by Lizzie Lamb
She pinged the bell on the reception desk impatiently and the manageress and her sidekick came out of the back office. ‘Yes?’ she asked, putting her hand over the bell to prevent Charlee ringing it again.
‘My room’s been virtually ransacked by your staff when they moved Anastasia Markova out. If you think for one moment I’m going to act as chambermaid and tidy up their mess - you are much mistaken.’ Charlee leaned across the desk and stared boldly into the manageress’s boot face. ‘And if I find anything missing when I return to my room, I’m calling the police.’
Stepping away from the desk, she folded her arms and waited.
‘I was told that you’d gone for a walk on the marshes, Miss Montague. You have returned earlier than expected. Give me one moment.’ She spoke to her sidekick in Russian, the gist of the conversation being that everything was to be put back exactly as it had been before.
‘Konechno ,vse doljno bit polojeno obratno, kak eto bilo.’
‘Daje telefon?’ the girl asked.
‘Everything but that,’ Natasha said firmly. ‘The telephone which you overlooked, Miss Montague, was found by a member of staff moving Miss Markova’s things. The battery was flat and the phone was bleeping in your pocket.’ Charlee knew that to be a lie; Ffinch had ensured that both phones were charged before stashing them away. ‘It will be returned to you at the end of your stay.’
‘Ona pozvonit v policiu?’ the girl asked, sending Charlee a worried glance.
‘There’s no need for the police, is there Miss Montague?’ the manageress said silkily. Her cheekbones slid upwards in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘This has all been a misunderstanding, a storm - as you English say - in a tea cup?’
‘Or, as you say in Russia, a samovar?’ Charlee replied impertinently, letting the manageress know she couldn’t be intimidated.
‘Quite.’
‘And Anastasia?’ Charlee inquired.
‘Naturally Miss Markova’s fiancée wants her close to him and we are happy to accommodate their wishes,’ the manageress said.
Their wishes? Charlee didn’t think Anastasia’s wishes came into it.
‘Come, Miss Montague, you should be pleased. You will no longer have to share a room, no? Please - go into the sitting room, read lovely bridal magazines and drink tea. Your happy day will be here soon, yes?’
Feeling that she’d protested enough, Charlee graciously inclined her head. The manageress clapped her hands and spoke in rapid Russian to a couple of minions who headed upstairs. Then she led Charlee towards the sitting room where a roaring fire, a stack of glossy magazines and a cup of Earl Grey were waiting.
After dinner, Charlee sat in the bay window staring into the darkness across the marshes, her knees under her chin. She’d seen nothing of Anastasia during the meal and had been informed that Miss Markova and Yevgeny Nikolayevich were dining in private. The bedroom felt empty and she was glad that she would be returning to London after tomorrow night’s Gala Dinner.
She imagined herself back in her shabby bedsit, which smelled of sardines, and typing up her copy story on her laptop. Copy? What copy? This was fast becoming the-scoop-that-never-was.
Demoralised, she reached into her tracksuit bottoms and pulled out the mobile phone. She checked it for a signal and then sat looking at it consideringly. She longed to talk to Poppy, to Ffinch, to anyone - but she daren’t risk running the battery down. It had to last her until tomorrow night when she and Ffinch met up. What was he doing now, she wondered? Watching TV in his room after a calorie-laden meal at The Ship Inn, she bet!
Hearing noises on the gravel drive below her, Charlee looked down and saw a group of boot camp instructors, kitted out SAS-style in dark clothing and Polartec balaclavas, hauling a couple of motor boats onto trailers and then out of the main gate and towards the marshes. She guessed that was Mr Potato Head going fishing and wished him well. It was a freezing cold night and frost was already turning the trees silver under a gibbous moon. Perhaps, she mused, it reminded him of Siberia or wherever he’d been born. She frowned - did Siberia have salt marshes or salt mines? Geography had never been her strong suit.
Beset by a sudden desire for company, Charlee decided to go downstairs and join the other brides-to-be in the sitting room and pretend enthusiasm for everything that accompanied getting married these days. Preparing herself for yet more chatter about cupcakes on stands versus traditional fruit cakes, she locked the bedroom door behind her. What did it matter that your wedding cakes consisted of rounds of different cheeses or that the chocolate fountain had seventy per cent cocoa solids for dipping marshmallows into?
Surely, the only thing that mattered was that you were marrying the right man. One you not only fancied the pants off, but who made you laugh and who would bring you mugs of hot chocolate and painkillers when you went down with the flu.
A few hours later, she was back in the bay window watching the lights out on the marshes. But these were no will-o’-the-wisps, it was the fishing expedition zigzagging across the narrow channels and returning to the boot camp. Perhaps that’s what night fishing entailed, she thought, and went on to wonder what one caught on the marshes in the middle of January. For a night fishing expedition there appeared to be much to-ing and fro-ing, she reflected.
Bored, she turned her attention to watching the moon rise in the east where it hung like a searchlight in the sky, illuminating the marshes. There was a timid scratching at the door and when she opened it, Anastasia was standing in the corridor looking furtively over her shoulder.
‘Anastasia!’ Charlee exclaimed joyously. ‘I’ve missed you. Come in, come in. I have wodka,’ she joked, pronouncing as Anastasia had done.
‘No Sh-arlee, I cannot stay. I have skipped away from Valentina while she is on toilet.’ There was a pause as they struggled to keep that particular image out of their heads. ‘I have present for you.’
‘Present?’ Charlee asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t need a present, your friendship is all I ask,’ she said. And, in a moment of epiphany, she knew she wouldn’t be writing any article that hurt Anastasia, destroyed her reputation or ruined her wedding. Even if she had chosen to marry Mr Potato Head. What Sam would have to say about that, she’d worry about later; what Ffinch would have to say about that, she’d think about much, much later! After this debacle, language school, translation services or teaching would be a worthy, alternative career.
Anastasia stood in the half-opened doorway, looking too spooked to venture further into the room. She called Charlee over and then pushed a smart washbag into her hands. Puzzled, Charlee unzipped it and discovered that it contained expensive toiletries and a business card with Anastasia’s personal phone number and email printed on it.
‘Sh-arlee, I know it was you outside nightclub on my hen’s night - when prince was there. Yes? I remembered your funny, spiky hair and friendly blue eyes.’
What had she said to Ffinch before she’d embarked on this mission: she’s no airhead … she’ll remember me from outside the nightclub? What had he said: she probably wouldn’t recognise her own sister unless she came with a name badge and a backstage pass. She’d take great delight in pointing out to him how wrong he’d been after she’d been ‘let go’ by Sam Walker for dereliction of duty.
But, for now, she had to explain. ‘Anastasia, I have to tell you …’ Charlee struggled to find words which would excuse her double-dealing.
‘There is no time. Vi govorite po rysski?’
‘Yes, I speak Russian,’ Charlee said, glad she could drop the pretence at last.
‘Vi mojete prochest kirillcy?’ Anastasia asked, somewhat desperately.
‘I can read Cyrillic script, too, of course - but I don’t understand …?’
‘You are my way home, Sh-arlee. But it is dangerous and you must take care. Take present. Sweet Sh-arlee.’ She took a step into the room and hugged Charlee, her eyes brimful of unshed tears. ‘You will not let me down.’
Then she was gone.
<
br /> Perplexed, Charlee flopped on the bed and unzipped the bag. She put Anastasia’s business card in the expanding pocket at the back of her Moleskine diary next to the now redundant list of questions. Then she tipped the toiletries onto the bed and rooted through them. They appeared nothing out of the ordinary, apart from being astronomically expensive. She turned over a bottle of Chanel 19 eau de parfum and then absent-mindedly squirted herself with some.
Zipping up the washbag, she placed it on her bedside table next to the photograph of Ffinch. She longed to ring him, but curbed the instinct. What could she say to him? ‘I’ve been given a bag of toiletries which have a significance I do not understand. Anastasia Markova not only knows that I can speak and read Russian, but has identified me from outside the nightclub on Christmas Eve.’
He’d most likely go apeshit. Much better to keep quiet until she knew exactly what she was dealing with.
What exactly Anastasia expected from her.
Chapter Thirty-two
Don’t We Scrub Up Well?
The following day, huge catering vans arrived at Thornham Boot Camp for Brides and disgorged their contents. There were about two dozen brides-in-the-making staying at the camp and tonight their fiancés would join them for the Gala Dinner which included such delicacies as lobster, foie gras and elaborate ice sculptures now being carefully removed from the refrigerated vans. Most of the fiancés would be staying at nearby inns or B&Bs and bright and early tomorrow would collect their future brides in order to allow the chambermaids to prepare the rooms for a new influx of guests.
Charlee was desperate to meet up with Ffinch on the marshes but every time she rang his phone it went straight to voice mail. Maybe he thought that if he didn’t speak to her, she wouldn’t be able to ply him with more questions - or chicken out of the Gala Dinner. For want of something better to do, Charlee decided to get away from the brides-to-be who were all a-twitter at the thought of seeing their fiancés that evening and loudly discussing their outfits. What would they say if they knew her true relationship with Ffinch?
She hoped that a brisk walk to the pinewood plantation near Thornham Beach to retrieve the spare mobile stashed in the hollow tree would blow away the cobwebs and settle her nerves.
‘No, Miss. Return to the house please,’ she was told firmly by a member of staff as she tried to pass through the gates. ‘Lunch is being served early due to preparations for the Gala Dinner this evening.’
‘Are there no training sessions on the marshes?’ Charlee asked, recognising her as one of the female trainers from yesterday’s Fartlek run.
‘The staff have to get things ready for this evening. See?’ She pointed over to other instructors who were helping to unload battered stainless steel trolleys from the catering vans. ‘You can use the swimming pool in the conservatory or the gym if you wish to exercise. After lunch, complimentary spa treatments will be offered so that all ladies can look their best for the photographic session later.’ She sounded like she was quoting a line she’d memorised from the boot camp flyer.
‘Sounds more like Crufts than a Gala Dinner,’ Charlee muttered, starting back for the house. She imagined herself as Peg, the sassy Lhasa Apso in Lady and the Tramp, and Anastasia as a long-legged borzoi tipped for Best of Breed. Ffinch would be an Irish wolfhound, grey and secretive, looking down his long aristocratic nose at them and giving nothing away.
‘I’ve got to get out of this dump,’ she thought. ‘I’m going barking mad.’ Then she laughed at her unintentional pun and walked into the house. The last thing she saw was a group of men carrying a wrought iron arbour, festooned with plastic roses out of one of the sheds. That had to be the specially constructed romantic arbour mentioned when her phone had been confiscated two days earlier. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Ffinch willingly posing under it or having his photo taken with her.
Another argument. Another tussle of wills.
A lousy day just got a whole lot worse.
After an energetic swim, Charlee spent the rest of her time packing and getting ready for the Gala Dinner. When Ffinch arrived, she was going to demand that he take her home. Her mission had been accomplished (or rather - not accomplished) and there seemed little point hanging around the boot camp, where it was beginning to feel like the party was already over.
As she walked downstairs into the reception area at seven o’clock, Charlee knew she looked good. She’d spent half an hour artfully teasing her layered blonde hair into shape. Her faux Herve Leger wrap dress fitted where it touched. Heavily made-up eyes, underlined in blue kohl, gave her a dramatically different look from that usually achieved with a flick of a mascara wand and hastily applied lipstick.
Whatever happened this evening, Charlee Montague was ready for it!
Despite that confident assertion, her hands had been shaking as she’d fastened on her earrings and matching necklace and replaced Granny’s engagement ring. She’d kidded herself that the tremulous fluttering in the pit of her stomach was connected to her failure to write a hatchet piece on Anastasia; the arrival of Trushev, and the feeling that the boot camp was on a war footing. It was unconnected, she’d assured herself for the hundredth time, with the fact that she’d be seeing Ffinch in less than fifteen minutes.
She stepped off the last tread of the Victorian staircase and glanced round at the other brides-to-be in the foyer waiting for their fiancés, whose cars were being valet parked. There was no sign of Anastasia or Trushev, but she’d half expected that; she couldn’t see him mixing with the hoi polloi. They’d probably dine in private and tomorrow morning Anastasia would be whisked away in a bulletproof limo and Charlee would never see her again.
Neither was there any sign of Ffinch.
Was he being fashionably late? Or would he simply choose not to turn up and she’d be left Little Millie-No-Mates, a jilted bride for everyone to laugh at? Just as the other couples were making their way through to the dining room and the clock struck the hour, the door opened and Ffinch was blown in by the wind gusting off the marshes.
He looked totally wired. His eyes shone, his cheeks were a healthy colour courtesy of the stinging wind off the marshes. The same north wind had ruffled his dark hair and he appeared to have shrugged off the air of melancholy that dragged him down. She’d like to think that his air of animation and excitement was connected to escorting her into dinner. But she rather suspected this wasn’t the case.
Brushing a leaf off the sleeve of his dinner jacket, Ffinch paused on the threshold, shot his cuffs and commanded the room. Charlee’s heart beat faster as he walked towards her and it was as if she was viewing the room through a soft focus lens with Ffinch in the centre, sharp and clear, and everything else blurred and out of focus. The chatter of the other guests was like a faraway buzzing in her ears. Feeling suddenly shaky, she gripped the newel post at the bottom of the staircase.
Ffinch was at her side in a heartbeat. ‘Are you okay, Charlee? You’ve gone deathly pale.’ His voice was full of concern and he caught her hands. ‘You’re burning up.’
Which was strange because she felt icy cold!
‘Yes, I’m fine. A couple of dodgy Brancaster mussels, nothing more,’ she lied, patting her midriff by way of an explanation. ‘I hope you didn’t think I’d gone all weak-kneed at the sight of you,’ she glowered, hiding her inner turmoil.
‘The thought never crossed my mind,’ he grinned. ‘But you have to admit, we do scrub up well. No, I’ll amend that - I scrub up well; you look amazing, Montague.’ His eyes widened in appreciation and his second, more thorough glance made her go weak at the knees again.
‘You don’t look so bad yourself, Ffinch,’ she said as he appeared in no hurry to release her hands. Charlee glanced round the room which had now swum back into focus. ‘The bridezillas are watching, we are supposed to be engaged, remember? I think,’ she swallowed hard and bowed her head, ‘that you’re expected to kiss me. But, don’t worry - I have no plan to break down your bedroom door and ravish you once we
’re back at the mews.’
Although Charlee had striven for a snarky, sarcastic tone to underline that she was immune to him - even the scrubbed up version - her words had the opposite effect. Hectic colour scorched a trail from her burning ear lobes and scarlet face down and over her décolletage.
‘You disappoint me, Montague,’ Ffinch came back with, his arm snaking round her waist. ‘I was actually looking forward to being ravished for a second time in forty-eight hours. And we do have our reputation as The Doggers of Thornham Staithe to live up to.’ That made Charlee laugh and she relaxed, just as his hold on her tightened. She gasped in surprise as he pulled her closer, moulding her body into his and squeezed the breath out of her.
‘Wh - what are you doing?’ she demanded.
‘Playing my part - and remember, this kiss was your idea, not mine.’ His mouth pulled back in a quirky half-smile as he brought his head closer. His eyes a heady combination of amusement and desire, he added, dryly: ‘The things I have to do in the line of duty.’
And then he kissed her.
As show kisses went, it was pretty convincing and had all the required elements.
They avoided clashing noses and teeth, eyes remained closed and sweetness, which they drew from each other, set their pulses racing. When the kiss went on for longer than was necessary for demonstration purposes, Charlee felt duty bound to end it. After all, she was the one who had asked for it in the first place. She opened her mouth to say just that, but Ffinch - evidently mistaking objection for invitation, prolonged the demonstration.
Two nights ago, he’d called a halt to their lovemaking but now he whispered her name against her lips. When their tongues met, it felt completely natural for Charlee’s hands to span the space between his shoulders and draw him closer and prolong the contact. And they might have gone on doing just that if a member of staff hadn’t banged the dinner gong with unnecessary force, evidently anxious to have all the guests seated.
