From Paris, With Love

I mean, Joe was a decent bloke who’d do his best to keep me out of danger. In any event, I was only going to check out internet rumours which would probably amount to nothing.

Joe caught my eye, across the table, and shook his head. I grinned and tucked into the takeaway McDonalds he’d smuggled in for me.

‘I thought you James Bond types smoked and drank most of the time,’ I said, after a yummy mouthful of burger.

Joe wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘MI6 has moved with the times, just like the sports world where former legends used to hell-raise and knock back pints. Nowadays we follow strict exercise and diet regimes, just like modern athletes. Think more Roger Federer than Roger Moore.’

‘That’s not very sexy,’ I said, thinking of Sean Connery’s come-to-bed eyes as he sipped cocktails in all those Bond films I’d happily sat through, growing up.

‘My remit isn’t to be sexy,’ he said and knocked back the rest of his green tea.

S’pose that had an upside – at least Joe wouldn’t expect me to meet Bond girls’ standards and have the waist of Ursula Andress or look fab if painted from head to toe in gold. But thank God Edward wasn’t some health nut. Not a lot beat a night in front of the telly with him and a pizza takeaway. Yes, since moving into Applebridge Hall last autumn, I had introduced him to the delights of readymade food delivered to your door. We’d cosy up in the parlour, without a jot of cutlery (sorry, Lady C!). Sometimes gruff estate manager, Mr Thompson, joined us if the film involved cowboys, his all-time favourite genre.

Joe relaxed back into his chair, having enjoyed a tofu salad and yogurt as well as his sushi starter.

‘Our physical training is similar to an astronaut’s,’ he said. ‘We have regular medicals and individually tailored fitness regimes.’

But I only heard one word – astronaut. Perhaps Joe would one day head into outer space, just like in Moonraker, Dad’s favourite Bond movie.

‘Right. Let’s run through what you’ve learnt this morning about working out computer passwords, just in case you ever need to hack into an account,’ said Joe.

I popped the last chip in my mouth and then slipped a scrunchie off my wrist. I tied up my hair which, with Lady C’s influence, was still more like my natural, fair brown colour and most unlike the fake chocolate tones I used to prefer.

‘Okay – firstly, I should try the top six passwords that everyone uses,’ I said. ‘Which are… password, 12345678, querty, welcome, letmein, iloveyou…’

‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘And failing them?’

‘Ask the person questions to find clues about the things they hold most dear – the name of a childhood dog… Their date of birth… Town they were born in… I could try it on you but guess you won’t give me an honest answer.’

Joe gave a half-smile and got to his feet. After brushing salt off my jeans, I stood up whilst he opened a big holdall, on the table. He pulled out a flat metal box. Inside were small metal instruments. Joe delved into the bag again and pulled out a door lock barrel. Ooh, a lock-picking lesson.

Joe picked up the metal tools. ‘These are small enough for any handbag. Here… Start using this one first…’

Cue an hour of fiddling with the lock barrel, trying to align the pins inside with this tiny metal rod, so that the cylinder inside would turn. Then he gave me something called a “rake” which you pushed to and fro, to jam the pins instead. In, out. In, out. This was harder than it looked.

However, another hour later, after a couple of swear words even Lady C’s training couldn’t prevent…

‘I did it!’ With a squeal, I threw down the instruments and hugged Joe around the neck.

‘I mean…’ Clearing my throat, I stood back. My cheeks felt hot. Blimey, Joe’s face had cracked into a smile.

‘Good job, Gemma,’ he said and examined the lock barrel. ‘It’s a matter of practice now. Try it at your flat – obviously when Edward isn’t around. And carry those tools with you all the time. You never know when you might need to get in somewhere – or out.’

Face locked into a grin, I clapped my hands and jerked my head towards the holdall. ‘Please tell me I finally get to see gadgets?’

I raised both eyebrows and – oh my God! Joe actually laughed. It was deep and heartfelt and lasted several seconds, as if his chest was making the most of something that rarely happened.

Once more he delved into the holdall and pulled out a pepper spray, lipstick and leopard-print bag. My mouth drooped.

‘Is that it? They don’t look very technical or exciting. What about the packet of fake stick-on fingerprints, cigarettes loaded with bullets or an attaché case concealing a gun? How about a defibrillator so I can bring myself back to life, like Daniel Craig did in Casino Royale?’

Joe shook his head.

I grinned. ‘Just kidding – I know this is real life, not written by Ian Fleming…’

Joe picked up the pepper spray. ‘Use sparingly,’ he said. ‘I bought this myself for you and just added some special blue dye that won’t wash off for forty-eight hours – useful if you’re attacked in the dark and won’t recognise the culprit or be able to give a good description.

‘Great,’ I said and fingered the small bottle. ‘And the lipstick?’

He lifted it up and pulled off the lid to reveal a small tube of clear liquid.

‘This is a sedative,’ he said. ‘Add this to someone’s drink and they’ll fall asleep within five minutes. It’s only to be used as a last measure.’

‘So, basically, I’m not going to get any proper MI6 gadgets?’

Joe’s eyes twinkled for a second. ‘Sorry, Gemma – like I said, this isn’t an official MI6 mission. I guess this leopard-print bag is the nearest thing to high-tech.’ He turned it over. ‘I managed to get my hands on a tracking device and have attached it to the bottom.’ He pointed to a gold button and pressed it hard. A loud beep emitted from his pocket. He took out his phone which had lit up, to reveal a map.

‘This shows me your exact location,’ he said. ‘If this ever flashes up I’ll be with you as quick as I can. Emergencies only, it goes without saying… Although I doubt you’ll ever need it…’

We looked at each other. No words were necessary. Not after yesterday’s fight. I agreed that the idea of my actually uncovering an assassination plot was unlikely. But just in case I did – just in case a sticky situation arose, it was comforting to think I could summon a MI6 agent to my side.

Joe put the lockpicks, lipstick and pepper spray into the handbag.

‘We’ve scratched the surface of MI6 training, Gemma – the self-defence is the most important thing to take on board.’

I smiled. ‘Shouldn’t you call me Agent G from now on?’

‘Whatever you like.’ He passed over a mobile phone number. ‘List me in your contacts as Joe, then text me so I have your number.’

I followed Joe through the bunker, to the entrance door. John Smith stood there, the overpowering smell of his musky aftershave wafting towards me. He looked at Joe, who nodded, before walking away. The last thing I saw before John tied on my blindfold was silver cufflinks in the shape of shields – and expressionless as ever, his stern grey eyes. I also felt his hand against the small of my back as we walked to the car. He ran it gently up and down my spine. Urgh.

‘Enjoy being blindfolded?’ John said, as he turned on the car engine. ‘I’ve a pair of handcuffs in the boot, if that does anything for you.’

With just his sickly smooth voice to go by, I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Ick. Every second spent with John made me realise what a gentleman Joe was.

And even though Joe’s speech was abrupt, it had a sincerity John’s tones lacked.

‘No, ta,’ I said. ‘The sooner it comes off the better.’

‘Spoilsport,’ he said, with a snigger, ‘So, fancy yourself as a spy, do you? Must say I enjoyed watching Million Dollar Mansion. That Applebridge Hall is quite a place. Although – no offence –I thought the Croxley’s competitor, the Baron of Marwick, had the right idea, wanting to turn his castle into a hen and stag night destination, if he won. I’d have paid for a week there myself, to enjoy topnotch wines and sumptuous medieval banquets.’

With his shiny cufflinks and pungent aftershave, it didn’t surprise me that John could relate more to the flash baron.

‘Like the finer things in life, do you?’ I asked.

‘Nothing wrong with that…’ he said and proceeded to tell tales from his missions. Over the last few years he’d wined and dined women in Prague, Thailand and Milan. Whilst Joe was dedicated to his work for the good of the country, I suspected John’s motivation was the jet-setting life. He even boasted about fiddling his expenses, which he used to pull women and buy luxury items.

‘Right. Here we go. I’ll drop you a couple of streets away from The Golden Croissant,’ said John and the car came to a halt. His door slammed and he got in the back with me. Carefully he untied the blindfold and my eyes easily adjusted as outside it was already dark. Then, a little too close for my comfort, John gave a bow of his head.

‘Bravo for wriggling away from me yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that. If you ever want to practise again, I could book us into any top hotel you like.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, Her Majesty will foot the bill.’

Yikes. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in our country’s international security force, when an agent’s moral compass was off-target. Politely, I declined and John smiled as if it say “perhaps next time”. Hastily, I got out of the car and as the black BMW drove off, my phone bleeped. It was a text from Edward.

He was only ten minutes away, back from his day out visiting Chez Dubois and I was desperate for gossip about our place of work! He suggested we had a drink in the bar, down the avenue from our flat, before cooking dinner. So I headed past the seafood bistro, La Perle, which for seven o’clock on a Sunday night looked busy – and awesome, lit up with twinkling fairy lights. I stopped by the Golden Croissant but the window was empty – shame, Edward had described the cakes to me that were on sale yesterday, including mini towers of chocolate sponge, iced and garnished with delicate caramelised swirls, plus triangular shaped fruit tarts in colours brighter than a Harlequin clown. Yum!

The sound of chatting greeted me as I arrived at the bar, went inside and found a cosy corner. I ordered one beer and a glass of wine. What a thrill when the waiter understood my French! Well, almost – I somehow ended up with a glass of red, instead of white.

‘So, tell me everything,’ I said to Edward, as we held hands across the table. My fingers had warmed nicely from the February chill. ‘What’s Chez Dubois like, inside?’

‘Cosy – mahogany wood-panelling halfway up the walls and then burnt orange wall paper to the ceiling. Terracotta tiles line the floor and the tables are decked with primrose-coloured mats. In the middle of each is a candle and vase containing a single yellow rose. From the ceiling hangs a wrought iron, eight candle chandelier– and huge glossy green ferns, in pots, punctuate the whole room. But most impressive of all…’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘The long, polished mahogany bar. What an array of bottles, lined up against a mirrored wall, including all the French favourites – pastis, triple sec, and crème de menthe. Plus a complicated coffee machine stood in the corner…’

Okay. Enough description about the bricks and mortar.Now for the important stuff. ‘What about the people we’re going to work with?’

Edward sipped his beer. ‘Pierre – the boss – is in his fifties with thick black hair. He bought the restaurant twenty years ago and has a girlfriend called Agnes who works at the famous Galeries Lafayette department store.’

‘Cool!’

‘He clearly loves his job. It must be terrific to spend your life doing something that satisfies you so much.’

I smiled. Recent months had made my gorgeous Edward question everything about his future. At first, after winning Million Dollar Mansion, he’d talked of working side by side with Applebridge Hall’s true heir, for years to come. But recently I’d caught him surfing career advice sites, which must have seemed pointless to him before, when his life had been mapped out, managing the future of his ancestral home. But seeing as all that had changed…

‘Perhaps we should go into the restaurant business together,’ I said and grinned. ‘Me as headchef, you managing the staff.’

Edward’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘Talking of headchefs, Chez Dubois’ Jean-Claude is quite a character. Pierre indicated that his abrupt manner regularly caused staff departures – yet he is a whiz in the kitchen, which is why our boss keeps him on. And apparently the American souschef, Cindy Cooper, knows just how to handle him. She’s a glamorous woman, with ladybird red lipstick and immaculate blonde hair, even after a couple of frantic hours working over lunchtime.’

‘Anyone else?’ I’d always thought Edward would make a brilliant witness to any crime. He paid attention to detail like no one I knew and had a memory to beat any winner of Mastermind.

‘Oh yes! Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, around forty and rakishly tall, who let out a snort of disgust when Pierre introduced me – said he’d seen clips of Million Dollar Mansion on YouTube and thought the class system and royal family represented Britain at its worst. Clearly he’s a fierce Republican. He sneered at heir William and Catherine and said – his words, not mine – “they were no different to people claiming state benefits and that their hours should be spent not travelling, but looking for proper jobs.”

I sat more upright. Hmm. MI6 may have checked out all the staff at Chez Dubois but this Hugo sounded mega anti-royal.

Then Edward asked me about my day, and to avoid lying to him I suggested I head back to the flat, to cook dinner whilst he enjoyed another drink. I’d turn on the heating, hit the music, and set us up for a truly romantic Parisian night. Happily he took out his notebook, and said he’d be along soon, after writing down some observations on his first weekend in France.

Five minutes later, I entered the hallway next to the cake shop, glad to be inside once again. Carefully, I climbed the poorly lit stairs. Huh? Our door was open, but no lights were on. I swallowed hard and took deep breaths. What if it was “the enemy” – someone who knew about the so-called MiddleWin Mort plan?

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I took a step forward. Perhaps I was simply spooked after all the training I’d had. Yes, that was it. I shook myself. A world-class terrorist? Nah – if anyone, it was more likely a two-bit burglar. And most probably it was no one at all. Edward must have been distracted and forgotten to close and lock the door.

Joe said “flight” was better than “fight” but I didn’t know for sure anyone was in there. So, tip-toeing, I entered and paused to listen. Nothing. I tried the light. It didn’t work. I headed into the bedroom – that was empty too and also remained dark when I hit the light switch. With a shrug I went back into the lounge and – oh my God! – gasped. Thanks to amber rays from the street lamps, I made out a figure, in the kitchen area. It was bald, therefore a man, who must have been hiding or bending down, before. Battling my adrenaline-rush instincts to do something mad, I swallowed hard. Don’t panic, Joe would say. Think it through. Stay calm. The man said something in French, walked around the kitchen units and came towards me.

I felt dizzy for a second, before getting a grip on my emotions. I reached down for my handbag. The thought crossed my mind to press that button but contacting Joe so soon into my mission would make me look a right wimp. Anyway, this bloke wasn’t much taller than me, plus his voice had no aggressive edge. I reckoned a good shot of pepper spray would give me time to bolt. And if he was gone, when I came back, I wouldn’t mention him to Edward – or the police –as I might let slip details about my secret mission. I couldn’t get Edward involved, nor let Joe down.

With a deep breath, I took the small bottle out of my bag and one, two, three… charged him, screaming. He put up his hands and kind of yelped as I sprayed his face. Shaking from head to toe I stumbled out of the flat and legged it down the stairs.

Chapter 6

‘Girl, you gonna take a piss or get off the pot?’

Meet Texan Cindy, second-in-charge to the head chef – brash, with the brains of JR Ewing and his Texan drawl to match. This was her way of telling me to hurry up. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I frantically chopped the onion.

This was Friday, my fifth day in the kitchen. And, um, ahem, yes, I’d not been chased and murdered by the intruder in our flat, last Sunday. It turned out he was the landlord. Due to an electricity fault, Edward had called him, assuming that the old man would have sorted things out during the day. But no – instead he left it until the last minute and ended up getting stained with blue spray.

How long ago that seemed, now. Five days working as dogsbody in a restaurant had been a MASSIVE learning curve. I winced and smiled sheepishly as, for the third time that week, I sliced my finger. Without taking her spoon out of a saucepan of glossy brown sauce, Cindy delved into the pocket of her white buttoned chef’s coat and took out a plaster. I wrapped it around the wound and with a quick glance at Jean-Claude, waited for some sarcastic words.

‘Don’t worry, he’s all hat but no horse, honey,’ Cindy said.

My brow furrowed, as I looked again at the kitchen boss, in his black and white chequered trousers (yes, chefs really did dress like that!)

‘What I mean is…’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a soft guy inside that fierce, Gallic exterior.’

‘Onions ready, Pudding?’ he boomed, in a mega thick French accent.

That was his name for me and I’d had a good mind to complain, as I thought he was referring to my generous curves. But Cindy insisted I had a “darn purtee” figure and that Pudding was simply a common derogatory term, originating from snooty French chefs who consider English desserts stodgy and tasteless.

Which made sense as JC – as everyone called him – was not remotely PC. Only yesterday he’d released a torrent of abuse when a vegetarian customer complained. He declared that anyone who didn’t eat meat had the palate of an amoeba and no right to moan. Wiping his hands on his white apron, forehead perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.

‘Sacre bleu! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too big. Not all ze same size…. You need more speed.’ JC sniffed. ‘But today they will do for ze soup.’ He lifted the board and handed it to another minion who scraped the onion into a frying pan.

Wow – that was an improvement! Up until this point not much I’d done had been up to standard. Apparently I chopped garlic too coarsely and didn’t scrub potatoes hard enough. He’d sworn for five seconds, in French, when I attempted to debone a chicken. Yet his vitriol didn’t bring tears to my eyes, unlike another temporary kitchen hand who left, weeping, after just one day. No, it made me even more determined.

Funny that – I’d always worked hard, over the years, at any job, but now that I’d discovered my passion, I dunno – learning about cookery felt more like a hobby. It made me whistle. Lightened my step. Meant that I didn’t mind overtime or long hours. In recent months I’d felt happier than ever – and not just because my gorgeous boyfriend kissed as if I was a Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler.

And as for cooking in Paris – this made me happier still. Even getting up at the crack of dawn and walking to work felt special. I loved passing by Place du Tertre, the square where the artists assembled. Of course, first thing it was often empty, apart from a few discarded easels, chairs and large golf umbrellas left behind by painters. Old-fashioned black lampposts would light up the cobbled square which felt tranquil without the bustling gazebos and snack tents set up during the day.

In contrast to my peaceful early morning walks to work, hustle-bustle was the name of the game in the kitchen.It was located at the back of the restaurant, near the bar, with its gleaming silver worktops and saucepans everywhere, plus clinical white tiles on the floors and walls. The head chef barked orders. At the frantic, busiest times, I became overwhelmed by the heat and yummy smells. As soon as I got home each day, the first thing I did was soak in a bubblebath.

‘Carrots next,’ said Cindy and I stared enviously at her sauce. She caught my eye and grinned. ‘Perhaps next week JC will give you more challenging tasks.’

‘He’s a bit…’ only one word would do to describe the chef, ‘… bonkers, if you ask me,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I already know all this basic stuff, but he’s determined to show me his way of doing things. How come you get on so well with him?’

Cindy flashed her white teeth. ‘He sure is temperamental, but when JC’s fired up, that’s when his cooking really rocks. Last week I somehow ordered sweet potatoes instead of the ordinary ones. His cheeks turned purple for a second, before he brain-stormed and began to peel and experiment with spice… The result was a fab-u-lous new addition to the dessert menu: sweet potato pie with ginger and cinnamon.’ Cindy continued to stir the sauce. ‘But he won’t offend me, because he’s dumber than dirt when it comes to computers – so I take care of that side for him. He doesn’t even have a company email address. I order the food online and take care of staff memos… It keeps him sweet.’

Ah, well it definitely wasn’t JC sending out any emails about a MiddleWin Mort.

‘He don’t scare you, though, honey, I’ve noticed,’ said Cindy. ‘Thank gawwd! I’m mighty sick of the high turnover of staff.’

‘It’s probably because I’m addicted to cookery reality shows. Believe me, a whole series of Gordon Ramsay desensitises you to verbal abuse!’

We chuckled and I went over to the stacked plastic vegetable racks to collect carrots, just as Pierre Dubois came in. Lunch would start in two hours. Yesterday Edward and I had worked the evening dinner shift – after that, today had been an early start.

Pierre fired out some French at JC who shrugged and muttered “oui”.

‘Gemma, come with me, please,’ said Pierre, as ever courteous, in English much better than the headchef’s. ‘I have a few words to say to you and Edward.’

Cindy caught my eye and winked as I put the carrots on my worktop. Outside of the kitchen, Edward sat at one of the mahogany tables, in front of a large café-au-lait. Two other coffees were on the primrose mats. With a smile I joined him and underneath the table intertwined my fingers with his. Over the last week we hadn’t seen much of each other during the day. My stomach tingled as I thought about how we’d made up for that, once holed up in our Parisian love nest at night.

Pierre sat down opposite us and his eyes crinkled at the corners. What a gent – always softly spoken, cool and calm, totally polite. Lady C would have definitely given him her stamp of approval.

‘Alors… Just to say you are both progressing well.’ Pierre ran a hand through his jet black hair. ‘Edward, your French comes along well. Such a winning way, you have with the customers. Your occasional struggles with our beautiful language don’t bother them at all.’

I squeezed Edward’s hand and longed to slip my fingers through the small gap in his starched, white shirt, to feel his firm chest and run my hand down his abs whilst he… I shook myself. At this rate I’d need an iced tea, not a steaming coffee! Why did Edward have to look so damn hot in that waiter outfit? No wonder the customers fell for his charismatic manner. During the week, I’d observed him chatting intently with the female customers, oblivious to their giggles and preening in the face of his gorgeousness and heartbreaker smile. Mind you, after being shown to their table by abrupt head waiter, Hugo, anyone would seem like Prince Charming.