From Paris, With Love
‘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, he could have worked for one of the countless TV companies who’d approached me during the last few months, to do other reality shows. Yet we were in Paris… I swallowed. No one knew me. I was letting my imagination work overtime.
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 accent. My fists curled.
‘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, but individually owned bakeries and chemist stores. In the centre, under some towering, leafless trees, a group of men packed up a game of French boules. What a pity I hadn’t time to take a photo and send it to Dad. Years ago, he and Mum had enjoyed a two day honeymoon here. I’d promised to email him pictures of Paris as it was now– and you didn’t get more French than this.
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 and should stick to the right. In fact, blimey! Talk about busy. And as for that musty smell…I screwed up my nose at the aroma of overcooked cabbage and stinky socks. A boyfriend of mine once smelt like that after playing football. Whereas I was still waiting for any annoying habits of Edward’s to come to the fore… He still seemed pretty perfect – especially since he’d chilled a bit, during recent months. I’d taught him that pants didn’t need ironing and that if we were, um, otherwise engaged (that is snogging!) it wasn’t bad manners to let a phone call go to voicemail.
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. When we’d first arrived, I’d just about been able to make out the details of roofs, chimneys and aerials. Now, however,everywhere was liquorice black, as if the starry sky had fallen to earth, just like that children’s story where Brer Rabbit thinks the moon has dropped into a pond. Lights twinkled and towards the right stood the sparkly 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, but no, I’m not…’
‘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 for a month,’ continued Joe.
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– and “Mort”, in French, means death.
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?’