Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘Look, Ffinch. I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s certainly more than photographing some anorexic models and reporting their banal conversations about how many calories are in a breadstick. Or spoiling Mirror, Mirror’s story, for that matter.’

  Unfazed by her outburst, he put his binoculars down on the bench next to the hot chocolate and chose his next words carefully.

  ‘Montague, that brain of yours is in permanent hyperdrive and it’s quite exhausting if you must know. This story is Sam’s way of easing me in gently after dengue fever; after - after everything that’s happened, to - to me.’ His voice faltered and Charlee felt guilty for voicing her suspicions, but only for a few brief moments. ‘This is my therapeutic return to work, as recommended by the guys in HR - supervising a rookie, taking a few snaps …’

  ‘Pouf,’ Charlee exclaimed dismissively. Ffinch hardly looked like someone who gave a stuff about what HR thought. However, there was a ring of truth in his explanation, but it wasn’t the whole truth or anything approaching it, of that Charlee was sure. Turning away from him, she looked back at the wind turbines on the distant shoreline turning against the pale-blue winter sky.

  ‘Charlee, this is Sam’s last hurrah. If we get the scoop it’ll not only steal the march on Mirror, Mirror, it’ll put What’cha! in a strong position when he does come to sell.’

  ‘I totally get that, but why is my being able to read Russian so important?’

  ‘In case.’

  ‘In case of what? Don’t treat me like an idiot,’ she said fiercely. She’d had a lifetime of her brothers denigrating and undermining her for their amusement and wasn’t about to allow Ffinch to do the same. But he was already throwing the dregs of his hot chocolate onto the grass and screwing the cup back onto the flask.

  ‘Look, Charlee,’ he said wearily, getting to his feet and threading his arms through his rucksack. ‘Your mission is to get photos of Markova. Concentrate on that. If, by listening to her conversation you should glean some information about -’ he hesitated, her persistent lobbying apparently wearing down his resistance.

  ‘About?’

  ‘Her fiancé and his business dealings, then report straight back to me. No matter how inconsequential the details may seem. Only, keep it between us - don’t even tell Sam; if you do well then doubtless you will be given something more deserving of your talents next time.’

  ‘As your partner?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Possibly not. I - well, I’ve got unfinished business in Colombia which I must attend to.’ She didn’t like the way he said it, or how his expression darkened. Fear clutched at her heart and she forgot her anger and imagined him back on the trail of The Aguilas Negra - the Black Eagles. And never coming home …

  ‘No, you mustn’t,’ she declared with sudden passion, grabbing his arm and shaking it in an attempt to make him see sense.

  ‘I didn’t know you cared, Montague.’ Although he made light of her concern, he didn’t shake her off - instead, he placed his gloved hand on top of hers and looked directly into her eyes. Walking in the cold wind had brought colour to his cheeks and Charlee caught a glimpse of the old Ffinch. How he must have looked before he’d set off on his research trip to Darien.

  ‘I do care,’ she said softly. ‘As a friend and partner, I care what happens to you.’ She gave him a fierce, ‘don’t try to push me away’ look.

  ‘Charlee, don’t,’ he said almost regretfully. ‘I can’t - it wouldn’t be fair.’ Removing his glove, he raised his hand and cupped her cheek. Charlee pushed her face closer into his palm and her eyes widened in response to his intense study of her face and eyes. A spark of sexual awareness arced between them which rocked Charlee to her foundations.

  Perhaps, here on the salt marsh, where the wind sighed through the reeds and stirred the dried pods of the alexanders, they could be honest with one another. Confront those feelings which had been simmering beneath the surface since the book launch. Playing his pretend fiancée wasn’t easy; the pretence was beginning to feel more real than the life Charlee had left behind. She was beginning to fall for Rafa Ffinch - for all his faults, irascibility and secretiveness. At the end of the assignment, when their partnership was dissolved, she knew that walking away from him would be the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  It was time to redraw the line in the sand and use his blunt economy with the facts to armour herself against him. To hide her reaction to his touch, to him, she glanced down at the muddy earth at their feet and pushed a stone around with the toe of her spotty wellingtons.

  ‘Back in Sam’s office you told me not to go all mushy on you,’ she reminded him. ‘And I won’t.’ She pushed away from him although every instinct she possessed was telling her to throw her arms around him and keep him safe.

  ‘For God’s sake, Montague. That day I hardly knew you - apart from the fact you appeared just right for this post - ballsy, opinionated and capable of thinking on your feet. You came recommended by Poppy and Sam - but that meant nothing to me. I had to sound you out. I had to be sure, for both our sakes. Do you have to keep dredging it up at every opportunity? I get it, believe me; I know your feelings towards me. You said on that occasion you weren’t looking for a life partner - and if you were, I was the last man on earth you’d choose.’

  ‘Now who’s dredging up the past?’ she asked, moving over to the margin of the marsh.

  ‘I think we know that I’m not your type,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Though God knows who is. I have great sympathy for the poor schmuck who eventually takes you on; he won’t know what time of day it is. Or what you’re thinking from one moment to the next. And if I had wanted to start something,’ he pulled a face at the expression, ‘it would have happened back at the mews. But having my toes shish kebabbed by your killer heels and being left to starve because your post-feminist principles wouldn’t allow you to make my dinner and keep it warm in the oven - made pretty clear your opinion of me.’

  ‘Ha. See … I knew you hadn’t got over that.’ Charlee turned back to him in triumph as she trumped his ace. This was less dangerous ground. This she could do. ‘You should have come home at a reasonable time, not left me wondering if you’d come off your motorbike and was lying in A&E. I’m not one of your legion of girlfriends who would doubtless be only too happy to play house with you. And you’re right - you’re not my type,’ she lied.

  ‘Jesus, Charlee, don’t spare my feelings will you?’

  ‘I won’t as, quite obviously, you haven’t considered mine,’ she said and then frowned. ‘I can’t remember what this argument is about any more, so let’s move on.’ She hoicked her rucksack higher on her slight shoulders.

  ‘It was about us being partners; mates,’ he ended the argument.

  ‘Let’s leave it there. If you want to risk your life in piranha-infested waters - that’s up to you.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Good.’ Charlee went stomping off up the path, putting up a pair of wading birds whose long legs trailed behind them in flight. She heard her name called. ‘Wot?’ she rounded on him, glaring.

  ‘Wrong way again Montague. Follow me.’

  Ffinch coolly assumed the role of man-in-charge-of-an-ordnance-survey-map while Charlee fitted her smaller footsteps into the tracks he left in the mud and followed in his wake.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mates?

  ‘Wait up, Ffinch, I want a sandwich,’ she called out after ten minutes of trudging through the mud. They’d reached a second bench overlooking the marshes, so she swung her rucksack off, sat down and started to unwrap the packed lunch The Ship Inn had provided.

  ‘Hangry?’ Ffinch inquired, searching her face to see if it was safe to approach.

  ‘Hangry,’ she agreed. She was about to explain that low blood sugar wasn’t the only cause of her anger towards him, but then changed her mind. Best to let the matter rest and get everything back on an even keel. Perhaps she could put her ra
cing heart and sense of confusion down to a delayed caffeine buzz. She’d had little to eat at breakfast apart from a slice of toast and two double espressos.

  ‘Mates?’ he asked, watching her attack a ham and mustard sandwich.

  ‘I guess,’ she said, her mouth full of food.

  Slipping off his rucksack, he perched on the back of the bench to give him extra height. He raised his binoculars and stared once more over the marshes towards the channels and gulleys revealed as the tide receded.

  ‘Are we anywhere near the boot camp?’ Charlee asked, taking a large swig from a bottle of mineral water.

  ‘See where the vegetation is a deeper, richer green, and where some boats are moored? That’s the beginning of the boot camp’s territory. It stretches all the way to the Coal Shed and sluice gates at Thornham Staithe and out to the Wash.’

  ‘Coal Shed?’ Charlie frowned.

  ‘You’ll see when we get there. I want to walk across the marshes and down to Thornham Beach to familiarise myself with the lay of the land.’ Noticing her curious look Ffinch went on to explain. ‘I’ve thought of a few scenarios that might arise and I want us to be prepared for them.’

  Excitement fizzed through Charlee’s veins. This was what she’d been born for - adventure, derring-do, the scoop …

  ‘Such as?’ She kept her tone level. She didn’t want to come across as just another overexcited intern.

  ‘I was thinking, say Markova suspected you of taking too many snaps of her. She might complain to the management and they might ask you to hand your phone over,’ Ffinch said thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s a lot of mights, isn’t it?’ He nodded. ‘So - what do you propose?’

  ‘As a contingency - you inform me via the public phone of your itinerary for the next day and I’ll station myself somewhere on the marsh and take the photos with my long range lenses as you all trot by.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you can’t do that anyway …’

  ‘We’ve been through all this, Montague. It’s because we want detail for the column - what the bride-to-be’s thinking, who’s designing her dress, where they’re holding the wedding, having their honeymoon. All the detail the readers of What’cha! expect - you know the score.’

  ‘Moon in June, roses round the door. Got it,’ Charlee said, getting in a little dig at the same time.

  ‘Exactly. Now buckle up, you’re in for a yomp over to Holme-next-the-Sea and then back to The Ship Inn for some chill-out time before dinner. What now?’

  ‘Can we have dinner in the bar tonight? I mean, last night was great, don’t get me wrong - but I would like to sit in the Smuggler’s Retreat and absorb the atmosphere, listen to the locals, pick up the vibe. Now what have I said?’ she demanded as Ffinch gave her an inscrutable look.

  ‘You really are a conundrum, aren’t you, Charlee?’ His use of her first name showed that he’d consigned their spat to the past. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood to attention as if he’d trailed his fingers across them. ‘You weren’t fazed when I turned up in a vintage camper van on Christmas Eve, and genuinely seemed thrilled it had a Porsche engine. You settled right in at my grandparents’ mews flat and didn’t complain about the retro decor and offer to give it some kind of horrendous girlie make over. Now you’re turning down a champagne dinner?’

  ‘Well, I simply thought … there’s only so much dressing up a girl can take.’ She wanted to hear the second instalment of what had really happened to him in Colombia and instinct told her that he’d open up more readily in the Smuggler’s Retreat with its low beams, dark walls and roaring fire.

  ‘Okay, you’re on,’ he said in a light-hearted fashion. ‘I didn’t feel much like putting the old whistle and flute back on tonight, in any case.’ Charlee laughed at his use of cockney rhyming slang.

  ‘Lead on then, me old cock sparrow - and as we make our way down to the beach, let’s work out our game plan - just in case anything does goes wrong. There is one good thing, though,’ she added mischievously as she gazed out over the vast expanse of sea, marshes and reed beds, ‘at least there aren’t many hills in Norfolk.’

  ‘I’ll mention that to the tourist board, it’d make a great advertising slogan: Come to Norfolk for your holidays - it’s so wonderfully flat!’ Laughing, they made their way towards Thornham Staithe and the sluice gates which controlled the flow of water around the Coal Shed.

  Mates.

  Charlee was glad that Ffinch had told her to meet him in the bar at seven, sharp. She didn’t think she could take another grand progress down the wide oak staircase and into the hall with everyone thinking them love’s young dream. Turning right in the hall, she went into the low-ceilinged Smuggler’s Retreat where she found Ffinch standing at the bar, his right foot on the polished brass rail and looking very much at home. As she approached, she heard him talking about the tides to someone whose flat vowels and nasal twang marked him out as Norfolk born and bred.

  ‘Course, the most spectac-clear toides are later in the year,’ the man was saying to Ffinch. ‘But last noight’s was quoite ’igh cause o’ the full moon. In the old days, the smugglers would have landed their contraband and taken their chances with the revenue men. There’s been murder, and worse, committed on these marshes,’ he said, drained his glass and thumped it on the bar, meaningfully.

  Charlee wondered what could be worse than murder but said nothing. Ffinch was unaware of her presence and she was happy to keep it like that. He signalled for the barman to refill his new-found friend’s glass and swirled his whisky round and round in his tumbler without touching it.

  ‘So what about the Thornham Boot Camp for Brides?’ Ffinch asked.

  ‘Lot o’ daft women runnin’ round loik idiots in my opinion,’ the barman put in his two pennyworth. ‘Moind you, in the summer you do get a good eyeful of posh tottie in skimpy shorts, tops and the loik - if you get my meaning.’ He leaned forward and jiggled his hands up and down like he was weighing water melons. Then he summoned Ffinch to move in closer. ‘The old owner sold out last year and those damned Ruskies took it over. They normally drink in the Lemon Tree on the main road where all the Londoners hang out. But they comes in ’ere occasionally, turning their noses up at moi best vodka and ordering champagne. We in’t posh enough for ’em and they in’t welcome.’

  ‘Why did the previous owners move out?’ Turning, Ffinch probed his new-found friend as the barman handed over his pint.

  ‘They was getting old. Couldn’t manage the big house no more - and the Ruskies offered them more than it were worth. Anyway - here’s your young loidy waiting for you.’ He gestured at Charlee with his pint glass, obviously keen to go join his mates who were setting up a game of cribbage by the fire.

  ‘Charlee,’ Ffinch greeted her, openly speculating how long she’d been standing there. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

  Charlee’s insides turned to liquid at the endearment, momentarily forgetting that it was all part of the act.

  ‘Vodka-i zakyski iz menu. Ymerau ot goloda,’ she said with a flourish in Russian to cover her weakness. Realising what a brick she’d just dropped, she hurried on, hoping that the barman had poor hearing. ‘Vodka - and the bar snack menu. I’m starving.’

  ‘You can’t be,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

  After their long walk to Holme-next-the-Sea, they’d ordered afternoon tea and Charlee had attacked hers with relish. In contrast, Ffinch had pushed his sandwiches and scones aside and drank gallons of strong black tea while poring over Ordnance Survey maps of the marshes, marking certain areas in black felt-tip pen - his face a study in concentration.

  ‘I was always hungry when I was a child. My father said I had worms and threatened to mash up worm tablets in my dinner, like he did with the dogs. What, too much information?’ She laughed at his expression. ‘My dad’s a vet, I’m a country girl at heart - get over it.’ She took a bar snack menu and sat down at a small round table in an alcove well away from everyone. The ideal spot
for grilling Ffinch over Colombia, later. ‘Nothing prissy about me.’

  ‘I had noticed,’ Ffinch said rather dryly.

  ‘You think that a little more priss is called for?’ Charlee asked.

  ‘Just a smidgeon,’ Ffinch observed as he took his place at the table. ‘You have a way of killing the moment, Montague, know that? Worm tablets, indeed. Just as well you’re not my real fiancée.’

  ‘How would a real fiancée act, then?’ she asked, smarting at his tone. Playing the role of someone not held back by an excess of priss, she downed her vodka and slammed the shot glass down on the table. She managed to hide that her throat was burning and her eyes watering, but she’d made her point. ‘Maybe I should have ordered a small, dry sherry in one of those old-fashioned glasses I saw back at the mews - what do you call them?’

  ‘A schooner.’

  ‘Well, Miss Prissy Pants wouldn’t be much good to you on this occasion, now would she?’ Charlee opened the menu, dismayed to discover that the catch in her throat and the hot tears misting her eyes had nothing to do with the vodka. ‘Arranging flowers and knitting doilies won’t be much use, whereas being able to read and write in six different languages might just be an advantage over the next few days.’

  Ffinch said nothing for a few minutes as he read down the menu, clearly aware that he’d upset her but wasn’t quite sure how. ‘You’re right, you are the woman for the job. And, by the way …’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie raised her head and looked at him.

  ‘You don’t knit doilies, you crochet them.’

  He got to his feet and sauntered over to the bar to order. Although she almost hated him in that moment, Charlee was nonetheless aware how he drew glances from men and women alike. The men because they sensed his air of confidence and authority; and the women because he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Rohan catalogue - straight leg black trousers, boxy shirt under a lightweight gilet and expensive looking trainers/walking boots. It took a lot of money to look so casually dressed and Charlee wondered about his privileged - if peripatetic - upbringing, which he never mentioned.