From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  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

  www.CarinaUK.com

  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 CarinaUK, for helping me make this story the very best it can be. Also my agent, Kate Nash, for her invaluable support. Carina 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

  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

  Copyright

  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-settin
g 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.’