Every girl dreams of hearing those four magical words Will you marry me? But no-one tells you what’s supposed to happen next…

Fun-loving Gemma Goodwin knows she should be revelling in her happy-ever-after. Except when her boyfriend Lord Edward popped the question, after a whirlwind romance, although she didn’t say no….she didn’t exactly say yes either!

A month-long cookery course in Paris could be just the place to make sure her heart and her head are on the same page… And however disenchanted with romance Gemma is feeling, the City of Love has plenty to keep her busy; the champagne is decadently quaffable, the croissants almost too delicious, and shopping is a national past-time! In fact, everything in Paris makes her want to say Je t’aime… Except Edward!

But whilst Paris might offer plenty of distractions from wedding planning – including her new friends, mysterious Joe and hot French rockstar Blade - there’s no reason she couldn’t just try one or two couture dresses is there? Just for fun…

Also by Samantha Tonge

Doubting Abbey

From Paris, With Love

Samantha Tonge

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Samantha Tonge 2014

Samantha Tonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096364

Version date: 2018-07-23

SAMANTHA TONGE

lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and two cats who think they are dogs. Along with writing, her days are spent willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels and short stories for women’s magazines is her passion.

http://doubtingabbey.blogspot.co.uk/

http://samanthatonge.co.uk/

http://pinkinkladies.wordpress.com/

I’d like to thank my editor, Lucy Gilmour, and the team at HQ Digital UK, for helping me make this story the very best it can be. Also my agent, Kate Nash, for her invaluable support. HQ Digital authors, you are the best! Thanks as well to my fellow Pink Ink Bloggers for making me laugh. Especially, I’d like to acknowledge Martin, Immy and Jay – thanks guys, for always being there for me. These words are From Sam with Love.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Endpages

About the Publisher

For Martin, my very own man of mystery

Chapter 1

In my gorgeous new dress and earrings borrowed from Abbey, I walked as elegantly as possible, down the aisle. I wore a pale blue set of underwear – apparently matching bras and knickers are the height of sophistication – and my mother’s old gold watch, for good luck. Sashaying now, I smiled at people to my left, and then my right. Ahead, Edward caught my eye and winked. Stomach tingling, I stopped by his side and stared at the lusciousness that was Lord Edward Croxley. *Sigh*. I grinned at the vicar. Today, Friday the first of February, was possibly one of the happiest of my life.

‘Move out the way, will yer?’ boomed a voice from behind. Talk about rude! I fought the urge to indicate with two fingers, in a “W” shape for “Whatever”, that I’d only be a couple of seconds. I slipped off my jacket and dropped sideways, into my seat, next to my guy. The loud man pushed past, towards the loo. Still standing, unsteadily, the vicar burped and looked out of the window. Truth be told, he was a plumber called Jim and in fancy dress for a stag weekend.

Despite all that something borrowed, something blue malarkey, this was no wedding, but a trip on an aeroplane. Squirming in my seat, I pulled down the short hem to my cherry red dress. Some of last year’s training that helped me pretend to be modest, aristocratic Abbey for two weeks had clearly stuck – thanks to my teacher, Lady Constance Woodfold (Lady C to me), and her crash course in how to act in a more refined way.

‘I can’t believe we’re only ten minutes from Paris!’ I said as the sign lit up for us to fasten our seatbelts.

Edward put away his travel guide and squeezed my hand. ‘What’s more exciting, Gemma – your first flight or the prospect of spending one month in the tremendous City of Light?’

I cocked my head, wanting to say neither – I was most looking forward to working in restaurant Chez Dubois for the whole of February and learning everything I could about French nosh. But that wasn’t a very romantic answer, considering he’d proposed only a short while ago, at Christmas – just moments after I’d decided to travel the world in order to learn how to become a chef.

You see, Edward had tipped thirty whereas I was still a couple of years off celebrating my twenty-fifth. Independent me, much as I loved him, just wasn’t sure whether to say “yes” and sign on the dotted marital line. So patient Edward was still waiting for my answer. I cleared my throat and fortunately, at that moment, the air stewardess came by, to check our belts. In fact she’d been mega attentive throughout our journey and suddenly blurted out:

‘You two were great on Million Dollar Mansion last year…’ Her cheeks tinged pink. ‘I’ve been longing to say that since we left Gatwick. It’s the best reality show ever and I’m so glad your side won.’

Edward’s eyes shone. ‘How kind. Yes, it was super to secure the financial future of my ancestral home.’

‘You were excellent, passing yourself off as your classy best friend, Abigail Croxley,’ she said to me and giggled. ‘Your antics were a real hoot.’

Even though I’d had the same conversation a thousand times since being on telly last September, I never got bored of chatting to the show’s fans. Not even when people exclaimed how “common” – whatever that meant – I looked, away from the camera, nor when women ogled Edward, who looked even hotter in real life.

It would be strange in Paris, where no one knew us. Perhaps Edward and me could finally grab some “quality time” together. Jeez, just saying that made me sound about a hundred – I’d spent too much time living in his family home, musty old Applebridge Hall! It was the first time I’d been travelling without slathering myself in fake tan or packing my boob-enhancing chicken fillets. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved my short skirts and colourful nails but… Lady C’s training… All that stuff about moderation… Somehow bits of it had etched themselves permanently onto my brain.

‘Are you two on a romantic getaway?’ the stewardess continued, oblivious to the glares of the colleague in front of her, trying to pass with the drinks trolley.

I avoided Edward’s eye. Not that he’d made a fuss when I’d asked for more time to consider his proposal, but it was hard to stay strong. The soppy part of me melted at the sound of his very English voice – at the sight of his strong shoulders, that teasing mouth, those soulful eyes – and didn’t want to think rationally about my jet-setting career plans.

‘Um… Not really,’ I said, cheeks tingeing pink. ‘I’m here for a month, developing my cookery skills. One of the workmen renovating Applebridge Hall’s top floor heard about me longing to travel. He spoke to his daughter who works in France, in the catering business.’

‘It’s who you know, not what, don’t they say,’ said the air stewardess, nodding her head.

‘Too right! She passed on details of a bistro that needed reliable, temporary English-speaking staff to help out during February. Although there was some mix-up and we’ve ended up working at Chez Dubois, a different restaurant.’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, a friend of hers lent us her flat as she’d just taken on a cruise ship job for a month and didn’t want it standing empty. Apparently she’d heard of Million Dollar Mansion and cos we’re “famous” – her words, not mine – trusted us not to trash her place.’

‘I’d love to live in Paris for more than an overnight stopover,’ said the stewardess, in a dreamy voice.

‘The restaurants over there are expecting business to boom due to a series of spring events to commemorate the First World War,’ chipped in Edward and ran a hand through his honey curls. ‘I believe Chez Dubois is one of the oldest in the area. It was built in the seventeenth century, originally as a café where men might drink and listen to the wit of visiting actors. Over the centuries it became the haunt for many famous writers, so understandably Gemma and I – both keen readers – are thrilled to work there.’

‘Aw, and you’re keeping Gemma company?’ said the air stewardess and gave a flirtatious giggle.

Honestly! How did Edward manage to turn most women to putty within minutes of talking to them?

He smiled. ‘Gem doesn’t need me to accompany her – she’s capable of making new friends anywhere on this earth. No, the magazine I write a weekly column for is interested in several pieces on the First World War commemorative events in England. I thought a take on the French perspective might also interest readers, so asked lovely Gemma if she’d mind me tagging along.’

How chuffed Edward had been when Country Aspirations magazine offered him the column, having been impressed with the success of his daily blog during Million Dollar Mansion. Since publishing his weekly pieces on the twenty-first century world from an aristocrat’s point of view, their sales figures had soared. The magazine’s stodgy readers particularly lapped up articles on Applebridge Hall’s renovation, high society events and the fine nosh we taught people to cook at the food academy we set up with the million dollars prize.

The air stewardess wished us luck and moved on, probably disappointed that we hadn’t announced we were eloping or on some sort of honeymoon. As the plane tilted its nose and got ready to land, I leant past Edward to look out of the aeroplane. He’d offered me the window seat, as it was my first time in the air, but I’d said no. Each peek out of the window gave me an excuse to cuddle up to my yummy man. Meringues of cloud parted to reveal sunshine. For a second the plane shook – talk about the ultimate rollercoaster ride, and one that would end at the coolest ever destination!

My heart felt like it would explode with sparks of joy as I relaxed back into my seat and held Edward’s hand tight. I glanced sideways at him and couldn’t wait to kiss his lips, to feel his breath on my neck, under the starry Parisian sky… A smile crossed my lips. If Auntie Jan knew how Edward still made me feel, she’d call me “a right soppy sausage”.

‘Have you worked out exactly where our flat is?’ I said, as the plane finally ground to a halt and we stood up to get our hand luggage. ‘If not, I’ll Google the address on your laptop.’ I patted his rucksack.

‘Done,’ said Edward as we stepped out of the aeroplane and followed the other passengers towards the luggage carousel. Once there, he took out the travel guide and pointed to an underground station, in the north of the capital. ‘As we thought, the flat is near Chez Dubois, in Montmartre – near the Sacre-Coeur.’

‘Ooh, close to that square full of artists that I’ve seen on the telly? Aren’t we the cultured ones?’

‘I believe it is excessively touristy nowadays, but yes, that’s the place.’ He leant forward and kissed me on the lips – an action which never failed to make my heart race, as if it only had a few beats left before giving out. ‘Oh, Gem, I can’t wait to show you my favourite Parisian haunts. When Mother brought me here, one school holiday, I thought it was the most wonderful place on earth. The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower is smashing – truly panoramic. And we visited the extraordinary Pompidou Centre and Père Lachaise, a magnificent cemetery where some of the greatest writers of all time are buried, like Oscar Wilde. The tombs are like nothing you’ve ever seen – even bigger than those on your favourite supernatural programme…’

I screwed up my forehead.

‘The one where high school students transform into werewolves or consume blood.’ He pulled a face.

‘Ah, the Vampire Diaries.’ AKA the greatest show on earth! And I wasn’t the only dedicated viewer at Applebridge Hall. Amazin’ cook, Kathleen, watched it too, under the guise of ironing in front of the telly. Proof that grey hairs and wrinkles don’t stop you appreciating hot men – well, bloodsuckers really, but still, what was a couple of sharp glinting teeth between friends?

Having said that, much as I liked watching lush vamps hang out amongst gravestones, I’d already selected more lively locations to visit during my stay here. For me, the French capital was all about wicked boutiques, awesome cafés and, of course, Disneyland Paris, dream destination to children of all ages – including forty-three year old Auntie Jan, who was Minnie Mouse’s number one fan.

Plus I could just imagine Edward and me sitting outside some fancy bar in the capital, sipping red wine, and eating slices of baguette with smelly cheese. We’d look all arty and refined, with a cluster of museum guides and shopping bags at my feet. All I’d need then was a beret and miniature poodle to make the fantasy complete. In the background, classy music would play – like that golden oldie about not regretting something or other… *Sigh*. I’d fallen in love with Paris already.

‘Pardon!’ mumbled a lady in a fur coat, who squeezed past us to get her bags.

‘Huh?’ I shrugged at Edward. ‘But I didn’t say anything.’

‘No, that means excuse me,’ said Edward as he studied the carousel.

Oh. Clearly my GCSE French was rustier than I thought. Mind you, I hadn’t forgotten everything and when the woman came back again, carrying a smart suitcase, and repeated the polite word, I said. ‘Au naturel,’ pleased to have remembered the phrase for “of course”.

The woman gave me a strange look and hurried on. Edward chuckled.

‘You just said “naked” to her,’ he whispered.

Really? Nah, he had to be wrong, even though he’d spent the last few weeks revising his French. Certain things from school lessons never left me – like the time I did an essay about me and Auntie Jan attempting to make homemade jam. Right healthy it was, and I wrote that we’d used no préservatifs. You should have seen the teacher’s face. Well, how was I supposed to know that was the French word for condoms? Cue, a fleeting moment of fame at school, as everyone thought I’d muddled up the words on purpose.

As the luggage went around on the conveyor belt, a man in a black suit and sunglasses stood on the other side of the carousel and stared my way. His light brown hair was styled army short. He had tanned skin, a strong jawline and chiselled cheekbones. All of a sudden he turned away and disappeared into the crowds. Perhaps Parisians might recognise us after all.

A fashionable woman struggled to retrieve her huge suitcase and Edward lunged forward, easily lifted it off the conveyor belt and bowed his head as she giggled and muttered her thanks in French. Yes, I was officially going out with one sexy, appealing hunk! Whistling, arm linked with my man, I eventually left the airport.

We pulled our suitcases on wheels, both of us carrying rucksacks on our backs. Once outside I took a deep breath, expecting to smell garlic or see strings of onions around people’s necks. This was France, right? Plus my first time abroad… But, disappointingly, everything looked much the same as back home, including the grubby pavement and grey clouds.

How could this be? I wanted glamour! The Exotic! Sophistication! Even the birds were the same, I noticed, as a couple of chubby pigeons ambled past. You’d think they‘d look all slim and sexy, living over the Channel. Edward hailed a taxi and muttered something in the local lingo. Apparently he’d got top marks for his French A-level and once stayed with family friends in the South of France. As a girl I’d always been lucky to get a week in Margate – not that I’m complaining. It takes a lot to beat a visit to the arcades, followed by a cone of chips and stick of rock.

We got in the car and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the strange man with sunglasses get into a waiting black BMW. Wow. Its windows were tinted. He must have been important.

‘Anglais, uh?’ said the taxi driver, as our car pulled away.

‘Yes,’ said Edward.

‘‘oliday?’

‘Non…’ I cleared my throat. ‘We are, ‘ow you zay… workeeeeng.’ I caught Edward’s eye and giggled, realising that just adding an accent to my English didn’t make me a linguist.

‘Nous travaillons,’ I said, racking my brain for the right words.

‘Ah… but still… Exciting, non… in Paris?’

‘Au naturel,’ I said, despite Edward thinking he knew what that meant. And, indeed, the car swerved, proving that the driver was impressed with my French.

‘Bit of a luxury this, isn’t it, a taxi?’ I said to Edward as the driver looked in his mirror to give me a weird look and turned up the radio.

‘Quite. After years of watching every penny, to save Applebridge Hall, my instinct would have been to take the underground.’

‘You mean Métro,’ I said airily. ‘Yes – but I’m glad we took the convenient option, instead of dragging our cases across the capital. It’s made our whole trip a lot easier.’

‘Our first trip together…’ Edward smiled fondly at me. ‘I wonder where we’ll go for our second? Imagine going on a cruise, like the girl whose flat we’re borrowing. Even though she’s working on the ship, it’s a chance second to none – a life on the waves…’ Edward stared dreamily out of the window.

It had been weird for him – the fallout from last year’s reality show. The world suddenly realising that his cousin Rupert – not him – was the rightful heir to Applebridge Hall. Once Rupert took over, after graduating later this year, Edward would be free of his aristocratic responsibilities, if he wanted, to carve out any career path.

I gripped his hand and gave it a squeeze, before gazing out of the window. Whoaa! This was more like it. Clearly we were entering the centre of the Paris. Just look at those cute cafés with people drinking beer and coffee outside, under the early rays of spring sun. And those shop windows had gilt-edged windows… Glamour at last! Plus an old man just cycled past wearing a beret!

Mind you, he’d have been better off wearing a sturdy helmet. My eyes widened as cars weaved randomly in between lanes, hooting and winding down their windows to swear. Perhaps I’d need to head for the Champs-Elysées to experience French elegance at its best. And sure enough, we drove down that huge avenue eventually – not that I took in much detail, after the psychotic way our car had hurtled around the Arc de Triomphe a few times, seconds before.

‘I suspect we’re being taken on the sightseeing route,’ said Edward and glanced at the taxi meter before pulling out his travel guide. I held onto the door, heart racing as if I’d just done the scariest ride at Alton Towers. I must have been confused, cos I was sure I saw that black BMW hurtling around with us, as well.

Not long after, however, the streets narrowed and, able to focus once again, I saw Parisian life up close. Away from the busy boulevards, people walked at a slower pace. They talked on their phones or, carrying a newspaper, stopped to chat with café owners. The most adorable balconies with plant pots fronted white-washed flats above shops, shutters either side of the windows. I sent Abbey a quick text to let her know how cute the city was.

‘Are you going to miss Applebridge Hall? And your dad? It’s ages since you’ve been away, what with the financial stresses,’ I said.

Edward chuckled. ‘Father and I could probably do with a break from each other after all this time. But seriously? I feel happier leaving him behind, now that he enjoys the companionship of Lady Constance.’

I nodded. Theirs was a mega sweet romance, fuelled by a mutual love of birdwatching. ‘Shame she won’t be with him for Valentine’s Day.’

‘At least she’s only in Switzerland for a few days.’

‘True.’ Dear old Lady C – well into her seventies and still giving advice on running finishing schools. Having owned one for years, she’d become something of an expert in the field, plus appearing on Million Dollar Mansion had raised her profile. She’d been mega chuffed to be invited to a girls’ college in Zurich for three nights.

‘Almost there, now,’ said Edward, as we pulled into a busy street which was cobbled, full of pedestrians and increasingly narrow. How adorable! I’d have to take loads of photos later and upload them to my Facebook page, with the status “Wish you were here.”

‘We can walk from here.’ He paid the driver and we got out.

Towing our luggage, we eventually came to a tiny square where I did finally breathe in garlic – along with a whiff of seafood wafting out from a bottle-green painted bistro on the left called “La Perle”. Next to that was a gift shop with racks of postcards outside. Opposite was a butcher’s with a queue coming out of the door and a tiny supermarket. A van pulled up near the gift shop to unload fresh produce for a grocer’s further along. Edward pointed upwards, to the right.

‘Voilá!’ he murmured.

Wow – it couldn’t get better than this. Our home for the next month was bang on top of a patisserie – that’s a cake shop, to you and me – called… Ah, I could translate those words – the sign said “The Golden Croissant”. Roll on breakfasts of fresh swirly Danish pastries… And down the end of the avenue, along from there I could just see a red canopy over small tables – a bar!

‘Come on!’ I said and hurried towards the flat. Pulling my suitcase, I charged towards the cake shop and headed up a staircase on its right, whilst Edward nipped inside the Golden Croissant to get the key. Five minutes later, we were inside the flat and surveying our new home in silence. Talk about fab.

The small, functional kitchen and lounge were open plan, with a welcoming fireplace in the middle, near an ivory sofa and chairs. Underneath the glass coffee table lay a turquoise patterned rug, over oak-laminated floor. On the ornate black balconies, outside the windows, sat potted plants. There was a dinky bathroom and the cutest bedroom, with rustic bedcovers, a bowl of potpourri and a wash basin and jug. A beech table with four chairs just about fitted into the far corner, on the window side….

‘Our Parisian abode really is quite charming,’ said Edward as he took out a notebook from his pocket, to jot down some notes.

‘Look at you, ever the writer,’ I said and winked.

He nodded. ‘It’s just a few random thoughts of our taxi drive and the sights so far. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to squeeze a few weeks’ columns out of this trip and not just report on the commemorative First World War events.’

I opened the windows, by the balcony, to air the flat. The divine aroma of crème fillings, sugar and spice wafted up from the cake shop. I could get used to that.

Edward smiled. ‘Why don’t you pop out and buy some basics, for tea, from that little supermarket? By the time you get back I should have the heating and kettle on. Or if you like, I’ll get the food in and you can set up the flat.’

‘No it’s fine…’ Me shopping – that sounded perfect! Although Edward had become something of a fan of this pastime, since meeting me… Primark was his particular favourite. He couldn’t get over the choice, as over the years he’d made do with the services of a local tailor and occasional trips to a small men’s clothes shop in Applebridge.

‘I won’t be long…’ A lump came to my throat, just for one second. Edward was so caring and reliable, staying behind to set up a cosy little home for us. Perhaps I was mad to not immediately accept his proposal of marriage. I stepped up on tiptoe, and kissed him firmly on his lips. Tenderly he responded, sending a trickle of tingles down my spine.

Once outside, I headed towards the supermarket and, as I glanced ahead, I let out a gasp. The man in a black suit stood by a nearby tree. Of average height, he nevertheless stood out. His whole physique shouted discipline – with his clear skin and subtle gym-bunny shape.

Quick as a flash, he turned away and I shook myself. No. Don’t be paranoid. He must have been a different bloke to the one on the plane. Dark suits and sunglasses were all the rage nowadays.

I gazed around at a poor lady with matted hair and a threadbare scarf. She sat on the pavement, asking for change. I slid my rucksack off my back and delved in for my purse, before handing her some coins. Then I entered the supermarket, in my head practising the pronunciation for the French equivalent of “how much, please?”

At the back of the shop, I swung around an aisle, looking for milk and… Whoa! … came face to face with that man again. Suddenly he reached for a packet of biscuits. The hairs on the back of my neck jumped to attention. Instinct told me that he was pretending to look busy. But why? Could he really have followed little old me, all the way from the airport?

Shopping forgotten, I made for the door, nevertheless telling myself my suspicions were… Well, my first thought was “bonkers” but since staying with Edward these last months, my vocabulary now included phrases my new aristocratic friends used. Occasionally I’d say something was “quite terrible” or “nonsensical” or “awfully idiotic”. So yes, my suspicions were quite nonsensical.

Who did I think the man was? A real-life version of the Men in Black agents, about to zap aliens? If we’d been in England, he could have worked for one of the countless TV companies who’d approached me during the last few months, to do other reality shows. Yet we were in Paris… I swallowed. No one knew me. I was letting my imagination work overtime.

Chest nevertheless pounding, I led him away from the direction of the flat and instinctively quickened my pace. After five minutes, I gazed over my shoulder, as the sunlight began to fade. Really? I mean, really? Had he just dodged behind a parked car?

No doubt about it, then. He was stalking me. Mouth dry, I took a sharp left into an avenue and ran as fast as I could in my heels. Yet footsteps still sounded behind me. I cut into an even smaller avenue. Shit (sorry Lady C, manners out the window at this point)… I stared at a dead end. My hands felt sticky and in slow motion, I swivelled around.

The black BMW from earlier pulled up. The door opened. Inside was the mysterious man. He climbed out and walked stealthily towards me.

Chapter 2

‘Gemma Goodwin?’ he said.

Was he English? If not, that was a great London accent. My fists curled.

‘Who’s asking?’ I demanded, daring my voice to waver.

He stared at me for a second– waited until a teenager listening to music, on the other side, boogied past– and then pointed inside the car.

‘Get in please. I don’t mean you any harm but discretion is necessary.’

Feeling my lip tremble just a titch, I held his gaze. How dare he scare half to death? Who did this weirdo think he was?

‘Right away, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of life or death.’

Adrenalin surged through my veins. Uh oh. My heart pounded faster than ever. Both were signs I was about to do something mad – although nigh on four months living with the even-tempered Croxleys had also calmed me down. Lately I reacted to challenging situations in a less knee-jerk fashion - unless I was faced with some bizarre, suited nutter trying to kidnap me. My first curled tighter.

‘Aarghh!’ I screamed, right in mystery man’s face, before legging it away as fast as I could. Well, everyone knew you had to take assailants by surprise. Plus I hoped my screech might attract some knight in shining armour. In fact anyone would do, just for moral support, like a pensioner wielding a stale baguette or sleek Parisian model armed with an ultra pointed stiletto heel.

However, the only person in sight was a man in a Frank Sinatra hat, shuffling by, with the help of a walking stick. Yet he was a superhero, because I reckon his presence alone stopped mystery man hauling me back, to lock into the car’s boot.

Without turning around, I ran away from the shops, as fast as possible in my unpractical heels. I headed into a cobbled road with high white-washed apartment blocks either side. None of the parked vehicles were tall enough to crouch behind. Plus the pavements were still empty which was probably just as well, as even if I stopped someone to explain my plight, I wouldn’t work out the French quick enough.

I scoured the road for a tight spot to hide, so that I could ring Edward or even better the police. Except that I didn’t know the French emergency services number… Urgh. Perhaps there was a French pop group named after it, like that boyband 911. Trouble was, the only French singer I’d heard of, thanks to Gran, was the old crooner, Sacha Distel.

With a gulp of chilly air, rucksack twerking my back, I eventually ended up in a bigger road called Rue des 3 Frères. Despite being on the run – despite my thighs practically igniting at the top, due to skin rubbing together – I found a second to congratulate myself on knowing that this translated as Street of 3 Brothers. If only that meant, literally, that a trio of hunks would promptly arrive to act as my bodyguards. Blisters puffed up on my heels as I gritted my teeth and continued my flight away from the buzz of Montmartre, through the chilly February air. With relief, I could no longer hear the thud of following feet… The fingers on one hand crossed, I finally stopped and turned around.

My stomach twisted. In the distance glinted the bonnet of a black BMW. Mind you, that meant mystery man had taken the mega easy option and was now tracking me in his car– what a wimp. Well I’d show him. My eyes narrowed in the twilight. What I needed was the underground. Edward had shown me the Métro map. Hundreds of stops were dotted around the city. Just let my stalker try to drive his flash wheels down steps.

I turned off the main road and came to an adorable little square surrounded by picture-postcard-pretty shops. What a change it made not to see the same old brand names, like in England, but individually owned bakeries and chemist stores. In the centre, under some towering, leafless trees, a group of men packed up a game of French boules. What a pity I hadn’t time to take a photo and send it to Dad. Years ago, he and Mum had enjoyed a two day honeymoon here. I’d promised to email him pictures of Paris as it was now– and you didn’t get more French than this.

But there was no time for playing tourist and, with a shiver, I stopped a woman who confidently strode my way.

‘Métro?’ I said.

Talk about stylish – she followed the exact rules I’d read in a book on “How to dress like a Parisian”. Apparently French women stuck to a few classic pieces and colours, but incorporated a flamboyant detail. And sure enough, she wore black tailored trousers and a well-cut slate jacket, with the sparkliest flower brooch on its lapel.

‘Métro?’ I repeated. ‘S’il vous plait?’ (or silver plate, as we used to say at school).

After a quick smile, she garbled in French, jabbed her finger to the men playing boules and was off. I sighed, but just then a passing girl, with the bounciest black pigtails, stopped to do up her shoelace. On straightening back up, she gave me a gap-toothed grin.

‘Métro?’ I said hopefully and she drew a square in the air and then also pointed to the men playing. At which point her mother, several metres ahead on the phone, called her daughter who skedaddled off.

It seemed like everyone was in a rush to get home – and fair enough, the sun had almost set and it was Friday night. In fact, all I wanted was to curl up with Edward in our Parisian love nest. Biting my lip, I headed over to where the little girl had pointed and… bingo! I gazed at a square placard bearing a street map.

Okay, let’s see… On a big road, south, heading further away, was a Métro station called Abbesses. Ooh I liked the sound of that, like the English word “abyss”. Hopefully that meant it was nice and deep. Despite his appearance, chauffeured mystery man was clearly no fitness fanatic, so the idea of following me down flights of stairs might put him off.

I duly headed in a southerly direction and… Yay! There it was, on a main road. Aw, the outside of it looked mega pretty with “Métropolitan” written above it in a fancy font, beneath a little glass roof. Without hesitating, I ran down the vintage entrance and started my descent, ogling the awesome murals on the walls.

Around and around I ran, dodging people, forgetting I was in France and should stick to the right. In fact, blimey! Talk about busy. And as for that musty smell…I screwed up my nose at the aroma of overcooked cabbage and stinky socks. A boyfriend of mine once smelt like that after playing football. Whereas I was still waiting for any annoying habits of Edward’s to come to the fore… He still seemed pretty perfect – especially since he’d chilled a bit, during recent months. I’d taught him that pants didn’t need ironing and that if we were, um, otherwise engaged (that is snogging!) it wasn’t bad manners to let a phone call go to voicemail.

A clock caught my eye – it was almost half past four and the beginning of the rush hour. I took out a carnet (booklet to you – ooh, my vocabulary was already widening) of ten Métro tickets that me and Edward had bought. I was just about to push one into the machine when someone tapped my shoulder.

‘Tiring are we?’ said a familiar, clipped male voice.

My mouth went dry and I turned around to face those sunglasses. He took them off. Wow. What warm maple-syrup eyes.

I shook myself. Yeah, just like a stalking lion’s. Dodging sideways, I shoved the Métro tickets into my jacket pocket and headed up the steps, blurting out “pardon,” as I pushed my way up. Thanks to last year’s “how to be a lady” training, I always remembered to be polite, however dire the situation.

By the time I reached the top, I’d managed to retrieve my phone from the rucksack. My legs ached, my chest burnt and I had no idea where to run next. In other words, there was no alternative but to ring Edward. Shrieking for help, I could have approached a train guard but, well, that wasn’t my style – especially after the last few months of weird things happening. I’d toughened up.

Don’t get me wrong, nausea hit the back of my throat when I thought who this guy could be or what he might want. However, since being on the telly, I’d been sent men’s underwear through the post, my phone had been hacked, a troll had stolen my identity on Facebook and a fan of Edward’s had stalked me in the swimming pool showers… Currently I had two restraining orders out on people who had grudges against the person they thought I was. It would take more than a smartly dressed dude, in a swanky car, to make me lose my cool.

Blowing out chilly air, I lifted a finger to press dial when a hand curled firmly around my arm and led me out onto the pavement. I stared the black BMW, parked to the side, with its sinister black-tinted windows.

‘There’s no need to ring Edward,’ said the man.

I turned around to meet stern maple-syrup eyes.

‘We’ve taken care of him.’ he continued.

Huh? My chin wobbled. How did he know my boyfriend’s name? What if my sexy, kind-hearted, loyal, dreamy Edward would – or had – come to some harm?

‘All will be explained,’ said the weirdo, his voice a titch softer. ‘Now, please. Trust me. You’ll be safe. Just get in the car.’

For Edward’s sake, I did what I was told.

Chapter 3

‘You’re telling me that “taking care of” Edward meant texting him, to say I was going for a walk, to look around? Liar! You haven’t even got his number.’ My eyes narrowed, although it was hard to concentrate on mystery man’s face, due to the distraction of… *sigh*… a mega romantic view in front of me. We sat on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur. I’d been driven there, handed a bottle of water and a yummy bar of English chocolate – ridiculous, or what? One of mystery man’s colleagues – also in a black suit and smelling strongly of a pungent musky aftershave – sat behind us, on the next step up.

My abductor shrugged. ‘We know a lot of things.’

‘Like this?’ I ran a finger over the chocolate bar’s purple wrapper. ‘How did you know it was my favourite?’ Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t an axe murderer or dangerous criminal with a ransom plan… Although, eek! I hadn’t thought of that – now that the Croxley family had won a million dollars, perhaps he thought they’d pay up for my release.

‘Look, what’s your name?’ I said, trying to act all huffy, which was impossible as I gazed back down at the City of Light. When we’d first arrived, I’d just about been able to make out the details of roofs, chimneys and aerials. Now, however,everywhere was liquorice black, as if the starry sky had fallen to earth, just like that children’s story where Brer Rabbit thinks the moon has dropped into a pond. Lights twinkled and towards the right stood the sparkly Eiffel Tower.

I turned around, and gazed up at the awesome Sacre-Coeur church, illuminated by an amber glow. A Native American band played nearby, with their drums, flutes and pipes. Chat, laughter and ciggie smoke filled the air. Necking wine out of a bottle, a tramp sat next to us and directly in front was a group of camera-clicking Japanese girls.

I unwrapped the chocolate. With his black suit, perhaps I’d been accosted by the Man from Milk Tray.

‘Hmm. Yumski…’ I said, after swallowing the first creamy mouthful.

‘Yumski – have you distant Russian ancestors?’ His brow furrowed.

‘I’m not answering any questions until you tell me your name.’

He stared at me for a moment. ‘Bloggs. The name is Joe Bloggs.’

‘I see, and…’ Huh? I put the rest of the bar on my lap. ‘Really? You expect me to fall for that?’

He raised one eyebrow, which looked kinda hot– but nowhere near as sexy as Lord Edward, of course.

‘Your help is needed,’ he continued. ‘As part of the ongoing 2014-2018 events to commemorate the centenary of the First World War, four weeks tomorrow, on the first Saturday in March, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge are visiting Paris. They’ll attend a charity football match. It will star legends of the game from around the world.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard – it’s supposed to represent the famous Christmas Eve truce in the trenches, isn’t it, when the two sides came together to play football?’ See, I did pay attention during my history classes at school… (okay, you’ve got me – I really knew because of Paul McCartney’s video to his famous Christmas song “Pipes of Peace”.)

‘Indeed. And…’ Joe cleared his throat. ‘I have reason to believe that the royal couple’s safety is compromised.’ He stared intently at me. ‘That’s where you come in.’

I snorted. ‘Huh? Who do you work for? The M5?’

His top lip twitched. ‘That’s a motorway. Try MI5 – the Security Service, who keep an eye on domestic affairs in Britain, but no, I’m not…’

‘Duh, of course you aren’t…’ I snorted. ‘That organisation only really exists in movies.’

‘I’m actually from MI6,’ he continued, ‘also known as the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service who focus on foreign affairs.’

I almost spat out a mouthful of water. ‘You mean…’ I wiped my lips. ‘Like James Bond? You’re an international spy?’

‘If you like.’

A mega bubble of laughter rose within my chest. My eyes watered. It was no good, and like an over-microwaved stuffed tomato I suddenly burst. Tears trickled down my cheeks and a convoluted (one of Edward’s words) giggle escaped my lips.

‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘You’ve got a nerve – pretending to be from a supposed top-secret institution that would never pick up someone in broad daylight and talk of their secret plans. I’ve watched Austin Powers and Johnny English… You can’t fool me.’

Oh dear. Laughing fit again. Finally I recovered. ‘Sorry, mate, but in any case, I am the most unlikely potential female spy you could ever meet. I haven’t got a rude name, like Pussy Galore, and would look rubbish in her cat suit. Nor have I got awesome hair like Charlie’s Angels, and I don’t kick quite as high as that woman in The Avengers…’ I shook my head. ‘Whoever you are – TV company, newspaper – I’m not interested. Ring my agent if you must,’ (wicked isn’t it, I now “had people”, mainly to fob off nutters like this). ‘I could have you charged for kidnapping me…’ I stood up to leave but Joe pulled me back down.

A whiff of soap filled my nostrils. His nails were super-clean. His tie ruler-straight. Clearly he lived by rules and regulations and I had no doubt this meeting with me today had been well-planned.

Discreetly, he opened his jacket and black metal flashed under the Sacre-Coeur’s lights. Oh my God! He was also licensed to kill. What if he’d actually harmed Edward?

At that moment my phone bleeped and I took it out of my rucksack. My eyes tingled. Thank God. Mystery man had told the truth and texted Edward. It was him, saying to enjoy my tour of the area. He’d continue to unpack until I got back.

‘So, you’re armed…’ Annoyingly my voice sounded a titch impressed. ‘And I suppose he’s an agent as well?’

I turned around to the colleague, who had cold grey eyes and an expressionless mouth. He fiddled with gold cufflinks that looked out-of-place on the straightforward suit. There was something about him that was decidedly creepy. He had greased-back hair like some Fifties barber, and a smarmy smile.

‘That’s John. John Smith,’ said Joe Bloggs (I must be in some parallel universe where everyone’s name sounded stupid).

I palm-slapped my forehead. ‘Of course he’d be called that. Silly me.’

‘No need for sarcasm,’ said John,giving a smarmy grin as he joined us on the lower step.

‘Assuming I believe you are both spies – which I don’t – why do you need my help, exactly?’ I asked.

‘One of our agents is mad on reality shows and…’

I raised an eyebrow.

John was the sarcastic one, now. ‘Yes, Gemma, agent or no agent, we are still normal people with common interests, like everyone else.’

‘My colleague told me about you on Million Dollar Mansion,and mentioned she’d read you were coming to Paris for a month,’ continued Joe.

It still surprised me when newspapers reported stuff about me and Edward, months on from the end of the show.

‘I watched the series online.’ Joe sat more upright. ‘I was impressed, and hoped you’d be my eyes and ears at Chez Dubois.’

‘Your eyes and ears? So – pretending for one second that I believe this spy crap – is this official MI6 business, or not?’

His cheeks reddened. ‘No.’

‘And what exactly would this mission be, at some restaurant?’ But it was no good – uttering those words produced another bubble of laughter and I giggled, expecting to suddenly be accosted by Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig.

Joe Bloggs waited for me to control myself before leaning closer. ‘Something’s going down on the internet, about a “MiddleWin Mort” at the charity football game. “MiddleWin” could be a combination of the names Middleton and Windsor– and “Mort”, in French, means death.

I gasped. ‘You think someone is going to assassinate the royal couple?’

Joe shrugged. ‘There is no evidence whatsoever to support that… It was just a few comments, spotted in a couple of French forums in recent weeks, discussing the upcoming match. People got chatting about emails they’d received… Chez Dubois was mentioned as well as some cryptic dance terms.’ Joe shrugged. ‘I investigated but before I could take a screenshot, the comments were deleted along with the profiles of the people who’d made them. I’m wondering if the mastermind works at Chez Dubois.’

Blimey. Potentially, this was serious stuff. ‘It’s all a bit vague.’

Joe nodded. ‘Discreetly, MI6 agreed to check out Pierre Dubois who owns the restaurant. His records are clean. In fact, he does a lot of charity work locally. Seems like a decent bloke. Then there’s Cindy Cooper, she has joint French/American nationality and started working there as the sous chef almost one year ago. The head chef is called Jean-Claude Brun and was cautioned for shoplifting as a teenager, but that’s all. Then there’s Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, who’s been there years and has never received so much as a caution. The agency did basic background checks on the rest of the staff who’ve been there longer than six months. They were all clean too. Plus we’ve hacked the restaurant’s laptop and checked all the staff’s email accounts we could find. Nothing to report – just messages to suppliers and customers. Nothing about a MiddleWin Mort… So MI6 closed the file and won’t deploy any agent – not even a junior one – into Chez Dubois.’

‘You must be dedicated to pursue this investigation on your own,’ I said.

‘Or mad,’ muttered John and rolled his eyes. ‘If it were up to me, this thing would be dead and buried.’

Joe pursed his lips. ‘Protecting our country… It’s a commitment every day of the year; a vocation for some of us, I guess.’

‘But if you’re doing your official work and then this on the side… Don’t you get any free time?’

‘I bloody make sure I do,’ said John.

Joe shrugged. ‘It’s not like I’m married, with someone else to think of, dinners to prepare, outings to arrange… My time is my own.’

‘Sounds like you talk from experience and have been hitched in the past.’ I smiled.

For a second his maple-syrup eyes darkened. ‘I don’t discuss personal details.’

Ooh, I sensed a bit of emotional baggage.

‘Jet-setting Joe and I don’t have the time to follow up every lead,’ said John, his voice over-friendly. He stretched out his legs. ‘There are lots of rumours to follow up and hopefully rule out during the coming months. The commemorative events grow in number during the summer and we are here to eliminate all potential terrorist or criminal threats. At present, we’re focusing on the security of the world leaders visiting Paris the day after the football match, for a peace conference.’

My stomach tingled with excitement, now that I was reassured these two men honestly meant me no harm. Joe Bloggs, international spy, was actually asking for a favour. But why get little old me involved?

‘What good will I be?’ I shrugged.

‘Last year you carried yourself off perfectly as Abbey, fooling the public and the Croxleys,’ said Joe. ‘Gemma, you are loyal, determined and take initiative. Whatever the consequences, once your mind is made up, you see a mission through… And today has confirmed that you’ve got guts. I believe you are one tough woman.’

‘That’s what comes from growing up with two brothers who think hiding spiders in your knickers drawer is funny…’ I cleared my throat, still not quite believing what was happening.

‘But what makes you really special,’ continued Joe, ‘is that I can tell you’re a royalist. Kate Middleton is one of your heroes. Your heart will be in the job and that’s the most important thing of all.’

John muttered something snidey. But I got what Joe said. Guilty as charged. Like Abbey, I totally crushed on KMid, plus loved funny William and cute little George… Auntie Jan was royal mad. I’d been brought up drinking out of Prince Charles and Diana mugs. There’s no way I’d stand by and let them come to harm.

‘All in all, what more could I ask for in an undercover assistant?’ Joe half-smiled. ‘The dealmaker was that you’d be in Paris, just at the time I needed you.’

I stared at him for a moment and then my jaw dropped. ‘That mix-up over our jobs – you somehow changed them, right at the last minute so that I’d be working at Chez Dubois…’

Joe nodded. ‘I pretended to be a catering recruitment agency headhunter and persuaded a kitchenhand to leave Chez Dubois – not difficult, as he didn’t get on with chef Jean-Claude. I sent him to the restaurant you were supposed to be working at, as well as writing them a letter of apology from you, saying for personal reasons you could no longer accept their job. Then I emailed your details to Pierre, still in my fake role as a recruitment agent…’ A muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Of course, I’ve mostly observed you on the television. I don’t know you well. It’s a risk, for me, getting a civilian secretly involved. And it’s a risk for you – whilst it’s unlikely this is a real terrorist threat, I won’t rest until every avenue has been thoroughly explored, and that could be dangerous.’

‘Good old strait-laced Joe becoming a rogue agent, going behind his bosses’ backs… who’d have thought?’ said John, in a smarmy voice and shook his head.

‘I’m trusting your absolute discretion,’ said Joe, staring me bolt in the face. ‘Relying on you not to let me down. Counting on your judgement. And most importantly, I need you to understand that things could get unpleasant.’

‘Why aren’t MI6 backing you, about carrying on the investigation, if I’m free and willing to help? Even if they think the risk is minimal, what have they got to lose?’

‘Sometimes, agents’ hunches are wrong and lead to trouble for the organisation, girlie,’ said John. ‘To be honest, I’m not convinced about this threat either, but seeing as I’m deployed here with Joe and in a position to help him…’ He shrugged. ‘Joe will owe me a favour. And if he’s wrong and the investigation goes pear-shaped, it’ll be him taking the rap. Tell her about the 2012 Olympic fiasco, Joe.’

‘An investigation was started into some coded emails with the subject title BlowUpOlympia,’ said Joe. ‘The agent who’d stumbled across them discovered a group of around fifty suspicious people who regularly met up, with their laptops. Some belonged to gun clubs. Others followed fighting sports, such as the martial arts. My colleague became convinced they were plotting to set off bombs in the Olympic stadium.’

Wow.

‘It turned out they were simply war game fanatics and Olympia was the name of a town in their favourite game. Everything was coded because they knew of another group on the internet, determined to defend this virtual town. It’s was an interactive game where you worked in teams.’

‘Did MI6 find out in time?’ I said.

Joe shook his head. ‘No, and agents manhandled several members of the group who turned up at the Olympic venues – they were simply genuine sports fans. Embarrassingly, one of them was related to a tabloid newspaper’s editor. MI6 had to call in a lot of favours to keep that story out of the press. We were overstretched in 2012, trying to deflect potential terrorist attacks. C was furious and swore she’d never let anything like that happen again.’

‘C?’

‘Our Chief. She keeps an extra close eye on every investigation now.’

‘Oh. I thought she’d be called M – you know, like in James Bond.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘No – she’s named after the very first Chief of MI6, Mansfield Cumming, who used to sign himself as C.’

I nodded and stared from one agent to another.

‘So? Are you in?’ asked Joe and shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know it’s a big ask. On paper there’s no evidence, the risks are minimal… But I’d be lying if I guaranteed that you were going to be one hundred percent safe, one hundred percent of the time.’

Of course I was in! If the safety of the royal family was potentially under threat, I had no choice. My chest glowed warm. Imagine, someone like Joe cherry-picking me to protect the royals. And what a guy – putting his reputation on the line, out of a sense of duty… What a contrast he was to that creepy John.

‘I don’t know,’ I said airily, not wanting to look keen. Well, there were conditions, of course! ‘For starters, I um, would need a cool codename.’

‘Yeah? Erm… What about Margherita?’ Joe gave a half-smile.

‘Margherita!’ I spluttered. ‘After the name of a pizza?’

‘Exactly.’ He shrugged those broad shoulders. ‘Didn’t you used to work in an Italian restaurant?’

‘Yes but…’

‘Okay, what about…Cullen?’ he continued. ‘Isn’t Twilight one of your favourite films?’

Jeez, how did he know that? At this rate, he’d be able to tell me the size of my bra.

‘How would you know?’ I asked.

‘Read my file on you.’

John smirked. ‘Official mission or not, Joe is always thorough.’

Wow, clearly. I had a file? Then, I was mega important. ‘I want a letter,’ I said, admittedly like a petulant toddler. ‘Like this C or Judi Dench, playing M in the James Bond films.’

John sneered. ‘Only the uppermost echelons of the organisation are given that honour.’

‘Whatever you want,’ said Joe, in a measured voice. ‘Seeing as MI6 aren’t involved – how about “Agent G”?’

Yay! I clapped my hands, now that did have… What was that word Edward used? Gravitas… ‘And of course, I’ll need gadgets,’ I said, enjoying calling the shots – well, it was payback, for Joe having scared me earlier. Amazingly he nodded.

‘In fact, you must come with me tonight, in preparation for working at Chez Dubois on Monday,’ said Joe. ‘This weekend will be spent at MI6’s secret bunker. I’ll teach you basic self-defence and arm you with the necessary tools. I’ll make out you’re a suspect being taken in for interrogation. That way our time there will be undisturbed.’

Secret bunker? I took a swig of water to calm me down, otherwise I might spontaneously combust! Living in Paris for a month was exciting enough, without all these spy shenanigans. Also, visiting their French headquarters would confirm Joe’s identity. Except, I’d so looked forward to settling into the flat with Edward and spending the next two days getting to visit the awesome landmarks and cafés, with a snog or two between croissants and espresso shots.

‘I don’t think that’s possible, you see…’

‘This part of the deal is non-negotiable,’ said Joe, in his clipped tone. ‘An intensive weekend in self-defence is a must. I’d be failing you if I didn’t teach you to the basics of looking after yourself.’

‘But…’

Joe’s bottom lip twitched as he fiddled with his cuffs. ‘It’s not too late to pull out, Gemma. I’d understand if you want to walk away.’

‘Okay, okay, I agree to this intensive training weekend – but can’t I tell Edward the truth? He wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No – for his sake, the less he knows the better. Don’t tell anyone, including friends or family back home.’

Shame. This would be the first big secret I’d ever kept from best mate Abbey. I scratched my head. Was this really happening? Agents? Death threats? Secret bunkers? It seemed bonkers, yet there was something in the eyes of this sincere Joe bloke that made me take him seriously.

‘At least let me return to the flat each night, to sleep. He’ll get suspicious if I’m suddenly away all weekend… I could say–’

‘Perhaps…’ said Joe. ‘Okay. That’s acceptable…’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘John will go back with you tonight, just to introduce himself to Edward. He’ll pretend to be a caterer you got talking to, hosting two big wedding events this weekend, who offered to teach you invaluable cookery skills in return for your help Saturday and Sunday as he needs more cheap pairs of hands… You say it’s too good an opportunity to turn down.’

‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ I said.

Joe shrugged as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. Then with John, he headed off to make some private phone calls. Dear Edward, he wouldn’t complain. Sometimes he was almost too faultless… Well, apart from when he tried to get me interested in opera and contemporary paintings. That was one of the things that surprised me about Edward – stuffy and traditional as he was, he loved modern art. Many an argument we’d had over the value of paintings which consisted of just a few dots or lines. Me, I couldn’t wait to visit Monet’s waterlily paintings, here in Paris and also…Ow! These highfalutin thoughts came to a swift halt when the tramp next to me, with a vice-like grip, grabbed my arm.

‘Loose talk costs lives,’ he hissed, ‘as your countrymen said during ze war. Let me introduce myself. Many ‘ave ‘eard of me in ze criminal underworld. I am ze notorious “Man with ze Magic Baguette”…’

He let go and reached towards his pocket. My adrenalin pumped. Sh… Sugar! This must have been a terrorist tracking us. Perhaps baguette was slang for a pistol.

Losing my new, mature self-control for one second, and after a deep breath, I chucked my water in his face. Good diversion. Now, mustn’t panic. I – G – was an important government agent now.

In my head, I repeated this mantra as a shocked Monsieur Magic Baguette roared. He grabbed my ankle as I stood to get up, whilst the Japanese tourists below turned around to take photos.

Chapter 4

How was I to know that ‘Magic Baguette’ was a French nickname for a man’s best friend (and I don’t mean his dog)? That tramp was no terrorist but a right old pervert, just about to flash. By the time Joe Bloggs legged it back to help me, the old man’s trouser zip was already halfway undone.

Not that he’d have stood a chance of offending me with mean-machine Joe on the scene. Whilst berating the tramp, in perfect French, Joe held me close, all protectively. No need of course – I was fine, but in a zombie apocalypse I’d definitely be on Team Joe Bloggs. He hauled the flasher off to the local gendarmerie (see how quickly I’m picking up the local lingo?)

What strength. Such speed. Plus a fearlessness to match that of sexy Damon from The Vampire Diaries. Of course, no one compared to Edward– whose disappointed but generous smile twisted my heart when, that night, I’d visited him with John and spun the tale about my supposed catering weekend…and the fact that our first day or two in Paris would be spent apart. You’d think me lying to him would easy after last year, when I pretended to be his cousin for a fortnight. But any deception still scrunched my stomach into tight knots.

Thank God Saturday – my first day here in the secret bunker – was now almost over and my spy training (*big grin*) had gone well. Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed every minute, but longed to be back with my hot man for a night of Parisian passion.

‘Right, one last run through of the moves you’ve learnt since this morning, with some role-play – get to your feet,’ said Joe, in his usual clipped tones. Abrupt was his style – he used words on a need to know basis, as if every one contained secret information.

And what did he mean “morning”? His car had picked me up at five a.m. which was practically the middle of the night. The day had involved full-on self-defence training in this glaringly bright room, several metres under the ground. Not that I felt it was necessary. I mean, Joe was only asking me to act on a hunch of his, right? But Mr Bossy Bloggs was adamant that he should teach me how to protect myself. That yes, his suspicions might come to nothing, but he wasn’t prepared to risk me being hurt.

The bunker was huge– with a canteen, gym, computer room and corridors. People in black suits to-ed and fro-ed carrying clipboards and left me in no doubt that Joe actually worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Au naturel, I’d been blindfolded during the car journey there, even though it was dark outside. However, I could have sworn John muttered something about “the woods” and said “Bois de Boulogne”.

Having swilled back some water, I got up from an uncomfortable metal chair. So did Joe.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘give it your all. Flight if possible. Fight if necessary. Learn to recognise imminent aggression and avoid it where you can. Employ all the tactics we’ve practised.’

That was some challenge, as he’d shown me more moves than Jackie Chan probably knew. Apparently tomorrow we’d focus on crash courses in basic lock-picking and surveillance. By Sunday night my head would be ready to explode.

Without warning, Joe grabbed my arm. ‘Get in the car, bitch…’ he growled and pointed to an imaginary vehicle.

What a terrible actor! I giggled.

‘Concentrate, Gemma!’

‘Sorry, but you’re no Daniel Day Lewis.’

Chiselled face expressionless, he raised one eyebrow.

‘Oh, come on Joe, loosen up…’

Those determined lips pursed.

‘Let’s head off for a burger and chips. I’ll even buy you a Martini, shaken not stirred, or whatever it is you agents drink in real life…’ I stuck out my tongue and winked.

Wait for it… There it was, his shoulders relaxed and… Pow! With my free hand I punched his solid throat. Joe staggered back, just giving me time to yank myself away and charge to the other side of the room. Yay! I’d done it, but how my knuckles throbbed.

‘See, I have my own tactics,’ I said, ‘like chatting my heart out. It’s called distraction… Did you really think me fluffy enough to cut training for a fast food snack?’ Cue what I imagined to be a smug look from me. ‘Dear oh dear, I’m surprised you dropped your guard. Perhaps MI6 should lower their retirement age to… what are you, Joe, in your mid-thirties?’ I strolled back over to him.

Those maple eyes danced for just one second – blimey, sign of human life under that starched veneer. He straightened up and rubbed his neck.

‘Not a bad attempt, but as you probably guessed, I let go of you then, on purpose. Just to boost your confidence. But that was the last time I cut you some slack.’

‘Yeah, yeah, stop trying to save face.’ I glanced at a red blotch on his neck and my stomach pinched. ‘Um, you okay? Soz about the punch but…’

‘Hardly felt it.’ Joe put both hands on my shoulders. ‘Right, try to get away again.’

I stared straight at him. ‘You’ve got amazin’ long eyelashes.’

Joe sighed. ‘Gemma! You’ll need more subtle distraction tactics than that.’

‘But seriously…’ I leant forward. ‘Did you know there’s a Brazilian cockroach that eats the eyelashes of sleeping children? Learnt that in a pub quiz, I did. Gross or what?’

He paused and then nodded. ‘Impressive insects in Brazil… On a mission there I once got bitten by…’

Ha, ha! Fooled him again! I stamped hard on his foot (still didn’t like hurting him so used the front sole of my shoe, not the heel). Yay, one of his hands dropped. Frantically I wriggled but just couldn’t get out of his grasp.

‘Nice try,’ he said dryly. ‘Now, remember – don’t panic. Good foot work but keep calm. If your first move doesn’t work, try something else, like…?’

‘Um… I could poke you in the eyes or knee your groin. Perhaps lift the heel of my palm upwards and strike you mega hard on the nose…’

‘Excellent. Now, what if I’d grabbed you from behind?’

‘An elbow to the ribcage… Although I hate all this violence. Soz about your foot…’

‘Stop apologising, Gemma. Learn to trust and respect your instincts. Whilst it’s a last resort– used in a proper, controlled manner, violence is a useful tool.’

‘S’pose…’ I looked at his hand on my shoulder. Nice nails. Clean. Well-groomed. ‘Well, whatever. Look, Joe, you can let go of me now. My training’s all done. I proved myself anyway, yesterday, when you first spoke to me and I screamed in your face before making my escape across Paris.’

‘Nope.’ His grip tightened.

‘Huh?’

‘Earn your return to Edward tonight by getting free. No holds barred… Really act as if I’m the enemy.’

‘But I’ve already hurt your throat and foot,’ I said.

A smile almost flickered across his face. ‘I’ll survive. Us agents are made of strong stuff. Right. Let’s crack on.’ Roughly, Joe dragged me a few feet across the room, by one shoulder.

‘Ow! My arm will leave its socket at this rate.’

‘Do your worst then – unless I’ve made a mistake and you’re not up to the job.’

Thinking back to the childhood wrestles I’d had with my brothers, I gritted my teeth and jerked my body from side to side. With no progress made, I remembered Joe’s advice not to panic. Okay, step one, try a knee to the groin. But Joe saw it coming and dodged to one side. So quick as a flash, I pushed the heel of my palm up to his face, but he grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm behind my back.

‘Ow!’

Joe didn’t respond. Nor did he loosen his hold. I bit my lip. This was no joke… Wait a minute. What about that move involving slipping out of clothes? I could wriggle out of my cardigan and get away.

With all my might, I yanked out my free arm and almost escaped but again he saw through my manoeuvre – and then things took a nastier turn. Joe lifted me up and carried me to his imaginary getaway car. All urge to laugh left me. What would I do if this was for real and he was some terrorist or assassin? What if…? Deep breaths… Okay, inhale, exhale… There was only one thing for it…

‘Joe, everything feels funny,’ I said and put on a weak voice. ‘The room’s spinning and…’ I let my body go as limp as an out-of-date celery stick and closed my eyes, pretending that I’d blacked out.

‘Gemma? Stop messing about.’

Slowly, very slowly I breathed, face botox-still, keeping my body motionless despite a really annoying itch on my nose.

‘Gemma?’

I held my breath just for a few seconds and before I knew it, he’d put me on the floor in the recovery position and knelt down, not far away. As discreetly as possible, I slipped off my shoes which had a slight heel. Then, without giving Joe time to study me further, focused all my strength into pushing my body up and sprinting for the far wall.

Almost there… Just a few more feet… but at the last moment an arm came around my neck and pulled me back.

I squealed. ‘All right… You win…’ My legs paddled in the air. ‘Joe, it’s hurting, put me down…’

Eventually he did and, taking big gulps of air, eyes wide, I turned around, trying not to look spooked.

Joe studied me for a minute. ‘No… We both won. I’m impressed.’ His tone softened. ‘Playing dead – sometimes a good tactic. Removing shoes which might slow you down – good work. You were cornered but used initiative.’

I rubbed my arm. Joe came forward and rolled up my shirt sleeve. Gently his strong hand ran over marks left from when he’d held me really hard.

‘But what if you’d been a real criminal?’ I muttered.

Joe stood back and stared at me again. ‘Glad you’re finally taking this seriously, Gemma.’

I nodded.

In silence, we walked back over to our chairs. Joe passed me my water bottle and we sat down.

He glanced sideways at me. ‘You’re shaking.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I said, cross at the waver in my voice. ‘But it’s nice to know you care.’

Any warmth left his eyes. ‘I can’t afford to care in my job. It’s my responsibility to keep you in one piece, that’s all…’

He looked away and for some reason I didn’t believe him. Why the hard act, all the time? What had happened in his past?

There was a knock at the door and creepy John came in, after looking over his shoulder because, really, we weren’t supposed to be there.

‘Right. Role-play again,’ said Joe. ‘This time with John.’

I pulled a face, unable to think of anything worse than wrestling with that smarmy bloke. Joe met my gaze again.

‘Look….’ He bit his lip. ‘I’d understand if you’ve changed your mind, Gemma.’ His eyes bore into me. ‘But I’d never ask a civilian to get involved like this, if I didn’t feel strongly that something truly suspicious – be it murder or not – was afoot. Regardless of what the powers that be say, I’m not prepared to ignore any sort of threat towards the heir to the throne. Not even if it means putting my career on the line…’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘Or putting someone – you – in a potential line of fire.’

A wave of nausea hit the back of my throat as I remembered my fight with Joe. Me? Action-woman Agent G? I was more Angelina Jokey than Jolie.

Pretending to be an aristocrat for a couple of weeks was one thing, but possibly coming face to face with an assassin? Missing clues that could possibly save the monarchy? No. It’d be best to quit this ridiculous mission before I let Queen and country down.

Chapter 5

“Men who eat raw fish make the best lovers” said Auntie Jan, whose latest boyfriend regularly devoured sushi. My brothers and I didn’t like to think too deeply about the implications of that comment, but as I watched Joe tuck into seaweed-wrapped tuna, I couldn’t help wondering what he was like between the sheets.

The secret agent and I sat opposite each other, in the bright bunker room. Okay, I admit it – after fighting him yesterday I’d lost my nerve for a moment, but I soon recovered my mojo. I gave the role-play a go with John and – *shudder* – even though his big hands ended up in all sorts of places, I successfully wriggled away. Punching him in the crotch proved to be a particularly satisfying tactic.

Edward must have wondered what was wrong last night – I’d had a long bath and then sat quietly in the lounge. I caught him looking at me, eyebrows knotted together, so in the end I forced myself to cheer up and asked him all about his day, involving a trip to the famous cemetery, Père Lachaise. In fact, it sounded quite interesting, what with seventy thousand plots and over five thousand trees. Edward visited the graves of Proust, Colette, Chopin and Oscar Wilde. His face had beamed as he described – in his words – “exquisite tombs with intricate carvings, sculptures and affectionate epitaphs”. It had helped me shake myself back to normality and gain some perspective on my day’s training.

I mean, Joe was a decent bloke who’d do his best to keep me out of danger. In any event, I was only going to check out internet rumours which would probably amount to nothing.

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.

Joe said “flight” was better than “fight” but I didn’t know for sure anyone was in there. So, tip-toeing, I entered and paused to listen. Nothing. I tried the light. It didn’t work. I headed into the bedroom – that was empty too and also remained dark when I hit the light switch. With a shrug I went back into the lounge and – oh my God! – gasped. Thanks to amber rays from the street lamps, I made out a figure, in the kitchen area. It was bald, therefore a man, who must have been hiding or bending down, before. Battling my adrenaline-rush instincts to do something mad, I swallowed hard. Don’t panic, Joe would say. Think it through. Stay calm. The man said something in French, walked around the kitchen units and came towards me.

I felt dizzy for a second, before getting a grip on my emotions. I reached down for my handbag. The thought crossed my mind to press that button but contacting Joe so soon into my mission would make me look a right wimp. Anyway, this bloke wasn’t much taller than me, plus his voice had no aggressive edge. I reckoned a good shot of pepper spray would give me time to bolt. And if he was gone, when I came back, I wouldn’t mention him to Edward – or the police –as I might let slip details about my secret mission. I couldn’t get Edward involved, nor let Joe down.

With a deep breath, I took the small bottle out of my bag and one, two, three… charged him, screaming. He put up his hands and kind of yelped as I sprayed his face. Shaking from head to toe I stumbled out of the flat and legged it down the stairs.

Chapter 6

‘Girl, you gonna take a piss or get off the pot?’

Meet Texan Cindy, second-in-charge to the head chef – brash, with the brains of JR Ewing and his Texan drawl to match. This was her way of telling me to hurry up. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I frantically chopped the onion.

This was Friday, my fifth day in the kitchen. And, um, ahem, yes, I’d not been chased and murdered by the intruder in our flat, last Sunday. It turned out he was the landlord. Due to an electricity fault, Edward had called him, assuming that the old man would have sorted things out during the day. But no – instead he left it until the last minute and ended up getting stained with blue spray.

How long ago that seemed, now. Five days working as dogsbody in a restaurant had been a MASSIVE learning curve. I winced and smiled sheepishly as, for the third time that week, I sliced my finger. Without taking her spoon out of a saucepan of glossy brown sauce, Cindy delved into the pocket of her white buttoned chef’s coat and took out a plaster. I wrapped it around the wound and with a quick glance at Jean-Claude, waited for some sarcastic words.

‘Don’t worry, he’s all hat but no horse, honey,’ Cindy said.

My brow furrowed, as I looked again at the kitchen boss, in his black and white chequered trousers (yes, chefs really did dress like that!)

‘What I mean is…’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a soft guy inside that fierce, Gallic exterior.’

‘Onions ready, Pudding?’ he boomed, in a mega thick French accent.

That was his name for me and I’d had a good mind to complain, as I thought he was referring to my generous curves. But Cindy insisted I had a “darn purtee” figure and that Pudding was simply a common derogatory term, originating from snooty French chefs who consider English desserts stodgy and tasteless.

Which made sense as JC – as everyone called him – was not remotely PC. Only yesterday he’d released a torrent of abuse when a vegetarian customer complained. He declared that anyone who didn’t eat meat had the palate of an amoeba and no right to moan. Wiping his hands on his white apron, forehead perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.

‘Sacre bleu! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too big. Not all ze same size…. You need more speed.’ JC sniffed. ‘But today they will do for ze soup.’ He lifted the board and handed it to another minion who scraped the onion into a frying pan.

Wow – that was an improvement! Up until this point not much I’d done had been up to standard. Apparently I chopped garlic too coarsely and didn’t scrub potatoes hard enough. He’d sworn for five seconds, in French, when I attempted to debone a chicken. Yet his vitriol didn’t bring tears to my eyes, unlike another temporary kitchen hand who left, weeping, after just one day. No, it made me even more determined.

Funny that – I’d always worked hard, over the years, at any job, but now that I’d discovered my passion, I dunno – learning about cookery felt more like a hobby. It made me whistle. Lightened my step. Meant that I didn’t mind overtime or long hours. In recent months I’d felt happier than ever – and not just because my gorgeous boyfriend kissed as if I was a Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler.

And as for cooking in Paris – this made me happier still. Even getting up at the crack of dawn and walking to work felt special. I loved passing by Place du Tertre, the square where the artists assembled. Of course, first thing it was often empty, apart from a few discarded easels, chairs and large golf umbrellas left behind by painters. Old-fashioned black lampposts would light up the cobbled square which felt tranquil without the bustling gazebos and snack tents set up during the day.

In contrast to my peaceful early morning walks to work, hustle-bustle was the name of the game in the kitchen.It was located at the back of the restaurant, near the bar, with its gleaming silver worktops and saucepans everywhere, plus clinical white tiles on the floors and walls. The head chef barked orders. At the frantic, busiest times, I became overwhelmed by the heat and yummy smells. As soon as I got home each day, the first thing I did was soak in a bubblebath.

‘Carrots next,’ said Cindy and I stared enviously at her sauce. She caught my eye and grinned. ‘Perhaps next week JC will give you more challenging tasks.’

‘He’s a bit…’ only one word would do to describe the chef, ‘… bonkers, if you ask me,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I already know all this basic stuff, but he’s determined to show me his way of doing things. How come you get on so well with him?’

Cindy flashed her white teeth. ‘He sure is temperamental, but when JC’s fired up, that’s when his cooking really rocks. Last week I somehow ordered sweet potatoes instead of the ordinary ones. His cheeks turned purple for a second, before he brain-stormed and began to peel and experiment with spice… The result was a fab-u-lous new addition to the dessert menu: sweet potato pie with ginger and cinnamon.’ Cindy continued to stir the sauce. ‘But he won’t offend me, because he’s dumber than dirt when it comes to computers – so I take care of that side for him. He doesn’t even have a company email address. I order the food online and take care of staff memos… It keeps him sweet.’

Ah, well it definitely wasn’t JC sending out any emails about a MiddleWin Mort.

‘He don’t scare you, though, honey, I’ve noticed,’ said Cindy. ‘Thank gawwd! I’m mighty sick of the high turnover of staff.’

‘It’s probably because I’m addicted to cookery reality shows. Believe me, a whole series of Gordon Ramsay desensitises you to verbal abuse!’

We chuckled and I went over to the stacked plastic vegetable racks to collect carrots, just as Pierre Dubois came in. Lunch would start in two hours. Yesterday Edward and I had worked the evening dinner shift – after that, today had been an early start.

Pierre fired out some French at JC who shrugged and muttered “oui”.

‘Gemma, come with me, please,’ said Pierre, as ever courteous, in English much better than the headchef’s. ‘I have a few words to say to you and Edward.’

Cindy caught my eye and winked as I put the carrots on my worktop. Outside of the kitchen, Edward sat at one of the mahogany tables, in front of a large café-au-lait. Two other coffees were on the primrose mats. With a smile I joined him and underneath the table intertwined my fingers with his. Over the last week we hadn’t seen much of each other during the day. My stomach tingled as I thought about how we’d made up for that, once holed up in our Parisian love nest at night.

Pierre sat down opposite us and his eyes crinkled at the corners. What a gent – always softly spoken, cool and calm, totally polite. Lady C would have definitely given him her stamp of approval.

‘Alors… Just to say you are both progressing well.’ Pierre ran a hand through his jet black hair. ‘Edward, your French comes along well. Such a winning way, you have with the customers. Your occasional struggles with our beautiful language don’t bother them at all.’

I squeezed Edward’s hand and longed to slip my fingers through the small gap in his starched, white shirt, to feel his firm chest and run my hand down his abs whilst he… I shook myself. At this rate I’d need an iced tea, not a steaming coffee! Why did Edward have to look so damn hot in that waiter outfit? No wonder the customers fell for his charismatic manner. During the week, I’d observed him chatting intently with the female customers, oblivious to their giggles and preening in the face of his gorgeousness and heartbreaker smile. Mind you, after being shown to their table by abrupt head waiter, Hugo, anyone would seem like Prince Charming.

‘Edward, all you need to remember,’ continued Pierre, ‘is to … now what is the word in English: up-sell.’

‘You mean to suggest the more expensive wines or tempt them with a dessert?’ said Edward and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

Pierre put down his cup. ‘Exactement. Already I feel the surge of new tourists, over here for the First World War commemorative events this month. Your English will prove most useful.’

Pierre glanced at me. ‘And Gemma. Well done. Jean-Claude has not tried to sack you yet.’

I grinned.

‘Chère Cindy informs me you are hardworking and a quick learner.’

Aw, Cindy was great, and had already promised to take me and Edward to Disneyland Paris. I couldn’t wait!

The restaurant owner opened a folder next to his seat, took out a sheet and passed it to me. ‘Here are the Chez Dubois email addresses of staff who have access to the company laptop – plus an email address for you and Edward. You have a laptop at your flat, non?’

Edward nodded.

‘Excellent. Alors, any problems, contact people this way. I have given you a password – you can change it if you desire. I find email très efficient. All the time we are so busy, verbal messages often get muddled up or forgotten. So contact Cindy or Hugo if you get home and remember something you forgot to do on your shift – or email me if you are going to be late or for some TRÈS important reason you can’t come to work.’ He smiled.

I nodded and scanned the list. This was just what I needed, to start my investigations. Okay, so MI6 had already hacked the laptop and checked out the staff’s emails, but I fancied a look myself. Plus the Secret Intelligence Service had closed the file now, so wouldn’t be checking on recent messages. Joe had a list of the passwords, so I’d get onto it as soon as.

Top suspect, of course, was Hugo– who was something of an enigma, with his standoffish ways. His anti-royal ranting was in stark contrast to his clinical demeanour with even the most awkward customer. Yet Edward said he was mega patient when showing him the procedures for taking food orders and delivering it to the tables.

The restaurant door opened and Pierre stood up. He opened his arms wide as a vision walked in – meet restaurant regular, actress Monique, a willowy woman in her late twenties with glossy chestnut hair, an adorable beanie hat, and a floaty skirt. I forced a smile on my face as she kissed Pierre on each cheek and then Edward – who’d let go of my hand and scrambled to his feet.

Forget me saving Applebridge Hall from ruin, plus becoming a more than competent chef… For some reason this woman seemed to be draining the air out of my balloon of self-esteem. Which was unusual, cos I wasn’t the jealous sort. If anything, when Edward… I dunno, helped attractive women with their luggage or chatted to flirtatious customers, it made me even more chuffed that we were a couple.

But Monique… Height-wise, she and Edward made a good match – I always had to stand on tip-toe to reach his face. She didn’t kiss me – thank God, as she reeked of smoke, but that didn’t seem to bother my man, who was no doubt used to tobacco, cos of his dad’s pipe habit.

In fact Edward had mentioned having lots of little chats with Monique and seemed quite taken with her arty farty ways. The first time I’d seen her was on Monday, day one of our new job. From the kitchen, I’d heard her loud tinkling laugh. I’d peeked through the glass pane in the kitchen door to see her and Edward shaking hands.

He told me all about her later – how considerate she’d been, speaking slowly and encouraging him to speak in her language. Then on Tuesday she came in just before the lunchtime rush, whilst JC showed me his precise way to blanch broccoli. Pierre had insisted hardworking Edward take a break – so he spent it with her, discussing French politics.

Ooh, this reminded me of that Craig David song Auntie Jan loved, called “7 Days”. On Monday, he met the girl, Tuesday bought her a drink and the next day…’ My stomach lurched. No. This was nothing like that catchy tune. Edward and Monique would NEVER make love.

Tuesday evening, Edward told me how well-read she was, currently penning her own novel, a historical romance. Apparently an English actor friend of hers, over from Manchester, had just finished a crash course in learning French and she brought in his linguistic CDs for Edward, to help improve his accent.

How thoughtful. No really. I don’t do jealousy. Not at all.

On Wednesday, Edward and I had worked the evening shift. By now I’d established a routine and would discreetly grab a coffee from the restaurant on my break. That was the first time I came face to face with Monique. She sat at the bar, texting into her phone. I’d held out my hand and gave her a beaming smile.

However, my extended fingers were left hanging in the air for several seconds. Eventually, she shook them, her grip as loose as if I was carrying a flesh-eating bug. What’s more, I caught a flicker of disdain as she eyed me up and down.

‘You must be Gemma,’ she’d said and then fired several questions at me in French. Eventually she stopped. ‘Oh, apologies, don’t you understand? Edward’s French is truly superbe… Perhaps you should borrow the CDs I gave him.’ Then she’d smiled but only with her mouth, not those annoyingly attractive green eyes. Taking in the flawless skin with just a sprinkling of freckles, I smiled back. Classy. Refined. Stylish. I bet she didn’t even need to wear foundation. I just comforted myself with the fact that as a smoker, she’d look old before her time.

And then yesterday I’d walked out of the kitchen to grab an espresso for JC before the lunch hour started, only to see Monique standing next to Edward, her dainty hand on his arm, his face flushed…

Aarghh!

‘Bonjour,’ I said, back to Friday, the current day, me trying not to notice how Edward’s face had lit up. *Sigh*. Monique had it all – minimal make-up required and a figure suggesting she lived on nothing but air. She almost fitted the bill as Lady C’s idea of how a woman should look, except that her loose hair and clothes had a cool unconventional edge, plus her eyes teased in an openly flirtatious way.

Pierre jumped up to fetch her usual coffee and she sat down in his seat.

‘Comment vas tu?’ she said to Edward and pulled off her beanie hat. She spoke slowly for him but Edward managed a reply to each of her sentences – although after a minute he paused. ‘Sorry Gemma – we were just discussing…’

‘Don’t worry, I understood,’ I said, airily. ‘Monique has been ill but an… angelic friend helped her get better.’

Monique laughed out loud.

‘Not bad guesswork,’ said Edward and squeezed my knee, under the table.

‘What an enchanting translation,’ said Monique. ‘But tant pis – too bad – it is wrong. We were discussing the play I’m currently starring in.’

‘It’s called Le Malade Imaginaire,’ said Edward.

Well I knew the word “Malade” was something to do with being ill.

‘A comedy-ballet by the very famous Molière,’ said Monique. ‘I play Angelique…’

‘The daughter of hypochondriac Argan…’ added Edward.

Great. Now I felt stupid. And she was a ballerina, as well.

Then they were off again, except this time talking in English. However, it may as well have been another foreign language. I loved novels but knew little about seventeenth century plays and ended up staring towards the ceiling admiring the wrought iron candle chandelier. When Pierre came back – with a plate of yummy mini pear brioche buns – the conversation moved onto music. With not a lot to contribute, I sat there, stuffing my face.

Like Edward, the other two adored opera. The only opera singer I knew was the one from that annoying “Go Compare” advert. To be fair, over recent months, Edward had dutifully listened to my Rhianna and Beyoncé CDs. Then I’d sat through a performance of Madame Butterfly. However, unlike Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, being introduced to such high art didn’t move me to tears. It moved me to yawn, baboon-like, whilst struggling not to nod off. Seeing Edward’s eyes shine as he and Monique chatted passionately about arias and librettos (no, I don’t know what they are either), it made me wonder if… if he was missing out on a life he loved by dating me. I could never dissect the technicalities of an opera or spend hours listening to Placido Domingo CDs.

This uncomfortable question loomed even larger when the conversation switched to art. Just like Edward, Monique liked the contemporary stuff. I loved Edward. Edward loved me. But what if that wasn’t enough, once the passion faded? What if, long-term, our relationship really wasn’t meant to be?

With relief, I noticed Pierre glance at his watch. He exclaimed in French at the time and jumped up.

I put the list of email addresses in my pocket, stood up and made my excuses to head back to the kitchen. Monique didn’t acknowledge my departure. Before getting to his feet, Edward caught my eye and winked.

‘Monique’s typical of some French women,’ said Cindy, several hours later, as we wiped down the work surfaces, the last lunchtime customer having left. ‘The sparkle only comes out, honey, when she’s amongst the menfolk. It’s nothing personal, she just ain’t got much time for gals. And she ain’t ever short of male attention. Even Jean-Claude makes her a special dessert when she comes in. She likes mini versions – says she has to watch her figure, being an actress and all. Probably why she smokes.’

Mini versions? Like on Masterchef, the puds were already tiny at Chez Dubois – although the main courses were a decent size and more like home-cooking than fancy Cordon Bleu stuff.

Cindy tucked a strand of peroxide hair behind her ear that was pierced with a small Mickey Mouse earring. ‘You can’t blame her for warming to Edward – he’s as cute as a possum. And, well, I’ve kinda gotta know her over the last year. She’s never short of boyfriends but it’s only the ones she’s real serious about that she introduces to her friends – a group of writers, actors and singers she hangs out with, often in St Michel.’ Cindy shrugged. ‘I’m one of the honoured few to meet them, even though Monique and me ain’t that close. Talk about intellectual, honey. My idea of a protagonist in a story is Snow White or Mulan. Needless to say, the majority of them turned their noses up at Disneyland Paris.’

At that moment, Edward stuck his cute possum head around the kitchen door. I went over and kissed his lips.

‘Just think,’ I murmured, ‘tomorrow we’re off work and it’s our first day together, alone in the romantic French capital. I’m so excited! Tree-lined boulevards, blue skies, fancy pastries, the awesome skyline… We can spend the whole day together, just you and me.’

Pierre had given us the whole weekend as our first two days off – said it wouldn’t happen again, but that Saturday and Sunday were the busiest days of the week and we weren’t quite ready, after just a few days, to cope.

A pained look crossed Edward’s face. ‘Oh. Erm… Huge apologies, Gemma. I didn’t think you’d mind but Monique invited me – I mean, us, of course– out to a late lunch with her friends. They sound like a terribly interesting bunch, made up of singers, writers and who knows? Moni said to meet them tomorrow…’

Moni?

‘…at two o’clock,’ he continued, ‘in a jolly nice district of Paris called…’

Don’t tell me – St Michel.

My stomach twisted. I’d been not one week in Paris and already faced a beautiful, intelligent, artistic – and highly slappable! – love rival.

Chapter 7

Slow, quick, slow quick, our bodies mirrored each other’s moves… Edward ran a finger down my back. My heart raced as his hips rhythmically thrust forwards and our mouths almost met…

Then the music stopped and the judge gave us ten out of ten. Despite what naughty you may have thought, I was simply daydreaming about Edward and me performing the salsa on one of my favourite TV dance shows.

Why? Because as we emerged from the St Michel Métro station, Edward told me that this part of Paris was also known as the Latin Quarter – cha cha cha! We’d got up early and thankfully the night’s heavy rain had stopped, leaving me with an irrational urge to walk through all the puddles. I’d suggested to Edward that we visited Notre Dame. Desperate as I was to go shopping, I put his interests first. It had nothing, at all, to do with wanting to prove myself interested in the intellectual stuff favoured by a certain new French female acquaintance.

Notre Dame wasn’t far from St Michel. We had until two o’clock and wow… Actually it was awesome. Prettily built, despite the creepy, kind of reptilian gargoyles staring from every angle…

‘This Catholic cathedral was built between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, on this Île de la Cité, an island in the middle of the Seine river which runs through Paris,’ Edward had said, as if reading from an information leaflet. ‘The magnificent organ inside has over seven thousand pipes. There are ten bells and the wonderful statue of the Virgin and child. Plus…’

Oh dear. I tried, really I did, but kind of switched off and thought about that animated Disney film, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. History wasn’t my thing and beautiful as the Notre Dame was, I hadn’t wanted to spend ages inside admiring the stained glass windows and altar. Yet Edward was amazin’ and if we ever got chucked out of Chez Dubois he could easily earn us a living as a tour guide.

My stomach twisted. Since crossing the Channel, and for the first time since we’d got close, I was having serious doubts about the romantic combo of him, an aristocrat, and me, a former pizza waitress.

Having finally dragged Edward away from his beloved cathedral, we walked to St Michel. As the fresh air hit us, I pulled my coat tighter and hugged my leopard-print bag tight under my arm – apparently St Michel was a notorious spot for pickpockets. Alongside a group of tourists, I stared at the famous fountain. Edward took a photo on his phone and then jotted some notes into his ever-handy notebook.

Then he proceeded to tell me everything he’d researched about this area –which was close to the universities and considered pretty cool with younger crowds. Aw. His eyes shone with enthusiasm as he explained how the fountain represented Saint Michel wrestling with the devil. Nose pinching with cold, I admired the four marble pillars and winged dragons either side. Yeah, it was wicked, although I zoned out when Edward started listing its architects.

Perhaps next week it would be my turn to educate him with a trip to Boulevard Haussman, home to the MEGA department stores Printemps and Galeries Lafayette where Pierre’s girlfriend, Agnes, worked. Full of top fashion brands, gourmet food and awesome giftware… Then there was the well-known flea market at Porte de Clignancourt… See, I’d done my research too.

Not that Edward was a big shopper, but didn’t opposites attract? I mean, we weren’t from the same social class and that hadn’t held our love affair back. So why should the fact that I hated opera and he didn’t dig dance music, matter? I tried to ignore the little voice in my head saying that it was always a dangerous time for relationships, when the initial excitement started to become more routine; that now was the time we could be revealed as a real mismatch.

I suppressed a sigh as Edward approached the fountain and ran his hand over the stone, admiring an aspect of it that clearly went over my head.

‘Moni says this is one of her favourite spots in Paris,’ he muttered, eyes sparkling just that bit brighter.

Oh God. He was totally crushing on the French actress. Although crushes were okay, right? Many a night I’d dreamt of lush Robert Pattinson teaching me how to become a vegetarian vampire… But Monique was real. What if her appeal began to outweigh mine?

He took my hand.

‘Sorry, Gemma.’ He grinned. ‘I know this stuff can sound boring. I’m what you might call, a bit of an architecture geek.’

‘No it isn’t boring!’ I said brightly. ‘Now, tell me all about the marble again…’

‘I’d much rather stop talking for a while, if that’s all right with you,’ he murmured and leant forward for a kiss. Mmm. That was more like it. Hooray that months on from us meeting, Edward was finally happy to kiss in public.

Finally we drew apart and still holding hands, crossed Boulevard St Michel, in the direction of Rue de la Huchette which was apparently home to a variety of exotic foreign restaurants. My chest tightened, as the time to meet Monique and her friends approached. Chastising myself, I thought back to this morning and how Edward had fetched me breakfast in bed. My cheeks flushed as I recalled the reason my toast had gone cold. Edward’s kisses were always punctuated by soft mutterings of my gorgeousness. Not even well-read, talented Monique could turn his head, right?

Urgh! Enough with the insecurities! I shook myself. Gemma Goodwin was an amazin’ woman, who mixed easily with posh toffs, was helping an MI6 agent and could whip up a great meal, given a chopping knife and whisk.

Inwardly chanting this, I nodded as Edward pointed out the Caveau de la Huchette on the right – a renowned jazz club he’d heard of. I squeezed his hand. Perhaps we’d visit it alone one night. Jazz music always sounded kinda sexy and probably one of the few types of music that we both liked. See, we had things in common. Perhaps this trip would start to confirm that, instead of magnifying our differences. Tomorrow would be a big test as Cindy was taking us to Disneyland Paris.

‘Generous of Cindy to give us those Disney day passes she won, wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘She’s been there nine times since moving here twelve months ago. Plus, after leaving school, years ago, she got a job in the Florida theme park, selling hotdogs. How bonkers is that?’

‘Did I hear the horreeble word Disney?’ said a smooth French voice, followed by a loud tinkling laugh and the smell of smoke.

We turned around.

‘Moni!’ said Edward and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, leant forward to kiss her on either cheek. She stood with four friends.

Reluctantly, as if an invisible ghost was pushing her forwards, Monique bent down to kiss me on the cheeks – or rather, air-kiss, as if my pores seeped arsenic. And then the four others proceeded to greet us. Cindy had tried to explain the rules to me about French kissing (no, not that sort – the type you did in polite company). Yikes, it sounded complicated – some people always started with a particular side and others automatically kissed a friend of a friend.

Kiss, kiss. ‘’Allo. I’m Anton – a playwright,’ said a man with big eyebrows and a heavy French accent. He put a cigarette back in his mouth.

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma – um… a…’

‘Reealeety show star, non, so says Moni?’ said Anton.

The group wrinkled their noses in unison.

‘Satan’s invention, destroying my acting profession,’ muttered Thierry.

‘They take too much money which should be spent on quality drama productions…’ agreed Chantale. She smiled at me. ‘Bonjour, Gemma – I am a mime artist.’

‘Bla di bla di bla (French I didn’t understand),’ said Danielle, who bowed and mentioned a word that sounded like “musician”.

‘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.

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