‘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 and also…Ow! These highfalutin thoughts came to a swift halt when the tramp next to me, with a vice-like grip, grabbed my arm.
‘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.
Chapter 4
How was I to know that ‘Magic Baguette’ was a French nickname for a man’s best friend (and I don’t mean his dog)? That tramp was no terrorist but a right old pervert, just about to flash. By the time Joe Bloggs legged it back to help me, the old man’s trouser zip was already halfway undone.
Not that he’d have stood a chance of offending me with mean-machine Joe on the scene. Whilst berating the tramp, in perfect French, Joe held me close, all protectively. No need of course – I was fine, but in a zombie apocalypse I’d definitely be on Team Joe Bloggs. He hauled the flasher off to the local gendarmerie (see how quickly I’m picking up the local lingo?)
What strength. Such speed. Plus a fearlessness to match that of sexy Damon from The Vampire Diaries. Of course, no one compared to Edward– whose disappointed but generous smile twisted my heart when, that night, I’d visited him with John and spun the tale about my supposed catering weekend…and the fact that our first day or two in Paris would be spent apart. You’d think me lying to him would easy after last year, when I pretended to be his cousin for a fortnight. But any deception still scrunched my stomach into tight knots.
Thank God Saturday – my first day here in the secret bunker – was now almost over and my spy training (*big grin*) had gone well. Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed every minute, but longed to be back with my hot man for a night of Parisian passion.
‘Right, one last run through of the moves you’ve learnt since this morning, with some role-play – get to your feet,’ said Joe, in his usual clipped tones. Abrupt was his style – he used words on a need to know basis, as if every one contained secret information.
And what did he mean “morning”? His car had picked me up at five a.m. which was practically the middle of the night. The day had involved full-on self-defence training in this glaringly bright room, several metres under the ground. Not that I felt it was necessary. I mean, Joe was only asking me to act on a hunch of his, right? But Mr Bossy Bloggs was adamant that he should teach me how to protect myself. That yes, his suspicions might come to nothing, but he wasn’t prepared to risk me being hurt.
The bunker was huge– with a canteen, gym, computer room and corridors. People in black suits to-ed and fro-ed carrying clipboards and left me in no doubt that Joe actually worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Au naturel, I’d been blindfolded during the car journey there, even though it was dark outside. However, I could have sworn John muttered something about “the woods” and said “Bois de Boulogne”.
Having swilled back some water, I got up from an uncomfortable metal chair. So did Joe.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘give it your all. Flight if possible. Fight if necessary. Learn to recognise imminent aggression and avoid it where you can. Employ all the tactics we’ve practised.’
That was some challenge, as he’d shown me more moves than Jackie Chan probably knew. Apparently tomorrow we’d focus on crash courses in basic lock-picking and surveillance. By Sunday night my head would be ready to explode.
Without warning, Joe grabbed my arm. ‘Get in the car, bitch…’ he growled and pointed to an imaginary vehicle.
What a terrible actor! I giggled.
‘Concentrate, Gemma!’
‘Sorry, but you’re no Daniel Day Lewis.’
Chiselled face expressionless, he raised one eyebrow.
‘Oh, come on Joe, loosen up…’
Those determined lips pursed.
‘Let’s head off for a burger and chips. I’ll even buy you a Martini, shaken not stirred, or whatever it is you agents drink in real life…’ I stuck out my tongue and winked.
Wait for it… There it was, his shoulders relaxed and… Pow! With my free hand I punched his solid throat. Joe staggered back, just giving me time to yank myself away and charge to the other side of the room. Yay! I’d done it, but how my knuckles throbbed.
‘See, I have my own tactics,’ I said, ‘like chatting my heart out. It’s called distraction… Did you really think me fluffy enough to cut training for a fast food snack?’ Cue what I imagined to be a smug look from me. ‘Dear oh dear, I’m surprised you dropped your guard. Perhaps MI6 should lower their retirement age to… what are you, Joe, in your mid-thirties?’ I strolled back over to him.
Those maple eyes danced for just one second – blimey, sign of human life under that starched veneer. He straightened up and rubbed his neck.
‘Not a bad attempt, but as you probably guessed, I let go of you then, on purpose. Just to boost your confidence. But that was the last time I cut you some slack.’
‘Yeah, yeah, stop trying to save face.’ I glanced at a red blotch on his neck and my stomach pinched. ‘Um, you okay? Soz about the punch but…’
‘Hardly felt it.’ Joe put both hands on my shoulders. ‘Right, try to get away again.’
I stared straight at him. ‘You’ve got amazin’ long eyelashes.’
Joe sighed. ‘Gemma! You’ll need more subtle distraction t
actics than that.’
‘But seriously…’ I leant forward. ‘Did you know there’s a Brazilian cockroach that eats the eyelashes of sleeping children? Learnt that in a pub quiz, I did. Gross or what?’
He paused and then nodded. ‘Impressive insects in Brazil… On a mission there I once got bitten by…’
Ha, ha! Fooled him again! I stamped hard on his foot (still didn’t like hurting him so used the front sole of my shoe, not the heel). Yay, one of his hands dropped. Frantically I wriggled but just couldn’t get out of his grasp.
‘Nice try,’ he said dryly. ‘Now, remember – don’t panic. Good foot work but keep calm. If your first move doesn’t work, try something else, like…?’
‘Um… I could poke you in the eyes or knee your groin. Perhaps lift the heel of my palm upwards and strike you mega hard on the nose…’
‘Excellent. Now, what if I’d grabbed you from behind?’
‘An elbow to the ribcage… Although I hate all this violence. Soz about your foot…’
‘Stop apologising, Gemma. Learn to trust and respect your instincts. Whilst it’s a last resort– used in a proper, controlled manner, violence is a useful tool.’
‘S’pose…’ I looked at his hand on my shoulder. Nice nails. Clean. Well-groomed. ‘Well, whatever. Look, Joe, you can let go of me now. My training’s all done. I proved myself anyway, yesterday, when you first spoke to me and I screamed in your face before making my escape across Paris.’
‘Nope.’ His grip tightened.
‘Huh?’
‘Earn your return to Edward tonight by getting free. No holds barred… Really act as if I’m the enemy.’
‘But I’ve already hurt your throat and foot,’ I said.
A smile almost flickered across his face. ‘I’ll survive. Us agents are made of strong stuff. Right. Let’s crack on.’ Roughly, Joe dragged me a few feet across the room, by one shoulder.
‘Ow! My arm will leave its socket at this rate.’
‘Do your worst then – unless I’ve made a mistake and you’re not up to the job.’
Thinking back to the childhood wrestles I’d had with my brothers, I gritted my teeth and jerked my body from side to side. With no progress made, I remembered Joe’s advice not to panic. Okay, step one, try a knee to the groin. But Joe saw it coming and dodged to one side. So quick as a flash, I pushed the heel of my palm up to his face, but he grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm behind my back.
‘Ow!’
Joe didn’t respond. Nor did he loosen his hold. I bit my lip. This was no joke… Wait a minute. What about that move involving slipping out of clothes? I could wriggle out of my cardigan and get away.
With all my might, I yanked out my free arm and almost escaped but again he saw through my manoeuvre – and then things took a nastier turn. Joe lifted me up and carried me to his imaginary getaway car. All urge to laugh left me. What would I do if this was for real and he was some terrorist or assassin? What if…? Deep breaths… Okay, inhale, exhale… There was only one thing for it…
‘Joe, everything feels funny,’ I said and put on a weak voice. ‘The room’s spinning and…’ I let my body go as limp as an out-of-date celery stick and closed my eyes, pretending that I’d blacked out.
‘Gemma? Stop messing about.’
Slowly, very slowly I breathed, face botox-still, keeping my body motionless despite a really annoying itch on my nose.
‘Gemma?’
I held my breath just for a few seconds and before I knew it, he’d put me on the floor in the recovery position and knelt down, not far away. As discreetly as possible, I slipped off my shoes which had a slight heel. Then, without giving Joe time to study me further, focused all my strength into pushing my body up and sprinting for the far wall.
Almost there… Just a few more feet… but at the last moment an arm came around my neck and pulled me back.
I squealed. ‘All right… You win…’ My legs paddled in the air. ‘Joe, it’s hurting, put me down…’
Eventually he did and, taking big gulps of air, eyes wide, I turned around, trying not to look spooked.
Joe studied me for a minute. ‘No… We both won. I’m impressed.’ His tone softened. ‘Playing dead – sometimes a good tactic. Removing shoes which might slow you down – good work. You were cornered but used initiative.’
I rubbed my arm. Joe came forward and rolled up my shirt sleeve. Gently his strong hand ran over marks left from when he’d held me really hard.
‘But what if you’d been a real criminal?’ I muttered.
Joe stood back and stared at me again. ‘Glad you’re finally taking this seriously, Gemma.’
I nodded.
In silence, we walked back over to our chairs. Joe passed me my water bottle and we sat down.
He glanced sideways at me. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said, cross at the waver in my voice. ‘But it’s nice to know you care.’
Any warmth left his eyes. ‘I can’t afford to care in my job. It’s my responsibility to keep you in one piece, that’s all…’
He looked away and for some reason I didn’t believe him. Why the hard act, all the time? What had happened in his past?
There was a knock at the door and creepy John came in, after looking over his shoulder because, really, we weren’t supposed to be there.
‘Right. Role-play again,’ said Joe. ‘This time with John.’
I pulled a face, unable to think of anything worse than wrestling with that smarmy bloke. Joe met my gaze again.
‘Look….’ He bit his lip. ‘I’d understand if you’ve changed your mind, Gemma.’ His eyes bore into me. ‘But I’d never ask a civilian to get involved like this, if I didn’t feel strongly that something truly suspicious – be it murder or not – was afoot. Regardless of what the powers that be say, I’m not prepared to ignore any sort of threat towards the heir to the throne. Not even if it means putting my career on the line…’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘Or putting someone – you – in a potential line of fire.’
A wave of nausea hit the back of my throat as I remembered my fight with Joe. Me? Action-woman Agent G? I was more Angelina Jokey than Jolie.
Pretending to be an aristocrat for a couple of weeks was one thing, but possibly coming face to face with an assassin? Missing clues that could possibly save the monarchy? No. It’d be best to quit this ridiculous mission before I let Queen and country down.
Chapter 5
“Men who eat raw fish make the best lovers” said Auntie Jan, whose latest boyfriend regularly devoured sushi. My brothers and I didn’t like to think too deeply about the implications of that comment, but as I watched Joe tuck into seaweed-wrapped tuna, I couldn’t help wondering what he was like between the sheets.
The secret agent and I sat opposite each other, in the bright bunker room. Okay, I admit it – after fighting him yesterday I’d lost my nerve for a moment, but I soon recovered my mojo. I gave the role-play a go with John and – *shudder* – even though his big hands ended up in all sorts of places, I successfully wriggled away. Punching him in the crotch proved to be a particularly satisfying tactic.
Edward must have wondered what was wrong last night – I’d had a long bath and then sat quietly in the lounge. I caught him looking at me, eyebrows knotted together, so in the end I forced myself to cheer up and asked him all about his day, involving a trip to the famous cemetery, Père Lachaise. In fact, it sounded quite interesting, what with seventy thousand plots and over five thousand trees. Edward visited the graves of Proust, Colette, Chopin and Oscar Wilde. His face had beamed as he described – in his words – “exquisite tombs with intricate carvings, sculptures and affectionate epitaphs”. It had helped me shake myself back to normality and gain some perspective on my day’s training.
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 caugh
t 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.
From Paris With Love Page 4
