From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge
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Stop messing about.’
Slowly, very slowly I breathed, face botox-still, keeping my body motionless despite a really annoying itch on my nose.
‘Gemma?’
I held my breath just for a few seconds and before I knew it, he’d put me on the floor in the recovery position and knelt down, not far away. As discreetly as possible, I slipped off my shoes which had a slight heel. Then, without giving Joe time to study me further, focused all my strength into pushing my body up and sprinting for the far wall.
Almost there… Just a few more feet… but at the last moment an arm came around my neck and pulled me back.
I squealed. ‘All right… You win…’ My legs paddled in the air. ‘Joe, it’s hurting, put me down…’
Eventually he did and, taking big gulps of air, eyes wide, I turned around, trying not to look spooked.
Joe studied me for a minute. ‘No… We both won. I’m impressed.’ His tone softened. ‘Playing dead – sometimes a good tactic. Removing shoes which might slow you down – good work. You were cornered but used initiative.’
I rubbed my arm. Joe came forward and rolled up my shirt sleeve. Gently his strong hand ran over marks left from when he’d held me really hard.
‘But what if you’d been a real criminal?’ I muttered.
Joe stood back and stared at me again. ‘Glad you’re finally taking this seriously, Gemma.’
I nodded.
In silence, we walked back over to our chairs. Joe passed me my water bottle and we sat down.
He glanced sideways at me. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said, cross at the waver in my voice. ‘But it’s nice to know you care.’
Any warmth left his eyes. ‘I can’t afford to care in my job. It’s my responsibility to keep you in one piece, that’s all…’
He looked away and for some reason I didn’t believe him. Why the hard act, all the time? What had happened in his past?
There was a knock at the door and creepy John came in, after looking over his shoulder because, really, we weren’t supposed to be there.
‘Right. Role-play again,’ said Joe. ‘This time with John.’
I pulled a face, unable to think of anything worse than wrestling with that smarmy bloke. Joe met my gaze again.
‘Look….’ He bit his lip. ‘I’d understand if you’ve changed your mind, Gemma.’ His eyes bore into me. ‘But I’d never ask a civilian to get involved like this, if I didn’t feel strongly that something truly suspicious – be it murder or not – was afoot. Regardless of what the powers that be say, I’m not prepared to ignore any sort of threat towards the heir to the throne. Not even if it means putting my career on the line…’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘Or putting someone – you – in a potential line of fire.’
A wave of nausea hit the back of my throat as I remembered my fight with Joe. Me? Action-woman Agent G? I was more Angelina Jokey than Jolie.
Pretending to be an aristocrat for a couple of weeks was one thing, but possibly coming face to face with an assassin? Missing clues that could possibly save the monarchy? No. It’d be best to quit this ridiculous mission before I let Queen and country down.
“Men who eat raw fish make the best lovers” said Auntie Jan, whose latest boyfriend regularly devoured sushi. My brothers and I didn’t like to think too deeply about the implications of that comment, but as I watched Joe tuck into seaweed-wrapped tuna, I couldn’t help wondering what he was like between the sheets.
The secret agent and I sat opposite each other, in the bright bunker room. Okay, I admit it – after fighting him yesterday I’d lost my nerve for a moment, but I soon recovered my mojo. I gave the role-play a go with John and – *shudder* – even though his big hands ended up in all sorts of places, I successfully wriggled away. Punching him in the crotch proved to be a particularly satisfying tactic.
Edward must have wondered what was wrong last night – I’d had a long bath and then sat quietly in the lounge. I caught him looking at me, eyebrows knotted together, so in the end I forced myself to cheer up and asked him all about his day, involving a trip to the famous cemetery, Père Lachaise. In fact, it sounded quite interesting, what with seventy thousand plots and over five thousand trees. Edward visited the graves of Proust, Colette, Chopin and Oscar Wilde. His face had beamed as he described – in his words – “exquisite tombs with intricate carvings, sculptures and affectionate epitaphs”. It had helped me shake myself back to normality and gain some perspective on my day’s training.
I mean, Joe was a decent bloke who’d do his best to keep me out of danger. In any event, I was only going to check out internet rumours which would probably amount to nothing.
Joe caught my eye, across the table, and shook his head. I grinned and tucked into the takeaway McDonalds he’d smuggled in for me.
‘I thought you James Bond types smoked and drank most of the time,’ I said, after a yummy mouthful of burger.
Joe wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘MI6 has moved with the times, just like the sports world where former legends used to hell-raise and knock back pints. Nowadays we follow strict exercise and diet regimes, just like modern athletes. Think more Roger Federer than Roger Moore.’
‘That’s not very sexy,’ I said, thinking of Sean Connery’s come-to-bed eyes as he sipped cocktails in all those Bond films I’d happily sat through, growing up.
‘My remit isn’t to be sexy,’ he said and knocked back the rest of his green tea.
S’pose that had an upside – at least Joe wouldn’t expect me to meet Bond girls’ standards and have the waist of Ursula Andress or look fab if painted from head to toe in gold. But thank God Edward wasn’t some health nut. Not a lot beat a night in front of the telly with him and a pizza takeaway. Yes, since moving into Applebridge Hall last autumn, I had introduced him to the delights of readymade food delivered to your door. We’d cosy up in the parlour, without a jot of cutlery (sorry, Lady C!). Sometimes gruff estate manager, Mr Thompson, joined us if the film involved cowboys, his all-time favourite genre.
Joe relaxed back into his chair, having enjoyed a tofu salad and yogurt as well as his sushi starter.
‘Our physical training is similar to an astronaut’s,’ he said. ‘We have regular medicals and individually tailored fitness regimes.’
But I only heard one word – astronaut. Perhaps Joe would one day head into outer space, just like in Moonraker, Dad’s favourite Bond movie.
‘Right. Let’s run through what you’ve learnt this morning about working out computer passwords, just in case you ever need to hack into an account,’ said Joe.
I popped the last chip in my mouth and then slipped a scrunchie off my wrist. I tied up my hair which, with Lady C’s influence, was still more like my natural, fair brown colour and most unlike the fake chocolate tones I used to prefer.
‘Okay – firstly, I should try the top six passwords that everyone uses,’ I said. ‘Which are… password, 12345678, querty, welcome, letmein, iloveyou…’
‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘And failing them?’
‘Ask the person questions to find clues about the things they hold most dear – the name of a childhood dog… Their date of birth… Town they were born in… I could try it on you but guess you won’t give me an honest answer.’
Joe gave a half-smile and got to his feet. After brushing salt off my jeans, I stood up whilst he opened a big holdall, on the table. He pulled out a flat metal box.