Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, she swung her legs out of bed and reached for Poppy’s Christmas present - a white, fleecy onesie covered in black splodges. She smiled as she zipped herself into it, pulling up the hood with its floppy ears, to complete the transformation. Tiptoeing onto the landing, but leaving her bedroom door open because she didn’t want to wake Ffinch, Charlie suddenly felt hungry. She’d been too excited to eat last night but now fancied the cold remains of their vindaloo and maybe a glass of water. Without switching on the light, she felt her way downstairs, squeezing between the back of the sofa and the under-the-stairs bookcases. Not knowing the lay of the land, she barked her shin on the corner of a brass-edged occasional table.

  ‘Christ on a bike!’ she blasphemed, rubbing her knee until the pain subsided.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Dracula-like, Ffinch rose from the depths of the sofa where he’d obviously been asleep. He took one look at Charlee in her onesie, clearly believing he was hallucinating.

  ‘It’s me, Charlee,’ she said a trifle unnecessarily.

  She threw back the hood of her onesie while Ffinch struggled into a sitting position, propping himself up on his elbows and shaking the sleep from his brain.

  ‘Of course it’s you. Who else would be roaming around at silly o’clock dressed like a …’

  ‘Character from One Hundred and One Dalmatians.’ Charlee didn’t like his sarcastic tone so she pulled herself to her full height and brushed down her fleecy suit. ‘If you must know, Poppy thought …’ She was about to explain the joke but stopped herself. Was Ffinch one of the boys or part of the management? Would he find their alternative nickname for Vanessa amusing or insubordinate?

  ‘Poppy?’ he prompted, as though he’d forgotten who Poppy was. Charlee didn’t respond, but headed for the kitchen instead. ‘I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one,’ he said, like a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

  ‘Will you now?’ Charlee muttered under her breath. ‘I’m not making coffee, but I’ll make you one. Fancy some cold vindaloo?’

  ‘Strangely, I’ll pass,’ he said. Getting up, he stood in the doorway watching her opening cupboards, locating mugs and plates. ‘Tell me - do you have a whole wardrobe of dodgy sleepwear? On Christmas Day, you wore a dressing gown several sizes and several years too young for you. Not to mention the bovine-shaped slippers.’

  ‘How kind of you to notice,’ Charlee said as she switched on the kettle. ‘For your information, I keep the sexy stuff for …’ Aware that this conversation was getting a little too personal and remembering her vow to keep everything on a professional footing, she stopped in mid-sentence.

  ‘For?’ he prompted, lounging against the doorframe, arms folded, looking like he was enjoying himself. ‘Gentlemen callers?’

  ‘Gentlemen callers! Where do you get your ideas from?’ she asked. ‘The sixties, like this house? You make me sound like Christine Keeler. Here …’ She reheated the remains of the coffee in the microwave and passed a mug to him with ill grace. She then piled a plate high with cold rice and beef vindaloo. ‘’Scuse,’ she said and waited for him to move so she could pass by without making bodily contact. She sat down on the brown suede cube footstool and tucked into her midnight feast. ‘Wha?’ she asked, crunching into a poppadom and getting shards all over herself and the carpet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ he said, moving onto the couch and looking at her like she was a species he hadn’t encountered before. Charlee munched on, feeling very self-conscious under his unblinking scrutiny. He looked as if he was about to treat her to one of his barbed comments when his mobile rang. She glanced at the clock on the wall next to the faded Hockney print. Two thirty. Who rang at this time of the night? He must have been expecting the call and that was probably why he hadn’t gone to bed. Either that or he was an insomniac. Charlee watched his expression morph from amusement at her eating cold curry in a onesie, into something entirely different - muted excitement overlain with dark purpose.

  ‘I’ve got to take this.’ Giving an apologetic shrug, he went into the kitchen and pulled the concertina-style vinyl door closed behind him.

  Charlee sat cross-legged on the footstool and chewed at her beef. Then she carefully put her plate on the floor and tiptoed over to the kitchen door. She could hear Ffinch’s conversation quite clearly through the gap where the door and the catch didn’t quite meet.

  He was speaking passable, if not fluent, Spanish.

  ‘Sí, la noche de la marea alta, lo he comprobado en las tablas de mareas e Internet -dos veces. Deja de preocuparte, no va a pasar nada. ¿Vas a estar allí?’ Yes, the night of the high tide; I’ve checked the tide tables and the internet - twice. Stop worrying, it’ll be fine. You’ll be there? ‘Bien. No, ella no tiene ni idea y así quiero que siga.’ Good. No, she has no idea and that’s how I intend to keep it. Then he laughed and the rest of his conversation was lost. When he emerged from the kitchen, Charlee was back on the suede cube innocently polishing off the remains of her vindaloo and reaching for a glass of water.

  ‘Everything, okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. I think I’ll turn in …’

  ‘Were you waiting for that phone call?’ she asked directly. ‘Is it something to do with our assignment? Something you need to share with me?’ There - she’d provided him with the chance to include her, take her into his confidence.

  ‘Oh, no - that? Just speaking to one of my Brazilian cousins. Different time zone. You know how it is,’ he added evasively.

  ‘Not sure that I do,’ she said. ‘But I do know for a fact that they speak Portuguese in Brazil and you were speaking Spanish. I couldn’t help but overhear.’ She gave a small, unrepentant shrug and walked through to the kitchen with her plate. ‘See you in the morning then, partner.’ She put enough emphasis on the word to let him know that she was aware he was keeping stuff from her. But if Ffinch noticed the nuance, he did not attempt to expand on his previous answer.

  ‘Sure. Laters,’ he replied, returning to the sofa and switching the television on. Charlee glanced at him as she climbed the stairs but he was staring blankly at the wall to the right of the screen, in that way he had. His mind was clearly on more weighty matters than a rerun of the old spy movie The Ipcress File.

  It wasn’t far from the mews to Knightsbridge. However, by the time Charlee had bought two tracksuits, new trainers, a posh frock for the Gala Dinner and other things she thought necessary for the mission, she was exhausted. Ffinch had made her breakfast and then fetched an ancient motorbike from a garage across the cobbled yard, handed her a set of keys and told her to have fun. Typically, he’d roared off down the mews without telling her where he was going or when he’d be back.

  Charlee was prepared to bet good money that none of his previous relationships had lasted longer than a few months - no, strike that, weeks - given his autocratic behaviour. Even if he appeared to have all the attributes most women found attractive in a man. He was undeniably sexy and good looking, a talented photographer and he came from a moneyed background, judging by the location of the mews. But that cut no ice with her. In her opinion, he came with too much baggage, too many issues to resolve. She didn’t have the time to get to know him well enough to sort out his hang-ups, she had a career to forge and she couldn’t let anything get in her way.

  When he returned she would tell him that he took the whole ‘I’m a lone wolf, don’t bother me with questions, baby,’ act a little too literally. And it wasn’t attractive, well - not to her anyway.

  Feeling suddenly rather lonely, she deposited the Harvey Nichols bags on the floor and wished that Poppy was here so she could show off her new clothes. Then she headed for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Chablis, put the groceries she’d bought in the fridge and took her bags upstairs. After a quick shower, during which she dismissed the haunting image of Ffinch and one of his ladies getting up to no good in the same space, she dressed and then set about preparing pasta car
bonara - her signature dish.

  Her only dish if she was being totally honest.

  When she next glanced out of the kitchen window, it was half past four and dark.

  Walking back into the sitting room, she retrieved the Blue-ray of Green Card she’d bought and waited for Ffinch to come home. She imagined the scenario - eating pasta off their knees, drinking the bottle of Chianti she’d bought in Harvey Nicks, and watching a movie. The plot had a resonance for them and she envisaged them bonding over the DVD, maybe even shedding a tear at the end. Last night - apart from the secretive phone call, they’d got on pretty well together, and during breakfast it’d been the same - until he’d roared off on his bike without a word.

  By seven o’clock Charlee had drunk more wine than was good for her. At seven thirty, after eating almost a full packet of grissini and with her stomach rumbling, she decided she’d have her meal. She was just about to make enough for two and plate Ffinch’s up for microwaving later but stopped herself. No way was she playing hausfrau to his master of the hall when he didn’t have the good manners to text her and say where he was. She’d lay even money on him being a reckless driver, he could be lying in A&E for all she knew, having come off his motorbike. She pushed the thought away and chastised herself for being overly dramatic.

  Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, she ate her pasta slowly and time passed. She pictured Ffinch surrounded by pert nurses who, in her vivid imagination, wore starched aprons and caps not seen in hospital for at least thirty years. They’d be soothing his fevered brow, applying cool ointment to his grazes while she was … Well, what was she, exactly? Worried about him or infuriated because he was acting like a total arse, and accountable to no one.

  There was going to be some plain talking when he arrived home. This enterprise seemed designed to please only one of the partners.

  At half past eight, the throaty roar of a motorbike reverberated through the mews and Charlee stiffened. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line, which, should Ffinch have the wit or the inclination to read her expression, would warn him that she wouldn’t be playing ball tonight. The garage door slammed closed, the key turned in the lock and Ffinch entered looking the quite the man in his bike leathers and helmet. He pushed up the visor and sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Mm, that smells good.’ He put the helmet on the stairs and unzipped his leather jacket to reveal a Polartec fleece over a T-shirt. ‘What are we having?’

  What are we having? Charlee almost choked on the last of her wine but kept her cool and smiled a bright, welcoming smile.

  ‘Pasta carbonara with side salad and garlic bread,’ she said, returning her plate to the kitchen. ‘For pudding - chocolate cheesecake and raspberries. And the choice of wine this evening is Chianti Classico,’ she called out from the sink, like this was Master Chef. Then she stuck her head round the kitchen door. ‘You do know how to cook pasta carbonara, don’t you? If not, this should help.’ She returned to the sitting room, handed him a tatty old cook book, removed Green Card from the Blue-ray player and dropped it on the sofa. Then she took down her coat from the bentwood coat rack, scooped up the house keys and put them in her handbag along with her mobile phone.

  For dramatic effect she checked her watch and then squeezed past Ffinch who was standing in the small space between the door at the foot of the stairs looking dumbfounded.

  ‘You’re going out?’ he asked with all the disappointment of a man who’d clearly expected to eat a home-cooked meal prepared by someone else. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Thanks, I do - and, actually, I’m running late. I’m meeting friends in the West End, so don’t wait up. We can discuss the - what did you call it - the logistics, of how this is going to work over breakfast. If and when I return. Oh, and by the way, here’s your homework - watch and learn.’ She bent over the sofa, picked up Green Card and handed it to him. ‘I will be asking questions.’

  ‘You aren’t going anywhere in that state.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she pronounced grandly, but rather spoiled it by hiccupping and wobbling slightly on her high heels.

  Two glasses of Chablis and half a bottle of Chianti were swishing round in her stomach, as was apparent from her bolshie manner and the way she had almost gone head first over the back of the sofa. Grabbing her elbow, Ffinch hauled her upright and righted her as if she was one of those roly-poly toys found at the bottom of a budgie’s cage. They were standing almost nose to nose, so close that Charlee had to lean away from Ffinch and squint up at him in order to focus.

  She had to admit that he presented a beguiling picture, in spite of his furious expression. His hair was sexily dishevelled from wearing the helmet; he smelled of the cold night air, leather and aftershave. But what man wouldn’t look good in bike leathers, Charlee pondered hazily, even one as boot-faced as Ffinch?

  ‘You. Are. Going. Nowhere,’ he said, breaking the spell. It was like rock, paper, scissors all over again, a battle of wills - but who would be the first to crack?

  ‘I’ll go where I like, and do what I like; and not you - nor anyone else - can stop me. So, I’ll thank you to return my elbow. I’m going to need it for fighting my way to the bar.’ She tried to wriggle free but he held her fast.

  ‘You issue too many challenges, Montague, you know that. You push a man to breaking point, think you can deliver one of your cutting little remarks and -’

  ‘And - what?’ There had been a change of mood somewhere along the line. This didn’t seem to be about him being late or her being drunk and refusing to come over all Nigella in the kitchen. It was about the interrupted kiss they’d exchanged in her father’s study, the way his tongue had pushed seductively between her parted lips and how she’d relished the feeling - and wanted an encore.

  ‘One of these days you’ll go too far and you won’t be able to talk your way out of trouble.’

  ‘Well, let’s just hope that you’re around to witness my fall.’ She was proud of the way she delivered that line. Eyes crossed, skin glowing, she removed Granny’s ring and handed it to him. ‘Here, put this in a safe place. I don’t want it cramping my style. I’ll let you know tomorrow if you’ll be cancelling the announcement in The Times, too. And in case you’re wondering, I am seriously pissed off.’

  ‘Seriously pissed might be nearer the mark,’ he observed snarkily. She pulled free of his grasp and almost broke several of his toes by accidently pitching forward in her killer heels. ‘Well, okay, off you go and make a fool of yourself with all the other ladettes,’ he mocked and pushed the door closed behind her with a booted foot.

  Once Charlee was out in the mews, the cold night air stung her flushed cheeks and the echo of the door slamming ricocheted off the walls. Now, she wished she hadn’t been so impetuous. She’d much rather have spent the night warm and secure in the mews, but she had to make her point. She was no pushover. When she reached the end of the mews, she headed for Sloane Square tube. She’d spend tonight in her freezing cold bedsit and return early tomorrow morning to lay down the rules of engagement.

  They were equal partners and Ffinch’d better get used to the idea.

  Next morning she walked down the cobbled yard blinking owlishly in the pale January sunshine. She’d slapped on extra make-up to hide the ravages of a hangover and a sleepless night spent fully dressed and wrapped in a duvet in her unheated bedsit. Letting herself into the mews with the set of keys Ffinch had provided, she half expected to find him still in bed. However, he was dressed and eating toast in front of Sky News, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  ‘Morning, Charlee. Good night?’

  ‘The best,’ she said. ‘Didn’t finish until late.’ She waited for him to ask where she’d gone and who’d she hung out with, but he didn’t.

  Typical.

  ‘I watched your movie,’ he said, pouring two coffees from the percolator.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I didn’t cry if that’s what you’re asking,’ he said, looking at her
over the rim of his cup. His eyes were wary, showing he was unsure of her mood and taking things slowly. ‘And I didn’t need to ring for an ambulance, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘Ambulance?’

  ‘For my broken foot. You do remember stomping on it, I take it?’

  ‘You manhandled me,’ she replied, ‘and got what you deserved.’ Reaching over, she helped herself to a slice of buttered toast off his breakfast tray and bit into it. ‘For future reference, I like thin cut marmalade.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. You won’t cook for me but you’re perfectly happy to steal my breakfast?’ Charlee could tell that he wasn’t too annoyed and seemed in quite a buoyant mood. She wondered where he’d been, who he’d spent the day with which had resulted in him seeming so upbeat.

  ‘That’s about it,’ she answered almost automatically as she tried to piece the jigsaw together. ‘If you’ve learned anything from watching the movie you’d realise we have to know everything about each other in order to be convincing.’ He raised an eyebrow at ‘everything’, and the look he sent told her that was never going to happen.

  ‘And, another thing, how come you get to be Andie McDowell and I have to be Gerard Depardieu? I’m sure that France is very proud of him but - really?’ He indicated his slim frame, newly washed hair and fashionable clothes with one sweep of his hand. Charlee couldn’t help it, she giggled, even though she was still annoyed with him for his cavalier behaviour the previous evening.

  ‘It’s an allegory. You don’t have to look like Gerard, you’re much -’ she didn’t finish the sentence: better looking for one thing.

  ‘Almost slipped up there and paid me a compliment, didn’t you Montague?’ Ffinch laughed at her discomfiture.

  ‘You just have to be like him. Only make a better job of it. Sally and Vanessa will make those US Immigration officials look like Brown Owl and Akela once they find out we’ve become engaged. If we can fool them, everyone else will be a doddle.’ She chewed at her - his - toast and sent him a covert look; it was plain that, without her, the plan to run a spoiler on Mirror, Mirror’s exclusive wouldn’t get off the ground.