From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  I know! Everything had changed. Take that word “Dinner”, for example – I used to only say that with reference to lunch at school. My evening meal had mostly been a snack or microwaved dish eaten in front of my favourite TV serial. But now I understood all that stuff agony aunts say about the importance of sitting down as a family, around the table. At Applebridge, that was usually the only time everyone would be in the same room at once. We’d laugh. Share problems. Discuss the future. Reminisce about the past. Edward’s friends, Henrietta and her gorge fiancé Lieutenant Mayhew, often visited, and now they were my good pals as well.

  Funny – not that I was ever a big party girl, but if you’d asked me one year ago if my perfect night in meant sitting amongst polite company discussing wildlife or the day’s international news, I’d have mock-yawned. Of course, things had changed a little at Applebridge, since I moved in. The old earl’s face had been a picture, the time I’d smashed poppadoms as part of his first ever Indian take-out. Then there was the pole-dancing kit Auntie Jan had bought me for Christmas, as the latest fitness fad. When I erected in the Parlour, Lady C’s face looked as if I’d brought seedy Soho to Applebridge.

  My chest tightened. On returning to England I’d have to ask Abbey if it was okay if I camped out in her flat, whilst she and Zak were in Greece… Just until I found my feet – and a new home. I used to be her lodger, before living at Applebridge Hall, but that would be awkward now, as Zak stayed over at hers more than ever.

  Ah well. No time for feeling sorry for myself. I glanced at the piece of paper, on which I’d scrawled the address and a map taken from Google. Monique was meeting her collaborators in fifteen minutes in some sort of hall, down an alleyway, to the right. Heart thumping, I followed my scribbled directions, past a bar that was full, despite it being Sunday night.

  Cindy had warned me not to be out on my own, near the Gare du Nord area, much past ten o’clock. With a smile I couldn’t help thinking that if imposing Blade was with me, no one dodgy would dare approach. He’d texted me this afternoon – explained that he’d forgotten about an important drinks date with a well-known bar-owner who was willing to give the band a gig. That’s why he left me so abruptly, earlier on. I suggested Black Bijou take part in the French X Factor – Blade was not impressed! Nor would Lady C have been if she’d read his rude response which widened my vocabulary further. What a sex god he’d been on stage, yesterday, despite his nervous start.

  Head down, I passed a garage and a pharmacy with the green cross illuminated outside. According to my map, I had to turn the next corner and… Yikes. There were overflowing bin bags everywhere. Plus a car minus its wheels and, from an apartment up above, the shouts of an argument wafted down. A group of young men strutted past. One whistled at me, after which they all laughed hard.

  I slipped my hand into my bag, fingers curling around my pepper spray and finally stopped outside two old wooden doors with the number five at the top. Voilà! The meeting place. Chat hummed and music pulsated from inside. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses, just in case I – literally - bumped into Monique. The door opened. A couple appeared and took out cigarettes. The man reached into his pocket and swore.

  ‘Vous avez du feu?’ he said.

  I swallowed. “Feu” was fire – he must have been asking for a light.

  ‘Désolé,’ I said and shook my head.

  They went back in and, heart pumping, I followed. Wow what a noise. About, ooh, one hundred people must have been in the huge room. It was basic, with a couple of snooker tables, a jukebox and drinks machine – it looked like some sort of budget youth club. At the far end was a stage. Oh my God! Instantly I recognised Monique’s delicate outline. She stood by a microphone which must have been switched off, as she talked animatedly to a couple of young men next to her, and annoyingly I couldn’t make out a word.

  Clutching my spray tighter than ever, I tried to pick out someone I thought looked like a terrorist, anti-royal or villain and maybe take a photo of them on my phone – which was a ridiculous goal. What did a terrorist look like, anyway? They would hardly drop clues like carrying a Kalashnikov or placard with a red cross through a picture of the Queen’s crown. I thought back over all the Bond films Dad, me and my brothers had enjoyed over the years. Now the baddies from them were distinctive, with eye-patches and cats, metal teeth, golden guns and bowler hats that sliced off heads. Whereas this lot… what a boring bunch! Most wore jeans with trainers and bomber jackets. None looked armed. My best chance would be to mingle and listen in to their conversations, writing anything suspicious down. Discreetly I took out a notepad and pen from my bag, and pushed my way through the crowd.

  Except that my French was still rubbish, especially when it came to translating the spoken word. Although I managed to pick out “guerre”, the word for war, and – oh my God! Did someone just say “MiddleWin Mort”?

  My stomach fluttered. This was some progress. Joe would hopefully be impressed with Agent G’s detective skills – if nothing more, I’d at least found the terrorists’ meeting place. Okay, so I didn’t have much more concrete information, but something secret was definitely going on. Something that involved a lot more people than I suspected… perhaps a good number of them would orchestrate stuff behind the scenes.

  A hush fell as the microphone squeaked loudly and Monique said “silence!”. An athletic-looking man next to me in jogging trousers, with a trim brown beard, shushed a couple behind him and then listened intently to Monique’s every word. Pen at the ready, I proceeded to write down as many of the French words as possible – or at least how they sounded to me. Back home I could try to decipher them using an online dictionary.

  However, it was hard to write with the sunglasses on, as the room was dimly lit, but I daren’t take them off in case Monique decided to circulate the room and caught me there. I gasped. At last a word I could clearly understand – but not one I wanted to. Monique had just said “revolver”.

  Blimey. She repeated it once more and lifted her hand and with her fingers formed the shape of a gun. My heart raced as she pretended to shoot into the air. Could Joe’s suspicions really have foundation? Could a plot to murder the royal couple truly be afoot? It looked like it, and now I’d discovered the ammo of choice. It was no suicide bomb or chemical attack but good old-fashioned bullets.

  I jumped at a loud cough, right by my left ear, followed by the stink of stale garlic breath. Almost gagging, I swivelled around. Merde! The athletic-looking bearded man was squinting at my notes. I snapped the notebook shut and put it, with the pen, back in the leopard-print handbag. My cheeks burned as I caught his eye and he machine-fired several French sentences at me. I nodded. He raised one eyebrow. So I shook my head instead.

  ‘Allemande? Américane? Anglaise?’ he said.

  ‘Anglaise,’ I stuttered. There was no point pretending to be French if I had to talk.

  ‘Why ze notes?’ he said, brow furrowed. ‘Tonight… ze revolver… It is nothing we haven’t discussed before with the mob.’

  “The mob”? Cool! My life was turning into an episode of The Sopranos… ‘Oh, um… I am just conscientious,’ I said and managed a smile. ‘But tell me… I don’t understand… Why are there so many of us involved?’

  He snorted. ‘You are joking, non? Isn’t it obvious? To make a real impact, to get our message across, numbers count – the strong ones support the weak. That way there will be no mistake – no failure.’

  I swallowed hard as a bloody image of the royal couple flashed into my head. Perhaps more than one gun would be used. ‘And our message is…?’ I said hopefully, and bit my lip, looking upwards as if I was trying to remember something.

  And in the next moment, I learnt a very valuable lesson. Don’t let someone’s relatively conservative appearance make you believe they aren’t a total psycho. Because the man’s eyes suddenly bulged and, like a banshee with PMT, he pointed at me and shrieked:

  ‘Imposteuse! Imposteuse!’

  You didn’t
need a degree in French to work out what that meant.

  Angry faces turned to stare at me. Monique stood on tiptoes on the stage, straining to see what all the fuss was about. Almost salivating by now, the rabid bearded man grabbed my arm but, just quickly enough, I yanked it away, before his grip tightened. People stood open-mouthed as I dashed past the jukebox and out of the doors.

  Quickly I walked back the way I’d come, but footsteps followed me and, mouth dry, I turned around. Oh no, about ten people hurried my way, several shaking their fists, eyes wild. Nausea rose up the back of my throat and I started to run in a zigzag style, just in case one of them had a gun and I’d need to dodge bullets. This provoked angry shouts from behind and I darted through bushes to my left and ended up in a backyard.

  Phew! Deep breaths. Agent G, reconnoitre the area. Immediately my brain homed in on a nearby trampoline. Okay, this was one of those rare events that really called for the old Gemma and her rushes of adrenaline that produced something spontaneous. I quickly took off the sunglasses and shoved them into my handbag. Then I crawled onto the trampoline, jumped up and down a few times and just as people pushed their way through the bush, with a scream flew through the night air and over a fence…

  Uh oh – I hadn’t thought too much about where I’d end up. Thankfully, with a loud thud, I landed feet-first in a kids’ sandpit. My ankles felt as if shards of metal had pierced straight through them, but all things considered I was lucky, having narrowly missed a plastic toy tractor and bucket. Although I toppled over and caught my eye on fishing rod of a nearby gnome – I bit the insides of my cheeks to prevent a yelp escaping.

  With a grimace, and grains of sand in my mouth, I scrambled to one side and looked around as voices became louder in the next garden. What if those nutters followed me over the fence? Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a wooden kennel, at the foot of a tree. It was big – big enough for me to crawl inside.

  Stomach churning, I stealthily made my way towards it, on my knees. A loud yawn echoed from the darkness inside. Slowly, I peered in to face two big eyes staring back at me. Shoot. What if the mutt attacked me? Or at the very least, barked?

  The raised voices from next door became more insistent and I reached into my bag to grab my pepper spray, just in case this dog resembled the rabid ones from the movie Resident Evil. However I felt my mouth upturn. Instead of the spray, my fingers curled around the ham baguette. I pulled it out, flipped the bread open and discarded it and then squeezed into the kennel, head-first, holding the ham up like a white flag. With my other hand, I wiped my eye which felt wet near the eyebrow. I smelt my fingers. Blood. I gulped, hoping this dog would prefer the yummy smoked aroma of ham to the fresh metallic stink of my wound.

  After an initial growl, the dog whined and accepted my peace offering. I couldn’t quite make out its breed but it had big bear paws and tight curly hair. What a relief that it had accepted the ham, as seconds later someone flew over the fence and groaned as they hit the ground.

  Changing position, I peeked out of the kennel and watched as three more people jumped over. Blinkin’’eck! One even did a somersault mid-air. Whoever had trained these people had made sure their fitness matched any Secret Intelligence Service officer. I held my breath. Oh no. Footsteps headed in my direction.

  Chapter 18

  ‘Slice off her head. Then, with ze knife, cut open her stomach to let out ze bowels…’

  A queasy sensation washed over me. Please no. This was too much.

  Oh, I should have explained…My life wasn’t in danger – fortunately last night, no one found me in the kennel. The approaching footsteps had turned away at the last minute as the house’s security lights had come on and scared everyone back over the fence. Eventually I let myself out of the garden’s back gate and caught the last underground train home.

  Now it was Monday morning and JC was giving me a lesson in how to gut a fish – in this case, an amazin’ looking trout, with its peach underbelly and glossy grey skin. La truite was a feminine word, hence JC referring to it as she. Edward popped his head in the kitchen to pass a message to Cindy, gazed at the fish and then caught my eye and smiled. Much as I love cooking, Edward knew I was a titch squeamish and could hardly watch, back at Applebridge Hall, when Scottish cook Kathleen made haggis from scratch, using sheep’s insides.

  However, his smile didn’t last long. Within seconds, he stood by my side and ran a finger over my left eyebrow. Heat surged into my cheeks at his touch, as I tried not to feel the chemistry between us pull me towards him.

  ‘What happened?’ he said as JC muttered something about his knife being blunt, went to his workstation and picked up the tool to sharpen it.

  ‘Oh… Um… It’s nothing – I slipped in the bath.’

  I could hardly tell him I’d clipped my eye on a garden gnome, before crawling into a kennel, to hide from terrorists plotting to kill the royal couple.

  ‘You want to be careful,’ he said and then straightened up, his blonde fringe flopping sexily over his eyebrows. ‘Um, Cindy – there’s a party of Americans coming for lunch, from Texas apparently. Pierre thought it might add a personal touch if you took their order. The booking is for one o’clock. If JC can spare you, that is…’

  ‘Sure, honey,’ she drawled and flashed her white teeth. Edward looked at me again and Cindy busied herself, whilst he and I talked.

  ‘So… Still enjoying your time in the kitchen?’ Edward said with one of his devilishly ironic smiles.

  ‘It’s… mega challenging, that’s for sure. What about you? Still note-taking at every opportunity? Lady C mentioned Country Aspirations were pleased with your pieces on Paris. She reckoned you might be interested in travel writing.’

  His face lit up. ‘Indeed they were, and guess what? The Applebridge Chronicle emailed me and wants an article on my stay here – they wondered if I could visit somewhere stately, like Versailles, and write a piece on it from an English aristocrat’s point of view. If it goes down well, they’ll consider giving me a regular column, perhaps filled with reviews of stately homes in our county, or restaurants to try.’ Unable to hide a bubble of excitement in his voice, he continued. ‘But yes, writing my way around the world would be terribly satisfying, after spending so many years in one village.’

  ‘That’s brill!’

  He squeezed my shoulder and I did my best to ignore the tingles his touch still caused. ‘This is all down to you, Gemma. I’d never have thought that writing had a potential for a career, if you hadn’t insisted I reply to Country Aspirations, when they contacted me about liking the blog. It gave me something to focus on, in the weeks after it became clear I wasn’t Applebridge Hall’s heir; after the future I had planned out suddenly evaporated into thin air. Plus this trip to Paris has reignited a passion for foreign climes… Despite how things have ended between us, I’ll… I’ll be eternally grateful to you.’

  Chest glowing, I shrugged. ‘Oh, it was nothing – blogs have kicked off lots of writing careers – just look at that highclass call girl, Belle de Jour. I always knew you’d be a brilliant columnist. You belong to a world not many people know about, yet manage to talk about it in a way that everyone can relate to.’

  His eyes crinkled as he bent down to kiss my cheek. ‘Thank you.’ As he drew away we stared into each other’s eyes. Eventually Edward cleared his throat. ‘Well, this won’t get the tables laid…’ His lips curved invitingly upwards and he left through the swing doors.

  ‘Talk about sexual tension,’ said Cindy.

  I folded my arms, heart still skipping from that kiss. ‘Nah. That was nothing but a civil chat. He’s clearly planning for the future and moving on.’

  ‘Just think it’s a shame you two have broken up – especially when in Paris…’

  ‘This, from you?’ I snorted. ‘You’re the last person who should go all mushy on me, seeing as you deny being into all that hearts and roses stuff.’

  Cindy grinned. ‘Fair comment – although I like hearts a
nd roses… just wish they came with a health warning and antidote to the pain that strikes when things go wrong.’ She stopped slicing a lemon. ‘Anyways, listen to this good news… I’ve only gone and got me four discounted tickets to the Disneyland park. Why don’t you and me use a couple on our day off, tomorrow?’

  ‘How did you get them?’

  ‘Found them on Ebay – although I had to buy all four. Hey, why don’t we ask that Blade guy you’re dating?’ She winked. ‘Sounds like he’s hot enough to fry an egg on.’

  ‘Dating? No! I’ve only just broken up with Edward.’

  ‘Pah – no point waiting around for your heart to heal, honey. Take it from me, there’s nothing like a casual, no-ties fling to perk you up, if your cheese has fallen off your cracker…’

  Cindy didn’t meet my eye, and she suddenly seemed very intent on slicing the lemons. Sometimes I reckoned all her talk about not wanting a long-term relationship was a front. I picked up a knife to help her.

  ‘I doubt Disney is his thing. It’s no fun trying to force someone to enjoy all that Mickey Mouse stuff,’ I said, having learnt my lesson from encouraging Edward to visit the theme park.

  ‘Ask him! Even if Blade says no, that’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. If he says yes then all we need to do is find another man to make up the foursome.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Don’t worry – I mean a foursome of friends. A day out for fun, nothing else. Whaddaya reckon?’

  Could be good – and it would be nice to see my rockstar pal again. Perhaps I’d ask him this afternoon when we visited the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘Attention, Pudding!’ barked JC as he returned with a glinting knife. I turned once more to the trout. It was to be served with a brown butter sauce (whatever that was) and almonds. Determined not to gag, I watched as he slit up the stomach and stringy red stuff tumbled out, reminding me of the latest zombie film I’d seen. My head spun a little. JC shot me a look and shook his head.