tables are decked with primrose-coloured mats. In the middle of each is a candle and vase containing a single yellow rose. From the ceiling hangs a wrought iron, eight candle chandelier– and huge glossy green ferns, in pots, punctuate the whole room. But most impressive of all…’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘The long, polished mahogany bar. What an array of bottles, lined up against a mirrored wall, including all the French favourites – pastis, triple sec, and crème de menthe. Plus a complicated coffee machine stood in the corner…’
Okay. Enough description about the bricks and mortar.Now for the important stuff. ‘What about the people we’re going to work with?’
Edward sipped his beer. ‘Pierre – the boss – is in his fifties with thick black hair. He bought the restaurant twenty years ago and has a girlfriend called Agnes who works at the famous Galeries Lafayette department store.’
‘Cool!’
‘He clearly loves his job. It must be terrific to spend your life doing something that satisfies you so much.’
I smiled. Recent months had made my gorgeous Edward question everything about his future. At first, after winning
Million Dollar Mansion
, he’d talked of working side by side with Applebridge Hall’s true heir, for years to come. But recently I’d caught him surfing career advice sites, which must have seemed pointless to him before, when his life had been mapped out, managing the future of his ancestral home. But seeing as all that had changed…
‘Perhaps we should go into the restaurant business together,’ I said and grinned. ‘Me as headchef, you managing the staff.’
Edward’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘Talking of headchefs, Chez Dubois’ Jean-Claude is quite a character. Pierre indicated that his abrupt manner regularly caused staff departures – yet he is a whiz in the kitchen, which is why our boss keeps him on. And apparently the American souschef, Cindy Cooper, knows just how to handle him. She’s a glamorous woman, with ladybird red lipstick and immaculate blonde hair, even after a couple of frantic hours working over lunchtime.’
‘Anyone else?’ I’d always thought Edward would make a brilliant witness to any crime. He paid attention to detail like no one I knew and had a memory to beat any winner of Mastermind.
‘Oh yes! Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, around forty and rakishly tall, who let out a snort of disgust when Pierre introduced me – said he’d seen clips of
Million Dollar Mansion
on YouTube and thought the class system and royal family represented Britain at its worst. Clearly he’s a fierce Republican. He sneered at heir William and Catherine and said – his words, not mine – “they were no different to people claiming state benefits and that their hours should be spent not travelling, but looking for proper jobs.”
I sat more upright. Hmm. MI6 may have checked out all the staff at Chez Dubois but this Hugo sounded mega anti-royal.
Then Edward asked me about my day, and to avoid lying to him I suggested I head back to the flat, to cook dinner whilst he enjoyed another drink. I’d turn on the heating, hit the music, and set us up for a truly romantic Parisian night. Happily he took out his notebook, and said he’d be along soon, after writing down some observations on his first weekend in France.
Five minutes later, I entered the hallway next to the cake shop, glad to be inside once again. Carefully, I climbed the poorly lit stairs. Huh? Our door was open, but no lights were on. I swallowed hard and took deep breaths. What if it was “the enemy” – someone who knew about the so-called MiddleWin Mort plan?
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I took a step forward. Perhaps I was simply spooked after all the training I’d had. Yes, that was it. I shook myself. A world-class terrorist? Nah – if anyone, it was more likely a two-bit burglar. And most probably it was no one at all. Edward must have been distracted and forgotten to close
I raised an eyebrow.
‘The long, polished mahogany bar. What an array of bottles, lined up against a mirrored wall, including all the French favourites – pastis, triple sec, and crème de menthe. Plus a complicated coffee machine stood in the corner…’
Okay. Enough description about the bricks and mortar.Now for the important stuff. ‘What about the people we’re going to work with?’
Edward sipped his beer. ‘Pierre – the boss – is in his fifties with thick black hair. He bought the restaurant twenty years ago and has a girlfriend called Agnes who works at the famous Galeries Lafayette department store.’
‘Cool!’
‘He clearly loves his job. It must be terrific to spend your life doing something that satisfies you so much.’
I smiled. Recent months had made my gorgeous Edward question everything about his future. At first, after winning
Million Dollar Mansion
, he’d talked of working side by side with Applebridge Hall’s true heir, for years to come. But recently I’d caught him surfing career advice sites, which must have seemed pointless to him before, when his life had been mapped out, managing the future of his ancestral home. But seeing as all that had changed…
‘Perhaps we should go into the restaurant business together,’ I said and grinned. ‘Me as headchef, you managing the staff.’
Edward’s blue eyes crinkled. ‘Talking of headchefs, Chez Dubois’ Jean-Claude is quite a character. Pierre indicated that his abrupt manner regularly caused staff departures – yet he is a whiz in the kitchen, which is why our boss keeps him on. And apparently the American souschef, Cindy Cooper, knows just how to handle him. She’s a glamorous woman, with ladybird red lipstick and immaculate blonde hair, even after a couple of frantic hours working over lunchtime.’
‘Anyone else?’ I’d always thought Edward would make a brilliant witness to any crime. He paid attention to detail like no one I knew and had a memory to beat any winner of Mastermind.
‘Oh yes! Hugo Petit, the headwaiter, around forty and rakishly tall, who let out a snort of disgust when Pierre introduced me – said he’d seen clips of
Million Dollar Mansion
on YouTube and thought the class system and royal family represented Britain at its worst. Clearly he’s a fierce Republican. He sneered at heir William and Catherine and said – his words, not mine – “they were no different to people claiming state benefits and that their hours should be spent not travelling, but looking for proper jobs.”
I sat more upright. Hmm. MI6 may have checked out all the staff at Chez Dubois but this Hugo sounded mega anti-royal.
Then Edward asked me about my day, and to avoid lying to him I suggested I head back to the flat, to cook dinner whilst he enjoyed another drink. I’d turn on the heating, hit the music, and set us up for a truly romantic Parisian night. Happily he took out his notebook, and said he’d be along soon, after writing down some observations on his first weekend in France.
Five minutes later, I entered the hallway next to the cake shop, glad to be inside once again. Carefully, I climbed the poorly lit stairs. Huh? Our door was open, but no lights were on. I swallowed hard and took deep breaths. What if it was “the enemy” – someone who knew about the so-called MiddleWin Mort plan?
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I took a step forward. Perhaps I was simply spooked after all the training I’d had. Yes, that was it. I shook myself. A world-class terrorist? Nah – if anyone, it was more likely a two-bit burglar. And most probably it was no one at all. Edward must have been distracted and forgotten to close
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