Samantha Tonge - From Paris, With Love

John sneered. ‘Only the uppermost echelons of the organisation are given that honour.’

‘Whatever you want,’ said Joe, in a measured voice. ‘Seeing as MI6 aren’t involved – how about “Agent G”?’

Yay! I clapped my hands, now that did have… What was that word Edward used? Gravitas … ‘And of course, I’ll need gadgets,’ I said, enjoying calling the shots – well, it was payback, for Joe having scared me earlier. Amazingly he nodded.

‘In fact, you must come with me tonight, in preparation for working at Chez Dubois on Monday,’ said Joe. ‘This weekend will be spent at MI6’s secret bunker. I’ll teach you basic self-defence and arm you with the necessary tools. I’ll make out you’re a suspect being taken in for interrogation. That way our time there will be undisturbed.’

Secret bunker? I took a swig of water to calm me down, otherwise I might spontaneously combust! Living in Paris for a month was exciting enough, without all these spy shenanigans. Also, visiting their French headquarters would confirm Joe’s identity. Except, I’d so looked forward to settling into the flat with Edward and spending the next two days getting to visit the awesome landmarks and cafés, with a snog or two between croissants and espresso shots.

‘I don’t think that’s possible, you see…’

‘This part of the deal is non-negotiable,’ said Joe, in his clipped tone. ‘An intensive weekend in self-defence is a must. I’d be failing you if I didn’t teach you to the basics of looking after yourself.’

‘But…’

Joe’s bottom lip twitched as he fiddled with his cuffs. ‘It’s not too late to pull out, Gemma. I’d understand if you want to walk away.’

‘Okay, okay, I agree to this intensive training weekend – but can’t I tell Edward the truth? He wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No – for his sake, the less he knows the better. Don’t tell anyone, including friends or family back home.’

Shame. This would be the first big secret I’d ever kept from best mate Abbey. I scratched my head. Was this really happening? Agents? Death threats? Secret bunkers? It seemed bonkers, yet there was something in the eyes of this sincere Joe bloke that made me take him seriously.

‘At least let me return to the flat each night, to sleep. He’ll get suspicious if I’m suddenly away all weekend… I could say–’

‘Perhaps…’ said Joe. ‘Okay. That’s acceptable…’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘John will go back with you tonight, just to introduce himself to Edward. He’ll pretend to be a caterer you got talking to, hosting two big wedding events this weekend, who offered to teach you invaluable cookery skills in return for your help Saturday and Sunday as he needs more cheap pairs of hands… You say it’s too good an opportunity to turn down.’

‘You think of everything, don’t you?’ I said.

Joe shrugged as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. Then with John, he headed off to make some private phone calls. Dear Edward, he wouldn’t complain. Sometimes he was almost too faultless… Well, apart from when he tried to get me interested in opera and contemporary paintings. That was one of the things that surprised me about Edward – stuffy and traditional as he was, he loved modern art. Many an argument we’d had over the value of paintings which consisted of just a few dots or lines. Me, I couldn’t wait to visit Monet’s waterlily paintings, here in Paris and also…Ow! These highfalutin thoughts came to a swift halt when the tramp next to me, with a vice-like grip, grabbed my arm.

‘Loose talk costs lives,’ he hissed, ‘as your countrymen said during ze war. Let me introduce myself. Many ‘ave ‘eard of me in ze criminal underworld. I am ze notorious “Man with ze Magic Baguette”…’

He let go and reached towards his pocket. My adrenalin pumped. Sh… Sugar! This must have been a terrorist tracking us. Perhaps baguette was slang for a pistol.

Losing my new, mature self-control for one second, and after a deep breath, I chucked my water in his face. Good diversion. Now, mustn’t panic. I – G – was an important government agent now.

In my head, I repeated this mantra as a shocked Monsieur Magic Baguette roared. He grabbed my ankle as I stood to get up, whilst the Japanese tourists below turned around to take photos.

Chapter 4

How was I to know that ‘Magic Baguette’ was a French nickname for a man’s best friend (and I don’t mean his dog)? That tramp was no terrorist but a right old pervert, just about to flash. By the time Joe Bloggs legged it back to help me, the old man’s trouser zip was already halfway undone.

Not that he’d have stood a chance of offending me with mean-machine Joe on the scene. Whilst berating the tramp, in perfect French, Joe held me close, all protectively. No need of course – I was fine, but in a zombie apocalypse I’d definitely be on Team Joe Bloggs. He hauled the flasher off to the local gendarmerie (see how quickly I’m picking up the local lingo?)

What strength. Such speed. Plus a fearlessness to match that of sexy Damon from The Vampire Diaries. Of course, no one compared to Edward– whose disappointed but generous smile twisted my heart when, that night, I’d visited him with John and spun the tale about my supposed catering weekend…and the fact that our first day or two in Paris would be spent apart. You’d think me lying to him would easy after last year, when I pretended to be his cousin for a fortnight. But any deception still scrunched my stomach into tight knots.

Thank God Saturday – my first day here in the secret bunker – was now almost over and my spy training (*big grin*) had gone well. Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed every minute, but longed to be back with my hot man for a night of Parisian passion.

‘Right, one last run through of the moves you’ve learnt since this morning, with some role-play – get to your feet,’ said Joe, in his usual clipped tones. Abrupt was his style – he used words on a need to know basis, as if every one contained secret information.

And what did he mean “morning”? His car had picked me up at five a.m. which was practically the middle of the night. The day had involved full-on self-defence training in this glaringly bright room, several metres under the ground. Not that I felt it was necessary. I mean, Joe was only asking me to act on a hunch of his, right? But Mr Bossy Bloggs was adamant that he should teach me how to protect myself. That yes, his suspicions might come to nothing, but he wasn’t prepared to risk me being hurt.

The bunker was huge– with a canteen, gym, computer room and corridors. People in black suits to-ed and fro-ed carrying clipboards and left me in no doubt that Joe actually worked for the Secret Intelligence Service. Au naturel , I’d been blindfolded during the car journey there, even though it was dark outside. However, I could have sworn John muttered something about “the woods” and said “Bois de Boulogne”.

Having swilled back some water, I got up from an uncomfortable metal chair. So did Joe.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘give it your all. Flight if possible. Fight if necessary. Learn to recognise imminent aggression and avoid it where you can. Employ all the tactics we’ve practised.’

That was some challenge, as he’d shown me more moves than Jackie Chan probably knew. Apparently tomorrow we’d focus on crash courses in basic lock-picking and surveillance. By Sunday night my head would be ready to explode.

Without warning, Joe grabbed my arm. ‘Get in the car, bitch…’ he growled and pointed to an imaginary vehicle.

What a terrible actor! I giggled.

‘Concentrate, Gemma!’