Samantha Tonge - From Paris, With Love

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.’