by Lizzie Lamb
That gave her leverage and she intended to use it.
‘Okay. Let’s call a truce. I should have told you where I was going, that was wrong of me. It’s simply that I’m used to working on my own. I’m not very good at being anyone’s partner.’ His face clouded over and Charlee suspected that he was drawn back to his abortive trip to Darien. It never seemed to be far from his mind. ‘But you were out of the door before I could explain …’
‘I’m a hothead, I know it, but,’ she took a deep breath, ‘but, you see - I felt like I was reliving my teenage years. Taken for granted, sent on errands when my brothers were lounging around doing nothing in particular and being expected to run after them. It was a role that Mum was quite happy to play out, but I wasn’t born to be anyone’s handmaiden.’ She sent him a fierce look and he held his hands up in a pacifying ‘calm down, I get it’ gesture.
‘So, are we on? Are we a team?’
‘I guess so.’
‘In that case … would you put Granny’s ring back on? It looked very lonely sitting on the bedside table next to my kindle last night.’ He said it lightly but Charlee sensed that he’d come to realise that they needed each other. He needed her in the boot camp and she was desperate to get there and prove her worth. If last night’s strop had led to this alteration in their relationship, it was worth a night freezing to death in her bedsit.
‘Wh - what are you doing?’ she asked as he slid off the sofa and got down on one knee.
‘Getting into role. Finger,’ he commanded and fetched Granny’s ring out of his jeans pocket. Charlee glanced down at her engagement finger, which was sticky with marmalade and butter.
‘Okay, but wait.’ She stuck her fingers in her mouth and sucked them clean. That affected Ffinch in some fundamental way she didn’t fully comprehend. He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple moved up and down as if his throat was suddenly dry. A slight flush spread across his cheekbones and, although his expression was bland, she suspected that he was relieved that she’d returned and the mission was still on. ‘There.’ She held out her hand and he took it in his.
‘I should have done this properly first time round. Charlee, Charlotte, Carlotta - will you do me the honour of becoming my - temporary - wife?’
‘Temporary, yes.’
She extended her finger and the ring slipped over her knuckle. When she’d tried it on the first time in her father’s study, the ring had been cold from sitting in its velvet box. This time it was at blood temperature from being in his pocket and that felt much more intimate and unsettling. She shivered as the ring sat snugly under her second finger joint and - if the legend was true - connected straight to her heart.
They looked at it intently, each lost in their thoughts. Then Ffinch spoke, suddenly all professional and thorough, and broke the spell.
‘You need to get showered and changed. I’ve booked us into a mate’s studio for some photographs. You see, I have taken the DVD on board. He has all sorts of props, clothes, make-up, backdrops, etc. By the end of the session you’ll believe that we really have been skiing in Val D’Isere or diving for coral in the Maldives.’
‘Cool.’ She smiled, getting to her feet. ‘What should I wear?’
‘Well not that all-in-one thing,’ he laughed. ‘Something smart but casual, you know the sort of thing. Half an hour? Don’t worry about make-up, they’ll take care of that at the studio.’
‘This is it, isn’t it?’ Charlee said hugging herself, a big grin on her face. ‘Us. Building our legend.’
Ffinch looked as if he wanted to say something dampening which would bring her back to earth, but apparently changed his mind. ‘Yep, this is it. Now, go partner, get ready, we’ve a lot to get through today. And so as you know …’
‘Yes?’
‘We’re eating out tonight. I don’t think my foot would withstand another assault.’
Laughing, Charlee took the stairs two at a time. She had questions, lots of them, but knew she’d have to curb her curiosity. Ffinch would tell her what this assignment was really about when he trusted her more.
She only hoped that she could wait that long.
Chapter Twenty-one
Green-Eyed Monsters
The next morning, Charlee and Ffinch took the lift to Editorial on the fifth floor of What’cha! in central London.
Charlee’s hands were actually shaking as the doors pinged open and they entered the bright, open-plan office. Ffinch put his hand on the small of her back and rested it there, like Poppy reassuring one of her highly strung mares that she could take that fence and land safely on the other side. At Ffinch’s suggestion they’d arrived fifteen minutes late and as they walked towards Charlee’s desk, they ran the gauntlet of her co-workers. Once it was certain all eyes were on them, Ffinch dipped his head and kissed Charlee passionately before patting her on the bottom.
The office fell silent and all heads swivelled in their direction, like a flash mob version of The Exorcist.
‘Catch you for lunch later, darling?’ he asked, making his way towards Sam Walker’s office.
‘Of course, R - Rafa. L - laters,’ Charlee replied in a strangled voice, sounding disconcertingly like Minnie Mouse with a stammer. Heart hammering and almost melting in a pool of lust after the unexpected kiss, she walked over to her desk. She hoped her co-workers would put her hectic colour down her being all loved-up and not anxiety at being found out.
The lift pinged and Poppy Walker walked out carrying two bottles of champagne and a huge bag of Kettle Crisps. She handed the champagne and crisps to the two post boys who’d travelled up in the lift with her and then sent them to the kitchen for glasses. Then she ran towards Charlee, waving her hands in the air and shrieking like a banshee.
‘The ring. Lemme see the ring.’ That was enough to break the spell which had fallen over the office and their co-workers rushed up to Charlee in a feeding frenzy to gawp at her left hand.
‘That,’ one of the male interns pronounced, ‘is one serious piece of bling.’
‘Bling?’ an older female journalist sniffed. ‘That, dear boy, is a fine piece of art deco jewellery, white gold with a square-cut diamond mounted on four sapphires cut from a single stone - if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You’re not mistaken,’ Poppy put in, winking at Charlee. ‘It’s Ffinch’s great-grandmother’s ring, isn’t that right, Charl?’ Poppy widened her eyes and gave Charlee a significant look, reminding her that the game was afoot. They’d had a long heart-to-heart over the phone last night and Charlee now felt better prepared for what lay ahead.
‘We could have chosen one from Tiffany’s,’ Charlee said, gathering her wits about her and slipping into role. ‘But I think family heirlooms are more romantic, don’t you?’ She extended her hand obligingly, so the journos and interns could have a close look at the carbuncle.
‘Just like Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge,’ one of the juniors swooned as the post boys handed round glasses of champagne.
‘Hey, Montague,’ one of the post boys said. ‘When we last saw yer, you was waiting to be sacked. So what ’appened?’
‘Not been up to anything you shouldn’t, we hope.’ His partner in crime patted his abdomen meaningfully. ‘I think me uncle’s got a shotgun if you need one.’
‘To use on you, you mean?’ Charlee quipped, and they all laughed.
‘Like she’d tell you anyway,’ Poppy said scathingly, handing round the tumblers of champagne. ‘A toast - Charlee and Rafa.’
‘Charlee and Rafa,’ the others echoed, clinking glasses and relishing the moment.
A lowly intern landing Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch, what were the chances? As first days back after the Christmas holidays went, this one was exceeding anything anyone could have envisaged. They’d have plenty to talk about at the photocopying machine and in the Rat and Ferret after work.
‘Thank you. It was all very …’ Charlee was about to say last-minute but stopped herself in time. ‘Romantic.’ There was a collectiv
e sigh from the younger women. ‘The announcement should appear in The Times tomorrow, if anyone’s interested. Rafa and I -’ But she wasn’t allowed time to say more because the lift doors pinged and Vanessa and Sally stepped out.
‘We’ve got incoming,’ the post boys chorused. Everyone scuttled back to their desks clutching glasses of champagne and even the post boys made themselves scarce. Only Poppy stood her ground, shoulder to shoulder with Charlee.
‘Morning V,’ she said, well aware that using an initial instead of her full name was guaranteed to antagonise Vanessa. ‘Sally. Happy New Year.’ She handed them a glass of champagne.
‘What’s all this?’ Vanessa demanded frostily, looking round at the journalists who had their heads down behind their monitors, sipping at their champagne out of sight. ‘Are we celebrating something? Does Chief know alcohol’s being drunk so early in the morning?’ she demanded, like she’d just taken the pledge.
‘His idea,’ Poppy drawled, topping up hers and Charlee’s glasses. ‘Which is to say - his and Rafa’s.
‘Rafa?’ Sally queried, forgetting herself and taking a sip of champagne. Vanessa gave them a steely look and put her glass down on Charlee’s work station.
‘Rafa?’ she repeated. ‘Rafa Ffinch?’ she asked, as if there was any other.
‘Yes,’ Charlee put in, deciding it was time she joined the conversation. ‘Rafa and I got engaged over Christmas.’ She held out her hand, all the better to show off the diamond. ‘It should be in The Times tomorrow, if they can fit us in. Otherwise it’ll be in a day or two.’
‘Fit you in?’ Vanessa asked in constricted tones, massaging her throat with her right hand as if she was actually choking. Charlee reached into her bag and, magician-like, pulled out a silver picture frame. She polished it with her sleeve and made a great show of arranging it on her desk next to her pot of pens. The framed photo - one of several taken yesterday by Ffinch’s ‘mate’, showed Ffinch in black tie, his jacket hooked over his shoulder on one finger and with his bow tie undone. Charlee was in an off-the-shoulder Grecian style evening dress and holding a helium balloon.
‘Yes, it’s been a coupe de foudre - taken us all by surprise.’ Charlee gave what she hoped was a girlish laugh, but she was dead serious. If she couldn’t convince Vanessa and Sally that she and Ffinch were love’s young dream, what chance did she have with Anastasia Markova and the other bridezillas at the boot camp? ‘And to think it all started in a skip …’ She paused for maximum effect, imagining for a moment she could hear Vanessa and Sally grinding their teeth. ‘Although, to be fair, it started way before then and I have you to thank for that Vanessa.’
‘Me?’ Vanessa spluttered, looking as if she wouldn’t give Charlee a paracetamol if it meant saving her life.
‘Yes.’ Charlee gave Vanessa and Sally a wide-eyed, innocent look. ‘If you hadn’t insisted that we acted as waiters at Rafa’s book launch, I would never have bumped into him. We would never have discovered how much we had in common - journalism, a desire to travel, even to the most dangerous corners of the world, a sense of humour. Funny how these little twists of fate can have such an impact.’ She breathed on Granny’s ring and gave it a little polish on her jacket. ‘Serendipity.’
‘Oh my God,’ Poppy said with such vehemence that they all jumped in their skins. ‘I love that movie. John Cusack is beyond cute. I would never have let him get away so easily.’ She looked so fierce and uncompromising that Charlee was glad Kate Beckinsale didn’t work in Editorial, otherwise she would have feared for her safety. Vanessa, on the other hand, plainly had no idea what Poppy was talking about and looked as if her world had been turned on its head.
‘I must have a word with Chief,’ she said faintly, and made her way down the long corridor towards Sam’s office.
‘Ffinch is with him. They might not want to be disturbed,’ Charlee said ever so helpfully. Vanessa skidded to a halt, swivelled round in her Manolos and gave Charlee a poisonous look. ‘Just saying,’ Charlee added, as Sally almost collided with Vanessa, who in turn glared at all three of them. Judging by Vanessa’s expression she was feeling firmly out of the loop. They knew about things she didn’t - like, the film Serendipity and the fact that John Cusack was - apparently - beyond cute.
A new world order was being established at What’cha! with Ffinch as its crown prince and Charlee its blushing, if not princess, bride. Ever astute, Vanessa had picked up the vibe but wasn’t ready to make way for the Young Pretenders, yet. Time they were put in their place, her cold grey sweep of Charlee implied. She glanced round at the rest of the workforce who had popped their heads above their monitors and were watching silently.
‘Thank you, Montague. Chief has never turned me away from his office and I don’t imagine he’s about to start now. Sally, with me, if you please. And as for the rest of you …’ The room was suddenly filled with the sound of fingers tapping away at keyboards and mice being clicked with such ferocity that someone needed to ring the RSPCA. Openly pleased that she hadn’t lost her ability to strike terror into their hearts, Vanessa allowed herself a self-satisfied smile and teetered along the corridor as fast as her Manolos would allow.
The whole office waited for Sam Walker’s door to open and close and then released a collective breath. Poppy high-fived Charlee and gave her a hug. The rest of the staff got to their feet, chanting: ‘Go, Charlee. Go, Charlee’. Charlee grinned and allowed herself a modest bow before sitting at her desk and switching on her computer. After this, she didn’t think she’d be exiled to the photo archive - ever again.
Times were changing at What’cha! and she was in the very vanguard of those changes.
Chapter Twenty-two
Sex, Lies and Telephoto Lenses
Fifteen minutes later, Charlee was poked roughly in the shoulder.
‘Chief says you’re to go in,’ Sally spat at her. ‘He and Rafa want to talk to you.’
‘Thanks, Sal.’ Charlee used the diminutive of her name to reinforce the change in their positions at What’cha! She thought of asking Sally to be a bridesmaid at the wedding-that-was-never-going-to-happen, but decided that might be taking the joke too far. Instead, she gathered her notebook and pen and made her way down the corridor.
Standing outside Sam’s office, she remembered only too clearly the last time she’d been there. Then she’d thought she was about to be sacked. Now, here she was - less than two weeks later - ‘engaged’ to one of the most revered photographers in the business. It put a whole new spin on the concept of ‘speed dating’; from zero to hero during the course of the Christmas hols!
Man - it felt good!
Pulling back her shoulders, she raised her hand to knock at the door and then paused. It was slightly ajar and she didn’t want to barge in while Sam and Ffinch were deep in conversation. Her position wasn’t that certain - just yet. She pushed the door further ajar, listening in on their conversation and trying to gauge when she should enter. Last time she’d seen Sam Walker, he’d been wearing an Emma Bridgewater apron and she’d helped him with preparing dinner. Back in harness, ‘Chief’ was quite capable of flaying the flesh off her bones with a cutting remark if she got above herself.
Rafa was speaking. ‘Look, Sam, I’m not sure about this.’
‘Oh, come on, Rafa - it’s the best shot we’ve got. You land the story of the year, I run it and What’cha! gets all the glory. It’ll be my last hurrah and double the price I can ask for the magazine. There could be a knighthood in it - Lady Daphne - imagine how that’d go down with the horsey set.’
‘I know, but what about Montague? If anything happened to her, the Brothers Grimm would tear me apart, limb from limb.’
‘Look, she’s tough, smart and can carry it off. You’re getting close, don’t screw it up now, Raf,’ Sam said in a tone that brooked no refusal.
‘She’s no fool, she’s already beginning to suspect -’ Ffinch began but Sam swept his objections out of the way.
‘Last time I looked you’re a man and
she’s a woman. Do I have to explain about the birds and the bees? Woo her, put so many stars in her eyes that she’ll be blind to what’s going on under her nose.’
‘That’s a tall order - I get the distinct impression that she thinks I’m a -’
The phone on Sam’s desk rang and Ffinch’s last words were lost. Judging this was an opportune moment to enter, Charlee knocked on the door and entered without waiting for Sam’s usual, headmasterly ‘co-ome’ - or terse ‘fuck off’.
‘Charlee.’ Ffinch frowned as she walked into the office, perhaps wondering how long she’d been standing there and what she might have overheard. ‘You’ve got your notebook, good. There are a few details to finalise and then we’re on.’
‘That’s great,’ she said, smiling artlessly to allay his suspicions. ‘What happens next?’ she asked as Sam put the phone back on its charger.
‘We’re going to put it about that you and Ffinch are going off on a … what d’you call them, Rafa?’
‘Minibreak,’ Ffinch put in straight-faced, although she suspected that his lips were twitching. ‘In a country house hotel, to cement our love, and to celebrate our engagement.’
‘Country house hotel? Isn’t that just a little bit too Bridget Jones?’
She recalled the conversation they’d had in this very office. ‘I have no intention of working late, missing the last train back to town and staying over in some country house hotel with you. Or being shown to a suite of rooms which - surprise, surprise - have conveniently interconnecting doors.’ And his mocking rejoinder: ‘Don’t think you’d be able to keep your hands off me, eh Chelsea? I quite understand.’
‘Why do we need to go anywhere?’ Charlee foresaw herself being relegated to joke-girlfriend/comical-fiancée - a pawn, pushed and pulled this way and that by Sam and Ffinch. And she wasn’t having any of it.
