From Paris With Love (6 page)

Joe caught 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.

‘Okay – firstly, I should try the top six passwords that everyone uses,’ I said. ‘Which are… password, 12345678, querty, welcome, letmein, iloveyou…’

‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘And failing them?’

‘Ask the person questions to find clues about the things they hold most dear – the name of a childhood dog… Their date of birth… Town they were born in… I could try it on you but guess you won’t give me an honest answer.’

Joe gave a half-smile and got to his feet. After brushing salt off my jeans, I stood up whilst he opened a big holdall, on the table. He pulled out a flat metal box. Inside were small metal instruments. Joe delved into the bag again and pulled out a door lock barrel. Ooh, a lock-picking lesson.

Joe picked up the metal tools. ‘These are small enough for any handbag. Here… Start using this one first…’

Cue an hour of fiddling with the lock barrel, trying to align the pins inside with this tiny metal rod, so that the cylinder inside would turn. Then he gave me something called a “rake” which you pushed to and fro, to jam the pins instead. In, out. In, out. This was harder than it looked.

However, another hour later, after a couple of swear words even Lady C’s training couldn’t prevent…

‘I did it!’ With a squeal, I threw down the instruments and hugged Joe around the neck.

‘I mean…’ Clearing my throat, I stood back. My cheeks felt hot. Blimey, Joe’s face had cracked into a smile.

‘Good job, Gemma,’ he said and examined the lock barrel. ‘It’s a matter of practice now. Try it at your flat – obviously when Edward isn’t around. And carry those tools with you all the time. You never know when you might need to get in somewhere – or out.’

Face locked into a grin, I clapped my hands and jerked my head towards the holdall. ‘Please tell me I finally get to see gadgets?’

I raised both eyebrows and – oh my God! Joe actually laughed. It was deep and heartfelt and lasted several seconds, as if his chest was making the most of something that rarely happened.

Once more he delved into the holdall and pulled out a pepper spray, lipstick and leopard-print bag. My mouth drooped.

‘Is that it? They don’t look very technical or exciting. What about the packet of fake stick-on fingerprints, cigarettes loaded with bullets or an attaché case concealing a gun? How about a defibrillator so I can bring myself back to life, like Daniel Craig did in Casino Royale?’

Joe shook his head.

I grinned. ‘Just kidding – I know this is real life, not written by Ian Fleming…’

Joe picked up the pepper spray. ‘Use sparingly,’ he said. ‘I bought this myself for you and just added some special blue dye that won’t wash off for forty-eight hours – useful if you’re attacked in the dark and won’t recognise the culprit or be able to give a good description.

‘Great,’ I said and fingered the small bottle. ‘And the lipstick?’

He lifted it up and pulled off the lid to reveal a small tube of clear liquid.

‘This is a sedative,’ he said. ‘Add this to someone’s drink and they’ll fall asleep within five minutes. It’s only to be used as a last measure.’

‘So, basically, I’m not going to get any proper MI6 gadgets?’

Joe’s eyes twinkled for a second. ‘Sorry, Gemma – like I said, this isn’t an official MI6 mission. I guess this leopard-print bag is the nearest thing to high-tech.’ He turned it over. ‘I managed to get my hands on a tracking device and have attached it to the bottom.’ He pointed to a gold button and pressed it hard. A loud beep emitted from his pocket. He took out his phone which had lit up, to reveal a map.

‘This shows me your exact location,’ he said. ‘If this ever flashes up I’ll be with you as quick as I can. Emergencies only, it goes without saying… Although I doubt you’ll ever need it…’

We looked at each other. No words were necessary. Not after yesterday’s fight. I agreed that the idea of my actually uncovering an assassination plot was unlikely. But just in case I did – just in case a sticky situation arose, it was comforting to think I could summon a MI6 agent to my side.

Joe put the lockpicks, lipstick and pepper spray into the handbag.

‘We’ve scratched the surface of MI6 training, Gemma – the self-defence is the most important thing to take on board.’

I smiled. ‘Shouldn’t you call me Agent G from now on?’

‘Whatever you like.’ He passed over a mobile phone number. ‘List me in your contacts as Joe, then text me so I have your number.’

I followed Joe through the bunker, to the entrance door. John Smith stood there, the overpowering smell of his musky aftershave wafting towards me. He looked at Joe, who nodded, before walking away. The last thing I saw before John tied on my blindfold was silver cufflinks in the shape of shields – and expressionless as ever, his stern grey eyes. I also felt his hand against the small of my back as we walked to the car. He ran it gently up and down my spine. Urgh.

‘Enjoy being blindfolded?’ John said, as he turned on the car engine. ‘I’ve a pair of handcuffs in the boot, if that does anything for you.’

With just his sickly smooth voice to go by, I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Ick. Every second spent with John made me realise what a gentleman Joe was.

And even though Joe’s speech was abrupt, it had a sincerity John’s tones lacked.

‘No, ta,’ I said. ‘The sooner it comes off the better.’

‘Spoilsport,’ he said, with a snigger, ‘So, fancy yourself as a spy, do you? Must say I enjoyed watching
Million Dollar Mansion
. That Applebridge Hall is quite a place. Although – no offence –I thought the Croxley’s competitor, the Baron of Marwick, had the right idea, wanting to turn his castle into a hen and stag night destination, if he won. I’d have paid for a week there myself, to enjoy topnotch wines and sumptuous medieval banquets.’

With his shiny cufflinks and pungent aftershave, it didn’t surprise me that John could relate more to the flash baron.

‘Like the finer things in life, do you?’ I asked.

‘Nothing wrong with that…’ he said and proceeded to tell tales from his missions. Over the last few years he’d wined and dined women in Prague, Thailand and Milan. Whilst Joe was dedicated to his work for the good of the country, I suspected John’s motivation was the jet-setting life. He even boasted about fiddling his expenses, which he used to pull women and buy luxury items.

‘Right. Here we go. I’ll drop you a couple of streets away from The Golden Croissant,’ said John and the car came to a halt. His door slammed and he got in the back with me. Carefully he untied the blindfold and my eyes easily adjusted as outside it was already dark. Then, a little too close for my comfort, John gave a bow of his head.

‘Bravo for wriggling away from me yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that. If you ever want to practise again, I could book us into any top hotel you like.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, Her Majesty will foot the bill.’

Yikes. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in our country’s international security force, when an agent’s moral compass was off-target. Politely, I declined and John smiled as if it say “perhaps next time”. Hastily, I got out of the car and as the black BMW drove off, my phone bleeped. It was a text from Edward.

He was only ten minutes away, back from his day out visiting Chez Dubois and I was desperate for gossip about our place of work! He suggested we had a drink in the bar, down the avenue from our flat, before cooking dinner. So I headed past the seafood bistro, La Perle, which for seven o’clock on a Sunday night looked busy – and awesome, lit up with twinkling fairy lights. I stopped by the Golden Croissant but the window was empty – shame, Edward had described the cakes to me that were on sale yesterday, including mini towers of chocolate sponge, iced and garnished with delicate caramelised swirls, plus triangular shaped fruit tarts in colours brighter than a Harlequin clown. Yum!

The sound of chatting greeted me as I arrived at the bar, went inside and found a cosy corner. I ordered one beer and a glass of wine. What a thrill when the waiter understood my French! Well, almost – I somehow ended up with a glass of red, instead of white.

‘So, tell me everything,’ I said to Edward, as we held hands across the table. My fingers had warmed nicely from the February chill. ‘What’s Chez Dubois like, inside?’

‘Cosy – mahogany wood-panelling halfway up the walls and then burnt orange wall paper to the ceiling. Terracotta tiles line the floor and the tables are decked with primrose-coloured mats. In the middle of each is a candle and vase containing a single yellow rose. From the ceiling hangs a wrought iron, eight candle chandelier– and huge glossy green ferns, in pots, punctuate the whole room. But most impressive of all…’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘The long, polished mahogany bar. What an array of bottles, lined up against a mirrored wall, including all the French favourites – pastis, triple sec, and crème de menthe. Plus a complicated coffee machine stood in the corner…’

Okay. Enough description about the bricks and mortar.Now for the important stuff. ‘What about the people we’re going to work with?’

Edward sipped his beer. ‘Pierre – the boss – is in his fifties with thick black hair. He bought the restaurant twenty years ago and has a girlfriend called Agnes who works at the famous Galeries Lafayette department store.’

‘Cool!’

‘He clearly loves his job. It must be terrific to spend your life doing something that satisfies you so much.’

I smiled. Recent months had made my gorgeous Edward question everything about his future. At first, after winning
Million Dollar Mansion
, he’d talked of working side by side with Applebridge Hall’s true heir, for years to come. But recently I’d caught him surfing career advice sites, which must have seemed pointless to him before, when his life had been mapped out, managing the future of his ancestral home. But seeing as all that had changed…

‘Perhaps we should go into the restaurant business together,’ I said and grinned. ‘Me as headchef, you managing the staff.’

Edward’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘Talking of headchefs, Chez Dubois’ Jean-Claude is quite a character. Pierre indicated that his abrupt manner regularly caused staff departures – yet he is a whiz in the kitchen, which is why our boss keeps him on. And apparently the American souschef, Cindy Cooper, knows just how to handle him. She’s a glamorous woman, with ladybird red lipstick and immaculate blonde hair, even after a couple of frantic hours working over lunchtime.’

‘Anyone else?’ I’d always thought Edward would make a brilliant witness to any crime. He paid attention to detail like no one I knew and had a memory to beat any winner of Mastermind.

‘Oh yes! Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, around forty and rakishly tall, who let out a snort of disgust when Pierre introduced me – said he’d seen clips of
Million Dollar Mansion
on YouTube and thought the class system and royal family represented Britain at its worst. Clearly he’s a fierce Republican. He sneered at heir William and Catherine and said – his words, not mine – “they were no different to people claiming state benefits and that their hours should be spent not travelling, but looking for proper jobs.”

I sat more upright. Hmm. MI6 may have checked out all the staff at Chez Dubois but this Hugo sounded mega anti-royal.

Then Edward asked me about my day, and to avoid lying to him I suggested I head back to the flat, to cook dinner whilst he enjoyed another drink. I’d turn on the heating, hit the music, and set us up for a truly romantic Parisian night. Happily he took out his notebook, and said he’d be along soon, after writing down some observations on his first weekend in France.

Five minutes later, I entered the hallway next to the cake shop, glad to be inside once again. Carefully, I climbed the poorly lit stairs. Huh? Our door was open, but no lights were on. I swallowed hard and took deep breaths. What if it was “the enemy” – someone who knew about the so-called MiddleWin Mort plan?

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I took a step forward. Perhaps I was simply spooked after all the training I’d had. Yes, that was it. I shook myself. A world-class terrorist? Nah – if anyone, it was more likely a two-bit burglar. And most probably it was no one at all. Edward must have been distracted and forgotten to close and lock the door.