Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘Better than friends in low places, or no friends at all,’ Charlee responded, so cheerfully that it took a few seconds for Sally to register the put-down.

  Charlee didn’t know what she’d done to antagonise Sally Taylor, but she never missed an opportunity to remind Charlee of her lowly status at What’cha! or to emphasise just how precarious her position was. However, one thing was certain. Charlee might have to kowtow to old Teflon Knickers but she could be as rude as she liked to her PA and get away with it. And, like the other interns, Charlee took a perverse delight in baiting Sally.

  Charlee certainly wasn’t going to allow her to ruin a once-in-a-lifetime invitation to What’cha!’s prestigious book award.

  ‘You know us interns, Sal. Rent-a-crowd. Go anywhere for a free glass of champagne and a chance to climb the greasy pole.’ That statement, and calling her ‘Sal’, touched a raw nerve and drew a quick response.

  ‘You’re not climbing any pole; greasy or otherwise, Missy,’ she snarled, revealing newly veneered teeth so brilliant white that Charlee and Poppy were temporarily dazzled. ‘Vanessa wants you wannabes in the side room over there.’ She pointed with the invitations in the direction of a small room off the main art gallery. ‘The catering staff’s been hit by the same sickness bug as Editorial. You and the others are to serve the champagne and canapés.’

  ‘What? Even me?’ questioned Poppy, joining in with the conversation and giving the PA a quelling look.

  Momentarily wrong-footed, Sally checked her list of guests and then came back with a flustered, sycophantic: ‘Are you here as Miss Walker, daughter of the proprietor and friend of Mr Fonseca-Ffinch. Or an intern and employee of What’cha!’

  ‘Don’t be such a fuckwit, Sally. Figure it out for yourself.’

  Acting daughter-of-the-boss, Poppy sashayed into the crowd air-kissing people as she headed towards an exhibition of photographs from the award-winning book: The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet. She picked up a glass of champagne clearly expecting Charlee to follow her, but Charlee suddenly thought better of it. Poppy’s position at What’cha! was ambiguous to say the least and she could wrap Sam Walker round her French manicured finger. But Charlee didn’t have that luxury. She sighed and her earlier euphoria evaporated, leaving her depressingly aware of her lowly status.

  She should have known there was no such thing as a free lunch - or a baksheesh invitation to an exclusive book launch, come to that. Realising she’d been sold a pup, Charlee headed for the side room Sally had indicated, the glitter, glamour and promise of the evening receding with every step. She entered the room just in time to hear Vanessa’s uplifting team talk.

  ‘I don’t care how many episodes of Ugly Betty you’ve seen, or what your pathetic little dreams are. Tonight is not about promoting yourselves or your dubious writing talents.’ There was a general shuffling of feet as this venomous barb struck home. Like Charlee, everyone present had aspirations and hoped one day to write their own column or at least be given a by-line in the publication of their choice. An optimism Vanessa clearly did not share - if her scathing glance over the assembled interns was anything to judge by.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Charlee began. Vanessa squinted at her short-sightedly, but after realising it was Charlee - a person of no importance, she ignored her and carried on.

  ‘Tonight you are invisible; here to act as cater-waiters. Do well and you’ll be rewarded. Screw up and you’ll be counting paper clips and kissing your Christmas bonus goodbye. If you’re lucky, you might get to hear the author’s acceptance speech and buy his book at the end of the launch. I’ve negotiated a generous staff discount,’ she added magnanimously, as Sally entered and gave them all a supercilious, pitying look.

  With a nod from Vanessa, Sally put in her two pennyworth, just in case they didn’t get it. ‘Anyone seen doorstepping the author or any VIP will be disciplined and summarily dismissed.’ She shot a little dart of wishful thinking in Charlee’s direction.

  Vanessa, hearing the siren call of chinking glasses and catching the flash of cameras as publicity shots were taken, clearly decided that she had bigger - and more important - fish to fry. With a ‘let’s get this over with’ nod to Sally, she left the interns under no illusion what she thought of them.

  ‘For the love of God, Sally, check out what each of them is wearing before you let them loose on the unsuspecting guests. Most of them look like extras from the “Devil Wears Primark”. I’ve never seen so many synthetic fabrics together in one room. A carelessly positioned candle and the whole place could go up.’ Her cold blue eyes treated them to one, last hypercritical sweep before she left the room, leaving a trail of her signature lung-clogging perfume in her wake.

  ‘Yes Vanessa!’ Sally almost clicked the heels of her fashionable shoes together, openly terrified that Vanessa would glance her way and find her wanting, too. After a moment’s silence, everyone began to mutter. However, working for Vanessa had turned Sally into one tough little cookie, because other than a tell-tale wobble she didn’t even blink in the face of such voluble resentment. ‘Here are your aprons,’ she gestured towards a table stacked high with white linen. ‘Put them on before you leave the room and then head over to the kitchens where you’ll be given name badges and further orders.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  ‘I’m not wearing this!’

  Apparently more frightened of disobeying Vanessa than upsetting a troupe of junior reporters, Sally swatted their objections away as if they were particularly bothersome flies. ‘Any complaints, take them up with Vanessa.’ At the mention of her name, the rebellion was quashed. But Charlee wasn’t giving in that easily. Believing that fortune favours the brave, she marched up to the table and took an apron off the pile. She tied it around her waist French waiter style with the bib folded under, leaving her new Jigsaw top clearly visible.

  ‘Look at it this way, guys,’ she addressed her co-workers, putting a positive spin on the situation. ‘At least we’ll be able to get up close and personal to some seriously famous authors and agents - do a bit of networking.’

  ‘You heard what Vanessa said about doorstepping, Montague,’ Sally screeched as a muted cheer went up from the demoralised troops. ‘You can’t … you wouldn’t dare!’ She stood in front of the door in an attempt to bar Charlee’s way out of the room. Such was the terror Vanessa engendered in her staff.

  ‘Don’t. Push. It. Taylor.’ Charlee enunciated with just the right degree of menace and none too gently moved her size zero bones out of the way. ‘You have no idea who you’re messing with -’

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ Sally hissed. The other interns took Charlee’s lead, tying on their aprons with a smile as they realised the evening wasn’t a complete disaster. ‘I’ll make it my business to see that you do.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ Charlee shut the door and walked away, leaving Sally standing on the other side of the glass mouthing threatening words and looking like a fish in an aquarium demanding food. Pulling back her shoulders, Charlee put on her best smile, tied her apron more securely and prepared to rub shoulders with the rich and famous.

  She’d turn this debacle round and make the evening a success, if it was the last thing she did.

  Chapter Three

  Rock, Paper, Scissors

  After an hour of smiling pleasantly and counting how many guests actually bothered to crack their surgically enhanced, botoxed faces with ‘yes, please’ or ‘no, thank you’, Charlee’s optimism was wearing thin. She glanced round the gallery and exchanged cheesed-off looks with her fellow cater-waiters.

  The award ceremony was drawing to a close and cosmopolitans and tiny chocolate brownies were being served. All very Sex in the City, but she felt less like Carrie Bradshaw and more like an invisible will-o’-the-wisp as she helped guests into their coats and watched them leave for trendy after-parties and members-only clubs. Even the author who’d won the Elfreda Walker pri
ze - named after Poppy’s grandmother - had abandoned the table where he’d spent most of the evening signing copies of his book. Every time Charlee had walked past he’d been obscured by punters eager to buy a copy of The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet.

  He must have raked it in this evening.

  Charlee wondered how many guests would actually read his book and not simply leave it on the coffee table gathering dust. A trophy from another champagne reception.

  And talking of champagne …

  She slid away from the yawping, air-kissing crowd and collected her clutch bag from the staffroom. After retouching her make-up, she headed back into the exhibition hall a free woman. She caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. She had the determined - if slightly deranged - look of a woman on a mission. A woman determined to have a good time and to establish her credentials with authority to anyone who was willing to listen. Even if she was still wearing the hideous apron foisted on her by Sally.

  Untying the apron, she deftly kicked it under the table. Having spent all night handing out glasses of the ‘Widow’ to the undeserving rich and trying to engage them in conversation, Charlee felt the need to redress the yin/yang balance. She went in search of the glass of Veuve Clicquot she’d stashed behind a pile of unsigned books. Like her, the champagne had lost some of its effervescence. But - champagne was still champagne, even when slightly flat. Cramming a miniature chocolate brownie in her mouth, she glanced over her shoulder to check the whereabouts of the ever-vigilant Sally. When she turned back, someone was reaching out for her glass of champagne.

  ‘That glass is spoken for,’ Charlee growled, in a tone that would have won her the lead in a remake of The Exorcist. Irrationally annoyed at the thought of her well-earned glass of bubbly being appropriated, she was in no mood for dalliance.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s my glass,’ countered a voice that was well-bred and with a husky edge to it. Charlee got the sense that rather than be intimidated by her glowering look, the champagne thief was amused by it - by her. Irritated beyond all reason at a further downturn to her evening, she reached for the glass at the exact moment he did and their fingers touched. A spark of electricity crackled between them, like in a department store when you touch the clothes rail and attract static from the carpet. Charlee gasped at the strength of it and drew her hand back, feeling as if her fingers had been scorched.

  Perplexed, she glanced down at her feet. But, here’s the thing - she was standing on expensive wooden flooring the colour of dark sand and there wasn’t a carpet in sight. She didn’t have time to speculate what had generated the static, or whether the stranger had experienced the jolt, too, because he took a step closer. So close that his expensive leather shoes were now toe-to-toe with her sale bargain wedges.

  ‘As I said - that’s my glass of champagne. However … Chelsea,’ he continued, ‘I’m prepared to act the gentleman and let you have it - if you’ll be a good girl and fetch me another.’

  Good girl?

  Good God!

  She wasn’t ten years old and this wasn’t a playground tussle over a bar of chocolate. She was twenty-three, had a first class degree and this was a glass of Veuve Clicquot Premier Cru. More to the point, her glass of Veuve Clicquot Premier Cru, which she wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Then another, more pressing thought struck her - how come he knew she was ‘staff’? A quick glance at her Jigsaw top solved the mystery. A sticky label, torn off a roll and scrawled on in black felt-tip pen, identified her as CHELSEA MONTARGUE, a member of the catering staff - semi-literate and incapable of spelling her name.

  Very different from the innovative journo she longed to be.

  Misnamed and shamed, she stammered out a hot:

  ‘Here. Have the bloody champagne.’ She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being patronised and oh-so-subtly put-down, and in that droll way posh boys do. ‘It’s flat anyway,’ she added, taking the edge off his victory.

  That should have been her cue to exit stage left with what dignity she had left. But her elbow was held in a firm ‘you’re not going anywhere’ grip. Unable to move without engaging in an unseemly struggle and spilling the champagne all over clothes bought specially for the award ceremony, Charlee gave Posh Boy the benefit of her practised, Medusa-like stare. The one that deterred potential gropers and would-be suitors at ten paces; it’d never failed her yet.

  Just as she was about to deliver a scathing put-down, she raised her head and their gazes locked. It was then that she noticed him - really noticed him - and she was forced to admit, he ticked all the boxes.

  Lean athletic build, fashionably dishevelled dark hair, straight black eyebrows above slate-grey eyes and full of confidence and assurance. The way he held himself, the angle of his head and the set of his shoulders made it plain that he thought - no, knew - he was the hottest ticket in town. He looked like a man used to stretching out his hand and having everything he wanted fall into it.

  Evidently unfazed by her Medusa-like stare, he allowed the seconds to lengthen. Charlee gained the impression that he was not so much assessing her, as waiting for her reaction to all the aforementioned attributes. A response he apparently regarded as no more than his due. But it would take more than dark good looks and eyes the colour of wet slate to have her falling at any man’s feet, her dampening look informed him.

  She gave him one last ‘get over yourself’ withering glance, pulled her elbow free and prepared to leave.

  She’d been raised with four handsome, talented brothers - arrogant, self-assured men like the champagne thief just didn’t float her boat. Catching her uncompromising look, he took a step back and with a kind of brisk nod inclined his head, as if in tribute to her for standing her ground. Charlee wanted an apology from him for behaving like he was the master and she was the hired hand. However, further scrutiny suggested that if she wanted an apology it would be a long time coming.

  That imperceptible nod was it.

  She didn’t have time to give the idea further thought because she wanted to join the other interns who were fetching their coats and heading for the bright lights of the bars and clubs in the West End of London. Evidently aware that he been dismissed and not ready or willing to concede defeat, the champagne thief barred her way and held out a knuckled fist towards her.

  Charlee sent him another derisive look. Did he really expect her to touch knuckles and mutter: respect, dude? Like she’d spent her life hanging with her homies in the ’hood instead of on a large veterinary practice-cum-farm in the Home Counties? Giving him one last unswerving look she neatly sidestepped him and was about to walk away when he called after her.

  ‘Rock, paper, scissors, Chelsea?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rock, paper, scissors - the game. A challenge. For the champagne?’

  As soon as he uttered the word ‘challenge’, Charlee was hooked.

  She’d grown up in an unruly household of brothers and male cousins and was competitive to a fault. She could withstand any amount of practical jokes involving frogs in beds, Chinese burns and eye-watering wedgies. She’d spent long summers becoming expert at rock, paper, scissors and it would be her pleasure to beat him, knock back the glass of flat champagne and dent his arrogant self-belief. Suddenly, falling out of a taxi and into a bar where she could hardly afford more than two drinks took second place to teaching him a life lesson.

  Don’t judge a book by looking at its cover.

  Chelsea Montargue, she seethed inwardly, sending him a coy Princess Di look through her blonde fringe.

  ‘I’m not quite sure of the rules,’ she faltered. Amused, and with a slightly condescending smile, he explained them. Charlee glanced at the champagne flute, saw the condensation beading on the outside and the last of the bubbles bursting on the surface. That was her glass of the Widow and she wanted it - badly; badly enough to play rock, paper, scissors with a total stranger.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She sq
uared her shoulders. He counted to three and it was game on.

  After their first moves, he glanced at his open hand and at her ‘scissored’ fingers as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d lost. Or, to put it more accurately, that she’d won. Giving him a triumphant smile, Charlee reached out for the champagne.

  ‘Best of three?’ he countered, manoeuvring himself between Charlee and her exit. The playful, teasing light left his eyes and his body language became more determined, resolute. Charlee experienced a frisson of unease. She was dealing with someone who, on the surface, looked charming and urbane, but seemingly had a steely core he was at pains to hide. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer who picked out his victims at classy parties, lured them back to his penthouse and then -

  ‘Best of three?’ He cut across her wild imaginings, seemingly unwilling to let her go - as if she had something he wanted. Something other than the champagne. More to reassure herself than for any other reason, Charlee gave him a more thorough, second look. With his casual but expensive clothes, unseasonable tan and ‘nothing can touch me’ air, he didn’t look like he was at the top of Scotland Yard’s most wanted list.

  But a girl could never be too careful.

  Even serial killers wore designer suits these days - probably with a secret pocket in which to stash their supply of Rohypnol.

  ‘If you like.’ She smiled up at him, thinking she’d string him along and then make a dart for the cloakroom when his guard was down. Reining in her overly vivid imagination, which had got her into trouble on more than one occasion, she concentrated on her next move. ‘I’ve already chosen scissors … that leaves rock, or …’ she said, just loud enough for him to hear and anticipate her next gambit - giving her the opportunity to slip him a dummy.