Boot Camp Bride
Page 13
‘No, not the kitchen - Sam’s study,’ Ffinch stalled her, holding up his hands to show that he wouldn’t touch her again without her permission. He waited for her to precede him into the holy of holies and Charlee’s brain shifted up a gear. This was the only room in the house, apart from Sam and Daphne’s bedroom, out of bounds to Charlee and Poppy when they were growing up. To be ushered in there by Ffinch made Charlee realise that Sam Walker, at least, recognised she was no longer a child.
The acknowledgement made her heart swell with satisfaction.
‘Charlotte,’ Sam greeted, looking up from his laptop. He preferred to leave all that ‘horsey nonsense’, as he put it, to Poppy and Daphne and never rode to hounds. He had a glass of whisky by his right hand and Charlee guessed he was happy in his own company. And Ffinch’s, she thought, eying him surreptitiously and wondering if he’d spent the night in the camper van in these freezing temperatures, or in the guest room.
‘Sit down, Charlotte. You, too, Rafa.’
They moved copies of the week’s newspapers and back issues of Horse and Hound off chairs. Ffinch, with a gallant little bow, allowed Charlee to choose the most comfortable seat - a French bergère chair with deep cushions, rattan sides and matching footstool.
‘Saw your brothers and that idiot of a vicar talking to you,’ Sam said, pointing out of the window with a paper knife.
‘Yes,’ Charlee replied, careful of what she said, not sure what this was all about. ‘The Rev Trev now thinks Ffinch and I will be visiting him at the vicarage to book St Peter’s for a summer wedding.’ She smiled weakly at Sam, hoping for enlightenment.
‘Oh, that?’ Sam laughed, winking at Ffinch. ‘Just sowing the seeds, Montague. Just sowing the seeds.’
‘What seeds? Will one of you please tell me what’s going on?’ Charlee demanded, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Am I in, or out? Ffinch’s partner or not?’
‘Sam?’ Ffinch raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sam to give him the go ahead. ‘Okay, here’s the thing.’ Ffinch moved the cat off the window seat and perched there in its place. ‘Sam wants photos of Anastasia Markova taken at the Thornham Boot Camp for Brides.’
‘What kind of photos?’ Charlee asked glancing from Sam to Ffinch.
‘Her looking dishevelled, less than perfect, anything. Having a strop whilst covered in mud would be great. Rumour has it she’s sold exclusive rights to Mirror, Mirror and we want to run a spoiler.’ Sam looked positively gleeful at the thought of pulling the rug out from under What’cha!’s biggest rival.
Charlee had heard rumours that What’cha! was losing money and in danger of closing if sales didn’t pick up. There were so many style/celebrity lifestyle magazines that What’cha! needed to pull two-headed mutant rabbits out of the hat every edition in order to survive. The situation was discussed openly at the water cooler and Charlee had experienced a pang when she’d first heard the news. She’d hoped to stay on at the magazine when her internship was over, but that was beginning to look increasingly unlikely.
Perhaps pulling off a coup with Markova would keep them afloat a while longer. If she pulled it off and prevented What’cha! from becoming another casualty of the recession it would be her way of repaying Sam and Daphne for their many kindnesses over the years. Eyes shining, she imagined landing the scoop of the year and how it’d surpass her brothers’ achievements. Why - she might even allow Ffinch a small role in helping her achieve this goal.
Glancing round, Charlee examined the framed front covers of What’cha! hanging on the panelled walls. The magazine had started life as an equestrian monthly - Snaffle and Bit - and had belonged to Daphne Walker’s family. In the mid-eighties Sam had been brought in to boost Snaffle and Bit’s circulation and had ended up marrying the boss’s daughter. By 1990, Snaffle and Bit had morphed into What’cha! and had become a cheaper version of Hello. Now little remained of the original equestrian magazine, apart from Poppy’s ‘Life in the Country’ column, which was heavily edited by Charlee and Daphne. It was the remaining link with the old family magazine and Daphne was reluctant to see it disappear.
Daphne, like Poppy, was happy with whatever Sam did as long as the money to fund their horse fetish kept rolling in. By helping Sam, Charlee would be helping the magazine and two people she most cared about. Take a few snaps of Anastasia Markova getting wet and muddy - how hard could it be?
But her smile faded as the flaw in the plan became staringly obvious.
‘The other night, outside the nightclub, when I got my phone out, Anastasia turned away and held her hand up to her face because she thought I was taking a photo. I can’t see her letting anyone with a camera get that close,’ Charlee reasoned. ‘Can you?’
‘You did brilliantly the other night, Charlee. I’m sure you’d be able to pull it off.’ Sam poured out two glasses of his finest malt and came round to their side of the desk. Sam’s home persona never failed to amaze Charlee. At What’cha! he was the hellfire and brimstone proprietor/editor with a sharp tongue, strong cockney accent and unpredictable temperament. Most of his sentences were peppered with four letter words and even Vanessa feared his mercurial moods. But at home, he spoke with a Home Counties accent and behaved like a neutered tomcat, totally under the sway of its mistress.
He’d never praise Charlee openly at the office, so she made the most of it.
‘I’d certainly have a bloody good go,’ Charlee said and clinked glasses with Sam. ‘But, wouldn’t I have to enrol in the boot camp to get that close?’
‘Yes, you would.’ Sam exchanged a telling look with Ffinch.
‘There is another flaw in this plan. I’m between boyfriends at the moment.’ She glossed over her lack of success with the opposite sex and steeled herself for one of Ffinch’s dry comments. She’d had plenty of boyfriends at university, but no one special. She hadn’t thought about any of them since leaving, being too wrapped up in her internship. ‘Even supposing the man of my dreams came galloping up the drive on a white horse at the end of the meet, I’d hardly have time to get to know him, let alone become engaged before the month is out. Anastasia will be at the boot camp during the second week in January.’
‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to look too far for a fiancé,’ Sam suggested artlessly.
‘When I carried out some research into the boot camp yesterday,’ Charlee went on, ‘I discovered that the owners require proof of the bride’s forthcoming nuptials. Or, at the very least, evidence of the engagement.’ She stopped swirling round the contents of her glass, raised her head and continued, ‘You might not believe this, but some girls enrol in bridal boot camps just for a lark. Viewing it as some kind of psycho bridezilla alternative to a girly weekend in Dublin.’ Charlee’s pained expression made it plain that such behaviour was her idea of hell, with torture as a side order. ‘The camp is a favourite with A-listers and they don’t want to mix with … well, the likes of me. Hence the strict security.’
‘Not something you’d be up for then, Charlee?’ Sam asked, pressing home his suit and topping up their glasses. Charlee held up her left hand and waggled her ring finger at him.
‘I’d be up for it, sure, if there was a story to uncover. But without the requisite fiancé I’d fall at the first hurdle.’
‘Or should that be climbing wall?’ Ffinch asked, joining the conversation.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was the kind of thing you’d want to get involved with, Ffinch. You’re allergic to love, marriage and all it entails, aren’t you? What was it you said in Sam’s office - No moon in June. No roses round the door. No happily ever after. You - taking photos of a supermodel? Why am I not buying this?’ she asked, giving them a direct look.
‘Okay Charlee, we’ll level with you,’ Sam interjected. ‘I told you Charlee’d need persuading before she’d agree to our proposal, Rafa.’
‘What proposal are we talking about exactly?’ Hoping that her partnership with Ffinch was back on the cards, Charlee adopted the persona of a hard-bitten journo.
‘Charlee, here’s the deal. I want to sell What’cha!’
‘Sell What’cha! But it’s your life …’ Charlee said in shocked tones. Rumours circulating round the photocopier were one thing, but Sam admitting they were true was quite another.
‘Maybe so, but it's losing money,’ he said, simply. ‘Now’s the right time to sell, the time for me to bow out. But one last scoop … that’s all I ask.’
Looking far from convinced, Charlee frowned at both men.
‘I’d hardly call a few photos of Anastasia Markova in the mud a scoop. Even if she is marrying a Russian billionaire,’ she said, knowing she was talking herself out of a job. Sam might play the part of the benign husband at home but underneath he was still Sam Walker, always on the lookout for the killer story. ‘And where does Ffinch figure in all of this? One minute he’s writing The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet, getting kidnapped and held for ransom. The next he’s snapping girls in designer tracksuits abseiling down climbing walls or sliding across zip wires.’
‘Well, to be absolutely accurate, Charlee,’ Ffinch rejoined the conversation, ‘you’d be the one taking the photos. Not me. And as to why I’m doing it? I’m doing it for Sam because - well, let’s just say I’m repaying a debt.’ Both men maintained deadpan expressions but a significant look flashed between them, one which excluded Charlee from their circle of trust.
‘I - I.’ Charlee felt like she was being pushed into a corner. Three days ago, she’d been sorting through photographs in a cupboard that was most likely a biohazard. Two days ago, she’d been in a skip pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Yesterday, Ffinch had effectively terminated their partnership. Now they were stepping up the game and proposing to send her into a boot camp for brides - undercover.
Just to get it all straight in her head, she posed the question she’d asked Poppy in Pret A Manger a few days ago. ‘Why not Vanessa?’ Both men pulled a ‘get real’ face at her.
‘Sally?’
‘Sally is an organiser, good at logistics but unable to think on her feet. Or blag it. You’re good at both, Charlee,’ Sam said. Two compliments in five minutes! However, she wasn’t so flattered that she couldn’t smell a rat; a whole family of them, in fact.
‘Look, Sam, if Charlee doesn’t think she’s up to this assignment, it’s best she says so now. Save us trouble in the long run …’ Ffinch put in, his tone full of faux regret.
‘Puleese, spare me the reverse psychology,’ Charlee said. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t up for the challenge.’ She could feel the assignment slipping through her fingers. ‘I simply want to know what’s involved.’
‘Worried you might be out of your league? That’s perfectly understandable. You are inexperienced, after all, but …’ Ffinch paused. Charlee knew Ffinch was playing her like a well-strung violin, but she’d go along with it - for now. There was another story here, one they were keeping from her. She smiled with deceptive sweetness as a prickle of journalistic sixth sense traversed the length of her spine and almost left her feeing numb. She hid her reaction from Ffinch and Sam; she wanted them to believe that she was taking their story at face value.
‘Charlee?’ Sam prompted.
‘I’m in. But what about - I mean, who’s going to pose as my fiancé?’
As if she didn’t know!
‘That’s where Rafa comes in. I’ll leave him to flesh out the details with you.’ Sam said. ‘I’ve been left strict instructions as to my domestic duties while Daphne’s out with the hunt. Apparently, I’m to check on the casserole in the Aga, and put the apple pie in the top oven at the designated time. I ask you!’
Throwing his hands in the air, he left them alone in his study.
Chapter Sixteen
Charades
Charlee looked round at Ffinch, expecting him to share a joke at Sam’s kowtowing to his formidable wife, but he looked grey, drained - as if he’d been bracing himself for her refusal. A great believer in the medicinal properties of good malt, Charlee reached for Sam’s bottle of Scotch, poured out several fingers’ worth and passed it to him.
She had the distinct feeling - as she had done on previous occasions - that Ffinch was constantly drawn back to the time when he’d lost two of his team. Did he blame himself for their deaths, she wondered? Judging by the downward droop of his mouth, the lacklustre light in his eyes - it was plain that he did.
‘So, how’s this going to work? Do I let my family in on the secret?’ Charlie asked in a businesslike manner, hoping to jolt him out of his introspection. Becoming aware of her scrutiny, Ffinch pulled himself out of his dark mood and downed his whisky in one.
‘No.’ He was most emphatic. ‘For this to work, we’ve got to play it for real.’
‘But, Ffinch,’ Charlee chose her words carefully, ‘we’ve made it pretty plain that we don’t like each other. Even if that’s how most marriages end up, I think at the beginning a little romance is expected. Not real romance in our case, you understand,’ she blushed a furious scarlet. ‘But a close approximation of it.’
‘You’re a consummate actress, Montague, I’ve seen you at work. I’m sure you’ll manage,’ he said with an unflattering touch of cynicism, and downed his whisky with one deft flick of his wrist.
‘I’m not sure that speaking Spanish and calling me Carlotta will cut it with my family.’ Charlee nibbled at her lower lip. ‘They’ll expect an announcement in The Times, a small party at the very least. A ring?’ She raised an eyebrow at him, expectantly.
‘And they shall have them. Think of it as creating our legend, isn’t that what the spooks call it?’ Then he clammed up as if he’d let his guard slip and wanted it back in place, pronto.
‘It’s just like Gerard Depardieu and Andie McDowell in that old chick-flick Green Card.’ Ffinch looked blank and she went on to explain. ‘He needs a green card to stay in the US, she needs a husband in order to keep her apartment. They concoct a false past with photos etc., and …’ she bit her lip, remembering how the film had ended.
‘And?’
‘They’re found out and it ends badly. But don’t worry, that won’t happen to us.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Ffinch observed with customary dryness.
Ignoring him, Charlee reached across Sam’s desk for a pad and pencil. ‘Okay, I think we need to iron out a few details before we go any further.’ Ffinch relaxed against the window pane, folded his arms across his chest and gave her the floor.
‘Fire away,’ he said, as if he found the idea of her taking control somehow diverting.
Ignoring him, Charlee continued. ‘One - Markova might be a model but she’s no airhead. I googled her. She has a degree in psychology from St Petersburg University - brains as well as great genes, and cheekbones you could slice cucumbers with. She’s bound to remember me from outside the nightclub, don’t you think?’
‘Possibly,’ Ffinch agreed. ‘Once seen, never forgotten I would imagine.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, though I’m sure it wasn’t meant as one,’ Charlee was learning to ignore his dark asides and to recognise that his default mode was set to cynical. ‘Two. Gossip is rife at What’cha! If I walk in after the holidays and announce our engagement, you can imagine the furore. We’ll have to make it look as realistic as we can.’ For a moment, Ffinch lost his bleak look and a wicked light shone in his smoky eyes, making him appear younger and lighter-hearted. Charlee felt as if she’d just descended in a very fast lift from the penthouse to the basement, but managed to give him a stern look. ‘Forget it, Ffinch; I’m only prepared to take the play-acting so far.’
‘Spoilsport,’ he replied. ‘You know, Montague, if I didn’t know better I’d say you take great delight in sending me “get over yourself looks” and putting me down. Anyone would think you didn’t like me.’
‘We’ve only known each other for a couple of days, Ffinch. I’m still at the trying ve
ry hard not to dislike you phase, so I wouldn’t push it,’ she advised, drawing a circle round a large number three.
‘Carry on, Montague,’ he said, putting up his hands behind his head and crossing his feet at the ankles.
‘How and when do we break the news to my family and the Walkers? My brothers will be returning home tomorrow, I think it would be a good idea to announce our ‘engagement’ after they’ve gone. Mum and Dad will ask fewer questions with them out of the way. Which brings me to number four.’ She drew the digit on the pad, circled it and added a bullet point for good measure.
‘Yes?’
‘We need a legend, as you put it. Photographs on Facebook, announcement in The Times, that sort of thing. Where did we meet? How long have we known each other? It has to be authentic. If it doesn’t stack up, I won’t get into the boot camp - let alone escape in one piece. From what I read on the website, they are very, very particular - over the top thorough where security’s concerned.’
‘Good point.’ He looked at her admiringly and then began to enter into the spirit of the thing. ‘Okay, here’s what I think. Announcement in The Times - not a problem. Backstory we can work out over the next few days, I’m staying here and then returning to my flat in London. It might be an idea if you came back with me and we could concentrate on synchronising our stories. Also, it’ll be a good smokescreen if you’re seen living at my place.’
Charlee nibbled the end of the pen and looked covertly at him through her eyelashes. With any other man, she would have suspected a come on; let’s play at nurses and doctors back at my place. But, Ffinch didn’t give off that vibe, and apart from his secrecy over this investigation she found him straight as a die. It was as if he’d tried love, it hadn’t worked out, and he was in no hurry to travel that road anytime soon.
‘Or we could move into my bedsit,’ she suggested and pretended affront when Ffinch pulled a face.