From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘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. D
odging 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.