From Paris With Love

by Samantha Tonge

  I glanced at the clock and yawned – it had just gone quarter to midnight and I now found it impossible to concentrate, especially as I knew there was at least one terrorist – Monique – in the building. I needed to get out there and take photos of the actress and her friends, before they left. I’d not seen her yet, this evening, but Cindy nipped out to fetch JC a double espresso and saw her coming through the door with a mix of friends – although not Edward. Apparently he had some stomach bug.

  ‘You’ve done fine tonight, honey, and could probably do with a quick break from this steamy air,’ said Cindy in a low voice. Today her peroxide hair was scraped back to reveal Bambi earrings. ‘Saturday night is always stressful and JC’s been angrier than a slapped wasp, since that vegetarian sent back the shiitake mushroom curry, insisting the steak-like flavour must have come from meat. Go on – you finish now, sugar.’ Cindy cleared her throat, ‘JC, I’m just gonna send Gemma to the front of house to ask Hugo if that chicken liver pasta we’re pushing is going down well. Then she’ll go home.’

  Like a horse, JC harrumphed and Cindy winked, as she moved to my workstation to plate up the last desserts. Gratefully, I headed through the swing doors, carefully avoiding the waiters going to and fro. Hugo was busy clearing a table, so I nipped behind the bar and glugged back a glass of icy water. Pierre appeared by the coffee machine to prepare the last customers’ bills.

  ‘Business has been excellent tonight,’ he said and ran a hand through his thick hair.

  ‘Had any comments about the new chicken liver dish?’ I forced myself not to pull a face which said “yuk”!

  Pierre nodded as he set up several coffee cups. ‘Oui. You can tell JC that once again he has created a masterpiece. The feedback is magnifique. Plus the salmon with hollandaise sauce went down very well.’

  My chest glowed and I stood just a tiny bit taller than I had, in recent days. Considering I used to be the queen of the microwave, I wasn’t doing at all badly. But, glad to be away from the baking hot kitchen, I gazed across the restaurant at Monique, whose feminine, tinkling laugh carried above other diners’ chat.

  Oh please. My eyes scoured her table. There was playwright Anton, hands like a conductor’s as he talked animatedly. Mime artist Chantale looked as sleek as ever, with her super straight bobbed hair and high-necked plum silk blouse.

  I turned away, spotted a plant pot that had fallen over and headed over to pull it up. Except, oops! I collided with a customer coming out of the gents’ toilets. I stared at the black buckled boots and straightened up to say soz.

  Wow. I let out a gasp, as if I was in a vacuum jar and just had the air sucked out of my lungs. My heart beat against the inside of my chest as if it were playing a rap song.

  Those inky eyes, that teasing smile… This guy sizzled hotter than bacon and a wave of heat rose up from my stomach and into my cheeks. Not that I was anywhere near over Edward. Since we’d split up, life felt kind of… small… enclosed, like a room without a window… But that didn’t stop me appreciating other guys, right? And this one gave me the sensation of just having scoffed the most amazin’, smooth, creamy chocolate bar – mmm, very nice.

  He grinned. Wow. Love that black lipstick, the thick black eyeliner and black star shape drawn over one eye. His jagged, raven hair hung in spikes around his neck, over a black shirt and leather jacket. As for those tight trousers… And what a cool shiny silver cross around his neck…

  ‘Salut’ he said in a husky French accent and straightened up.

  Yikes, he was even taller than Edward.

  ‘Erm, hi…Or, rather, bonsoir Monsieur… I was just going to rescue that plant.’

  ‘Ah, a superhero, non?’ His eyes danced before he turned around to look at the fallen pot.

  ‘That’s me – Wonder Woman. You should see what I’ve got on under this coat…’

  Aargghh! Why did I say that? Lady C would have forty fits. Plus familiarity wasn’t appropriate, considering he was a customer.

  He grinned. ‘I’d like to, please. Is that all part of the service? Stripping off?’

  Cheeks hotter than ever, I cleared my throat. ‘I hope your meal was satisfactory?’

  ‘My rare steak was fantastique.’

  I grimaced.

  ‘Not a fan of beef?’

  ‘Chez Dubois’ beef has a fab reputation, of course, but I prefer mine charcoaled, in a bun with a side order of fries.’

  He grinned and held out his arm. Studded black bangles clattered around his wrist.

  ‘Blade,’ he said and firmly enclosed my small hand in his. He wore black leather gloves and for some reason I wanted to feel his skin,

  ‘I’m Gemma. Love the outfit. Awesome name. It’s not French though, is it?’

  ‘Non.’ His eyeliner crinkled. ‘My band and I strive to achieve global appeal. Our group’s name – Black Bijou – is half English. I sing. Heavy metal. Dagger plays guitar. Eh bien, Stanley is on drums…’

  I thought for a moment. ‘You’re all called after types of knife.’

  ‘Oui,’ Blade gave a hearty laugh. ‘We got drunk one night – decided we were so cutting edge our names had to reflect that.’ He shook his head. ‘We were young then – with big egos. Now we realise we are lucky to have some success in France – dominating the world is no longer our life’s aim. Although I wouldn’t say no to a personal limo and an apartment looking onto the Seine…’

  ‘Just imagine that… Or a private jet to fly you down to St Tropez at weekends…’ I gazed at his pale foundation. ‘Not that you look like a sun-worshipper – you’re more Alice Cooper than a tanned resident of Alice Springs.’

  Blade gave another belly laugh. ‘You are funny.

  Ooh, I felt all gooey inside. There was something about him that made me want to impress – which was stupid. I wasn’t looking for a bloke and the way I felt at the moment, opera and modern art appreciation aside, no one would ever match up to Edward… I eyed him up and down again. Joe would be impressed, seeing as he loved heavy metal bands.

  ‘So is that your dream, Gemma, to live a grand life somewhere hot?’

  ‘Not necessarily hot – just a place where the sky isn’t grey for half the year. Although stuff like that doesn’t matter, if you’re with the right person…’ My eyes tingled and Blade shot me a curious look.

  ‘I’m sensing a broken heart – non?’ He stared intently at me, whilst fiddling with one of his bangles.

  ‘Er, look, um, nice to meet you, but my shift’s up and I’m sure your table must be wondering where you are…’

  ‘Ah, ze English – too uptight to talk about what counts.’

  ‘Do you analyse everyone according to stereotypes?’ I said. ‘Well let me give it a go. I bet you own a beret.’

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘Love onion and garlic.’

  ‘Of course. I am also a fantastic lover… You see? The stereotypes are actually true…’ His inky eyes glowed. ‘Apart from the beret. I lied about that.’

  I giggled. What was also true was that French accents were incredibly hot.

  ‘Have you lived in Paris long?’ he said, in those husky tones.

  ‘No. I’m only here for a month and still dying for a good shopping spree.’

  ‘Oui? Well look…’ He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to the famous flea market in Porte de Clignancourt. The jewellery and leather stalls there are superbe. Tag along if you like.’

  Blimey, he didn’t mess about.

  ‘Thanks, but, um…’ I fingered my jacket buttons. ‘I’ve just split up with someone and I’m not ready to–’

  ‘What is it with you Anglais?’ He shook the spiky fringe out of his face. ‘I am proposing a trip out – not a life together. No confetti. No wedding cake, I promise…’ His wide mouth curved into a smile.

  ‘Oh, erm…’

  ‘And we’ll meet in public, so you’ll be safe… Well, as safe as any belle woman is with in my company.’ His eyes shone.

  ‘Um–’

>   ‘I’ll take that as English for “oui”,’ he said and turned up the collar of his leather jacket.’ Meet me outside at the Porte de Clignancourt underground station at, what shall we say…?’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’ I replied, in a daze. Was this really happening?

  ‘Agreed. Bon, I must return to my actress friend Monique – she celebrates the end of her last show.’

  Before I knew it, a loud groan escaped my lips.

  ‘Problem?’ Blade’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Me and Monique… There’s a bit of history there.’

  ‘Good thing she isn’t invited tomorrow then.’ He smiled. ‘You will still turn up and wait, if I am late after drinking tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t worry. I won’t abandon you, all Cinderella-like, leaving nothing but my shoe on the underground steps, as a clue that I’d been there. That would be plain rude – and my trainers aren’t at their most fragrant after two weeks of wearing them in here.’

  With another hearty laugh, Blade gave a small bow. ‘Clearly you see me as some Prince Charming – I’m flattered, Gemma. But then I was always one to stand out…’ And he gave a swish of his arm, as if to say “look at my outfit, my make-up, my hair”.

  ‘Your looks must get you a lot of attention,’ I said.

  Blade shrugged. ‘I’m used to it. At high school I was known as the gothic kid.’

  My eyes scanned the thick eyeliner and star on his face and I wondered what he looked like without it.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not very rock ‘n’ roll, in my chef’s coat. Or out of it even. What I mean is…’ My cheeks flushed.

  Blade’s mouth twitched. Then his face grew serious. ‘So, Gemma… Tell me, this man, your broken heart…’

  ‘He’s… He’s called Edward – and works here too.’

  ‘Ah…’ He nodded. ‘I met him tonight, when I picked Moni up – we had quite a chat. Nice man.’

  ‘He is. Very nice,’ I murmured. ‘But this is the best outcome, in the long run – we had nothing in common.’

  ‘Does that matter?’ he said softly.

  I shook myself. How come I was bearing my soul to this virtual stranger? He caught my gaze and my shoulders relaxed. There was something totally irresistible about him. ‘Yes, it matters. After a while. Once the initial attraction wears off…’

  ‘So that’s what happened – you didn’t… how do you English say: fancy him anymore?’

  ‘Not at all! I do – did – but…It’s complicated…’

  ‘All the best relationships are,’ he said and squeezed my shoulder. Fizzy tingles ran up and down my arm. What was that all about?

  ‘Bon, see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll be the handsome man in black…’

  Before I could answer, he chuckled and, confidence oozing from his laidback gait, returned to Monique’s table.

  Talk about cocky, I thought and went back into the kitchen. But my mouth upturned and my step felt light.

  ‘Oh là là, Pudding – you look like you’ve purchased cheap cod roe caviar and actually been given eggs from beluga sturgeon…’ said JC. ‘Now, chicken livers – ze verdict, s’il vous plait?’

  ‘Pierre is very happy. Well done, JC.’

  ‘Pah…’ He shook his knife, but his hooded eyes twinkled. ‘Bon. Now, just a quick favour – peel and slice thirty bananas for me, before leaving…’

  ‘We’re to make Banane tarte tatin,’ said Cindy, kneading pastry on the silver worktop. ‘They are super-quick to make. Pierre is doing one of his late Saturday night runs to the homeless shelter. We had these fruits left over from the last night’s chocolate banana crêpes. I don’t mind staying a bit later.’ She glanced at me. ‘But JC has a doggone point – what’s with you, honey? You look like Sleeping Beauty after she’s just been kissed awake.’

  ‘Nothing!’ I said and hurried to the pantry to collect the bananas. But when I returned her eyes had narrowed.

  ‘Spill!’ she said. ‘Either now or I’ll make you get up early and meet me for a coffee, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Um, I can’t…’ A peeled banana slipped out of my fingers and almost dropped on the floor. ‘I’m going to the flea market with someone.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Cindy wiped her brow and reached for a pastry cutter. JC was shouting at one of the kitchenhands and the swing doors flapped open and shut, as empty dessert plates came back.

  I concentrated hard on peeling bananas. ‘It’s just some guy – he’s called Blade.’

  ‘That’s a purtee name for a man, if ever I heard one! How long have you known him?’

  ‘About five minutes – he’s part of Monique’s table.’

  ‘Five minutes?’ Cindy put down the pastry cutter.

  ‘He seemed really nice!’ I said. ‘And I’ve made it quite clear I’m not interested in any funny stuff. He’s friends with Monique, so it’s not like he’s a complete stranger. Not an axe murderer, or anything…’

  I swallowed hard, realising what I’d just said. No – but Blade could be a cold-hearted assassin. I hadn’t considered that he could be a comrade-in-arms with Monique. So, in actual fact, this day out could be a great way to find out more about the actress. Plus I’d take my blue-stain pepper spray in my handbag which had that button to summon Joe on the bottom, just in case. And perhaps I should try and get a photo of him to send to Joe, before tomorrow.

  ‘Um… In actual fact, he asked me to personally take a coffee to the table, before I leave, so I won’t be a minute.’

  Darting a quick look at JC, who was swearing at a cut on his hand, I scarpered out of the kitchen and made a quick espresso at the coffee machine. Then I weaved my way between the emptying tables, in the direction of the rockstar. He looked up and smiled.

  ‘Um, compliments of the management – it’s an honour for Chez Dubois to be visited by such an, um, accomplished singer…’

  Monique giggled and it took all my strength not to shoot her a scowl. I put the coffee down and moved a few steps away before I took out my phone and glanced at it. I quickly navigated to the camera facility.

  ‘Oh dear, um, my phone’s not working, the screen looks funny,’ I said, justifying out loud why I held it up in the air, in the direction of Blade who looked at me and smiled. I took a photo quickly and heard a click. Job done.

  ‘Veree nice to see you again, Gemma,’ said Anton. ‘Here, I’m good with phones…’

  And before I knew it, he’d grabbed my mobile.

  I gasped in horror. ‘Er, no Anton, honestly, it’s fine now.’

  But he’d already passed it on to snooty Chantale who was obviously interested in seeing how expensive it was. The room went dizzy for a second. What if they realised I’d taken a photo on the quiet? What if Monique, MiddleWin Mort masterplanner, cottoned on that someone suspected her? She might shoot out the restaurant – or go on the run…

  No. I was being stupid and could just say I wanted a photo of Blade, a cool rockstar. And luckily I needn’t have worried as, in a flash, Blade stood up and with a piercing look held his hand out to Chantale. She wrinkled her nose and muttered something about it being very bon marché – that’s “cheap” to you and me. Blade passed it back to me and my skin zinged as his now gloveless fingers brushed against mine.

  ‘Merci,’ I muttered.

  ‘Hurry up, Blade,’ said Monique. ‘Remember Ozzy Osbourne is expecting you at his hotel, for a nightcap.’

  With a quick smile I headed to the staff room. Once there, I texted Joe and sent him the photo, explaining who Blade was.

  You know, it was hard, no longer living with Edward, and I felt concerned about his stomach ache, but Ozzy Osbourne? Oh my God! Tomorrow might offer a day of relief from my broken heart, as I, Gemma Goodwin, was to spend the morning with an exciting musician! I had to text Abbey immediately and tell her about my intriguing new friend!

  Chapter 16

  In my sensible duffle coat, fave jeans, brown boots and sparkly gloves, it was me who looked out of place at Por
te de Clignancourt, not leather-clad Mr Blade Rockstar, with black stars painted on his face. As I emerged from the underground station he was leaning against a nearby wall. Around him teemed such a mish-mash of styles, it would have made the hardest game of “Where’s Wally?”.Moroccan women, draped in black, passed by carrying hessian bags. Tourists searched for bargains alongside local bohemian types, dressed in a mosaic of colours. For once in my life I looked decidedly conservative.

  ‘Bonjour, Gemma,’ said Blade and gave me one of his crooked smiles.

  I smiled back. ‘Thought I was never going to get here. I lost count of the number of Métro stops. It’s so far up the underground map…’ I shivered. ‘…but then this could be the North pole…’

  I smiled again into those inky eyes and scanned the spiky hair. Today he wore an awesome silver skull necklace and a small charcoal scarf wrapped around his neck.

  ‘Did you remember to bring coins and notes – no credit cards?’ he said as we headed towards the stallholders.

  I nodded and switched the position of my leopard-print handbag, so that the strap went diagonally across my body. Cindy had also warned me about the market’s reputation for pickpockets. My attention was drawn to the rows of exotic stalls which stretched far ahead, and we joined the browsing hordes. The fragrance of spices and scented candles filled my nostrils. Numerous North African and French stallholders worked hard to ensnare any tourist who showed the slightest interest in their wares. I sniffed loudly as we stopped at one aromatic table.

  ‘Mmm, love joss sticks. My Auntie Jan’s last boyfriend grew up in the Sixties and always had one on the go.’ I took out my purse and bought some jasmine scented ones, plus a small gilt holder.

  Now and again, I glanced at Blade, as we walked around. Having never known a rockstar before, he really didn’t live up to the stereotype in my head. There was an air of gentleness about him, like the way he guided me from stall to stall.