From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  That helped me learn my lesson with Edward… Despite a tiny voice in my head willing me to reconcile with him, I knew us being apart was right. I’d managed to listen to my head and retain my dignity. There’d been no obsessive, bonkers behaviour due to me wrongly listening to my heart instead.

  ‘Oh, and the editor of Country Aspirations is thrilled with a couple of pieces he’s emailed them, about Paris. This trip really seems to have focused his mind about planning a career separate from managing an aristocratic estate. Not that he has to, of course. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he took a journalism course through the Open University and ended up being a travel writer. He sounded awfully enthused.’

  Edward? Already planning a future without me? See. I wasn’t bothered at all. My eyes were only watery because of the cold weather. I sniffed – oops, Lady C wouldn’t like that. I really had forgotten a lot of my finishing school training.

  I gave her a quick hug and put on a bright voice. ‘And I wish him a great future too. I… hope you don’t think this was a wasted journey. It’s been brill to see you again. Thank so much for making this detour.’

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘It wasn’t a totally selfless act. Paris is an enchanting city and… Applebridge Hall hasn’t felt the same without your laughter and jokes. I’ve missed our chats – and Kathleen misses someone to try out her new cakes.’

  My chest glowed. ‘I’ve missed all the goss, so tell me…’ I winked, ‘…are you and the earl still going great guns? Please tell me he’s become less of a gentleman and taken that pipe out of his mouth long enough to give you a naughty snog!’

  ‘Don’t be so vulgar!’ Her cheeks tinged pink but she caught my eye and we both giggled.

  ‘Okay, okay…’ I got to my feet and pulled her up. ‘Why don’t we find somewhere for lunch, and the rule is – no more chat about Edward. You can tell me all about the progress at Applebridge Hall.’

  ‘Gemma, you’ve only been away two weeks!’

  True – but it felt like a lifetime since I’d boarded the aeroplane at Gatwick.

  ‘I miss the wonderful smells from Kathleen’s kitchen and walking around the estate on a clear morning…’ My voice cracked. ‘Guess I’d better get used to that as now I won’t be moving back.’

  I took a deep breath. There was no point being in the doldrums. I wasn’t going to ruin a lovely lunch out with Lady C by whimpering over my love life. In fact, I could do with asking her advice about all this spying stuff, but kept telling myself that Joe would go mad and it would put Lady C in danger. Still…

  ‘What do you fancy to eat – traditional French, um, Turkish or…’ I grinned. ‘A McDonalds?’

  Needless to say, the last offer was not an option. Lady C insisted on treating me to a civilised lunch of salad and a caramel mousse, in a restaurant along the Champs-Elysées. We made the short underground ride to the foot of the famous boulevard, me taking charge of Lady C’s small pull-along suitcase. I gaped as we walked along the massive avenue, passing glossy perfume stores and car showrooms – nowhere in Paris was a starker contrast between the haves and the have-nots, with homeless people sitting on the pavement, behind scrawled cards asking for change.

  Funny thing – I could have sworn I saw John Smith staring into the window of a fancy jewellery store, although a lot of Parisians in this district were in suits. In fact our lunch table was right by the window, and I could have sat all day, watching designer-clad men and woman strut past, with their Gucci sunglasses and Louis Vuitton bags. Unlike the struggling aristocrats I’d met back in England, wealth and money oozed out of these pedestrians’ pores. My eyes were transfixed, from their immaculately styled hair down to their quality, polished shoes.

  Sure enough, Lady C filled me in on all the goings-on. Dennis Smith, who’d been advising the Croxley family on how to develop the food academy, had suggested turning part of the forest, at the top of the estate, into a large vegetable garden. What’s more, Abbey’s brother Rupert, the rightful heir to Applebridge, had come up with a fab idea – when he graduates from university, in the summer, and becomes much more involved in the running of the family estate, he thinks the Croxleys should look into producing cider from the apple orchards.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you to the airport?’ I said to Lady C, as we eventually walked off lunch and stopped outside the Métro station that would take her to Charles de Gaulle airport. I fiddled with my watch. Would it really hurt to tell her all about the supposed MiddleWin Mort plot?

  ‘François Mitterrand was in his seventies when he was President of France. Therefore I think I can manage a couple of stops on the underground…’ She smiled. ‘But thank you for offering, dear. Now… do try to enjoy the remainder of your time here.’

  We hugged tightly and with an odd feeling of homesickness I watched her walk away. I mean, she was Abbey’s aunt, not mine, plus I’d only known her a few months… But then we’d been through a lot on last autumn’s reality show.

  Determined to keep my spirits high, I forced myself to hum as I went off to do another spot of window-shopping and took photos on my phone of the now distant Arc de Triomphe. Then I walked all the way down to the Tuileries Garden, away from the hooting traffic and chattering bystanders. I glanced at my watch and reluctantly prepared to descend into the underground, away from the last rays of sun and blue sky when – oh no! An arm wrapped around my neck and held tight.

  Acting on instinct, I sunk my teeth into it, at the same time stamping hard on the feet behind mine. The person let go. I swung around, amazed that passing people were so intent on catching their trains, that they didn’t even notice my scary situation.

  ‘Joe! I should have known!’ I said, heart racing.

  Gently he took me by the elbow and led me around the side of the underground entrance, to a quiet corner.

  ‘It’s two weeks since your training in the bunker,’ he muttered. ‘Just wanted to check you still had that feistiness. Your ability to defend yourself is paramount.’

  ‘You sure know how to show a girl a good time…’

  His maple-syrup eyes shone. ‘Now you know why I’m single.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I said and managed a smile. ‘Honestly, this is getting comical – you springing out of nowhere, jumping me where possible… Less James Bond and more Austin Powers… I thought I saw John earlier – window-shopping up the Champs- Elysées.. Don’t tell me –you two are “checking out leads”… ?’

  ‘John is in this district – he should have been following someone. Right. I’m off.’

  ‘Was that it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yep. When you texted me last night to say you’d seen Monique use the laptop, you mentioned a visit to this area today. Seeing as I was in the vicinity, it was an extra challenge to track you down and test out your reflexes. Right. I’ll be in touch. Tell me when you’ve cracked the actress’ password.’ He went to put on his sunglasses.

  But my eyes narrowed and I grabbed his arm, still not used to how… how solid he was. I brushed my thumb against his neck. Despite the tan I could see bruising emerging under the skin.

  ‘Bad day at the office?’ I said.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Now my chest tightened at how I’d called him comical. This was a reminder that Joe – and I – were carrying out risky, important work.

  ‘You, um, take care,’ I said, as he lifted the sunglasses to his face again.

  ‘Always do. You should have seen the other guy,’ he said, and with that clichéd response, disappeared.

  I hurried back to the underground, to get to work, remembering my text to Joe pretty late last night. Hmm, Monique was my only lead at the moment – who, with her ballet steps and floaty dresses, I didn’t credit with being capable of arranging an assassination plot. Apart from anything else, she was too busy trying to ensnare Edward. But if it wasn’t her, then I was at a dead end, my investigations were stuffed. Unless Pierre regularly let anyone else borrow the lapto
p.

  I bit my lip, sorely tempted again to tell Lady C all about the suspected MiddleWin Mort plot. Could it really hurt? After all, she’d been in on my plan last year to disguise myself as Abbey and had managed to keep schtum. She was trustworthy, and a royalist who might come up with other ways I could investigate.

  Bum on seat, in the train, I took out my phone and stared at it for a second. Joe would never know. Plus, I wouldn’t be compromising Lady C’s safety as she’d soon be in Switzerland, one of the most neutral, safe countries on the planet. Mind you, Bond’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service was set against the Swiss Alps…

  I breathed in deeply and with a determined air, selected her number. Then I started texting so that no one else in the carriage could get wind of the top-secret information I was about to share.

  Chapter 14

  Chilling in my cosy flat, on the sofa, I stared at my phone. Wow. I never saw that coming. Monique’s email box revealed it was her – she’s the secret assassin! Her codename is Malvina and she’d been recruited by the Russian secret service, whilst staying with her boyfriend from the Bolshoi Ballet…

  *Chuckle*. Okay, so I’m messing with your heads. In any event, all that KGB stuff is a bit old hat – like in the Bond film From Russia With Love.

  Mind you, having watched that film a zillion times with Dad, I’d be happy to compare Monique to its evil female villain, feared Colonel Rosa Klebb, who used a cool shoe blade to kill and maim. Except Monique’s most aggressive physical move was probably a very quick ballet pas de deux or grand jeté– and the sooner I proved that, the quicker I’d move on to finding out who was really threatening the royals. Hmm. I’d name that movie From Paris With Love instead.

  Monique was clearly ruthless when it came to pursuing love, but did that make her a clinical, logical, unemotional assassin? Please. I picked up my café au lait, from the glass coffee table, having enjoyed a swirled raisin custard Danish as a snack. And no, in the end, I didn’t let Lady C in on my mission – when it came to it, I just couldn’t endanger her life. I needed to embrace that stiff upper lip that my newly-made aristocratic pals talked of. So, instead I’d texted how great it was to see her and that I’d want to hear all about her stay in Zurich. I ended the message with six kisses. Refined Lady C didn’t seem to mind grand displays of affection that weren’t public.

  I took a large gulp, hoping the caffeine would sharpen my brain. It was proving impossible to crack Monique’s password and I only had a couple of hours before my evening shift started at Chez Dubois. Perhaps I’d tapped in the most common passwords Joe had taught me, incorrectly… I put my coffee down.

  Right…12345678, Querty, letmein, welcome, iloveyou… No, none of them worked. She must have used something personal, so I thought back to the interview Edward had translated, in that bar… Monique studied ballet in Nanterre… Check again…Nope, that word didn’t work. Her Russian boyfriend was called Andrei… and belonged to the Bolshoi ballet. She liked Afghani restaurants. Nah. None of those were the password.

  I pulled my cardigan tightly around me, headed for the balcony and opened the doors. Brr. The air felt as cold as the double bed last night, without Edward in it to keep me warm. I peered down at Saturday shoppers buying fruit and veg from the grocer’s opposite. Beneath me, a long queue snaked out of The Golden Croissant. Mmm, wish I could bottle that sweet, homely, comforting smell.

  With another shiver, I left the ornate black balcony bars and closed the glass doors behind me. Think hard, Agent G. What on earth would that snooty, superior woman use as her password?

  My insides tugged as I sat down on the sofa. Is it possible that…? Might her password be “Edward”?

  No. She’d only known him for a couple of weeks. However, a niggle grew in my stomach. Slowly, I typed in the letters E… d….w… a… r… d and gasped. My heart raced. Really… I mean, really? Monique didn’t waste any time – my only-just-Ex’s name had worked.

  A jab of something unpleasant pierced my chest, as I remembered Joe saying that passwords reflected what a person held “most dear”. I took a deep breath. The important thing was that I’d finally accessed Monique’s inbox and could now officially rule her out from my investigation. See how I’d matured? A few months ago an adrenalin rush would have sent me out to hunt that flirty French vulture down, armed with my blue-staining pepper spray.

  Forcing myself to concentrate, I took another swig of caffeine before scrolling down her emails. They were mostly about boring stuff to directors about auditions, rehearsals, costumes… Lots had attachments containing scripts, which was probably why she needed a laptop and couldn’t use her phone. I yawned and scrolled down a couple more.

  The next down was to her little sister and an uncomfortable sensation pinched my stomach as I read the personal message. No point feeling guilty, though – as an important unofficial cog in the machinery of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, I had to be hardnosed. It was a sweet email and not at all what I’d expect from self-obsessed Monique – she promised to send what money she could afford, to help with her sister’s college tuition fees. No wonder Monique couldn’t afford her own laptop. She was probably borrowing Edward’s by now. By the sounds of it, their dad didn’t help out much, and what with her mum having recently passed away…

  Hey ho – a bit of kindheartedness made Monique an even less likely candidate for Terror. I went to stand up, to wash my hair for work, when the next email down caught my eye. It had been sent to a group of people simply called Undisclosed Recipients. In the subject line were three letters: MWM.

  I rolled my eyes. Okay, momentarily I thought they referred to MiddleWin Mort – as if. No doubt they stood for MoniqueWantsMen… Gentle, kind, unassuming English ones, who couldn’t see through her devious comments… With another yawn, I tapped on my phone and the email opened. Dear friends, bla, bla, bla…all in French and something about dance and the words “barre” and “plié”.

  The air drained from my lungs and everything went black, as the room spun. Didn’t Joe say that the offending emails had contained coded dance terms? Monique had also typed “en deux semaines” which meant in two weeks… Bloody hell! That’s when the commemorative football match was. And, sure enough, the next words were: MiddleWin Mort.

  No. There had to be some mistake. My eyes widened as I studied every syllable, letter and punctuation mark. She had also typed something about not failing and that success would mean great honour. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Her talk reminded me of quotes in the papers, from terrorists, over the last few years. Did this email detail a suicide mission?

  I palm-slapped my forehead. How could I not have guessed it was Monique? After all, she had trained as a ballerina – dance terms would be the obvious code for her to choose. I read the email again. Right at the bottom she’d arranged a meeting – eight o’clock tomorrow night at some address near the Gare du Nord. Deep breaths. Okay. I’d be there, in the shadows, with my spray and handbag which could summon Joe if I got caught.

  I felt like palm-slapping my forehead again as all the clues I’d missed fell into place – her favourite restaurant was Afghani… Didn’t they train terrorists in Afghanistan? And her floaty clothes – perhaps they reflected a more modest Middle Eastern dress sense than a desire to make a fashion statement. Plus, could her love of fencing be less of a hobby and more a form of self-defence or ability to kill?

  I stood up. Not that two-faced, man-eating Monique scared me – even if she fought as well as the fencing instructor Verity, played by Madonna, in the Bond film Die Another Day. Thanks to my self-defence training, I knew how to break her nose in one move. She’d better watch out. I’d not allow a poxy actress to harm KMid and Wills.

  Proud as punch of my password-cracking skills, I texted Joe – informed him I’d discovered evidence about the MiddleWin Mort and would have more to tell him in twenty-four hours. I mentioned the meeting that I was going to secretly stake out, without giving him an address. Joe was busy and
I wanted to prove that he was right to pick me and I could crack this case on my own.

  I practically skipped into the shower, humming Madonna’s theme tune to Die Another Day. This song still played in my mind one hour later, when I was in work, buttoned-up chef’s coat on, eager to see Monique arrive with Edward and her friends tonight – she’d booked a table to celebrate the successful run of her play which had come to an end. Her email’s words, en deux semaines, reminded me that there was no time to lose. It was now the middle of February and the match was at the beginning of March. I would take photos of her and her companions to send to Joe. Who knew how many of the world’s most most-wanted terrorists might be amongst them?

  Chapter 15

  ‘Pudding! Where is your head tonight…?’ said JC, followed by a few words in French that sounded mega rude.

  Soon on a plate, no doubt, if he had anything to do with it.

  ‘The last batch of hollandaise sauce tasted too floury. Attention! Think texture, colour, taste, just like Cindy explained.’

  ‘Um, sorry chef,’ I mumbled. ‘I did check my notes but agree, must do better – the next spare moment I have will be spent practising, until I get it one hundred percent right.’

  I lifted up a lovely notebook bought a week or so ago from this ace cheap supermarket called Monoprix. A sketched Eiffel Tower decorated the front. Inside, I’d written everything JC and Cindy had taught me, from the best way to hold a chopping knife, to the ingredients for a very exclusive truffle sauce. Out of the corner of his eye, JC glanced at my book and his face softened.

  ‘Show me zat book some time, if you like Pudding,’ he said. ‘It would please me to check that all the notes are correct.’

  I beamed. Cook Kathleen, back at Applebridge Hall, would be mega impressed with everything I’d learnt. Finally I’d been promoted to producing something more creative than a heap of chopped carrots. But the pressure had been intense. My armpits felt sticky and perspiration (Lady C said never to call it “sweat”) drizzled down my chest. For hours, steam and all sorts of noises – spitting, hissing and frying – had filled the kitchen. Chefs could make millions by creating their own whisking, chopping, stirring, scrubbing fitness DVDs.