by Lizzie Lamb
The sky was lightening when Charlee and Anastasia - accompanied by the ever-vigilant Valentina - joined the other women on the drive in front of Thornham Manor. Charlee pretended to stretch out her muscles ready for a run, but was secretly planning how to dump Valentina and Anastasia without arousing their suspicions. Then the male instructor, wearing indecently sculpted running leggings and a sleeveless vest designed to show off his six-pack, addressed them.
‘Ladies - we will be running as far as Titchwell. At the end of your run, we have arranged for an informative talk by one of the RSPB wardens on the rare marsh harrier and other Norfolk birds. ’ A collective groan went up which was duly ignored by the instructor and his humourless colleagues. ‘We will be running along the road in places where the path peters out. So remember to stay single file - and wear your high-visibility vests at all times.’
As she slipped on the lightweight Day-Glo vest, Charlee recalled Ffinch looking up vultures in his Boys’ Own Book of Fenland Birds the day when she’d pushed him into the hedge. Would they ever be able to return to those days, or had her femme fatale act soured things between them for ever?
‘Prekrati soprotivlyat’sya Valentina.’
Straightening, Charlee heard Anastasia advise Valentina to stop struggling as she guided the flimsy vest over Valentina’s massive upper arms. Charlee knew that kind-hearted Anastasia felt mean at sidelining Valentina and planned to be more patient with her today - even if Valentina was Yevgeny’s paid informant.
‘Now, ladies, remember - Fartlek is about training the body to switch gear and use different muscle groups. It allows you to run at whatever distance and speed you wish, varying the intensity, and occasionally running at high intensity levels. Take your time to warm up; there are no prizes for torn ligaments or twisted joints.’
He fiddled with the stopwatch on his wrist and started down the gravel drive at a sensible pace. Pulling a comical face at Anastasia, Charlee followed on his heels with the fitter of the brides-to-be. Valentina was built for shouldering doors open, not running mini marathons across salt marshes, so Charlee seized the chance to leave them behind - and put Ffinch’s contingency plan into action.
Last night, she and Anastasia had bonded over dinner, steering clear of the other bridezillas with their tales of rogue caterers, uncooperative florists and psychotic wedding planners. They’d stayed up well into the night, sharing their dreams and hopes and by the time they’d switched off their bedside light, had become firm friends. However, as she jogged out of the double gates and onto the marshes, Charlee’s breakfast curdled in her stomach at the deceit necessary to keep Anastasia onside and learn more about her.
Sam would have called it groundwork. Charlee called it double-dealing and it didn’t sit easily with her. Stiffening her resolve - she’d been sent here with the express purpose of getting the dirt on Anastasia and spoiling Mirror, Mirror’s exclusive - Charlee jogged along the margins of the marsh.
She couldn’t afford to let misguided loyalty to a new friend distract her from carrying out the mission she’d been given. Added to that, she had to prove to Ffinch that she wasn’t a complete airhead whose brains were located in her knickers.
Out of breath, face glowing in the cold January air, Charlee and the front runners reached Titchwell well ahead of the second group. Their instructor led them into a small café where they were served hot chocolate and nutrition bars which tasted like blocks of moulded sawdust. Charlee left hers on the table and decided to explore the hides overlooking the reed beds while she waited for Anastasia and Valentina to catch up.
Maybe she’d see one of the lesser-spotted marsh vultures which Ffinch had jokingly referred to. Smiling, she turned right and headed through a wild area where a wooden hide was hidden by foliage. The Fartlek Training had been vigorous and had succeeded in removing all feelings of pent-up sexual frustration. It filled her with new purpose, a determination to succeed and to make Ffinch proud to call her partner.
Inside the wooden hide it smelled of damp and mould, like an old garden shed, but Charlee was glad to be out of the cutting wind that was blowing straight from the Urals. Well, at least it would make Valentina feel right at home and might encourage her to get off Anastasia’s case and let her enjoy her last week of freedom without fear of her every action being reported back to Yevgeny Trushev.
Charlee tiptoed over to the far side of the hide where a wooden flap dropped down and provided a window onto the flooded reed beds. A twitcher with a camera on a tripod was watching the reeds intently and hadn’t moved since she’d entered the hide. She peered over his shoulder to see if anything was moving out there, but to her untrained eye the whole area looked dead, bereft of life.
She moved closer to the ‘window’, taking care not to bump into the twitcher or knock his equipment over. He was wearing the sludgy greenish-brown uniform beloved of marsh walkers and a black Polartec balaclava underneath a GANT baseball cap. They stood side by side for a few minutes without speaking and Charlee half-turned to go. In her opinion twitching came a close second to watching paint dry.
‘You’ve forgotten your phone, love,’ the twitcher called out to her. His voice was gruff, muffled by the balaclava which he’d pulled up over the lower half of his face.
‘That isn’t my phone,’ Charlee replied, glancing down at the top of the range smartphone on the window ledge. ‘Someone must have left it there, earlier.’
‘I think you’ll find it is your phone,’ the man insisted, less gruffly this time. Instinctively, Charlee took a step away from him. What if he was some kind of weirdo who preyed on unsuspecting young women, offering smartphones instead of sweeties to lure them into the deserted reed beds and then - Urgh, that thought was way too weird, even for her. She shook her head free of it and made for the door, but the twitcher was already there and blocking her exit.
‘Look, I should warn you,’ she said, taking up a ninja-like stance. ‘I’m one of the instructors from the boot camp and skilled in martial arts. I could snap your arm like a dry twig, so - get out of my way,’ she snarled. He didn’t budge. Instead, he lowered the bottom half of the balaclava and sent her a sardonic smile.
‘Black belt in origami, was that?’ he asked, removing his balaclava and baseball cap and sending her an exasperated look. ‘Just take the bloody phone, Montague.’ He reached out, caught her hand, and slapped the smartphone into it.
‘Ffinch!’ A tiny grenade of a bomb of joy exploded in Charlee’s chest leaving an aftershock of happiness behind. ‘Ffinch …’ she repeated in a more restrained tone. Last time she’d seen him, he’d dumped her unceremoniously onto her bed and locked the door behind him. And yesterday he’d snarkily referred to her as the runaway bride. It wouldn’t do to be too pleased to see him. ‘I thought you were some kind of birdwatching pervert! What are you doing here? How - how did you know I’d come into this hide?’
‘I didn’t. You told me that you were jogging to Titchwell and I took a punt on running into you. Don’t worry, I’ve hidden another phone underneath the bench by the boot camp, the one overlooking the wind turbines. I’ve also stashed one in the hollow tree in the pine plantation near Thornham Beach in case your run took you in that direction. That’s what we agreed, wasn’t it?’ He gave her a puzzled look as if waiting for a reaction, any response other than her stunned look.
‘Mm, that’s right.’
‘And, here you are,’ he continued evenly, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘An expert in martial arts in under two days. Pretty good going, even for you, Montague.’
‘Yes; here I am,’ Charlee agreed, almost combusting under his steady regard. Ffinch, realising that he was still holding her hand, dropped it like a brand and stepped back from her. Charlee searched for some witticism; some smart alec remark which would re-establish her position as the go-to rookie and consign the hormonally imbalanced madwoman of the other night to the recycle bin. Using all her reserves of cool, she sent him a composed look.
Seeing him again, reinforced how mu
ch she’d missed him. There was so much she wanted to say; so much that she couldn’t say. She settled instead for sending him a helpless look which acknowledged he’d been right all along when he said that nothing could ever be the same between them.
‘Montague … ’
‘Ffinch, I -’
Apparently sensing her inner turmoil, Ffinch took a step towards her and broke the tongue-tied silence. ‘It might be a good idea to hide the phone, Montague? Before you leave?’ he added, giving her a prompt to exit stage left.
‘Of course.’
Charlee looked down at the phone, wondering where on earth she could hide it. Ffinch gave her close-fitting thermal leggings a professional once-over, clearly of the same opinion. His gaze lingered longer than was strictly necessary over the curve of her buttocks before he schooled his features. Blushing, Charlee stowed the phone inside her knickers just below the dip of her spine, pulling her top over the telltale bulge and rearranging her jacket.
‘I hope you’ve set the ring tone to throb,’ she said sternly. Then she realised what she’d said and rushed to cover up her double entendre. ‘How’s that?’ she asked, turning round, dropping her hip and sticking out her bottom so he could check for phone-shaped bulges.
‘In what sense?’ he asked in a constricted tone.
‘In the sense of: does my phone look big in this,’ she said snarkily, hoping to return to their previous banter. The woman in her wanted to test Ffinch’s breaking point, to see if he was as oblivious to the alteration in their relationship as his appearance suggested. But the professional in her knew that such behaviour was wrong on just about every level you could think of.
Rock - Scissors - Paper.
‘It looks - okay,’ he said. ‘However, it’s best not to test the willpower of a - how did you phrase it - birdwatching pervert.’
‘Okay, so I shouldn’t have implied you were a birdwatcher,’ she agreed straight-faced, but didn’t apologise for implying he was a pervert. Turning, she took a couple of steps closer, knowing that she had to say her piece. ‘Look, Ffinch, before we’re disturbed, I have a couple of things I need to say.’
‘Go ahead.’ He stowed his balaclava in his pocket and pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes, leaving Charlee with the feeling that he was struggling to keep things between them on an even keel.
‘One,’ Charlee let out a steadying breath. ‘I shouldn’t have come to your room, let alone climbed into your bed and - well - another man might not have acted so … chivalrously.’ She walked over to the open window, feeling sudden heat wash over her at the memory of his mouth on her skin. ‘So, thanks for that,’ she said diffidently, knowing that she hadn’t wanted chivalry two nights ago. She’d wanted - well, she assumed they both knew what she’d wanted, it wasn’t rocket science.
‘Chivalrous? Is that what I was?’ He pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully as though the idea needed some consideration. ‘It takes two to tango, Charlee. I wasn’t a reluctant participant, believe me, I simply felt the timing was lousy. You’ve got to carve a path for yourself in the world of journalism - and I’ve got unsettled business in Darien.’
‘Oh.’ His ‘it takes two to tango’, made Charlee feel slightly better, although something inside her shrivelled when he mentioned returning to the scene of his dangerous expedition. ‘And would you have told me this - the next morning, I mean - if I hadn’t have bolted?’
‘Most probably, but you didn’t give me the chance, did you?’
‘I acted like a fool.’ He didn’t contradict her.
‘And the second thing?’ he asked, looking through a crack in the door to make sure no one was coming along the path.
‘It feels wrong to win over Anastasia’s confidence just to pump her for some article Sam wants to write to spike his rival. I know, I know,’ she raised her hand to forestall him. ‘I need to man up if I’m going to survive in this game. It just feels - wrong. That’s all.’
‘Your scruples do you proud, Montague; however, we’ve come here to do a job and I can’t do it without you,’ he said, wearing his hard-bitten-photojournalist’s hat. Then he stalled, as if he’d said too much. Charlee decided to press home her advantage before they were interrupted or he clammed up.
‘Which brings me neatly to my next point. Get this - Anastasia’s fiancée owns the boot camp. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? Maybe it’s a front for something else -’
‘Such as?’ he asked, his expression bland.
‘I don’t know. But there’s something dodgy about him. About the whole set-up … and I mean to find out what it is.’
‘Someone’s coming,’ he said, cutting her speculation short. He removed his baseball cap, slipped the balaclava back on, pulling it up so only his gorgeous blue-grey eyes were visible. Charlee’s stomach flipped over and a shiver of sexual awareness fizzed through her like champagne and replaced the heat which had earlier scorched her face. How could she have mistaken him for a birdwatching pervert? He looked every inch the sort of man any woman would be proud to call her lover. She sighed. ‘You’d better go,’ he warned. ‘And, Charlee -’
‘Yes?’
Ffinch looked as if he wanted to say more, but settled for: ‘Take care.’
Charlee’s heart swelled, but she hid her emotion behind a sassy grin and a throwaway remark. ‘I’m a black belt, remember?’ She struck a pose which Bruce Lee would have been proud of.
‘In origami, I believe?’ Then he returned to his camera and the reed beds where no birds sang. Dismissed, Charlee shook out her legs and arms to limber up for the jog back, knowing that Anastasia, Valentina and the other brides-to-be who couldn’t keep up with the punishing pace would be shipped back to the boot camp in a minibus.
And that suited her. She needed to be out on the marshes alone so she could locate the spare phone and keep it as back up. It was just like the Easter egg hunts her parents used to organise in their orchard for the village children, she reflected, as she walked up the path towards the café.
Except this was deadly serious and potentially dangerous - even if she hadn’t quite figured out why - yet!
Chapter Thirty
He Who Must Be Obeyed
The arrival of Yevgeny Nikolayevich Trushev later that same afternoon sent the staff into a tailspin. Natasha the manager looked as though she expected to be sacked at any moment and Anastasia became increasingly nervous - although Yevgeny made no attempt to visit her. Only Valentina seemed happy that her boss was on the premises and delighted in sending Charlee and Anastasia ‘just you wait and see’ looks. As if their just desserts were just around the corner and she’d be the one dishing them up.
While Anastasia was taking her second shower of the day and preparing herself for Yevgeny, Charlee made the most of the opportunity to hide one of the phones at the back of the armoire, tucked into the buttoned-down pocket of a short, denim jacket. The other she held in her hand and looked at uncertainly. No way would she be able to get photos of Anastasia or anyone else at the boot camp without being blatantly obvious.
Sans photos, her piece on Anastasia was virtually worthless. What was she to do?
Standing in the bay window, she checked to see how many bars were visible on her phone. Two - one - then none; the signal came and went erratically. However, with Anastasia in the shower, Charlee thought this was a good time to ring Ffinch for advice.
Walking into the bay window and drawing the curtains behind her, she tapped out his number.
‘Ffinch.’
‘Ffinch, this isn’t going to work,’ she said in a rush.
‘O-kay,’ he said slowly. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘How about if you park the camper van by the Coal Shed and I persuade Anastasia to walk with me there - ostensibly to see the barn owls quartering the fields near the pinewood? You could draw the curtains and poke your lens through and get some close ups of her as we walk past? She won’t be very muddied up, and she doesn’t do dishevelled so the shots might not be what S
am’s looking for. Her fiancé, Yevgeny, has just arrived, so I don’t think we’ll see her in a tracksuit again.’ She realised that she was in danger of hyperventilating so she slowed down and hissed under her breath, ‘Oh, this is bloody impossible.’
‘Don’t stress about it, Charlee, you’ve done your best,’ Ffinch said in a surprisingly calm voice.
‘I might as well leave tomorrow morning and forget all about the Gala Dinner. I’ve got enough info to run a background piece about Anastasia growing up in poverty in Odessa and how she was scouted by one of the agencies, whilst selling vegetables on the roadside by her parents’ farm.’
‘No. You’re to stay the course.’ His voice was sharp. ‘Look, I’m going to drive round to the Coal Shed and park there for the rest of the afternoon. Meet me there, with or without Markova.’
‘But how? It’s easier to get a weekend exeat from boarding school than to walk out of these gates. Talk about the Gulag Archipelago,’ Charlee complained as loud as she dared with Anastasia just out of earshot.
‘You’re resourceful, Montague, you’ll figure it out.’ Giving her no room for manoeuvre, he hung up.
Feeling dismissed, Charlee pressed her lips together and frowned. This morning in the hide she’d sensed a definite connection between them - as if he’d been pleased to see her. But perhaps a combination of the hormones and mild homesickness had dulled her perception. Evidently he had other things on his mind, things that took precedence over holding a rookie’s hand.
It was a permanent state of affairs with him, she concluded, switching the phone to silent and stowing it back in her underwear. She was adjusting the curtains when Anastasia walked out of the en suite, a cloud of some delicious tangy, green scent trailing in her wake.
‘That smells fab,’ Charlee said. ‘What is it?’
Anastasia shrugged. ‘I don’t know; Chanel 19, I think. I get given many things.’ She walked back into the en suite and returned carrying a large bottle of shower lotion. ‘You take,’ she said to Charlee and put it down on her side of the dressing table. ‘I have more; many more.’ She frowned as if the thought brought her no comfort and Charlee felt a pang of empathy. Anastasia Markova had everything: money, beauty, an enviable career - and, okay, a fiancée who looked like Mr Potato Head - but she seemed desolate and suffering from low self-esteem.
