From Paris With Love (9 page)

‘I’m also a cook,’ I said and lifted up my chin. Edward winked.

‘Reality shows are extremely popular in England,’ he said, ‘and if it wasn’t for Gemma, my ancestral home would have been sold off, by now. Thanks to her helping my family win
Million Dollar Mansion,
Applebridge Hall’s secure financial future is guaranteed.’

Chest glowing, I linked arms with him, as we all ambled into pedestrianised Rue de la Huchette, filing past restaurants. It was like turning a radio-dial and catching fragments of different music – like Greek-sounding guitars (I know that from the movie
Mamma Mia!
) and Chinese string music (the same as in our local Peking Duck restaurant, near Applebridge). Staff outside did their best to lure unsuspecting tourists through the doors, yet didn’t approach us, thanks to the glares of Monique and her posse.

‘
Merde
, eet ees so tacky ‘ere,’ spat Anton. ‘If eet wasn’t for our favourite restaurant down ‘ere on the left, and ze cool jazz bars, I would ‘appily avoid zees street forever.’

Their favourite restaurant turned out to be a basic French one. A good choice, I thought, as an hour later I tucked into a yummy chicken casserole. The windows steamed and wine flowed amongst Edward and Monique’s friends – whereas I had an orange juice and she a sparkling mineral water.

With her shiny bobbed hair, Chantale looked sleek in black trousers, a loose grey top and plum silk scarf around her neck. Danielle wore a floral dress with a scarlet belt. Even though my appearance was a titch more sophisticated after last year’s training, I still felt conspicuous in my dangly Eiffel Tower earrings, tight jeans and shimmer lipstick. I smiled inside at the chestnut leather jacket Edward wore. It was a rite of passage, every bloke buying that item for his wardrobe – except most splashed out in their teens, not their early thirties. Having been brought up in stuffy clothes, under my supervision Edward was playing catch-up.

‘So, Gemma…’ said Monique, in her impressive English accent cutting through my thoughts on Edward’s dress sense. I jumped – the group’s conversation had been switching between French and English, so I’d given up trying to follow every word. Although I was pleased for Edward – it was clear just how much he adored trying to speak a foreign language. I was less pleased that Monique’s hand had remained on Edward’s arm for most of the meal. I put down my knife and fork.

‘…you are a fan of Disney?’ she continued.

I looked at her plate – she’d hardly touched her Niçoise salad and just eaten one small slice of baguette.

‘Yeah – I grew up with Disney films. It’s always been my dream to visit one of the theme parks. You must have been a teenager when it was built. Lucky you! I’m so jealous.’

Monique sniggered, along with Chantale. ‘Oh,
là là
,
non
! My parents… Everyone I know hates it. Our culture is too Americanised as it is. We don’t want Disney here.’

My jaw dropped. ‘Weren’t you a fan of Snow White and Cinderella as a child?’

‘Pfft. Monique’s parents, like mine, were a little more ambitious for their children,’ said Chantale. ‘They took us to museums and the theatre. Hours watching television and videos were not allowed.’

‘
Zut alors
, don’t be such snobs!’ said playwright Anton. He winked at me. ‘I adored Disney as a child. Now, I ‘ave grown out of it – alzough, zat is somezing you Americans and Engleesh seem incapable of.’

Edward studied the menu for desserts – or was he pretending and hoping that I wouldn’t tell Monique about our Disney visit tomorrow? As coffee arrived, I leant back and zoned out. Monique was talking politics – this seemed to be one of her favourite subjects. Edward looked mega animated now, discussing his violin-playing with musician Danielle. He’d taken out his notebook and was no doubt planning a cultural piece for Country Aspirations, featuring French mime artists, musicians and ballerinas. The violin was something he’d taken up again, last September, when the pressure was off to save his home and the TV people left. The only thing I’d learnt to play as a child was the recorder. I bit my lip, as Monique chipped into their conversation and I heard the word “piano”. Was there no limit to her highfalutin talents?

‘Do you play an instrument, Gemma?’ she said, a smirk across her lips. Seductively, Monique had been leaning forward towards Edward, arms upright with elbows on the table, chin balanced on her hands.

You know, I’d managed to really control my impulsive adrenaline rushes in recent months, but at that moment my hand itched to douse her smug face with my cappuccino.

‘No. I was more sporty as a teenager,’ I said airily. ‘Archery and karate were favourites.’ Okay, so that was on the Wii, but no one need ever know that.

‘Ooh, just like Robin ‘ood,’ said Anton and grinned. ‘My brother ees a keen archer – so tell me, what size ees your bow? What make?’

‘Um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Ooh, do excuse me,’ I said and stood up. ‘My mouth is as dry as toast. Reckon I need a glass of iced water from the bar after that strong coffee.’

Edward’s face flushed and he stared out of the window. Clearly I was an embarrassment. Almost tripping over my feet, I hurried to the bar and plonked myself down on a stool.

‘Agent G… Any news?’ muttered a voice by my side.

Mouth open, I turned to meet maple syrup coloured eyes. Joe held black sunglasses in his hands. How on earth hadn’t I spotted him in that conspicuous black suit?

‘How come you’re here? I didn’t press that gold button on the bottom of my handbag.’

‘I know,’ he replied.

‘You really should disguise yourself,’ I said and picked a peanut from a nearby bowl. ‘Why the Men in Black look the whole time?’

‘It’s diverse enough for lots of cover stories,’ he said and shrugged. ‘Can pretend to work for a funeral parlour or as a bodyguard, or just a business man doing the nine ‘til five…’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘Found out anything yet?’

‘Yes – just how anti-royal headwaiter Hugo Petit is, so I’m going to check him out. But you could have just texted me to ask,’ I said. The barman came over and I managed to order a glass of water, in French. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

Joe tapped his nose.

‘Spying on me, now?’ Eyes twinkling, I sipped my drink. ‘Don’t you trust me to do the job?’

He shifted in his seat.

‘You’re not worried about me, are you?’ I took another peanut. ‘Joe, I’ll be fine.’

‘Just keeping an eye out, when I can,’ he said, face expressionless. ‘Like I said – my suspicions might come to nothing, but more than once in my career I’ve been surprised.’

‘Aw – see, your heart’s not set in stone, after all – you do care…’ Playfully, I punched him on the arm.

Blimey, a smile almost flickered across his face.

‘So, how did you know I’d be here?’ I said.

‘John uses Chez Dubois as the occasional watering hole. The Windsors will be visiting Montmartre, so agents of ours are checking out the area until their arrival. He popped in for an espresso yesterday, whilst you were in the kitchens, and heard Edward mention this trip out.’

I stared at him. ‘Joe… Don’t you agents ever get a day off, to… I don’t know…do what international spies like doing? Shouldn’t you be falling in love with an exotic seductress with the backdrop of a chic jazz bar, or test-driving a new sports car? Today’s Saturday – the weekend, for goodness sake.’

‘Jazz bar?’ His face cracked into a smile. ‘I’m more the heavy metal sort.’

‘No!’ With his sleek image I could only imagine him crooning along to a cool Dean Martin song. ‘But your hair isn’t long enough for a start.’

‘You should have seen me twenty years ago – headbanging got me through my teen years. Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin – they were my heroes. Although like most people, I’ve grown out of my teenage fashion style…’

I looked down at myself. Did they? It was only with Lady C’s help last year that I’d tweaked mine slightly.

‘And what about the women in your life?’

The light dropped from his eyes.

‘Come on Joe? What’s the big secret? Why’s a hot guy like you on his own?’

‘Look… You’d better get back,’ he said.

‘I’m in no rush.’

‘There was someone… once,’ he said, eventually. ‘We even got engaged. But Beth couldn’t cope with the secret nature of my job – the sudden trips abroad. She gave me an ultimatum in the end. I chose MI6. I hope I never have to make a decision like that again.’ He bit his lip. ‘Long-term relationships don’t work, in my position. I’m better off on my own.’

‘But some of the agents must be married?’

Joe looked down and fiddled with his shirt sleeves.

Aw. He probably didn’t want to risk being hurt again. Mentally I gave him a big hug. He consulted his watch – which meant this rare glimpse into his personal life had ended. Instinctively my fingers curled around his arm, for one second, and I squeezed tight. Poor Joe. His work must be a real vocation.

Joe nodded and gently shook me off. ‘Everything okay?’ He jerked his head towards Edward. ‘Having fun?’

‘Yeah.Course.’ I ran my finger around the top of my glass. Not really. Squirming through every second of this lunch – although that Thierry bloke was okay and Anton made me laugh.

‘Can’t lie to me, Gemma. What’s wrong? Having trouble speaking French?’

I gave a wry smile. ‘You know me – from your files, anyway. I’ll muddle through.’

‘Right. Good. Got to go. Text me with any more progress.’ He got up and headed out of the bar.

I carried my glass back to the table.

‘Who was that man? I didn’t recognise him, just saw the back of his head…?’ asked Edward and my heart gave a skip. See, nothing to worry about, he’d noticed I was gone.

‘Oh, just some random guy who works for the local funeral parlour making conversation – no one we know,’ I said, hating having to lie.

‘So, back to your archery hobby, Gemma,’ said Monique, eyes flashing. ‘Tell us all about it.’ She leant forward. ‘I’m sure
cher
Anton would love to hear every detail.’

Thankfully, at that moment, there was a commotion at the bar. A young man had got down to his knee and… oh my God!…held out a ring to a woman sitting on a bar stool. Her cheeks blushed red to match her chic bobbed hair. The bar went silent. I stole a look at Edward who stared intently at the couple. For one second, his eyes and mouth drooped at the corners.

‘
Oui
,’ replied the woman and everyone in the bar clapped and cheered. The man stood up, slipped the ring on her finger and… Wow! That was one long snog.

Once the cheering died down, the bar’s owner came over with a newspaper, which had a small interview with Monique, cos of the play she was in. Edward swooped upon it and, eyes all sparkly again, translated it.

‘Monique Masson originally trained as a ballerina, attending one of the most respected ballet schools in Nanterre,’ he said. ‘When she was sixteen she got to know Andrei, a dancer with the Bolshoi ballet company in Russia and, using her father’s credit card, flew out to meet him.’

Monique smiled. ‘
Oui
– my parents were going through marital troubles so I got away from the turmoil
chez moi
. It took them one week to find me and, furious, they dragged me back home.’ She shrugged. ‘It kind of dampened my love of ballet, so I turned to acting.’

Edward carried on reading. ‘Yes, your first role was with a local drama group, you’d joined whilst waitressing…’

Monique took a sip of water. ‘Yes. Maman… she wasn’t well after the divorce, so I lived with her and helped out with bills. Papa had an affair with an air hostess… I do not see him much now.’

In spite of myself, I muttered ‘That must have been hard.’

The actress snorted. ‘Understatement of the year. Yes. Difficult years
.
There seems to be this stereotype that the French think affairs of the heart are acceptable and wives… how you say… turn a blind eye – but not so. My father’s errant ways tore our family apart. Eventually Maman moved into her own flat and got a job in a supermarket. I moved in with fellow actors, doing temporary work in between jobs. And this year, finally, I got a flat of my own. I can’t afford a car or my own laptop yet, but it feels good to rent my own place.’

Edward continued reading. ‘You love Afghani food and
fencing
…?’ He looked up, clearly impressed. ‘And your mother…’ His cheeks flushed.

Monique nodded. ‘She died six months ago.’

Aw, that was tough.

At that moment, Monique’s friends stopped their chat and stood up, with appointments to keep. It was starting to get dark. We wrapped ourselves up, Monique in her cute beanie hat, me and Edward in our scarves and gloves.

Outside we headed back up Rue de la Huchette, towards the fountain and St Michel Métro. I ended up with Monique on my left. Behind us, Edward and Danielle were still discussing music.

‘I almost forgot,’ said Monique and held her cigarette in her mouth – how did she make it look so sophisticated? ‘My show tonight…’ She delved into her coat pocket.

‘The comedy ballet – Molière,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I brought a couple of guest tickets. Edward at least, I know would love to come.’

I pursed my lips as we looked at each other sideways. An evening spent admiring her? Even though I felt sorry for her, what with her mum dying, er, no, not on your life. But as soon as she showed Edward those tickets, it would be impossible for me to say no, without looking selfish.

I gazed ahead at a big puddle looming in front of us. Hmm. Adrenalin rush. If I could just knock smug Monique off her balance, she might drop those tickets and Edward and I wouldn’t be able to go. Discreetly (I thought) at the last moment, I stuck out my left leg to trip her up. But urgh! Edward’s calming influence of recent months kicked in and just as quickly I pulled it back.

To be honest, and much to my annoyance, I couldn’t have gone through with it anyway. I disliked snooty Monique but wouldn’t want to see her fall flat in a puddle. Except that’s exactly what happened. Seconds after I withdrew my foot she slipped in the wet and tumbled to the ground.

Oh no! I stifled a giggle, not believing she’d actually hurt herself and hoping that the tickets got soaked.