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 the table. My fingers had warmed nicely from the February chill. ‘What’s Chez Dubois like, inside?’
‘Cosy – mahogany wood-panelling halfway up the walls and then burnt orange wall paper to the ceiling. Terracotta tiles line the floor and the
‘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 the table. My fingers had warmed nicely from the February chill. ‘What’s Chez Dubois like, inside?’
‘Cosy – mahogany wood-panelling halfway up the walls and then burnt orange wall paper to the ceiling. Terracotta tiles line the floor and the
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