From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  Cindy and Joe hollered and laughed loudly behind us. I screamed. Still, Blade was deadly silent. As we got off, Blade stumbled into me. His hair looked a mess and he gagged as if he was going to be sick. Quickly the two of us headed outside. After a few breaths of fresh air, Blade shot me a smile.

  ‘Feeling better?’ I whispered.

  ‘Never better, pucette,’ he said, just as the other two caught us up.

  Joe slapped him on the back. ‘Thought a tough heavy metal singer would have felt right at home with all those flashing lights and screams.’

  ‘Um, come on, let’s get a bite to eat,’ I said and took Joe by the elbow. ‘Blade, which restaurant did you want to try?’

  ‘A friend recommended the Silver Spur Steakhouse, near Thunder Mountain – apparently they do an exquisite Cactus Sauce and sweetcorn soup – something a little bit different.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ I said brightly, and steered Joe through the chatting crowds, out of Discoveryland.

  ‘Look, give Blade a break,’ I said to Joe, after a few minutes, as we passed through the Central Plaza and over into Frontierland. ‘Why have you got it in for him?’

  ‘Don’t trust him. I made up that French rock band, Enfer Rouge. He seems vague about his career. I’ve just got a bad gut feeling about him. Call it my MIsixth sense.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ I shook my head. ‘Blade can’t be expected to know about every single heavy metal band in the world…’

  Mmm, for a moment the yummy woodsmoke smells and the sight of Frontierland’s Mississippi steamboat, distracted me.

  ‘Honestly, once his birthdate checks out in England, revealing his real name, you’re going to feel like a right prat,’ I continued. ‘Blade’s turning out to be a wicked friend.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Have I taught you nothing? This mission isn’t about making friends. You have a job to do. Suspect everyone until you have concrete proof that they are not a criminal, terrorist or spy.’

  I pursed my lips together. Joe needed to chill out. My gut instincts were as good as his. Blade had a sincere heart, anyone could see that.

  ‘What are you two muttering about?’ said Cindy, as we came to the Steakhouse. ‘And Gemma, how come you know so many sexy guys?’ she whispered into my ear. ‘That Blade’s hotter than Hades – even if he is as jumpy as a spooked buffalo on rollercoaster rides.’

  We grinned at each other and I turned around to Blade.

  ‘Having fun?’ I said. ‘Fancy Peter Pan’s Flight after lunch?’

  ‘And those spinning cups…’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Merde, and I thought my life was wild…’

  We went inside and – wow – the restaurant was much bigger than I imagined, done out with mahogany furniture, warm colours and chandeliers… In a funny way, it reminded me of Chez Dubois, except it lacked the glossy ferns and Hugo’s glare. Also, the female staff wore old-style civil war American dress and looked like they belonged on the set of Little House on the Prairie. We ordered our food and the drinks arrived – Blade had a beer and smirked as Joe sipped his coke. Cindy admired the bright blue flowers on the table – said they looked just like her favourite Bluebonnet, the state flower of Texas which, unusually, started blooming now, the end of February.

  I opened my handbag and took out the map of the park. We began to plan our afternoon, but were interrupted by a funny noise – like a suppressed squeal. One of the old pioneer-style dressed waitresses stared straight at Blade. She gabbled something at him in French – I picked out the words “Black Bijou” and “superbe”.

  When he nodded she turned bright red and clapped her hands, then asked him to wait just one minute and disappeared. We raised our eyebrows at Blade and he just shrugged airily, shooting a decidedly smug look Joe’s way. Before I could quiz him, the waitress returned and shoved some kind of music magazine under Blade’s nose, with a biro. Oh my God! There was a photo of him, next to an interview. He signed it and gave the girl back her pen.

  Joe reached out to look at the magazine and quickly flicked through. Blade shot him a dirty look and who could blame him? What would it take for the agent to believe that Blade was a heavy metal star, through and through?

  ‘You’ve made her day!’ I said, after the girl left.

  ‘Something of a rock god, aren’t you,’ Cindy said and winked.

  Joe kept quiet and downed the rest of his coke. In fact, he didn’t speak much for the rest of the day – although he couldn’t help belly-laughing when Cindy dragged him over to Buzz Lightyear for a photo.

  Whereas Blade relaxed more and insisted on doing the Star Tours ride two times. We fitted in the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cups, Phantom Manor – and, of course, It’s a Small World. As we headed for the exit, all of us hummed the last ride’s annoyingly addictive tune. Blade joked how he might try to incorporate it into a song he was presently writing and Joe gave a sarcastic snort.

  Then we said our goodbyes… Well, Joe and I made some excuse about going for a coffee to catch up. We kissed Blade and Cindy and waved them off. I pulled Joe over to a nearby bench and, back to Secret Service mode, we discussed the mob’s meeting on Saturday night. Although every now and then, Joe stared at a Tarzan keyring in his hands. Cindy had insisted on buying it for him because she said Joe reminded her of the hunky cartoon character.

  I almost chuckled out loud. What a pairing that would be – impulsive, fun-loving Cindy and serious Joe. I mean just because they both loved Star Trek… And keeping fit… Just because both had declared a serious relationship would never suit their career…

  Oh my God! In my mind I did one of my palm-slaps against my forehead. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Joe and Cindy were the perfect couple! Neither wanted a clingy partner. Both travelled the world. Plus the fancy-factor was definitely there – she couldn’t keep her hands off his biceps and I’d seen how his eyes shone when they talked together.

  That was it –I now had two missions to complete: in just over one week I had to save the royal couple and get Cindy and Joe together!

  Chapter 21

  Oh God. What sick torture – pulling my insides out. Along the top of my skin ran my intestines, all gooey and red. My kidneys lay on my stomach like a couple of squashed lovehearts. Veins rested on the topside of my leg, pulsating as they pumped my blood…

  No. I hadn’t been caught by Monique’s gang, who’d worked out I was investigating them and were hoping to get me to talk. It was Friday morning, before my afternoon shift at Chez Dubois, and I was meeting Agent John Smith at the Pompidou Centre, so that we could reconnoitre the Saturday night address that Monique had emailed several people about. I remembered Edward talking about the Pompidou Centre once – apparently it was built to look inside out. I stood in the huge plaza, opposite it. The architects had done a good job. Pipes, no doubt for electricity and plumbing, in white, blue, green and yellow, ran all over its outside. The building looked more like an industrial factory, than a well-respected centre of art and culture. In awe I admired its glass exterior, and the external escalator taking people up to the sixth floor.

  That’s why I was imagining what I’d look like with all my gory plumbing displayed on the outside of my body. Not a pretty sight, although it would be interesting to see exactly where all those cakes I ate had laid down fat. I gave a wry smile as I thought of the time I was complaining to Edward about my muffin top. He’d thrown me onto the sofa in the parlour, hiked up my jumper and blown raspberry kisses into my belly. How my shrieks and his laughter had resounded through Applebridge Hall. Kathleen the cook come to my help and said afterwards that she’d never heard Edward guffaw like that.

  The estate manager, Mr Thompson, had hurtled in too, with his hunting gun. Later that day, over an evening whiskey, he’d muttered that the scene in the parlour was reminiscent of Edward as a small child. A man of few words, Mr Thompson gruffly said that it was good to see me showing Edward that adults too, could have fun. The irony was, after all of Lady C’s training to be modest, that it was me who’d been more e
mbarrassed about people witnessing the incident, and not once-straightlaced Edward.

  I yawned. Last night I’d bought tickets for me and Blade to go to a rock concert. Just some unknown group, performing for students, but what a laugh – my ears were still ringing from bass-heavy tunes. As for my investigations, nothing much had moved forward on Wednesday and Thursday – I’d worked as usual and found no more incriminating emails in Monique’s inbox. Wow. The charity match was only one week away. Edward and I were three quarters through our stay. How I would miss Paris’ exciting, romantic atmosphere.

  I yawned again as smarmy John Smith approached, and took a deep breath. Hopefully us checking out the address wouldn’t take too long. Somehow John managed to make his regimental black suit look stylish, unlike Joe who wore it like a uniform. But then John did always wear fancy cufflinks and expensive-looking ties. Perhaps I should have worn something smarter than my usual jeans and duffle coat. Although I’d twisted my hair into a bun and resisted the urge to wear my favourite fuchsia pink lip gloss. After all, I was on serious business.

  ‘Good day, Agent G…’ John ran his hand up and down my arm. Urgh! As usual, a sensation ran across my spine, which sent my brain the message “perv-alert”.

  ‘Hi. I Googled the address. Follow me,’ I said.

  We curved around a posse of street dancers. Large groups of tourist encircled several entertainers. Two mime artists attracted a lot of attention – they were completely white-washed and looked like something by sculptor Rodin – back in Applebridge, Edward had showed me a book containing photos of his work. Nearby a man, dressed in a harlequin jumpsuit and red wig, cycled on a penny farthing whilst juggling. The plaza reminded me of a trip I’d once made to Covent Garden – although on a much grander scale, I thought, as we passed groups of schoolchildren with clipboards.

  ‘It’s right down this road,’ I said as we made a turn and passed an Italian restaurant. A whiff of garlic caught my attention and I gave a loud sniff. Hmm, all of a sudden breakfast and my chocolate pastry from The Golden Croissant seemed like a long time ago. John grinned.

  ‘How about I buy you lunch at that place, afterwards?’ He winked. ‘On expenses, of course – I believe in making the most of all possible perks.’

  ‘Um, thanks very much, but I couldn’t – you see work starts at three and…’

  ‘There you go! Plenty of time. I insist.’

  My heart sank. So much for my shopping spree – but I guessed the occasional lunch with a fellow spy was all part of my remit. John continued to chat about perks, as we made our way past apartment blocks and random shops like a shoe repair place and beauty salon.

  ‘I’m all for taking advantage of any opportunity that arises,’ said John. ‘You should see the suits I’ve claimed for over the years – all Italian cut. Dear me, it’s a mystery, how I get through so many clothes on each mission,’ he said, innocently, ‘but what’s a man to do if a sleeve or trouser leg gets accidentally torn when wrestling some villain, or falling over whilst on the chase.’ He grinned. ‘Being creative with the truth is a useful tool. Like when I’m adamant I can’t schmooze suspects, for information, without buttering them up first in a five star restaurant.’ He shook his head. ‘Joe misses a lot of these tricks. Last year we had a case in Monaco and I suggested we spent an afternoon in the casinos, to supposedly keep an eye on our target.’ John sneered. ‘Joe was having none of it, of course, and just muttered something about tax-payers money not being meant for fruit machines.’

  ‘But isn’t honesty an essential quality for a secret agent?’ I said.

  John shot me the strangest look. ‘As it happens I’d like to talk to you about that, over lunch…’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  But he held up his hand. We’d arrived at the address. Ah ha. The building was a dance studios.

  Hmm, clever. It made sense for Monique to meet somewhere like that. No one would suspect a well-known ballerina for booking one of the large rooms. She could pretend to teach her partners in crime the moves for Swan Lake, whilst they actually went through their evil anti-royal plan.

  I pushed open the door and we headed for the reception. Classical music came out of a room upstairs. The walls were dingy and everywhere looked like it could do with a lick of paint. At the simple desk ahead, stood a very slim woman in leggings and a loose, floral top. Her grey hair was scraped into a bun, like mine.

  ‘Bonjour,’ I said… ‘Um…Combien… To rent a studio…?’

  The woman’s brow furrowed, so John proceeded to talk to her in his excellent French. I understood the first bit – he gave her some sleazy compliment about her top. A piano stopped playing upstairs, and eventually a group of students appeared, chatting and wiping their brows with towels. They came down the stairs by the side of reception and headed into a room behind.

  I took a peek and saw a drinks machine, a load of sports holdalls on the floor and a ballet barre in the distance. It all looked kosher. There were no sticks of dynamite sticking out of bags, nor pistol-filled rucksacks.

  I turned back to reception and took out my phone. Pretending it was broken, like that night at Chez Dubois, I held it up in the air and took a photo of the receptionist’s face. At that moment John said goodbye to her and turned around.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said John. We left the building and I put my mobile away.

  ‘Did she let anything interesting slip?’ I asked, as we walked back the way we’d come.

  John shook his head. ‘She couldn’t be swayed to show us around – said they only rented out rooms to people they knew well. Well done, by the way, getting that photo…’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘Shows you’re focused. I can see why you were picked for this job.’

  I cleared my throat, as an awkward silence hung in the air. Why was he complimenting me and what was this chat he wanted, at lunch, all about?

  ‘I started off by asking if they ever rented out rooms at night. She said only at the weekend – during the week, the school that owns this joint runs evening classes. In fact she did mention that tomorrow night one of the rooms was in use, even though cleaners were coming in to spruce the place up.’

  It needs it, I thought, thinking back to those dingy walls.

  ‘But when she found out I’d no previous connection to the school, the shutters came down. Apparently they used to let the place out to all sorts, but it got trashed more than once.’ He fiddled with his left cufflink as we passed the shoe repair shop from earlier. ‘Of course, that information was useful. Tomorrow night you and Joe can dress up as cleaners. You’ll get in no problem.’ He pulled a face. ‘Glad I won’t be slumming it with you. Fortunately, I’ve a delicate mission to carry out, near the Champs-Elysées.’

  Just as we finished discussing what Joe and I would wear, plus the equipment needed to look realistic, we reached the Italian restaurant, which was only just opening up for lunch. As we arrived, a little girl in a red coat, with high pigtails, scootered around the corner and leant too far to the left. She fell down and with a thud, landed on her side.

  Seconds behind her, a worried mother appeared, but by then, John had already helped the girl to her feet and lifted the scooter, so that she could board it again. Profusely, the mother thanked him.

  ‘That’s the only regret I have about this job,’ he said. ‘Don’t get to spend enough time with my nephew, back in Nottingham.’

  I glanced at him. Okay, so John wasn’t totally evil but I still didn’t like him.

  Reluctantly, I followed him inside. The head waiter gave us a knowing glance and found a discreet table in the corner and brought over a red rose in a vase. Ick! He obviously thought we were lovebirds. Just the thought of John’s curious hands… I shuddered. He asked for champagne and two plates of an expensive lobster pasta dish – clearly taking advantage of the MI6’s expenses system again.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me ordering,’ he said, ‘but I’ve eaten this dish before, in an exquisite hotel in Rome. You really must try it.’ Th
e champagne arrived and the waiter filled two glasses. John took a sip and then leant back in his chair. ‘In fact it’s the speciality of my local Italian restaurant near my condo in Orangedog, in the States…’

  ‘Orangedog?’

  John shrugged. ‘Yeah, weird name isn’t it? Nice place – well, the half I live in, is. The other district is full of dubious sorts who’d steal from their nearest and dearest, if it earned them a cent. I also own a villa in Barbados and a penthouse near the Thames…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You could have that life too, if you made the right choices.’

  ‘What choices?’ I said, hoping we were moving on to what he wanted to talk to me about and could get this whole lunch over with.

  His eyes shone. ‘You’re a bright girl, Gemma – can I call you that, seeing as this lunch isn’t business?’

  ‘I thought you lot always stayed on the job.’

  A muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Sounds to me like you’ve been spending too much time with dedicated Joe. Anyway as I was saying, you’re a bright girl and not bad looking – if you lost a stone or so you’d be an absolute stunner.’

  My fists curled under the table – bloomin’ cheek! Yeah, and if John got a personality transplant he’d be just about passable.

  ‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ he said. ‘How do you fancy living the MI6 lifestyle, without joining the agency? Trips abroad? Stays in topnotch hotels? Wearing the best clothes and jewellery – all the works?’

  I shrugged. ‘A chef – that’s what I want to be. Money’s not everything.’

  ‘It is once you’re used to it and understand its power. Work with me for a few years and you’ll have enough money to buy your own restaurant.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  John eyed me closely. ‘Your intelligence and pretty face… Those two qualities are immeasurably important in my business.’

  ‘You mean being an agent?’

  John smirked. ‘Not exactly. I like good food… well-tailored clothes… expensive accessories. My… extra-curricular activities get me all those things. I could earn even more with a second-in-command – a woman like you who has assets I don’t.’ He ogled my chest.