From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘I can manage on my own, you know,’ I said, as for the umpteenth time he held my elbow and steered me through the throng.

  He grinned. ‘Sorry – it comes with my height. I can easily see ze best way ahead.’

  We stopped by a stall selling old LP records and second hand books. Blade bought an old copy of Le Malade Imaginaire, the play that Monique had recently starred in. My mouth drooped.

  ‘What is the matter, ma pucette?’ he said.

  My brow furrowed. ‘Pucette?’

  His inky eyes sparkled. ‘It is a term of affection here, in France, and most suitable for today’s outing.’

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘It means little flea – and here we are at a flea market.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Thanks very much! How about I call you my old cockroach, then, if we’re talking vermin?’

  My chest glowed, as we both laughed.

  ‘So, ma pucette… Why the sad face when I buy this book?’

  We moved onto the next stall, covered in a rainbow of silk and linen rolls. A woman wearing a rainforest exotic sari haggled over the price of some burnt orange material. I fingered gossamer soft silk.

  ‘Not sad, just…’ My shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘That book reminds me of a certain actress. Honestly, what do guys like so much about Monique? Edward thought the sun shone out of her….’ I clamped my lips together. Lady C’s fierce dinner lady stare flashed into my mind. And fair enough, the word I’d been about to use was a bit crude.

  Blade’s inky eyes flashed with laughter. ‘You really don’t like her?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nor trust her. You should be careful.’ I sighed. ‘If it wasn’t for Monique, Edward and me would probably still be together.’

  ‘But I thought you were adamant – that ze break-up… it was a good thing?’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ I said and pursed my lips. ‘Definitely. No question. Sure.’

  Blade shot me a strange look before we squeezed through a huddle of American tourists, onto the next stall. It sold spices, herbs and condiments. I gazed at fresh ginger, plus cardamom pods, garlic, peppercorns and something called chermoula, a popular Moroccan marinade… Then a jar caught my eye, containing the harissa sauce Hugo had mentioned. It didn’t cost much, so I bought him one, whilst Blade bought a bottle of water from a neighbouring stall.

  Well, to be honest, Blade did the talking for me, although the stallholder couldn’t understand him either. In the end I just pointed, whilst Blade passed me a small chunk of a red vegetable to try. Without thinking, I put it in my mouth and almost immediately spat it out, into my hand.

  ‘Meanie!’ I squeaked and wiped my hand with a tissue. He passed the water and laughed.

  ‘Nothing like a mouthful of chilli to warm you up – your lips were almost blue with cold.’

  Playfully, I punched his arm, determined to now keep our conversation firmly away from the subject of Monique. Blade had the knack of getting me to say what was on my mind. I didn’t want to let slip that I was actually going to spy on her this evening, at the meeting I’d read about in her emails.

  Opposite us stood a white tent, set up as a makeshift café. ‘In fact, I can hardly feel my legs cos of the cold,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we have a coffee and one of those yummy looking deep-fried pancakes? Edward has mentioned eating them with his mum, years ago.’

  Blade nodded and bagged the last table. Cue two steaming mugs of café au lait and a “brik” each. Blade chose a spicy lamb one, whilst my sweet tooth demanded a filling of sugar and dried fruit.

  ‘Do you buy your clothes here?’ I said, having spotted a leather stall several metres away.

  Blade shrugged. ‘Sometimes, pucette. Really, I just love the atmosphere. The market here is most famous for its antiques – those stalls are further down. We should go there next.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You – a rockstar – are much more… grounded than I expected.’

  ‘Boring, you mean?’ A smile teased his lips.

  ‘No! But shouldn’t you be recovering from a hangover or offering me cannabis or trying to get me into bed?’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ he said, inky eyes twinkling.

  ‘No! Of course not, but…’

  ‘Gemma, one cannot party every night.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘And smashing guitars and throwing televisions out of hotel windows is a little out-dated, non?’

  ‘Or biting off bats’ heads,’ I said, suddenly remembering…‘Oh my God – last night you met Ozzy Osbourne! How did it go?’

  ‘Um okay…’ Blade avoided my eyes. ‘We just had a few drinks and reminisced about the old days, when I supported him on tour.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, shall we go?’

  Aw! Blade was clearly loyal and didn’t blab about conversations he had with famous friends. What a gent. I bit my lip and for a second my eyes tingled. Edward was the ultimate gentleman and I wondered if I’d ever have such a good-hearted, honest, well-meaning boyfriend again.

  ‘Does Ozzy speak French?’ I asked.

  Blade shrugged. ‘No idea – we’ve always spoken in English.’

  ‘How come you know my language so well? Have you ever lived in Britain?’ I said. Whether I thought Blade could be involved in the MiddleWin Mort plot or not, it was my duty to still question him and officially rule him out.

  Despite the heavy make-up, I could have sworn his cheeks flushed.

  ‘Oui… For a while… My…Maman – she was English.’

  Was? Aw. Poor Blade. No mum. Something in his face told me not to ask questions.

  ‘Bet she’d be really proud of your success,’ I said, with a tone that indicated I wouldn’t pry further about her. Although no offence to Blade, but his band still had a way to go before his family and friends would be popping champagne. The name “Black Bijou” hadn’t appeared in any of the most well-known internet search engines when I’d typed it in, via my phone, last night.

  ‘So, what is your real name?’

  His eyeliner crinkled. ‘Perhaps Blade is it.’

  ‘Okay, so how old are you? ’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Has Black Bijou been together long?’ I asked.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘How exactly would you define your music?’

  He shrugged. ‘Black Bijou does not like being dove-holed…’

  ‘Pigeon-holed,’ I corrected and giggled.

  Blade smiled. ‘If I must answer… glam heavy metal – like Kiss and more recently Black Veil Brides. It is loud, thick assertive music, with guitar solos and a strong beat… Merde! This is a lot of questions!’

  I blushed. ‘Um sorry…’ Subtlety had never been my strong point. ‘It’s just that I searched for information about you on the internet last night and came up with nothing. Not your real name, date of birth, famous quotes of yours or where you find inspiration… Not the names of your songs or…’

  ‘Enough!’ Blade chuckled. ‘Ze truth is, the band doesn’t give a shit about social media. If we find greater commercial success, okay, perhaps I will tweet and go on Facebook, but…’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Not unless I have to. And for your information, I was born on Bastille Day.’

  Ah, a summer birthday – the twelfth of July.

  ‘… and as for a quote of mine… Um… I always say to fans “Stay on the edge. Stay Kind. Stay beautiful on the inside”.’

  ‘Love that,’ I said. Hmm. Interesting character, who probably wouldn’t kill a royal couple if his motto was to “stay kind”.

  We left the tent and, as politely as possible, pushed our way to a big open-fronted antiques shop. It sold incredible African furniture – huge carvings of giraffes, ornamental teak cabinets, intricate mirrors and ginormous sculptures…

  ‘Just look at that table,’ I said and pointed to one with legs in the shape of elephant feet, carved out of dark wood. At one end grooves formed the shape of two ears and a sculpt
ed narrow trunk led down, almost touching the floor. The top was glass, set in a pewter frame which was bejewelled with precious stones. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in the High Drawing Room, back at Applebridge Hall. Blade ran his hand over it, as if he really appreciated fine furniture.

  I eyed him up and down – the dark clothes, long hair and midnight eyes. Apart from the fact that Blade was taller, he could be the photo negative of Edward– one hundred percent contrasting my Ex’s short honey-coloured hair and blue eyes.

  Blade looked up and saw me staring.

  ‘Like what you see?’ he said and gave a deep laugh.

  ‘Could you be any more arrogant?’ I replied in an exasperated voice and giggled.

  It doesn’t happen often in life, but you know when you meet someone and it’s like you’ve been bezzie mates for years? It sounded bonkers, and I’d not yet known Blade for twenty-four hours, but could already talk to him so easily. He made me laugh, and silent pauses between us weren’t a strain – even though we didn’t come from the same country; even though he liked terrorist Monique (forget innocent until proven guilty, I’d known from the start she was a bad’un.)

  One thing I’d learnt since being with Edward was not to be so impulsive, to stand back a bit and take stock before making any rash decisions… But some things we knew in our guts straightaway, right? Like Monique being suspicious… Like Blade being a “good egg” as Lady C would say. I couldn’t believe he’d be caught up in her evil plan.

  As we headed towards the end of the market, we came across a table selling mood rings. I’d loved them since being a child, not wanting to know the science behind the changing colours. That would ruin their magic.

  I slipped one with a heart in the middle over a finger and it immediately went from brown to deep blue.

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Blade.

  The old woman behind the table grinned at us both. ‘Oh làlà – l’amour!’

  My cheeks burnt, as I read an explanation, set out in different languages, on the stall. ‘Um, strictly speaking, it means I’m overwhelmed with passion.’

  Blade gave a hearty laugh and handed over some money to the woman.

  ‘A small present from me,’ he said with a bow.

  ‘Aw, thanks so much.’ I said, and gave a grin as we headed towards a secondhand jacket stall.

  ‘Here are some magnifique bargains – the suede garments are très bon,’ said Blade.

  My eyes scanned the large range of colours and designs – chocolate brown, fawn, oatmeal or gold, in a short bomber jacket style with no collar, or longer with side pockets and lapels. We flicked through the cluttered rails. Luckily the good-looking Tunisian bloke running the stall was busy with customers, so no one hassled us for a sale whilst we fitted stuff on.

  My fave was a short saffron-coloured one, which went down to my waist. A couple of buttons would need tightening and the suede was worn on one sleeve, but for the equivalent of twenty pounds who could complain! I slipped it on and turned side to side in front of a long mirror.

  ‘Très cool, Gemma,’ said Blade, in his sexy accent.

  Well it was sexy – nothing wrong with me acknowledging that. It didn’t mean I was in any way over my gorgeous-inside-and-out Edward.

  I took the jacket off, handed the money to the man who’d just come over, and put my duffle coat back on whilst he slipped the suede one into a plastic bag.

  ‘Have you visited the Tour Eiffel yet?’ he said, as we left the market.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Pas possible!’ Blade shook his head. ‘You go home in less than a fortnight, oui?’

  Blimey. Yes. He was right.

  ‘Then you and I – we must visit it. Tomorrow – every Monday - I work the morning shift. What about you?’

  ‘I finish at two… Where do you work?’

  ‘In a music shop, on the outskirts of Paris, near St Denis…It is pretty cool, on the first floor of an old warehouse. We sell heavy metal memorabilia, old vinyl records and secondhand CDs. The band isn’t successful enough for us to tour full-time, yet. Bon. Let’s visit the tower together. I shall text you a time and underground station to meet at. The views are truly panoramic. You cannot return to England without visiting this landmark.’

  My eyes tingled, just a titch, as his enthusiasm reminded me of Edward raving about this particular construction. Plus I didn’t want to be reminded that my French trip would be over so soon. I’d fallen in love with Paris. Plus returning back home meant I would have to face a future without Edward – without Applebridge Hall.

  ‘Okay, my old cockroach,’ I said and he gave me a good-humoured push. ‘Thanks for an amazin’ morning – it’s been brill. Just what I needed.’

  As we walked along a less crowded pavement, heavy metal music pulsated out of a bar, on the other side of the road. People dressed like Blade stood outside smoking. Not all wore make-up, but the majority had long hair and wore black leather. I grabbed Blade’s hand and dragged him across the street and inside.

  Wow. The dimly lit room was chock full with clones of my new pal. On a small stage a band of four rockers headbanged, along to music louder than an action movie being played at the cinema.

  I gave Blade a grin. ‘Why don’t you sing?’ I said loudly, to make myself heard. ‘I’d love to watch you perform.’

  ‘Non,’ he said firmly. ‘It is, um, too late notice. I’m sure they couldn’t fit me in.’

  ‘Aw, please,’ I said. ‘You’re not on tour at the moment. This is the only chance I’ve got.’

  At that point one of the singers started screeching and my smile dropped. It reminded me of Edward. Since I’d taught him how to play my brother’s Guitar Hero game, I occasionally caught him yodelling heavy rock songs in the shower. For some reason they appealed to him – perhaps because the long-drawn out notes of heavy metal weren’t completely different to opera.

  ‘Go on!’ I said.

  Blade caught my eye and sighed. ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes!’ I clapped my hands.

  ‘Okay. Just for you,’ he said, nervously fiddling with his silver skull necklace. Ooh, maybe Blade suffered from stage fright.

  ‘But I won’t sing a Black Bijou song – we aren’t well-known enough for the musicians to know ze right tune.’

  I gave him a hug which, for one second, removed the tension from his brow. Then he went up to the guitarist and whispered in his ear. Moments later Blade stepped cautiously on stage and took the microphone. The crowd went silent as the musicians began to play… Wait a minute! Even I recognised that: Motorhead’s well-known song, Ace of Spades!

  Eyes closed, Blade swayed side to side, as unsure words tumbled out. His voice wavered and a few boos rose from the crowd. Several people turned away. So I cheered as loudly as I could, until Blade found his voice again and soon he was screeching the lyrics, his body writhing all over the stage.

  Yikes. And I thought Edward sang out of tune – perhaps my Ex’s vocal talents weren’t so bad, after all, at least for a heavy metal artist. A lump formed in my throat. This was one of Edward’s favourite songs off Guitar Hero. I gazed at Blade as the crowd watched him more intently now. A few started to sing along.

  Eventually he opened his eyes as if, beforehand, he’d been afraid of the audience.

  ‘Yay!’ I shouted from the back of the room and, along with everyone else, headbanged super-quick.

  Wow. Now the crowd loved him! Blade was a rock god. I couldn’t take my eyes off his tight leather trousers and swivelling hips. Perspiration dampened the back of my neck and my ears ached with the music. His screeching voice became impossibly loud as the song came to an end. A group of women had gathered close to the stage and ogled his last sexy moves. Then it was over. The crowd cheered and clapped. Blade straightened his necklace and jumped down from the little stage.

  ‘You were WICKED!’I announced as we headed out of the bar.

  Blade’s eyes gleamed and before I knew it, he’d kissed me passionatel
y on both cheeks. Then the smile dropped from his face and he hastily consulted his watch.

  ‘Forgive me, pucette. I am late for…’ His cheeks flushed. ‘See you soon.’

  Huh? What could be so important that he’d abandoned me all Cinderella-like, dashing off towards the underground, without giving so much as an excuse?

  Chapter 17

  Wow. I ogled the awesome pillars and imposing figures dressed in togas. No, I hadn’t been transported back to Roman times. Instead I stood in front of the amazin’ Gard du Nord. What a train station – think big aeroplane hangar with fancy architecture, full of bustling hordes. Plus, if you believe what you read, criminal gangs, pickpockets and filth.

  Apparently Cindy almost lost her luggage here, on arriving in France. A taxi driver offered to take it to the car, but then legged it at top speed. Luckily the cops tracked him down. I eyed the impressive building as I left it behind me and shrugged. I still had my handbag and had survived the superficial grime. Okay it smelt a bit musty but so did any building in Paris, to do with trains. And I kind of liked the loud chat and clickety-clack of changing information on the timetable boards. Out in the fresh air now, I gazed at the huge boulevards ahead and sighed.

  Everything in Paris looked cool at night-time, as if some celestial artist brushed it with magic, once the sky turned black and the buildings lit up. The Northern Lights would have been right at home, here. The Gare du Nord area was typical of Paris, with its never-ending wide avenues. Bars and shops stood at the foot of blocks of apartment buildings, five floors high, all built to look as if they ran on from one another, with the same stonework and balconies. I shoved a wrapped-up, half-eaten ham baguette I’d bought in the station into my bag and took out a piece of paper. Brr! A breeze blew icily. Good thing I was being sensible and wearing my snuggly duffle coat.

  Me? Sensible? I’m as surprised as you! But four months living with Edward and Lady C and the earl, well… There hadn’t been much time or space for flightiness – not with the prize money of one million dollars to invest in renovating the stately home and setting up the food academy. Plus in any spare time I had, I went birdwatching, enjoyed walks or fun dinners with my new aristocratic mates.