‘There must be some mistake, I mean… Blade, he’s…the coolest… And…’ Surely my new friend hadn’t made everything up? Nah. No way.
‘Face it, Agent G– Blade the Rock Star – not just the name, the whole thing – is a false identity.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I trust you’ve haven’t mentioned anything to him about your mission?’
‘Of course not! Look… I still think you’re wrong…You aren’t going to rough him up and question him? Like in Casino Royale when Daniel Craig sat butt naked on that chair and got whipped.’ I shuddered. ‘Anyway – if he was involved with the MiddleWin Mort plot, don’t you think he’d be keen to rush off tonight, and meet up with Monique and the others?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was at that youth club, the night you were chased, and Monique has assigned him to keep an eye on you, just in case the bearded man’s threats didn’t work.’
These accusations seemed too unsubstantiated to me. Blade was a straight-up kind of guy, not dodgy.
Talking of dodgy, should I tell Joe about my lunchtime date with John and that agent’s attempt to recruit me into a life of crime? Probably not. Joe had enough to contend with at the moment and I didn’t want him to tackle John head on… Not with that creep intending to set Joe up to take the blame. This all had to be handled very carefully. For the moment, investigating John would be my own little covert assignment.
‘Merde alors, how long are you going to be!’ called a voice.
‘We’ll finish this conversation later,’ said Joe in a low voice. ‘Just keep away from Blade. Remember – he’s a friend of Monique’s.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You and I need to get going, so this calls for desperate measures. Where is that lipstick I gave you?’
‘We’re going to sedate him?’ I gasped. ‘You can’t treat Blade like a criminal, like he doesn’t matter, without further evidence! I mean… who knows, maybe it’s his mum’s fault… Perhaps his birth isn’t registered anywhere because she illegally bought him for adoption, or…’ My voice wobbled. Breaking up with Edward was bad enough – but now I was supposed to doubt a new, good mate?
Joe’s eyes narrowed. ‘Toughen up. It will only knock him out for a couple of hours. Now get in there and make a drink. We’ve got work to do. The sedative should take effect in five minutes.’ He patted his trouser pocket. ‘I have the keys for the silver Audi parked along the same road as the dance studio, containing our overalls, a wig for you with glasses, plus a trolley loaded with mops and cleaning products.’
I shook myself. Joe was right. No need to panic. I was sure there was a logical explanation surrounding Blade’s lack of identity. A few hours’ sleep wouldn’t harm my rockstar pal. Joe and I had work to do. The charity football match was exactly one week away.
I rifled in the bowl of potpourri, near the washbasin and jug, and retrieved the lipstick. Then I headed into the lounge and forced a smile. Joe stayed in the room for a moment, to send some important texts from his phone.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’ I said, in a bright voice.
Blade agreed, once I’d explained that was a drink and not a hat. He poured three cognacs. Then, whilst he went to blow out the candles, I tipped the sedative into his. Feeling a titch guilty, I handed it to him and went to the bathroom. When I got back, Blade stood in the kitchen, sipping his cognac. There was only one glass remaining.
‘Did Joe come out to fetch his?’ I said.
Blade turned around and shrugged. ‘Non – apologies, Gemma, I know I have been rude to your English friend today. He and I… Alors, whatever… I try to be polite from now on. So, I took him in the cognac you handed me and as a symbol of reconciliation, insisted we both knock back our drinks. I took one of the others for myself.’
‘Whaaat? I mean… Oh, um thanks… I’ll just go and check how he’s doing with the wonky cupboard door.’ I hurried into the bedroom.
Oh God. We were due to spy on Monique any minute and here was Joe, without a care in the world, sedated and snoring his head off, on my bed. John Smith couldn’t help as he was on his “delicate mission” near the Champs-Elysées and I still had to get rid of Blade before I could leave!
Chapter 23
Dressed in my overalls, curly brunette wig and blue-rimmed glasses, I raised my mop in the air and swung at Monique. But she darted to one side and rifled in her coat pocket. Oh no! What if she was reaching for the gun that would be used to assassinate the royal couple? I screamed and lobbed a scouring sponge at her face. She didn’t even flinch, so in desperation I reached for the bleach…
With a sigh, I slammed the door of the silver Audi, dressed in my cleaner’s disguise. Having just run through my mind how I would cope, if Monique sussed out I was Gemma, I gazed at the trolley of cleaning products. It hardly provided an impressive arsenal of weapons. The bleach could cause harm, but deep down I knew I’d never have the guts to use it. Much as I disliked Monique, well… You know me – even ants’ lives are sacred.
I consulted my watch: eight forty-five. I had fifteen minutes to get into the dance studio before Monique and her cronies turned up. I’d taken the keys out of Joe’s pocket, before tucking him up in bed.
And then, jeez! Talk about difficult, it had been practically impossible to shake off Blade. Muttering some excuse about Joe working really hard lately and needing his sleep, I announced I was going to head into Chez Dubois. My excuse? Er, JC had put cheese soufflés on the specials board and I was keen to master that dish.
However, as Blade followed me out of the flat, he suggested instead that we head for Notre Dame, which was “très belle” at night. His mouth drooped slightly when I said no, and my stomach twisted with guilt. In fact, I couldn’t help staring at those lips…
We’d come so close to kissing tonight. Maybe it was just as well that we weren’t spending the evening together. I only had another week in Paris. What if the unthinkable happened and I got attached to someone new, then found it doubly heart-wrenching to return to England?
At last, Blade had accepted it was time to leave me be, and we said our goodbyes at the entrance to the underground station. Saturday nights were horrendously busy and as I walked down the steps, I had to push my way through the crowds.
I’d wrinkled my nose at the familiar, musty Métro and was relieved to get back into the crisp evening air, when I finally emerged at the Hôtel de Ville stop. Eventually I passed the Italian restaurant, where I’d eaten with John Smith. A few people sat outside smoking and I breathed in a welcome whiff of garlic. Despite the amber glow of street lights, the midnight blue sky glittered with stars. The occasional cloud floated by like an unattained dream. The hum of the city vibrated like cupid’s arrow…
Ooh, now I’m all airy-fairy and poetic. That’s what Paris does to an ordinary girl like me. Now I understood why, over the years, people who’d visited always gushed over their past trips to the French capital. I shook myself and, sensible head back on, made my way to the dance studio. The lights were on and the door stood open. Fortunately no one manned the reception but lots of chat came from upstairs. A couple of young women appeared, hair tied up, wearing leggings and wraparound ballet cardigans. Ten out of ten for looking the part – but I knew the real reason they were here and shot them a dirty look.
Perhaps I could head upstairs with a duster and spray. I’d decided to pretend to be Romanian – that way I wouldn’t be expected to understand or speak fluent French. Earlier today I’d studied an online phrasebook to learn some basic phrases and just had to pray that none of Monique’s group came from that country.
Deep breaths… I smoothed down my overalls and headed upstairs. At the top I faced a corridor, lined with several doors.
By the sounds of the nearest room, as many people were at this meeting as had been at the youth club the other night… Head down, I pushed open the door, went in, and squeezing past people, walked around the edge. So as not to look suspicious, I searched for something to polish. Everywhere smelt sort of sweaty, like the changing rooms back at sch
ool. Ah, fab, a desk. I shook the spray and started rubbing. A woman came over and spoke to me in French. I picked out a couple of words and reckoned she was saying this was a private session.
I smiled. ‘Cu placere, (you’re welcome)’ I said, in Romanian, as if she’d just congratulated me on doing a good job. I almost giggled as she rolled her eyes and stalked off.
Oh dear – and do you know what happened then? My phone, as usual, ahem, conveniently didn’t work. So, pretending to be cross, I took it out of my trouser pocket, under my overalls, and held it in the air. Secretly, I took photos of the faces all around.
Most people were young – including several hot guys – all dressed in disguise, in dancing gear. Several nationalities appeared in the mix, so no obvious terrorist group sprang to mind. I know. As if I’d have any real clue. But Joe was sleeping like a baby in my bed, so I had to assess the situation as best I could.
Clapping hands brought everyone to attention and Monique entered the room. Shit (sorry, Lady, C), whilst my disguise might work from a distance, if she came over to ask me to leave, the wig and glasses probably wouldn’t fool her for long. I put the mobile back in my pocket, left the desk and scuttled to the back of the room, to furiously polish the ballet barres. Everyone had rucksacks or holdalls – what might they hold? For the first time it struck me that the royal couple might not be the only people they were hoping to hurt. What if this was a mass group of suicide bombers?
On the ground, near me, was a bag, its zip half open. I swallowed and looked around. Surely a titchy peek wouldn’t hurt? I leant down and pulled the zip back several centimetres. Hmm, a pair of trainers, a bottle of water… some energy bars… In other words, nothing much.
A few metres away lay a pink rucksack, open at the top. I glanced around – no one was interested in little old me, so I went over and had a quick rummage around. Again, there were trainers, a bottle of water and a small towel. I delved into a pocket and found a purse plus… My fingers curled around a piece of card.
I pulled it out. Wow. It was ticket to the charity football match. Quickly I took out my phone and photographed its seating details. Awesome! Joe would be impressed that I’d got evidence of the exact place this crowd were planning to sit. I shoved the ticket back inside the bag and just as I pulled my hand back out, nail-varnished fingers grabbed my wrist.
‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ snapped a voice.
Eek! Joe wouldn’t be so impressed with me now. Suddenly, the wig felt suffocating. I pulled away from the vice-like grip on my arm. A woman not much taller than me, with a blonde pixie cut, stood before me, arms now folded. Loudly she fired out something else in French, and I picked out the word “thief”.
‘Pardon, pardon,’ I muttered and picked up my duster and spray from the floor, before hurrying around the side of the room, to the door.
But I heard her squeaky voice follow me, so I walked even quicker, shoving the mobile back into my pocket. I just reached the door when a tall man in a mustard corduroy coat stood in my way. I looked up to meet his gaze as he barked something at me.
I shrugged. The room went quiet. He barked at me again.
‘Vorbiti engleza (do you speak English)?’ I said and brainstormed an excuse I could give for rifling in someone’s bag. ‘Er, English?’
The blonde woman appeared in my face, eyes fiery, brow furrowed. ‘Oui. Yes. You – thief. We should call the police.’
I almost snorted. Talk about bluffing – as if a group of assassins would do that! But I kept a straight face.
‘No… You are very wrong…’ I said, putting on what I considered to be an eastern European accent. ‘I thought the bag was lost, so looked inside for a name to hand it in. Please… Do not say anything… I need this job, with… two small children to support.’ And then, in an apologetic voice I added the longest Romanian phrase I’d learnt from the book, hoping to come across as authentic. Little did she know it meant “I have diarrhoea, please show me to the nearest hospital.”
‘Allez-y!’ called Monique from the other side of the room. Clearly the actress was getting impatient. The blonde woman stared at me for a moment, then scowled before turning around to listen to the upcoming speech.
Head perspiring more than ever, under the wig, I squeezed past the tall man who sneered and shook his head. Unfortunately for me, the blonde woman had stuck her foot out and… Aarggh! I tripped, which Edward would have thought was karma, if he still believed I’d tripped Monique up, right at the beginning of our stay in Paris.
The polish flew across the ground and I sat up, glasses crooked and… My mouth went dry. A black fringe hung over my eyes which meant the wig had shifted and my light brown hair would be visible from behind. Even worse, it suddenly disappeared from view altogether and my head felt cold. I looked up to see the blonde woman, lipsticked mouth open, holding the curly wig in her hand. I jumped to my feet and without attempting to offer any explanation, bolted from the room.
After all, the most important thing Joe had taught me was, where possible, flight not fight. Behind me I heard Blondie loudly ‘espionne!’ –the French for “spy”. Two steps at a time, I descended down the staircase, past reception and outside. Feet pounded behind me, so there was no point aiming for the car, I’d never have time to open the door, get in and drive away. Instead, I turned right, ran fifty yards and legged it down an avenue. The sound of voices had petered away, but footsteps still followed, although not so many as before.
‘Stop!’ shouted a voice, which had the opposite effect on me and I ran for my life, hoping I wouldn’t trip over as this little street wasn’t lit and intermittent piles of rubbish littered the pavement.
‘Gemma!’ called a French male voice and I heard the screech of a car as well. Oh God. My identity was known. Clearly I was going to be thrown in a boot and this time tomorrow be in the Middle East or Russia or – I swallowed hard – a shallow grave in nearby woods.
I bit my lip, chest heaving as I squinted through the darkness. About fifty yards ahead stood a wall. I’d actually turned into a deadend. Now what would I do?
Nausea backed up my throat and I felt exactly the same as that day in the bunker, when Joe had turned nasty, during role play. And then – ouch! Two arms grabbed my shoulders. With all my might I stamped, hoping my foot would land on my assailant’s feet, but it was no good. I couldn’t wriggle out of my clothes easily, to escape, cos of the cumbersome overalls. So, I turned my head sharply to the right and bit into a hand. Someone swore in English and I wrenched myself free, but where to go?
The wall was only a bit higher than me. I charged ahead and with all my might, jumped – but two big arms pulled me back down. A tall body pinned me against the wall. Trembling from head to toe, I wriggled as my life flashed before me at breakneck speed…
Dad and my brothers cheering as I recited the offside rule… Auntie Jan trying not to cry as we sat, scoffing popcorn, in front of a mega slushy film… Winning a gold star at junior school for Drama… Getting my first ever tip as a waitress… The old Earl’s face when we won Million Dollar Mansion… Chef JC’s pride last week as I mastered a complicated sauce… Me and Edward kissing on Christmas night… Fans in the street shouting out how much they loved me… The Sacre-Coeur, lit up, under the French sky…
‘Let me go!’ I screamed, in a muffled voice, face pressed against the wall. I had a pretty cool life, and wasn’t about to let anyone bring it to a halt, not now. In fact, in that split-second, I realised a very important thing. Good times had existed before I knew Edward, and would without him, once again. What’s more, I, Gemma Goodwin, had been mad to be intimidated by Monique. So what if she lived and breathed art and probably had an IQ to match Einstein? I’d helped save a stately home. Now my catering skills were going from strength to strength. Plus I’d been cherry-picked to help protect our royals. I had friends from all social circles and still got bundles of fan letters. I was good enough for darling Edward. If only I’d realised that before, and put up more of a fi
ght when Monique set her sights on my noble boyfriend.
I struggled again and to my surprise, the strong arms around me released their grip.
‘Gemma… It’s me.’ The body backed off.
Huh? I turned around and the shock almost winded me as I took in the spiky black hair and eyeliner.
‘Blade?’
‘Gemma, why are you –’
‘Blade?’ I shook my head. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh my God… Joe was right. You are involved with this mega treacherous plot… How could you?’ My eyes tingled. Blade wasn’t the man I thought he was.
But I had no time for questions, as a familiar black BMW zoomed towards us and screeched to a halt. A wide-awake Joe jumped out, punched Blade deftly in the face and after a few seconds of wrestling, bundled him into the back of the car, which promptly drove off.
Chapter 24
‘All right, all right, j’arrive!’ I called as the rapping got louder. I yawned and glanced at my phone before heading to the front door. Honestly, who was knocking at this unearthly hour on a Sunday morning? It was only half past seven and I still felt knackered after being chased last night. A waiting text caught my attention. Wow. It was from Joe – said he’d made a mistake and that my rockstar mate was a good guy.
The knocking became more urgent and a wave of unease washed over me. It sounded remarkably like Blade calling my name. And Joe wouldn’t just message something like that – he’d have rung with an explanation. What if Blade had overcome him and escaped? What if the rockstar was waiting outside, ready to pounce?
I took a minute to read the text again. My chest squeezed as I read the word “Gemma”. Joe never called me that when he was on duty, or if we were talking spy stuff. And suddenly I knew that was his coded way of telling me all was not well.
The front door rattled and I ran into the kitchen to grab a frying pan. I tried to text Agent John Smith but my hands shook too much. With a deep breath I opened the door. Blade stood there in a different outfit from last night, as if he’d been home and changed. His lip had a slight cut on it from Joe’s punch. He held out a box and lifted the lid – croissants, fresh from the shop below, no doubt.
From Paris With Love Page 21