From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge

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СКАЧАТЬ did it!’ With a squeal, I threw down the instruments and hugged Joe around the neck.

      ‘I mean…’ Clearing my throat, I stood back. My cheeks felt hot. Blimey, Joe’s face had cracked into a smile.

      ‘Good job, Gemma,’ he said and examined the lock barrel. ‘It’s a matter of practice now. Try it at your flat – obviously when Edward isn’t around. And carry those tools with you all the time. You never know when you might need to get in somewhere – or out.’

      Face locked into a grin, I clapped my hands and jerked my head towards the holdall. ‘Please tell me I finally get to see gadgets?’

      I raised both eyebrows and – oh my God! Joe actually laughed. It was deep and heartfelt and lasted several seconds, as if his chest was making the most of something that rarely happened.

      Once more he delved into the holdall and pulled out a pepper spray, lipstick and leopard-print bag. My mouth drooped.

      ‘Is that it? They don’t look very technical or exciting. What about the packet of fake stick-on fingerprints, cigarettes loaded with bullets or an attaché case concealing a gun? How about a defibrillator so I can bring myself back to life, like Daniel Craig did in Casino Royale?’

      Joe shook his head.

      I grinned. ‘Just kidding – I know this is real life, not written by Ian Fleming…’

      Joe picked up the pepper spray. ‘Use sparingly,’ he said. ‘I bought this myself for you and just added some special blue dye that won’t wash off for forty-eight hours – useful if you’re attacked in the dark and won’t recognise the culprit or be able to give a good description.

      ‘Great,’ I said and fingered the small bottle. ‘And the lipstick?’

      He lifted it up and pulled off the lid to reveal a small tube of clear liquid.

      ‘This is a sedative,’ he said. ‘Add this to someone’s drink and they’ll fall asleep within five minutes. It’s only to be used as a last measure.’

      ‘So, basically, I’m not going to get any proper MI6 gadgets?’

      Joe’s eyes twinkled for a second. ‘Sorry, Gemma – like I said, this isn’t an official MI6 mission. I guess this leopard-print bag is the nearest thing to high-tech.’ He turned it over. ‘I managed to get my hands on a tracking device and have attached it to the bottom.’ He pointed to a gold button and pressed it hard. A loud beep emitted from his pocket. He took out his phone which had lit up, to reveal a map.

      ‘This shows me your exact location,’ he said. ‘If this ever flashes up I’ll be with you as quick as I can. Emergencies only, it goes without saying… Although I doubt you’ll ever need it…’

      We looked at each other. No words were necessary. Not after yesterday’s fight. I agreed that the idea of my actually uncovering an assassination plot was unlikely. But just in case I did – just in case a sticky situation arose, it was comforting to think I could summon a MI6 agent to my side.

      Joe put the lockpicks, lipstick and pepper spray into the handbag.

      ‘We’ve scratched the surface of MI6 training, Gemma – the self-defence is the most important thing to take on board.’

      I smiled. ‘Shouldn’t you call me Agent G from now on?’

      ‘Whatever you like.’ He passed over a mobile phone number. ‘List me in your contacts as Joe, then text me so I have your number.’

      I followed Joe through the bunker, to the entrance door. John Smith stood there, the overpowering smell of his musky aftershave wafting towards me. He looked at Joe, who nodded, before walking away. The last thing I saw before John tied on my blindfold was silver cufflinks in the shape of shields – and expressionless as ever, his stern grey eyes. I also felt his hand against the small of my back as we walked to the car. He ran it gently up and down my spine. Urgh.

      ‘Enjoy being blindfolded?’ John said, as he turned on the car engine. ‘I’ve a pair of handcuffs in the boot, if that does anything for you.’

      With just his sickly smooth voice to go by, I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Ick. Every second spent with John made me realise what a gentleman Joe was.

      And even though Joe’s speech was abrupt, it had a sincerity John’s tones lacked.

      ‘No, ta,’ I said. ‘The sooner it comes off the better.’

      ‘Spoilsport,’ he said, with a snigger, ‘So, fancy yourself as a spy, do you? Must say I enjoyed watching Million Dollar Mansion. That Applebridge Hall is quite a place. Although – no offence –I thought the Croxley’s competitor, the Baron of Marwick, had the right idea, wanting to turn his castle into a hen and stag night destination, if he won. I’d have paid for a week there myself, to enjoy topnotch wines and sumptuous medieval banquets.’

      With his shiny cufflinks and pungent aftershave, it didn’t surprise me that John could relate more to the flash baron.

      ‘Like the finer things in life, do you?’ I asked.

      ‘Nothing wrong with that…’ he said and proceeded to tell tales from his missions. Over the last few years he’d wined and dined women in Prague, Thailand and Milan. Whilst Joe was dedicated to his work for the good of the country, I suspected John’s motivation was the jet-setting life. He even boasted about fiddling his expenses, which he used to pull women and buy luxury items.

      ‘Right. Here we go. I’ll drop you a couple of streets away from The Golden Croissant,’ said John and the car came to a halt. His door slammed and he got in the back with me. Carefully he untied the blindfold and my eyes easily adjusted as outside it was already dark. Then, a little too close for my comfort, John gave a bow of his head.

      ‘Bravo for wriggling away from me yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that. If you ever want to practise again, I could book us into any top hotel you like.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, Her Majesty will foot the bill.’

      Yikes. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in our country’s international security force, when an agent’s moral compass was off-target. Politely, I declined and John smiled as if it say “perhaps next time”. Hastily, I got out of the car and as the black BMW drove off, my phone bleeped. It was a text from Edward.

      He was only ten minutes away, back from his day out visiting Chez Dubois and I was desperate for gossip about our place of work! He suggested we had a drink in the bar, down the avenue from our flat, before cooking dinner. So I headed past the seafood bistro, La Perle, which for seven o’clock on a Sunday night looked busy – and awesome, lit up with twinkling fairy lights. I stopped by the Golden Croissant but the window was empty – shame, Edward had described the cakes to me that were on sale yesterday, including mini towers of chocolate sponge, iced and garnished with delicate caramelised swirls, plus triangular shaped fruit tarts in colours brighter than a Harlequin clown. Yum!

      The sound of chatting greeted me as I arrived at the bar, went inside and found a cosy corner. I ordered one beer and a glass of wine. What a thrill when the waiter understood my French! Well, almost – I somehow ended up with a glass of red, instead of white.

      ‘So, tell me everything,’ I said to Edward, as we held hands across СКАЧАТЬ