane. He’d offered me the window seat, as it was
my first time in the air, but I’d said no. Each peek out of the window gave me
an excuse to cuddle up to my yummy man. Meringues of cloud parted to reveal
sunshine. For a second the plane shook – talk about the ultimate rollercoaster
ride, and one that would end at the coolest ever destination!
My heart felt like it would explode with sparks
of joy as I relaxed back into my seat and held Edward’s hand tight. I glanced
sideways at him and couldn’t wait to kiss his lips, to feel his breath on my
neck, under the starry Parisian sky… A smile crossed my lips. If Auntie Jan
knew how Edward still made me feel, she’d call me “a right soppy sausage”.
‘Have
you worked out exactly where our flat is?’ I said, as the plane finally ground
to a halt and we stood up to get our hand luggage. ‘If not, I’ll Google the
address on your laptop.’ I patted his rucksack.
‘Done,’
said Edward as we stepped out of the aeroplane and followed the other
passengers towards the luggage carousel. Once there, he took out the travel
guide and pointed to an underground station, in the north of the capital. ‘As
we thought, the flat is near Chez Dubois, in Montmartre – near the Sacre-Coeur.’
‘Ooh, close to that square full of artists that
I’ve seen on the telly? Aren’t we the cultured ones?’
‘I believe it is excessively touristy nowadays,
but yes, that’s the place.’ He leant forward and kissed me on the lips – an
action which never failed to make my heart race, as if it only had a few beats
left before giving out. ‘Oh, Gem, I can’t wait to show you my favourite
Parisian haunts. When Mother brought me here, one school holiday, I thought it
was the most wonderful place on earth. The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower
I screwed up my forehead.
‘The one where high school students transform
into werewolves or consume blood.’ He pulled a face.
‘Ah, the Vampire Diaries.’ AKA the greatest
show on earth! And I wasn’t the only dedicated viewer at Applebridge Hall.
Amazin’ cook, Kathleen, watched it too, under the guise of ironing in front of
the telly. Proof that grey hairs and wrinkles don’t stop you appreciating hot
men – well, bloodsuckers really, but still, what was a couple of sharp
glinting teeth between friends?
Having said that, much as I liked watching lush
vamps hang out amongst gravestones, I’d already selected more lively locations
to visit during my stay here. For me, the French capital was all about wicked
boutiques, awesome cafés and, of course, Disneyland Paris, dream destination to
children of all ages – including forty-three year old Auntie Jan, who was
Minnie Mouse’s number one fan.
Plus I could just imagine Edward and me sitting
outside some fancy bar in the capital, sipping red wine, and eating slices of
baguette with smelly cheese. We’d look all arty and refined, with a cluster of
museum guides and shopping bags at my feet. All I’d need then was a beret and
miniature poodle to make the fantasy complete. In the background, classy music
would play – like that golden oldie about not regretting something or other...
*Sigh*. I’d fallen in love with Paris
‘Pardon!’
mumbled a lady in a fur coat, who squeezed past us to get her bags.
‘Huh?’ I shrugged at Edward. ‘But I didn’t say
anything.’
‘No, that means excuse me,’ said Edward
as he studied the carousel.
Oh. Clearly my GCSE French was rustier than I
thought. Mind you, I hadn’t forgotten everything and when the woman came back
again, carrying a smart suitcase, and repeated the polite word, I said. ‘Au naturel,’ pleased to have remembered
the phrase for “of course”.
The woman gave me a strange look and hurried
on. Edward chuckled.
‘You just said “naked” to her,’ he whispered.
Really? Nah, he had to be wrong, even though
he’d spent the last few weeks revising his French. Certain things from school
lessons never left me – like the time I did an essay about me and Auntie Jan
attempting to make homemade jam. Right healthy it was, and I wrote that we’d
used no préservatifs. You should have
seen the teacher’s face. Well, how was I supposed to know that was the French
word for condoms? Cue, a fleeting moment of fame at school, as everyone thought
I’d muddled up the words on purpose.
As the luggage went around on the conveyor
belt, a man in a black suit and sunglasses stood on the other side of the
carousel and stared my way. His light brown hair was styled army short. He had tanned
skin, a strong jawline and chiselled cheekbones. All of a sudden he turned away
and disappeared into the crowds. Perhaps Parisians might recognise us after
all.
A fashionable woman struggled to retrieve her
huge suitcase and Edward lunged forward, easily lifted it off the conveyor belt
and bowed his head as she giggled and muttered her thanks in French. Yes, I was
officially going out with one sexy, appealing hunk! Whistling, arm linked with
my man, I eventually left the airport.
We pulled our suitcases on wheels, both of us
carrying rucksacks on our backs. Once outside I took a deep breath, expecting
to smell garlic or see strings of onions around people’s necks. This was
France, right? Plus my first time abroad… But, disappointingly, everything
looked much the same as back home, including the grubby pavement and grey
clouds.
How could this be? I wanted glamour! The
Exotic! Sophistication! Even the birds were the same, I noticed, as a couple of
chubby pigeons ambled past. You’d think they‘d look all slim and sexy, living
over the Channel. Edward hailed a taxi and muttered something in the local
lingo. Apparently he’d got top marks for his French A-level and once stayed
with family friends in the South of France. As a girl I’d always been lucky to
get a week in Margate
We got in the car and out of the corner of my
eye, I spotted the strange man with sunglasses get into a waiting black BMW.
Wow. Its windows were tinted. He must have been important.
‘Anglais,
uh?’ said the taxi driver, as our car pulled away.
‘Yes,’ said Edward.
‘‘oliday?’
‘Non…’
I cleared my throat. ‘We are, ‘ow you zay… workeeeeng.’ I caught Edward’s eye
and giggled, realising that just adding an accent to my English didn’t make me
a linguist.
‘Nous
travaillons,’ I said, racking my brain for the right words.
‘Ah… but still… Exciting, non… in Paris
‘Au
naturel,’ I said, despite Edward thinking he knew what that meant. And,
indeed, the car swerved, proving that the driver was impressed with my French.
‘Bit of
a luxury this, isn’t it, a taxi?’ I said to Edward as the driver looked in his
mirror to give me a weird look and turned up the radio.
‘Quite. After years of watching every penny, to
save Applebridge Hall, my instinct would have been to take the underground.’
‘You mean Métro,’ I said airily. ‘Yes – but I’m
glad we took the convenient option, instead of dragging our cases across the
capital. It’s made our whole trip a lot easier.’
‘Our first trip together…’ Edward smiled fondly
at me. ‘I wonder where we’ll go for our second? Imagine going on a cruise, like
the girl whose flat we’re borrowing. Even though she’s working on the ship, it’s
a chance second to none – a life on the waves…’ Edward stared dreamily out of
the window.
It had been weird for him – the fallout from
last year’s reality show. The world suddenly realising that his cousin Rupert –
not him – was the rightful heir to Applebridge Hall. Once Rupert took over,
after graduating later this year, Edward would be free of his aristocratic
responsibilities, if he wanted, to carve out any career path.
I gripped his hand and gave it a squeeze,
before gazing out of the window. Whoaa! This was more like it. Clearly we were
entering the centre of the Paris
Mind you, he’d have been better off wearing a sturdy
helmet. My eyes widened as cars weaved randomly in between lanes, hooting and winding
down their windows to swear. Perhaps I’d need to head for the Champs-Elysées to
experience French elegance at its best. And sure enough, we drove down that
huge avenue eventually – not that I took in much detail, after the psychotic
way our car had hurtled around the Arc de Triomphe a few times, seconds before.
‘I suspect we’re being taken on the sightseeing
route,’ said Edward and glanced at the taxi meter before pulling out his travel
guide. I held onto the door, heart racing as if I’d just done the scariest ride
at Alton Towers
Not long after, however, the streets narrowed
and, able to focus once again, I saw Parisian life up close. Away from the busy
boulevards, people walked at a slower pace. They talked on their phones or,
carrying a newspaper, stopped to chat with café owners. The most adorable
balconies with plant pots fronted white-washed flats above shops, shutters
either side of the windows. I sent Abbey a quick text to let her know how cute
the city was.
‘Are you going to miss Applebridge Hall? And
your dad? It’s ages since you’ve been away, what with the financial stresses,’
I said.
Edward chuckled. ‘Father and I could probably
do with a break from each other after all this time. But seriously? I feel
happier leaving him behind, now that he enjoys the companionship of Lady
Constance.’
I nodded. Theirs was a mega sweet romance,
fuelled by a mutual love of birdwatching. ‘Shame she won’t be with him for
Valentine’s Day.’
‘At least she’s only in Switzerland
‘True.’ Dear old Lady C – well into her
seventies and still giving advice on running finishing schools. Having owned
one for years, she’d become something of an expert in the field, plus appearing
on Million Dollar Mansion Zurich
‘Almost there, now,’ said Edward, as we pulled
into a busy street which was cobbled, full of pedestrians and increasingly
narrow. How adorable! I’d have to take loads of photos later and upload them to
my Facebook page, with the status “Wish you were here.”
‘We can walk from here.’ He paid the driver and
we got out.
Towing
our luggage, we eventually came to a tiny square where I did finally breathe in
garlic – along with a whiff of seafood wafting out from a bottle-green painted
bistro on the left called “La Perle”. Next to that was a gift shop with racks
of postcards outside. Opposite was a butcher’s with a queue coming out of the
door and a tiny supermarket. A van pulled up near the gift shop to unload fresh
produce for a grocer’s further along. Edward pointed upwards, to the right.
‘Voilá!’ he murmured.
Wow – it couldn’t get better than this. Our home
for the next month was bang on top of a patisserie – that’s a cake shop, to you
and me – called… Ah, I could translate those words – the sign said “The Golden
Croissant”. Roll on breakfasts of fresh
swirly Danish pastries… And down the end of the avenue, along from there I
could just see a red canopy over small tables – a bar!
‘Come on!’ I said and hurried towards the flat.
Pulling my suitcase, I charged towards the cake shop and headed up a staircase
on its right, whilst Edward nipped inside the Golden Croissant to get the key.
Five minutes later, we were inside the flat and surveying our new home in
silence. Talk about fab.
The small, functional kitchen and lounge were
open plan, with a welcoming fireplace in the middle, near an ivory sofa and
chairs. Underneath the glass coffee table lay a turquoise patterned rug, over
oak-laminated floor. On the ornate black balconies, outside the windows, sat
potted plants. There was a dinky
bathroom and the cutest bedroom, with rustic bedcovers, a bowl of potpourri and
a wash basin and jug. A beech table with four chairs just about fitted into the
far corner, on the window side….
‘Our Parisian abode really is quite charming,’
said Edward as he took out a notebook from his pocket, to jot down some notes.
‘Look at you, ever the writer,’ I said and
winked.
He nodded. ‘It’s just a few random thoughts of
our taxi drive and the sights so far. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to squeeze a
few weeks’ columns out of this trip and not just report on the commemorative
First World War events.’
I opened the windows, by the balcony, to air
the flat. The divine aroma of crème fillings, sugar and spice wafted up from
the cake shop. I could get used to that.
Edward smiled. ‘Why don’t you pop out and buy
some basics, for tea, from that little supermarket? By the time you get back I
should have the heating and kettle on. Or if you like, I’ll get the food in and
you can set up the flat.’
‘No it’s fine…’
Me shopping – that sounded perfect! Although Edward had become something
of a fan of this pastime, since meeting me… Primark was his particular
favourite. He couldn’t get over the choice, as over the years he’d made do with
the services of a local tailor and occasional trips to a small men’s clothes
shop in Applebridge.
‘I won’t
be long…’ A lump came to my throat, just
for one second. Edward was so caring and reliable, staying behind to set up a
cosy little home for us. Perhaps I was mad to not immediately accept his
proposal of marriage. I stepped up on tiptoe, and kissed him firmly on his lips.
Tenderly he responded, sending a trickle of tingles down my spine.
Once outside, I headed towards the supermarket
and, as I glanced ahead, I let out a gasp. The man in a black suit stood by a
nearby tree. Of average height, he nevertheless stood out. His whole physique
shouted discipline – with his clear skin and subtle gym-bunny shape.
Quick as
a flash, he turned away and I shook myself. No. Don’t be paranoid. He must have
been a different bloke to the one on the plane. Dark suits and sunglasses were
all the rage nowadays.
I gazed
around at a poor lady with matted hair and a threadbare scarf. She sat on the
pavement, asking for change. I slid my rucksack off my back and delved in for
my purse, before handing her some coins. Then I entered the supermarket, in my
head practising the pronunciation for the French equivalent of “how much,
please?”
At the back of the shop, I swung around an
aisle, looking for milk and… Whoa! ... came face to face with that man again.
Suddenly he reached for a packet of biscuits. The hairs on the back of my neck
jumped to attention. Instinct told me that he was pretending to look busy. But
why? Could he really have followed little old me, all the way from the
airport?
Shopping
forgotten, I made for the door, nevertheless telling myself my suspicions were…
Well, my first thought was “bonkers” but since staying with Edward these last
months, my vocabulary now included phrases my new aristocratic friends used.
Occasionally I’d say something was “quite terrible” or “nonsensical” or
“awfully idiotic”. So yes, my suspicions were quite nonsensical.
Who did I think the man was? A real-life
version of the Men in Black agents, about to zap aliens? If we’d been in England Paris
Chest nevertheless pounding, I led him away
from the direction of the flat and instinctively quickened my pace. After five
minutes, I gazed over my shoulder, as the sunlight began to fade. Really? I
mean, really? Had he just dodged behind a parked car?
No doubt about it, then. He was stalking
me. Mouth dry, I took a sharp left into an avenue and ran as fast as I could in
my heels. Yet footsteps still sounded behind me. I cut into an even smaller
avenue. Shit (sorry Lady C, manners out the window at this point)… I stared at
a dead end. My hands felt sticky and in slow motion, I swivelled around.
The black BMW from earlier pulled up. The door
opened. Inside was the mysterious man. He climbed out and walked stealthily
towards me.
Chapter
2
‘Gemma Goodwin?’ he said.
Was he English? If not, that was a great London
‘Who’s asking?’ I demanded, daring my voice to
waver.
He stared at me for a second– waited until a
teenager listening to music, on the other side, boogied past– and then pointed
inside the car.
‘Get in please. I don’t mean you any harm but
discretion is necessary.’
Feeling my lip tremble just a titch, I held his
gaze. How dare he scare half to death? Who did this weirdo think he was?
‘Right away, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s
a matter of life or death.’
Adrenalin surged through my veins. Uh oh. My
heart pounded faster than ever. Both were signs I was about to do something mad
– although nigh on four months living with the even-tempered Croxleys had also
calmed me down. Lately I reacted to challenging situations in a less knee-jerk
fashion - unless I was faced with some bizarre, suited nutter trying to kidnap
me. My first curled tighter.
‘Aarghh!’ I screamed, right in mystery man’s
face, before legging it away as fast as I could. Well, everyone knew you had to
take assailants by surprise. Plus I hoped my screech might attract some knight
in shining armour. In fact anyone would do, just for moral support, like a
pensioner wielding a stale baguette or sleek Parisian model armed with an ultra
pointed stiletto heel.
However, the only person in sight was a man in
a Frank Sinatra hat, shuffling by, with the help of a walking stick. Yet he was
a superhero, because I reckon his presence alone stopped mystery man hauling me
back, to lock into the car’s boot.
Without turning around, I ran away from the
shops, as fast as possible in my unpractical heels. I headed into a cobbled
road with high white-washed apartment blocks either side. None of the parked
vehicles were tall enough to crouch behind. Plus the pavements were still empty
which was probably just as well, as even if I stopped someone to explain my
plight, I wouldn’t work out the French quick enough.
I scoured the road for a tight spot to hide, so
that I could ring Edward or even better the police. Except that I didn’t know
the French emergency services number… Urgh. Perhaps there was a French pop
group named after it, like that boyband 911. Trouble was, the only French
singer I’d heard of, thanks to Gran, was the old crooner, Sacha Distel.
With a
gulp of chilly air, rucksack twerking my back, I eventually ended up in a
bigger road called Rue des 3 Frères. Despite being on the run – despite my
thighs practically igniting at the top, due to skin rubbing together – I found
a second to congratulate myself on knowing that this translated as Street of 3
Brothers. If only that meant, literally, that a trio of hunks would promptly
arrive to act as my bodyguards. Blisters puffed up on my heels as I gritted my
teeth and continued my flight away from the buzz of Montmartre , through the chilly February air.
With relief, I could no longer hear the thud of following feet… The fingers on
one hand crossed, I finally stopped and turned around.
My stomach twisted. In the distance glinted the
bonnet of a black BMW. Mind you, that meant mystery man had taken the mega easy
option and was now tracking me in his car– what a wimp. Well I’d show him. My
eyes narrowed in the twilight. What I needed was the underground. Edward had
shown me the Métro map. Hundreds of stops were dotted around the city. Just let
my stalker try to drive his flash wheels down steps.
I turned off the main road and came to an
adorable little square surrounded by picture-postcard-pretty shops. What a
change it made not to see the same old brand names, like in England Paris
But there was no time for playing tourist and,
with a shiver, I stopped a woman who confidently strode my way.
‘Métro?’ I said.
Talk about stylish – she followed the exact
rules I’d read in a book on “How to dress like a Parisian”. Apparently French
women stuck to a few classic pieces and colours, but incorporated a flamboyant
detail. And sure enough, she wore black tailored trousers and a well-cut slate
jacket, with the sparkliest flower brooch on its lapel.
‘Métro?’ I repeated. ‘S’il vous plait?’ (or silver plate, as we used to say at school).
After a quick smile, she garbled in French,
jabbed her finger to the men playing boules and was off. I sighed, but just
then a passing girl, with the bounciest black pigtails, stopped to do up her
shoelace. On straightening back up, she gave me a gap-toothed grin.
‘Métro?’ I said hopefully and she drew a square
in the air and then also pointed to the men playing. At which point her mother,
several metres ahead on the phone, called her daughter who skedaddled off.
It seemed like everyone was in a rush to get
home – and fair enough, the sun had almost set and it was Friday night. In
fact, all I wanted was to curl up with Edward in our Parisian love nest. Biting
my lip, I headed over to where the little girl had pointed and… bingo! I gazed
at a square placard bearing a street map.
Okay, let’s see… On a big road, south, heading further away,
was a Métro station called Abbesses. Ooh I liked the sound of that, like the
English word “abyss”. Hopefully that meant it was nice and deep. Despite his
appearance, chauffeured mystery man was clearly no fitness fanatic, so the idea
of following me down flights of stairs might put him off.
I duly headed in a southerly direction and…
Yay! There it was, on a main road. Aw, the outside of it looked mega pretty
with “Métropolitan” written above it in a fancy font, beneath a little glass
roof. Without hesitating, I ran down the vintage entrance and started my
descent, ogling the awesome murals on the walls.
Around and around I ran, dodging people,
forgetting I was in France
A clock caught my eye – it was almost half past
four and
the beginning of the rush hour. I took out a carnet (booklet to you – ooh, my vocabulary was already widening)
of ten Métro tickets that me and Edward had bought. I was just about to push
one into the machine when someone tapped my shoulder.
‘Tiring are we?’ said a familiar, clipped male
voice.
My mouth went dry and I turned around to face
those sunglasses. He took them off. Wow. What warm maple-syrup eyes.
I shook myself. Yeah, just like a stalking
lion’s. Dodging sideways, I shoved the Métro tickets into my jacket pocket and headed
up the steps, blurting out “pardon,”
as I pushed my way up. Thanks to last year’s “how to be a lady” training, I
always remembered to be polite, however dire the situation.
By the time I reached the top, I’d managed to
retrieve my phone from the rucksack. My legs ached, my chest burnt and I had no
idea where to run next. In other words, there was no alternative but to ring
Edward. Shrieking for help, I could have approached a train guard but, well,
that wasn’t my style – especially after the last few months of weird things
happening. I’d toughened up.
Don’t get me wrong, nausea hit the back of my
throat when I thought who this guy could be or what he might want. However,
since being on the telly, I’d been sent men’s underwear through the post, my phone
had been hacked, a troll had stolen my identity on Facebook and a fan of
Edward’s had stalked me in the swimming pool showers… Currently I had two
restraining orders out on people who had grudges against the person they
thought I was. It would take more than a smartly dressed dude, in a swanky car,
to make me lose my cool.
Blowing out chilly air, I lifted a finger to
press dial when a hand curled firmly around my arm and led me out onto the
pavement. I stared the black BMW, parked to the side, with its sinister
black-tinted windows.
‘There’s no need to ring Edward,’ said the man.
I turned around to meet stern maple-syrup eyes.
‘We’ve taken care of him.’ he continued.
Huh? My chin wobbled. How did he know my
boyfriend’s name? What if my sexy, kind-hearted, loyal, dreamy Edward would –
or had – come to some harm?
‘All will be explained,’ said the weirdo, his
voice a titch softer. ‘Now, please. Trust me. You’ll be safe. Just get in the
car.’
For
Edward’s sake, I did what I was told.
Chapter
3
‘You’re telling me that “taking care of” Edward
meant texting him, to say I was going for a walk, to look around? Liar! You
haven’t even got his number.’ My eyes narrowed, although it was hard to
concentrate on mystery man’s face, due to the distraction of… *sigh*… a mega
romantic view in front of me. We sat on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur. I’d been
driven there, handed a bottle of water and a yummy bar of English chocolate –
ridiculous, or what? One of mystery man’s colleagues – also in a black suit and
smelling strongly of a pungent musky aftershave – sat behind us, on the next
step up.
My abductor shrugged. ‘We know a lot of
things.’
‘Like this?’ I ran a finger over the chocolate
bar’s purple wrapper. ‘How did you know it was my favourite?’ Perhaps, after
all, he wasn’t an axe murderer or dangerous criminal with a ransom plan…
Although, eek! I hadn’t thought of that – now that the Croxley family had won a
million dollars, perhaps he thought they’d pay up for my release.
‘Look, what’s your name?’ I said, trying to act
all huffy, which was impossible as I gazed back down at the City of Light Eiffel Tower
I turned around, and gazed up at the awesome
Sacre-Coeur church, illuminated by an amber glow. A Native American band played
nearby, with their drums, flutes and pipes. Chat, laughter and ciggie smoke
filled the air. Necking wine out of a bottle, a tramp sat next to us and
directly in front was a group of camera-clicking Japanese girls.
I unwrapped the chocolate. With his black suit,
perhaps I’d been accosted by the Man from Milk Tray.
‘Hmm. Yumski…’ I said, after swallowing the
first creamy mouthful.
‘Yumski – have you distant Russian
ancestors?’ His brow furrowed.
‘I’m not answering any questions until you tell
me your name.’
He stared at me for a moment. ‘Bloggs. The name
is Joe Bloggs.’
‘I see, and…’ Huh? I put the rest of the bar on
my lap. ‘Really? You expect me to fall for that?’
He raised one eyebrow, which looked kinda hot–
but nowhere near as sexy as Lord Edward, of course.
‘Your help is needed,’ he continued. ‘As part
of the ongoing 2014-2018 events to commemorate the centenary of the First World
War, four weeks tomorrow, on the first Saturday in March, the Duke and Duchess
of Cambridge are visiting Paris. They’ll attend a charity football match. It
will star legends of the game from around the world.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard – it’s supposed to represent
the famous Christmas Eve truce in the trenches, isn’t it, when the two sides
came together to play football?’ See, I did pay attention during my history
classes at school… (okay, you’ve got me – I really knew because of Paul
McCartney’s video to his famous Christmas song “Pipes of Peace”.)
‘Indeed. And…’ Joe cleared his throat. ‘I have
reason to believe that the royal couple’s safety is compromised.’ He stared
intently at me. ‘That’s where you come in.’
I snorted. ‘Huh? Who do you work for? The M5?’
His top lip twitched. ‘That’s a motorway. Try
MI5 – the Security Service, who keep an eye on domestic affairs in Britain
‘Duh, of course you aren’t…’ I snorted. ‘That
organisation only really exists in movies.’
‘I’m actually from MI6,’ he continued, ‘also
known as the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service who focus on foreign
affairs.’
I almost spat out a mouthful of water. ‘You
mean…’ I wiped my lips. ‘Like James Bond? You’re an international spy?’
‘If you like.’
A mega bubble of laughter rose within my chest.
My eyes watered. It was no good, and like an over-microwaved stuffed tomato I
suddenly burst. Tears trickled down my cheeks and a convoluted (one of Edward’s
words) giggle escaped my lips.
‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You’ve got a nerve –
pretending to be from a supposed top-secret institution that would never pick
up someone in broad daylight and talk of their secret plans. I’ve watched
Austin Powers and Johnny English… You can’t fool me.’
Oh dear.
Laughing fit again. Finally I recovered. ‘Sorry, mate, but in any case, I am
the most unlikely potential female spy you could ever meet. I haven’t got a
rude name, like Pussy Galore, and would look rubbish in her cat suit. Nor have
I got awesome hair like Charlie’s Angels, and I don’t kick quite as high as
that woman in The Avengers…’ I shook
my head. ‘Whoever you are – TV company, newspaper – I’m not interested. Ring my
agent if you must,’ (wicked isn’t it, I now “had people”, mainly to fob off
nutters like this). ‘I could have you charged for kidnapping me…’ I stood up to
leave but Joe pulled me back down.
A whiff of soap filled my nostrils. His nails
were super-clean. His tie ruler-straight. Clearly he lived by rules and
regulations and I had no doubt this meeting with me today had been
well-planned.
Discreetly, he opened his jacket and black
metal flashed under the Sacre-Coeur’s lights. Oh my God! He was also licensed
to kill. What if he’d actually harmed Edward?
At that moment my phone bleeped and I took it
out of my rucksack. My eyes tingled. Thank God. Mystery man had told the truth
and texted Edward. It was him, saying to enjoy my tour of the area. He’d
continue to unpack until I got back.
‘So, you’re armed…’ Annoyingly my voice sounded
a titch impressed. ‘And I suppose he’s an agent as well?’
I turned around to the colleague, who had cold
grey eyes and an expressionless mouth. He fiddled with gold cufflinks that
looked out-of-place on the straightforward suit. There was something about him
that was decidedly creepy. He had greased-back hair like some Fifties barber,
and a smarmy smile.
‘That’s John. John Smith,’ said Joe Bloggs (I
must be in some parallel universe where everyone’s name sounded stupid).
I palm-slapped my forehead. ‘Of course he’d be
called that. Silly me.’
‘No need for sarcasm,’ said John,giving a
smarmy grin as he joined us on the lower step.
‘Assuming I believe you are both spies – which
I don’t – why do you need my help, exactly?’ I asked.
‘One of our agents is mad on reality shows
and…’
I raised an eyebrow.
John was the sarcastic one, now. ‘Yes, Gemma,
agent or no agent, we are still normal people with common interests, like
everyone else.’
‘My colleague told me about you on Million
Dollar Mansion,and
mentioned she’d read you were coming to Paris
It still surprised me when newspapers reported
stuff about me and Edward, months on from the end of the show.
‘I watched the series online.’ Joe sat more
upright. ‘I was impressed, and hoped you’d be my eyes and ears at Chez Dubois.’
‘Your eyes and ears? So – pretending for
one second that I believe this spy crap – is this official MI6 business, or
not?’
His cheeks reddened. ‘No.’
‘And
what exactly would this mission be, at some restaurant?’ But it was no good –
uttering those words produced another bubble of laughter and I giggled,
expecting to suddenly be accosted by Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig.
Joe Bloggs waited for me to control myself
before leaning closer. ‘Something’s going down on the internet, about a
“MiddleWin Mort” at the charity football game. “MiddleWin” could be a
combination of the names Middleton and Windsor–
I gasped. ‘You think someone is going to
assassinate the royal couple?’
Joe shrugged. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever
to support that… It was just a few comments, spotted in a couple of French
forums in recent weeks, discussing the upcoming match. People got chatting
about emails they’d received… Chez Dubois was mentioned as well as some cryptic
dance terms.’ Joe shrugged. ‘I investigated but before I could take a screenshot,
the comments were deleted along with the profiles of the people who’d made
them. I’m wondering if the mastermind works at Chez Dubois.’
Blimey. Potentially, this was serious stuff.
‘It’s all a bit vague.’
Joe nodded. ‘Discreetly, MI6 agreed to check
out Pierre Dubois who owns the restaurant. His records are clean. In fact, he
does a lot of charity work locally. Seems like a decent bloke. Then there’s
Cindy Cooper, she has joint French/American nationality and started working
there as the sous chef almost one year ago. The head chef is called Jean-Claude
Brun and was cautioned for shoplifting as a teenager, but that’s all. Then
there’s Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, who’s been there years and has never
received so much as a caution. The agency did basic background checks on the
rest of the staff who’ve been there longer than six months. They were all clean
too. Plus we’ve hacked the restaurant’s laptop and checked all the staff’s
email accounts we could find. Nothing to report – just messages to suppliers
and customers. Nothing about a MiddleWin Mort… So MI6 closed the file and won’t
deploy any agent – not even a junior one – into Chez Dubois.’
‘You must be dedicated to pursue this
investigation on your own,’ I said.
‘Or mad,’ muttered John and rolled his eyes.
‘If it were up to me, this thing would be dead and buried.’
Joe pursed his lips. ‘Protecting our country…
It’s a commitment every day of the year; a vocation for some of us, I guess.’
‘But if you’re doing your official work and
then this on the side… Don’t you get any free time?’
‘I bloody make sure I do,’ said John.
Joe shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’m married, with
someone else to think of, dinners to prepare, outings to arrange… My time is my
own.’
‘Sounds like you talk from experience and have
been hitched in the past.’ I smiled.
For a second his maple-syrup eyes darkened. ‘I
don’t discuss personal details.’
Ooh, I sensed a bit of emotional baggage.
‘Jet-setting Joe and I don’t have the time to
follow up every lead,’ said John, his voice over-friendly. He stretched out his
legs. ‘There are lots of rumours to follow up and hopefully rule out during the
coming months. The commemorative events grow in number during the summer and we
are here to eliminate all potential terrorist or criminal threats. At present,
we’re focusing on the security of the world leaders visiting Paris
My stomach tingled with excitement, now that I
was reassured these two men honestly meant me no harm. Joe Bloggs,
international spy, was actually asking for a favour. But why get little old me
involved?
‘What good will I be?’ I shrugged.
‘Last year you carried yourself off perfectly
as Abbey, fooling the public and the Croxleys,’ said Joe. ‘Gemma, you are
loyal, determined and take initiative. Whatever the consequences, once your
mind is made up, you see a mission through… And today has confirmed that you’ve
got guts. I believe you are one tough woman.’
‘That’s what comes from growing up with two
brothers who think hiding spiders in your knickers drawer is funny…’ I cleared
my throat, still not quite believing what was happening.
‘But what makes you really special,’ continued
Joe, ‘is that I can tell you’re a royalist. Kate Middleton is one of your
heroes. Your heart will be in the job and that’s the most important thing of all.’
John muttered something snidey. But I got what
Joe said. Guilty as charged. Like Abbey, I totally crushed on KMid, plus loved
funny William and cute little George… Auntie Jan was royal mad. I’d been
brought up drinking out of Prince Charles and Diana mugs. There’s no way I’d
stand by and let them come to harm.
‘All in
all, what more could I ask for in an undercover assistant?’ Joe half-smiled.
‘The dealmaker was that you’d be in Paris
I stared at him for a moment and then my jaw
dropped. ‘That mix-up over our jobs – you somehow changed them, right at the
last minute so that I’d be working at Chez Dubois…’
Joe nodded. ‘I pretended to be a catering
recruitment agency headhunter and persuaded a kitchenhand to leave Chez Dubois
– not difficult, as he didn’t get on with chef Jean-Claude. I sent him to the
restaurant you were supposed to be working at, as well as writing them a letter
of apology from you, saying for personal reasons you could no longer accept
their job. Then I emailed your details to Pierre
‘Good old strait-laced Joe becoming a rogue
agent, going behind his bosses’ backs… who’d have thought?’ said John, in a
smarmy voice and shook his head.
‘I’m trusting your absolute discretion,’ said
Joe, staring me bolt in the face. ‘Relying on you not to let me down. Counting
on your judgement. And most importantly, I need you to understand that things
could get unpleasant.’
‘Why aren’t MI6 backing you, about carrying on
the investigation, if I’m free and willing to help? Even if they think the risk
is minimal, what have they got to lose?’
‘Sometimes, agents’ hunches are wrong and lead
to trouble for the organisation, girlie,’ said John. ‘To be honest, I’m not
convinced about this threat either, but seeing as I’m deployed here with Joe
and in a position to help him…’ He shrugged. ‘Joe will owe me a favour. And if
he’s wrong and the investigation goes pear-shaped, it’ll be him taking the rap.
Tell her about the 2012 Olympic fiasco, Joe.’
‘An investigation was started into some coded
emails with the subject title BlowUpOlympia,’ said Joe. ‘The agent who’d
stumbled across them discovered a group of around fifty suspicious people who
regularly met up, with their laptops. Some belonged to gun clubs. Others
followed fighting sports, such as the martial arts. My colleague became
convinced they were plotting to set off bombs in the Olympic stadium.’
Wow.
‘It turned out they were simply war game
fanatics and Olympia
‘Did MI6 find out in time?’ I said.
Joe shook his head. ‘No, and agents manhandled
several members of the group who turned up at the Olympic venues – they were
simply genuine sports fans. Embarrassingly, one of them was related to a
tabloid newspaper’s editor. MI6 had to call in a lot of favours to keep that
story out of the press. We were overstretched in 2012, trying to deflect
potential terrorist attacks. C was furious and swore she’d never let anything
like that happen again.’
‘C?’
‘Our Chief. She keeps an extra close eye on
every investigation now.’
‘Oh. I thought she’d be called M – you know,
like in James Bond.’
John rolled his eyes. ‘No – she’s named after
the very first Chief of MI6, Mansfield Cumming, who used to sign himself as C.’
I nodded and stared from one agent to another.
‘So? Are you in?’ asked Joe and shifted
uncomfortably. ‘I know it’s a big ask. On paper there’s no evidence, the risks
are minimal… But I’d be lying if I guaranteed that you were going to be one
hundred percent safe, one hundred percent of the time.’
Of course I was in! If the safety of the royal
family was potentially under threat, I had no choice. My chest glowed warm.
Imagine, someone like Joe cherry-picking me to protect the royals. And what a
guy – putting his reputation on the line, out of a sense of duty… What a
contrast he was to that creepy John.
‘I don’t
know,’ I said airily, not wanting to look keen. Well, there were conditions, of
course! ‘For starters, I um, would need a cool codename.’
‘Yeah? Erm… What about Margherita?’ Joe gave a
half-smile.
‘Margherita!’ I spluttered. ‘After the name of
a pizza?’
‘Exactly.’ He shrugged those broad shoulders.
‘Didn’t you used to work in an Italian restaurant?’
‘Yes but…’
‘Okay, what about…Cullen?’ he continued. ‘Isn’t
Twilight one of your favourite
films?’
Jeez, how did he know that? At this rate, he’d
be able to tell me the size of my bra.
‘How would you know?’ I asked.
‘Read my file on you.’
John smirked. ‘Official mission or not, Joe is
always thorough.’
Wow, clearly. I had a file? Then, I was
mega important. ‘I want a letter,’ I said, admittedly like a petulant toddler.
‘Like this C or Judi Dench, playing M in the James Bond films.’
John sneered. ‘Only the uppermost echelons of
the organisation are given that honour.’
‘Whatever you want,’ said Joe, in a measured
voice. ‘Seeing as MI6 aren’t involved – how about “Agent G”?’
Yay! I clapped my hands, now that did have…
What was that word Edward used? Gravitas… ‘And of course, I’ll need
gadgets,’ I said, enjoying calling the shots – well, it was payback, for Joe
having scared me earlier. Amazingly he nodded.
‘In
fact, you must come with me tonight, in preparation for working at Chez Dubois
on Monday,’ said Joe. ‘This weekend will be spent at MI6’s secret bunker. I’ll
teach you basic self-defence and arm you with the necessary tools. I’ll make
out you’re a suspect being taken in for interrogation. That way our time there
will be undisturbed.’
Secret bunker? I took a swig of water to calm
me down, otherwise I might spontaneously combust! Living in Paris
‘I don’t think that’s possible, you see…’
‘This part of the deal is non-negotiable,’ said
Joe, in his clipped tone. ‘An intensive weekend in self-defence is a must. I’d
be failing you if I didn’t teach you to the basics of looking after yourself.’
‘But…’
Joe’s bottom lip twitched as he fiddled with
his cuffs. ‘It’s not too late to pull out, Gemma. I’d understand if you want to
walk away.’
‘Okay, okay, I agree to this intensive training
weekend – but can’t I tell Edward the truth? He wouldn’t breathe a word to
anyone.’
Joe shook his head. ‘No – for his sake, the
less he knows the better. Don’t tell anyone, including friends or family back
home.’
Shame. This would be the first big secret I’d
ever kept from best mate Abbey. I scratched my head. Was this really happening?
Agents? Death threats? Secret bunkers? It seemed bonkers, yet there was
something in the eyes of this sincere Joe bloke that made me take him
seriously.
‘At least let me return to the flat each night,
to sleep. He’ll get suspicious if I’m suddenly away all weekend… I could say–’
‘Perhaps…’ said Joe. ‘Okay. That’s acceptable…’
He thought for a few seconds. ‘John will go back with you tonight, just to
introduce himself to Edward. He’ll pretend to be a caterer you got talking to,
hosting two big wedding events this weekend, who offered to teach you
invaluable cookery skills in return for your help Saturday and Sunday as he
needs more cheap pairs of hands… You say it’s too good an opportunity to turn
down.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ I said.
Joe shrugged as if that was nothing out of the
ordinary. Then with John, he headed off to make some private phone calls. Dear
Edward, he wouldn’t complain. Sometimes he was almost too faultless… Well,
apart from when he tried to get me interested in opera and contemporary
paintings. That was one of the things that surprised me about Edward – stuffy
and traditional as he was, he loved modern art. Many an argument we’d had over
the value of paintings which consisted of just a few dots or lines. Me, I
couldn’t wait to visit Monet’s waterlily paintings, here in Paris
‘Loose talk costs lives,’ he hissed, ‘as your
countrymen said during ze war. Let me introduce myself. Many ‘ave ‘eard of me
in ze criminal underworld. I am ze notorious “Man with ze Magic Baguette”…’
He let go and reached towards his pocket. My
adrenalin pumped. Sh… Sugar! This must have been a terrorist tracking us.
Perhaps baguette was slang for a pistol.
Losing my new, mature self-control for one
second, and after a deep breath, I chucked my water in his face. Good
diversion. Now, mustn’t panic. I – G – was an important government agent now.
In my
head, I repeated this mantra as a shocked Monsieur Magic Baguette roared. He
grabbed my ankle as I stood to get up, whilst the Japanese tourists below
turned around to take photos.
No comments:
New comments are not allowed.