by Lizzie Lamb
That was something Charlee had never experienced. Maybe she should thank her brothers for making her stand on her own two feet and teaching her to shout loudest in order to be heard.
‘I was going to walk to the Coal Shed. That place I told you of, and then down to the bench overlooking the fields where the barn owls can be seen,’ Charlee said casually. ‘Fancy coming with me?’
Anastasia stopped towelling and looked up at Charlee through tangled blonde hair - like a sad mermaid. ‘Sh-arlee, you must understand, now Yevgeny is here I must be ready at all times.’ Ready for what Charlee didn’t need to inquire, bile rising in her throat at the thought of Anastasia being pawed by the Russian. How different things had been between herself and Ffinch the other night, the difference between having sex and making love.
‘Forgive me for asking, Anastasia, but why do you stay with him? You’ve studied at a prestigious university, been on the front of every magazine and have your own money.’ Anastasia’s endless legs, long blonde hair, high cheekbones and slanting green eyes made her the highest paid model on the catwalk.
‘My money must last me - and my family back in Odessa - all of my life, yes? Looks fade, men grow cold - I must have security …’ she tailed off, looking so forlorn that Charlee’s heart squeezed with compassion.
‘What about happiness? Love?’ she asked, her own gaze slipping inadvertently to her and Ffinch’s ‘engagement photo’. She looked ecstatically happy in the photograph, but that was a sham too.
Anastasia shrugged. ‘I choose security over love.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look as if remembering cold winters back in Russia when there hadn’t been enough food to go round.
‘Properly managed your money could last forever,’ Charlee said, not even sure if that was true. ‘And you have many years on the catwalk and product endorsement ahead of you. Look at Cindy Crawford, still gorgeous, still earning. If being with your fiancé makes you unhappy, why don’t you break off the engagement?’
Anastasia looked at her as if she was mad.
‘Ah, Sh-arlee, how little you know, how little you understand.’ If anyone else had said that to Charlee she would have reacted angrily, but she saw the mournful look in Anastasia’s eyes and knew it was true. What did she know of sorrow, of never having enough? ‘Yevgeny will never let me go.’
Dragging her fleece out of the wardrobe and slipping on her fur-lined boots against the cold, Charlee resolved - whatever it took - she’d help Anastasia find a way out.
‘I’ve got to get out of the gulag for a while.’ Her use of the Russian word made Anastasia smile. ‘Catch you later?’
‘Alligators, yes?’ Anastasia used the phrase Charlee had taught her.
‘In a while, crocodile,’ Charlee high-fived Anastasia and left the room. As she took the stairs two at a time, Charlee told herself that it was the thought of an hour’s freedom that put wings on her heels - and not that she’d be spending it with Ffinch.
The distinctive navy and white camper van was parked by the Coal Shed at Thornham Staithe. To Charlee’s dismay, its dark-blue and cream gingham curtains were drawn. She was just about to walk away when the middle doors opened and Ffinch stuck his head out.
‘Step into my parlour, Montague. Lively, if you please,’ he added, looking over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t observed.
‘Making you the spider and me the fly?’ Crazily, that thought made Charlee’s heart beat faster. She climbed on board the camper van and Ffinch leaned across to shut the door. He took great care not to touch her, obviously deciding that grazing her breast with his elbow, however unintentionally, just wasn’t on.
He indicated that Charlee should slide along the bench seat so she was sitting next to the window, then he squeezed between the bench and the table and joined her. It was surprisingly warm and intimate in the VW and Charlee was overwhelmed by a desire to turn the bench seats into a bed and spend all afternoon making love behind the gingham curtains. Putting the brake on her runaway thoughts, she hid the attraction she felt for Ffinch behind a sarcastic remark.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious being the only blue and white camper van parked on the marshes in the middle of January, Ffinch?’
‘Haven’t you heard of hiding in plain sight, Montague?’ he countered, clearly taken aback by her abrasive tone. ‘I don’t think I need you to tell me how to conduct an undercover assignment. Last time I checked, I was the award-winning journalist and you were the rookie elevated from filing copy and fetching lattes. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Don’t spare my feelings, will you?’ Then, thinking of another way to needle him, Charlee changed the subject. ‘Bit cramped and stuffy in here, isn’t it? Why don’t you invest in a Winnebago?’ she asked, dissing his beloved camper van. Ffinch crossed himself as if warding off the evil eye.
‘She didn’t mean it,’ Ffinch said, stroking the side of the van lovingly and patting the woodwork. Charlee wished that he was stroking her half as sensuously! Burning with sexual frustration and feeling overheated as lust burned through her veins, like a flame along a dynamite fuse, she peeled off several layers of clothing. When she emerged from pulling her sweatshirt over her head, her eyes met Ffinch’s and the tension ratcheted up another couple of notches. Although he gave no outward show of it, Charlee sensed that he felt the pull of sexual attraction between them as keenly as she did; he simply had greater reserves of self-control.
As they sat staring at each other, eyes wide open, pupils dilated and their breaths coalescing in the steamy atmosphere, the whistling kettle came to the boil and condensation dripped down the windows. Charlee felt that the muggy environment in the VW summed up exactly how she was feeling!
‘Ah, tea,’ Ffinch said as though it was the most marvellous invention in the world. He made two mugs of builders’ tea and poured a slug of spirit in each for good measure. Then he reached across to the door where a tin marked SWEET THINGS was jammed tightly into a built-in spice rack. Removing the tin, he put it on a table which took up half the width of the camper van. ‘Chocolate Hobnobs, your drug of choice I believe? Help yourself; it might help to restore your blood sugar levels - in this mood you look capable of murder.’
His wry expression showed he suspected he was top of the list.
‘Manna from heaven - biscuits.’ Suitably distracted, Charlee tipped a handful of biscuits on to the pixie-sized table. She dunked one in her tea several times and then took a large swig of the alcohol-laced tea, coughing at the strength of it.
‘Had your fill of rice cakes and lentils, Montague?’ Ffinch returned to their former verbal jousting, as if deciding that was the best way forward. Keep it light; keep it professional; keep their minds above their navels. ‘No Markova, then?’
‘She’s on standby in case Mr Potato Head wants sex. Gross, in my opinion,’ Charlee said, spitting crumbs all over her fleece. ‘Not sex per se; just sex with him,’ she added in case Ffinch thought she’d turned celibate after the other night. He looked at her consideringly over the top of his mug and drank his tea, as if taking it as read that she - they- both enjoyed sex.
‘Mr Potato Head? I assume you mean Yevgeny Nikolayevich Trushev, one of the richest men in Russia.’ Wisely, Ffinch steered the conversation onto less contentious subjects.
‘And one of the ugliest,’ Charlee added, reaching for her second biscuit.
‘You don’t find power and wealth an aphrodisiac, then?’
‘Should I?’
‘Lots of women do,’ Ffinch observed as he chose a biscuit. ‘Markova must, otherwise why is she marrying him?’
‘I think she’s more frightened of him than in love with him,’ Charlee said, putting down her mug. ‘Since his arrival, the boot camp has been on high alert. I was able to slip away because I’m too insignificant to show up on the radar. Trushev, on the other hand, is treated like he’s royalty and Anastasia his crown princess. Odd, don’t you think?’ She stirred her tea with a battered, crested silver tea spoon. ‘With
them being Russians, I mean. Considering they went to all that trouble to slaughter their royal family in the cellar at Yekaterinburg.’
‘You know your history,’ he observed, dunking another biscuit in his tea. It went quiet as they both gave weight to what she’d said. ‘Montague - I can hear those cogs whirring. Spit it out.’ Charlee was happy to oblige. Processing her thoughts into theories made her concentrate on something other than Ffinch’s grey eyes and the senses stirring combination of expensive aftershave and manly muskiness that carried to her every time he shifted on the bench seat.
‘Okay. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that a Russian oligarch should (a) establish a boot camp for brides in Norfolk and (b) send his fiancée there in the middle of winter when she could stay in any number of spas in exotic locations around the world? I thought oligarchs bought football teams and owned racehorses, not gulag-like boot camps. Then,’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘he gets here, ignores aforementioned gorgeous fiancée and makes plans to go night fishing with the manageress’s husband. Weird, huh?’
‘Night fishing?’ The casual way in which Ffinch asked the question was at odds with how still and alert he appeared. He poured more of the fiery liquor into their tea and Charlee wondered if she’d be capable of jogging back to the boot camp. Removing her gloves, she cupped her hands round the mug for warmth. Reaching behind him, Ffinch located a patchwork quilt in shades of blue and cream and wrapped it round her shoulders. Charlee shivered as his fingers grazed the nape of her neck. ‘Better?’
‘Better.’
‘You were saying …’
Still smarting from his comment about her place in the office hierarchy, Charlee was keen to show that she was capable of more than filing and dog walking.
‘Anastasia told me they often go night fishing when the tide is at its highest. But, they can’t go out tomorrow night because it’s the Gala Dinner,’ she said, her voice slowing. She stalled, recalling the conversation she’d overheard in the mews kitchen and gave Ffinch a searching look. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Ffinch? This isn’t about Anastasia and spiking Mirror, Mirror’s exclusive, is it - if it even exists?’ She slammed her mug down on the table with such force that Ffinch winced. ‘So give.’
‘That table had to be sourced specially, you know. So careful with it -’
‘I don’t give a flying fuck about the table,’ she exclaimed hotly. ‘I know that you and Sam have been using me like some kind of - of Trojan Horse to get you into the camp. What I haven’t figured out is why, but give me time and I will. Don’t bother to deny it, Ffinch; I know you well enough to tell when you’re lying. And, judging by your expression, you have no intention of letting me in on the secret, have you - partner?’
‘When it’s all over, you’ll be told everything,’ he said, maddening Charlee even further.
‘When what’s all over?’ Charlee was so vexed she felt like hitting him - or - or, damaging his beloved camper van.
‘I’ve said too much …’
‘You haven’t said anything, that’s my point. Oh, here,’ she thrust the mug at him. ‘I don’t need you, your tea, your biscuits - or the crumbs from your table, come to that. I’ll find out for myself.’ She got to her feet, replaced her outdoor clothing and tried to squeeze between his knees and the tiny table. But he pushed her back down onto the bench seat.
‘You will not find out for yourself, Charlee; it’s too dangerous,’ he growled.
‘Pah!’ Charlee waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
‘Seriously, Charlee, I mean it.’
‘Then take me into your confidence.’
‘I can’t, not yet. In our business, plausible denial counts for a lot,’ he explained.
‘What does that mean, exactly?’ She turned to face him.
‘It means that if you don’t know what’s going on you’ll be able to lie all the more convincingly when questioned.’
‘Questioned? By whom - Mr Potato Head, or the bridesmaid from hell - Valentina?’
‘Valentina?’ Now it was Ffinch’s turn to look puzzled.
‘See, you don’t know everything.’ Charlee slid over the bench seat and managed to manoeuvre herself between him and the table. Unexpectedly, he jerked her into his arms and onto his knee, tipping her back and cradling her, his eyes ranging over her face.
‘Don’t go poking around, please. Just once, do as you’re told.’
‘Told?’ she asked, annoyed.
‘Asked,’ he amended. ‘I know you too well, Carlotta.’
‘It’s going to take more than calling me Carlotta to put me off the trail - Rafa.’
‘Seriously, Charlee, it could be dangerous. I - I don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to you.’ Did she imagine it, or was there a catch in his voice?
Touched by his concern and that he was man enough to show it, her heart missed several beats before continuing in its usual rhythm. She examined his face minutely - saw the flaws on his skin, the unexpected flecks of gold in his eyes. ‘What could possibly happen to me?’ she asked, shivering at the thought of danger stalking the boot camp.
‘Just be careful, that’s all,’ he said cryptically. Then he brought his head closer as though he wanted to kiss her, badly. ‘When this is over …’ he breathed.
‘Yes? What about when it’s all over?’ she prompted as Ffinch, apparently thinking better of his desire to kiss her, let her go.
‘Nothing. You’d better go,’ he said through gritted teeth as though it cost him to release her.
Charlee sent him a frustrated look that acknowledged that returning to the intimacy they’d shared the other night would be sheer madness. But neither could she deny how lying in his arms made her skin tingle and her stomach flutter as though a thousand butterflies had taken up residence. The genie had escaped from the bottle two nights ago and was in no hurry to return. It would be easy to surrender to the wildness pulsing through her veins, blot out the rest of the world and succumb to passion in this curtained-off, intimate space.
The very thought made her giddy.
If she’d been Ffinch’s real fiancée and separated from him for weeks, she knew he wouldn’t waste time night fishing when time could be spent more engagingly in bed. That made her doubly suspicious of Yevgeny’s motives and what he was up to at the boot camp. It also reminded her that she was here to do a job. Gathering herself together, she wriggled and slithered along the bench seat until she could stand upright.
Questions had to be answered, reassurances given and truths told. Until that happened she couldn’t give in, she had to be strong. Without turning round - knowing that simply looking at him would weaken her resolve - Charlee stepped out of the camper van.
A couple of schoolboys sauntered round from the back of the Coal Shed carrying a six-pack of cider and sharing a cigarette. They took one look at Charlee emerging from the camper van and shouted: ‘Doggers!’ at them. Then they choked with laughter as though they’d just said something witty.
‘What did you say?’ Charlee demanded fiercely, her eyes sparking fire. She took a couple of steps towards them, her expression making plain that they’d picked the wrong afternoon to try their brand of adolescent humour on two strangers. ‘Repeat it, you little shit.’
‘Nothing, missus, nothing!’ Clearly believing her deranged, they dropped their cigarettes and high tailed it across the car park towards Thornham. Charlee made as if to chase after them and then stopped, unsure what she would do if she caught up with them. Shouting at them had released some of her pent-up tension and when she looked over her shoulder at Ffinch he was standing by the side of the camper van barely concealing his laughter.
‘She has a black belt in origami you know,’ he shouted after the boys. ‘You’ve had a narrow escape. ’
Still smarting from his unwillingness to tell her anything more about the investigation, Charlee didn’t appreciate him laughing at her expense. Smoothing out her tracksuit, she glared at him, let out a loud ‘huh,’ an
d headed back to the boot camp with as much dignity as she could muster.
To her credit, she didn’t look over her shoulder to see if he was watching her.
Chapter Thirty-one
A Storm in a Samovar
When Charlee returned to her room, it looked like a tornado had passed through it scattering debris in its wake. Anastasia’s possessions had been removed and the armoire doors were gaping wide. Charlee had half expected it, but the untidy room and the fact that she probably wouldn’t be permitted to talk to Anastasia made her feel unutterably sad. They’d developed a rapport over the last two days and she already missed her exotic room-mate. The only consolation was that she could now use the mobile phone to get in touch with Ffinch without being overheard.
Mobile phone!
She rushed over to the armoire where her denim jacket was lying on the floor. Unsurprisingly, when she searched the pockets for the spare mobile phone it was missing. Damn. Had she been rumbled as an undercover journo? Or did they think she’d hidden the phone so she could ring her boyfriend in secret?
Boyfriend! She let out an almost Gallic pouf and shrugged her shoulders. Whatever their relationship was, she could hardly claim to be Ffinch’s girlfriend - thorn in his side might be a more accurate description. Sighing - she seemed to do a lot of that lately - she started to tidy up the bedroom. The first item she picked up was the framed photograph of their ‘engagement’. Turning it over, she noticed that the cutting from The Times was missing.
She frowned and searched for it on the floor but it was nowhere to be found.
Now she was intrigued. Why had Anastasia’s people considered it worth their while to remove a seemingly innocuous piece of paper? To check her out, maybe? Deciding she’d better act like a bona fide fiancée whose room looked like it’d been professionally turned over, she marched downstairs. Better start complaining before the management put the mobile phone and the cutting from The Times together, googled Ffinch’s unusual surname and started to ask some uncomfortable questions.
