From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge

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      Edward smiled. ‘Why don’t you pop out and buy some basics, for tea, from that little supermarket? By the time you get back I should have the heating and kettle on. Or if you like, I’ll get the food in and you can set up the flat.’

      ‘No it’s fine…’ Me shopping – that sounded perfect! Although Edward had become something of a fan of this pastime, since meeting me… Primark was his particular favourite. He couldn’t get over the choice, as over the years he’d made do with the services of a local tailor and occasional trips to a small men’s clothes shop in Applebridge.

      ‘I won’t be long…’ A lump came to my throat, just for one second. Edward was so caring and reliable, staying behind to set up a cosy little home for us. Perhaps I was mad to not immediately accept his proposal of marriage. I stepped up on tiptoe, and kissed him firmly on his lips. Tenderly he responded, sending a trickle of tingles down my spine.

      Once outside, I headed towards the supermarket and, as I glanced ahead, I let out a gasp. The man in a black suit stood by a nearby tree. Of average height, he nevertheless stood out. His whole physique shouted discipline – with his clear skin and subtle gym-bunny shape.

      Quick as a flash, he turned away and I shook myself. No. Don’t be paranoid. He must have been a different bloke to the one on the plane. Dark suits and sunglasses were all the rage nowadays.

      I gazed around at a poor lady with matted hair and a threadbare scarf. She sat on the pavement, asking for change. I slid my rucksack off my back and delved in for my purse, before handing her some coins. Then I entered the supermarket, in my head practising the pronunciation for the French equivalent of “how much, please?”

      At the back of the shop, I swung around an aisle, looking for milk and… Whoa! … came face to face with that man again. Suddenly he reached for a packet of biscuits. The hairs on the back of my neck jumped to attention. Instinct told me that he was pretending to look busy. But why? Could he really have followed little old me, all the way from the airport?

      Shopping forgotten, I made for the door, nevertheless telling myself my suspicions were… Well, my first thought was “bonkers” but since staying with Edward these last months, my vocabulary now included phrases my new aristocratic friends used. Occasionally I’d say something was “quite terrible” or “nonsensical” or “awfully idiotic”. So yes, my suspicions were quite nonsensical.

      Who did I think the man was? A real-life version of the Men in Black agents, about to zap aliens? If we’d been in England, he could have worked for one of the countless TV companies who’d approached me during the last few months, to do other reality shows. Yet we were in Paris… I swallowed. No one knew me. I was letting my imagination work overtime.

      Chest nevertheless pounding, I led him away from the direction of the flat and instinctively quickened my pace. After five minutes, I gazed over my shoulder, as the sunlight began to fade. Really? I mean, really? Had he just dodged behind a parked car?

      No doubt about it, then. He was stalking me. Mouth dry, I took a sharp left into an avenue and ran as fast as I could in my heels. Yet footsteps still sounded behind me. I cut into an even smaller avenue. Shit (sorry Lady C, manners out the window at this point)… I stared at a dead end. My hands felt sticky and in slow motion, I swivelled around.

      The black BMW from earlier pulled up. The door opened. Inside was the mysterious man. He climbed out and walked stealthily towards me.

Chapter 2

      ‘Gemma Goodwin?’ he said.

      Was he English? If not, that was a great London accent. My fists curled.

      ‘Who’s asking?’ I demanded, daring my voice to waver.

      He stared at me for a second– waited until a teenager listening to music, on the other side, boogied past– and then pointed inside the car.

      ‘Get in please. I don’t mean you any harm but discretion is necessary.’

      Feeling my lip tremble just a titch, I held his gaze. How dare he scare half to death? Who did this weirdo think he was?

      ‘Right away, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of life or death.’

      Adrenalin surged through my veins. Uh oh. My heart pounded faster than ever. Both were signs I was about to do something mad – although nigh on four months living with the even-tempered Croxleys had also calmed me down. Lately I reacted to challenging situations in a less knee-jerk fashion - unless I was faced with some bizarre, suited nutter trying to kidnap me. My first curled tighter.

      ‘Aarghh!’ I screamed, right in mystery man’s face, before legging it away as fast as I could. Well, everyone knew you had to take assailants by surprise. Plus I hoped my screech might attract some knight in shining armour. In fact anyone would do, just for moral support, like a pensioner wielding a stale baguette or sleek Parisian model armed with an ultra pointed stiletto heel.

      However, the only person in sight was a man in a Frank Sinatra hat, shuffling by, with the help of a walking stick. Yet he was a superhero, because I reckon his presence alone stopped mystery man hauling me back, to lock into the car’s boot.

      Without turning around, I ran away from the shops, as fast as possible in my unpractical heels. I headed into a cobbled road with high white-washed apartment blocks either side. None of the parked vehicles were tall enough to crouch behind. Plus the pavements were still empty which was probably just as well, as even if I stopped someone to explain my plight, I wouldn’t work out the French quick enough.

      I scoured the road for a tight spot to hide, so that I could ring Edward or even better the police. Except that I didn’t know the French emergency services number… Urgh. Perhaps there was a French pop group named after it, like that boyband 911. Trouble was, the only French singer I’d heard of, thanks to Gran, was the old crooner, Sacha Distel.

      With a gulp of chilly air, rucksack twerking my back, I eventually ended up in a bigger road called Rue des 3 Frères. Despite being on the run – despite my thighs practically igniting at the top, due to skin rubbing together – I found a second to congratulate myself on knowing that this translated as Street of 3 Brothers. If only that meant, literally, that a trio of hunks would promptly arrive to act as my bodyguards. Blisters puffed up on my heels as I gritted my teeth and continued my flight away from the buzz of Montmartre, through the chilly February air. With relief, I could no longer hear the thud of following feet… The fingers on one hand crossed, I finally stopped and turned around.

      My stomach twisted. In the distance glinted the bonnet of a black BMW. Mind you, that meant mystery man had taken the mega easy option and was now tracking me in his car– what a wimp. Well I’d show him. My eyes narrowed in the twilight. What I needed was the underground. Edward had shown me the Métro map. Hundreds of stops were dotted around the city. Just let my stalker try to drive his flash wheels down steps.

      I turned off the main road and came to an adorable little square surrounded by picture-postcard-pretty shops. What a change it made not to see the same old brand names, like in England, but individually owned bakeries and chemist stores. In the centre, under some towering, leafless trees, a group of men packed up a game of French boules. What a pity I hadn’t time to take a photo and send it to Dad. Years ago, he and Mum had enjoyed a two day honeymoon here. I’d promised to email him pictures of Paris as it was now– and you didn’t get more French than this.

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