Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘QED,’ Ffinch said breaking off, his sangfroid regained and back in role.

  ‘What?’ Charlee asked, dazedly shaking her head.

  ‘Come on, Montague, you - of all people - should know your Latin.’

  ‘Quod erat demonstrandum,’ she translated automatically. ‘That which is proved by demonstration?’ Moving away, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her constricting dress and got a handle on her runaway senses. Was that all the kiss had been? A show to make their legend more convincing and them appear a bona fide, loved-up nearly-weds? She bowed her head to hide her hurt and disappointment and then pulled herself together. Of course that’s what it was - what else could they be to each other?

  This was all an act. Which bit of that didn’t she understand?

  ‘Sir, madam,’ a member of staff holding a camera approached them. Charlee’s heart stopped for a minute. Had they been rumbled and were about to be asked to leave?

  ‘Yes?’ Ffinch asked, his imperious manner making the young woman with the camera draw back briefly.

  ‘Your photographs.’ She pointed her camera lens towards the wrought iron arbour which had been erected in one corner of the large reception hall. Photographic lights and a paper backdrop showing a landscape Capability Brown would have been proud of, set the scene.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think -’ Ffinch started to say, but a look from Charlee made him change his mind. ‘Our legend,’ she mouthed, ‘remember?’ and he appeared to change his mind. ‘Very well, but be quick about it.’ As the photographer adjusted her lights and other props, Ffinch pulled Charlee into his side in a seemingly loving embrace. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered against her ear, his lips brushing her temple. ‘Us being photographed could compromise the mission,’ he began, but Charlee forestalled him.

  ‘What mission?’ she hissed back at him. ‘I’ve done what’s been asked of me, and more. If you won’t level with me, then you’ll have to take what comes your way. I’ll find out for myself just what’s going on … Oh, sweetie, you’re holding me just a little too tightly,’ she said as his hand tightened on her wrist. ‘How would you like us?’ she asked the photographer, breaking free of Ffinch’s vice-like grip.

  ‘If madam would sit in the chair - and sir, if you would stand to the left and rest your hand on your fiancée’s shoulder? That’s great. You are the most photogenic couple this evening; so I’ll take some extra special shots, at no additional expense to you. Something to look back on, to remember this night.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be forgetting in a hurry,’ Ffinch said dryly, and laid his hand on Charlee’s shoulder when she took up her position on a button-back Victorian armchair. ‘When will the photos be ready, we have to leave early, and -’

  ‘The presentation packs will be ready after dinner. Now smile and say: biscuits.’ Ffinch and Charlee complied. ‘If your fiancée could look up at you, sir - and if you could take her hand and look down on the engagement ring?’ When the photographer wasn’t looking, Charlee and Ffinch grimaced and then set up the pose. As they waited for the shot to be taken, Charlee realised that tomorrow she’d hand Granny’s ring back to Ffinch and he’d set off for Darien. It’d be left to her to explain to the staff at What’cha! how - after a weekend together - she’d realised they weren’t suited and had called off the engagement.

  There’d be knowing glances and whispered: ‘She couldn’t hold onto a man like Rafa Ffinch.’ ‘What was she thinking?’ ‘He chose to return to a place where he’d nearly died in preference to remaining engaged to Montague.’

  Ffinch spoke and broke her dream. ‘What about copies of the photographs, should we want them?’

  ‘You have full copyright on the photographs and can reproduce them at will, it’s inclusive,’ the photographer explained. ‘Okay, all done. Would you like to go through to dinner?’

  Charlee sent Ffinch a sharp look. ‘Worried that Interpol might track you down, Ffinch?’

  ‘Interpol?’ Ffinch gave a guilty start and laughed just a little too loudly. ‘Darling, you have the most vivid imagination.’

  Charlee frowned. Sally and Vanessa had implied that Ffinch was a drug smuggler, gun runner and God knows what else, but the more she got to know him, the more preposterous their accusations seemed. Yet - the tramlines on Ffinch’s lower arm and wrists which she’d picked out by the half-light of her mobile phone, marked him as a user. Then there was the secrecy over this project and his part in it. How much of the truth was being kept from her? She gave a frustrated tut and Ffinch sent her a searching look.

  ‘Last time I eat mussels,’ she explained, patting her stomach.

  ‘Food poisoning, Montague? Why am I not buying that? You have the constitution of an ox - you said so yourself.’ Now it was his turn to send out a: ‘what’s going on in that fevered brain of yours,’ assessing look. ‘Shall we, Pumpkin?’ Charlee took his arm and went into the dining room just as the amuse-bouches arrived.

  The night wore on but Ffinch hardly said a word during the five courses. He appeared preoccupied, on edge, and kept glancing at his watch or looking over his shoulder into the darkness beyond the windows.

  As if he was waiting for something.

  Or someone.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Zero Dark Thirty

  At eleven o’clock the tables were cleared and the nearly-weds returned to the reception area to collect their commemorative photographs while the dining room was made ready for dancing. Ffinch showed little interest in the photographs so Charlee went over to the table and picked up the wallet herself. The disco was announced and, as Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something to Me’ played, several of the brides-to-be exclaimed it was their choice for the ‘first dance’ at their wedding and led their fiancés onto the floor.

  ‘At our wedding reception,’ Charlee said loudly to the couple nearest to them, hoping to shake Ffinch out of his introspection, ‘we’re dancing to “I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie”. Like the couple whose wedding video went viral on YouTube? Isn’t that right, Rafa?’ she asked provokingly. But Ffinch, alternatively glancing out of the window or down at his watch, didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘Hmm, that’s right,’ he mumbled. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’ Taking the photographs out of Charlee’s hands, he tossed them onto the coffee table and then led her onto the dance floor. The slow, insistent beat of the song matched the blood beating thickly through her veins as Ffinch pulled her into his arms.

  ‘I love this song,’ she said almost to herself, resting her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes.

  ‘Charlee …’ Ffinch said quietly, but in a tone that ensured he had her full attention.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘At the end of this song, I want you to go quietly to your room and pack …’

  ‘We’re going home? Tonight?’ she asked, pulling back from him. ‘Thank God, I’m sick of this place.’

  ‘Yes. But listen, you must be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. And maybe not by the front door, either. Are you up for that?’ He whispered in her ear and a heady mixture of excitement and old-fashioned lust lanced through Charlee and goose bumps pimpled her skin.

  This was more like it. This was what she’d been waiting for … the real deal!

  ‘Yes. But, Ffinch, what -’

  ‘No time for questions. Soon, everything will become plain.’ With the greatest reluctance, he pushed her away from him as the music ended. Then the DJ chose another romantic track. Charlee turned on her heel, picked their presentation pack off the coffee table and without a backward glance headed for the downstairs cloakroom. Then she made a sharp right and walked quietly up the servants’ staircase to her room hoping that no one had noticed. Once in her room she changed into tracksuit, fleece and trainers and packed everything she owned into her zip-up holdall.

  Then she dragged her chair over to the window - and waited.

  By midnight, when Ffinch hadn’t appeared, Charlee wondered if she ought to ring him, but some sixth sens
e told her that a phone call might jeopardise whatever he was engaged in and she put the phone down and waited. Then, at half past midnight the central heating switched off, the last fiancé drove away and the boot camp settled down for the night. On the drive below Charlee’s window, catering vans were loading up with the empty stainless steel trolleys which had transported the food for the Gala Dinner. They trundled awkwardly over the drive, their wheels almost buckling as they dug into the pea gravel.

  Dragging a blanket off her bed, Charlee draped it round her shoulders to ward off the cold. In spite of her state of excitement, she nodded off, briefly. When she jerked awake around one fifteen, the catering lorries were getting ready to leave. Curiously, the security lights which normally picked up every movement outside Thornham Manor, had been switched off and the vans were getting ready to make their way down the drive - also with their lights off.

  Getting to her feet, Charlee threw off her blanket and moved closer to the window. Below her, Natasha, the boot camp manager - wrapped in a quilted coat with a fur collar turned up against the wind - was standing next to a stocky man with a bull neck.

  Mr Potato Head! Charlee clamped her hand over her mouth and moved back into the shadows. Luckily, they hadn’t seen her; they were too preoccupied watching the last of the catering vans loading up and getting prepared to leave. Charlee let out a frustrated sigh. Whatever Ffinch had thought was going down tonight, clearly wasn’t. On top of that, he was nowhere to be seen and it didn’t look like she’d be leaving the boot camp until tomorrow morning. Without bothering to undress, she flopped down on her bed with a huff of annoyance and lay in tracksuit and trainers watching the full moon climb slowly, hypnotically, up and over the window’s Victorian glazing bars. Lulled by its inexorable progress and with a feeling of anticlimax, Charlee fell asleep. She woke moments later when small pebbles clattered against her window. Rushing over, she found Ffinch, dressed in birdwatching gear and wearing a black balaclava, throwing pebbles up at her. He signalled for her to open the window.

  ‘Charlee, get your things. We’ve got to get out of here, fast!’

  At that moment, the whole frontage of Thornham Manor was illuminated by the full moon and the intermittent blue flashing lights of police cars. Then the previously silent marshes were pierced by wailing police sirens and barking dogs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

  ‘No time for all that, now. Throw down your belongings and then lower yourself out of the window.’

  ‘Lower myself out of the window? Are you kidding? It must be at least a twenty-foot drop. I’ll kill myself or break an ankle.’

  ‘Man up, Montague. It’s only about fifteen feet if you lower yourself out of the window, hang on by your fingertips and then let go …’

  ‘Fifteen feet? Hold on by my fingertips! What’s going to break my fall? Oh, I see, you are!’

  ‘I’ll catch you, no problem. Just as well you didn’t have that second helping of profiteroles, though,’ he joked, clearly in an attempt to boost her confidence. His tone made plain there was no time for debate. ‘Come on, Carlotta - you can do it.’ This time his voice was soothing, cajoling. Charlee threw out her holdall, coat and handbag, climbed over the window ledge and dangled her legs. It was a long way down.

  ‘Ffinch, I can’t …’

  ‘I’m not leaving without you, Montague. We’re partners, remember?’

  ‘Ha. Now he remembers?’ she asked the moon, sarcastically.

  ‘Trust me. I wouldn’t let anything bad happened to you,’ he said softly, looking up at her. Then, tearing off the balaclava, he changed tack. ‘Just get your arse over that window ledge, Montague, turn around and lower yourself down and then hang on by your fingertips. On my count of three - let go.’

  Charlee had been chosen for this mission because she was a gung-ho, up for anything kinda gal. Now was the time to prove it. Taking several deep breaths and then exhaling, she did as commanded. Holding on by her fingertips, she dangled from the window ledge, her arms almost pulling out of their sockets.

  Suddenly she felt afraid. ‘Ffinch …’ she wailed as loudly as she dared, feet dangling in thin air.

  ‘I’m here. I’ll catch you, darling. On three - One. Two … Oof.’

  Charlee was so surprised to hear Ffinch address her as darling without his usual sarcastic inflection that her grip slackened, she let go of the window sill and gravity exerted its pull. She scraped and banged her knees against the brickwork on the way down, fell into Ffinch’s outstretched arms and then landed in a heap on top of him. Expertly, Ffinch rolled her over and ran his hands over her to ensure that nothing was broken. Charlee considered that he lingered just a tad too long over the curves of her breasts and hips, but seeing as she found the examination quite pleasurable, she didn’t protest.

  ‘You are bloody marvellous, Charlee. Know that?’ Pulling her onto her feet, he jerked her into his arms and gave her a relieved, if none too gentle, kiss. He looked as if he’d like to say more but knew this was neither the time, nor the place. Instead, he picked up her holdall, coat and handbag, and stood ready for flight.

  ‘Oh, my back.’ Charlee stretched out her bruised spine and flexed her arms.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Think so,’ Charlee stammered, winded and still reeling from the kiss. Ffinch grinned at her in the moonlight, his grey eyes alight with excitement - more animated and alive than she’d ever seen him. Charlee realised that this was the old Ffinch standing before her. The one who hadn’t led an abortive expedition to South America, lost two research assistants to the Black Eagles, had nearly died and was haunted by recurring nightmares.

  She liked the transformation.

  ‘I think we may have put Romeo and Juliet into the shade, don’t you Montague?’

  ‘I don’t recall him asking her to leap off the balcony,’ Charlee said pertly.

  Ffinch laughed and kissed her again, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Then all at once he became businesslike. ‘We have to get through the gardens unseen. The Vee Dubbya is parked on the darkened slip road that leads to the caravan park, the one we took a short cut through. Remember?’ he asked over his shoulder, edging them round the side of the house, using its bulk to conceal them. ‘Keep your head down, Montague, we’re not out of the woods, yet,’ he commanded, grimacing at the unintentional pun. Holding her hand, he led her at a crouching run across the parterre and into the spinney.

  The police sirens and flashing blue lights were getting louder as more officers arrived, and Charlee fancied that above the shouting and screaming, she’d heard the pop-pop of hand guns.

  ‘Why are we running away from the police? We haven’t done anything wrong,’ she began breathlessly. Then she thought - or should that be, I haven’t done anything wrong?

  ‘I’ve got the scoop on Trushev, on what’s really been going on at the boot camp. I’ve tipped off the police and they’ve stopped the catering vans leaving. The food trolleys are full of uncut heroin, fresh from Colombia. I’ve given the police all the evidence they need to convict him, he won’t wriggle out of their grasp this time. I - we, need to get back to London and break the story before other journos beat us to it.’

  ‘Colombia? Heroin?’ Charlee whispered. ‘I don’t get it …’

  ‘I’ll explain in the van on the way home,’ Ffinch said, leading the way through the undergrowth. He paused for a moment as their eyes met over his use of the word ‘home’ and they nodded at each other. Then he pulled her forward and didn’t allow their pace to slacken until they reached the camper van and were driving out of Thornham as if the wild hunt was on their tail.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Home is Where the Heart is

  Around half past three Charlee woke up, stiff, cramped and uncertain of where she was and … had she just been kissed?

  ‘We’re home, Charlee.’ The note of longing in Ffinch’s voice made Charlee wish this was their home and they were returning to it after landing the scoop of
the century.

  ‘What time is it?’ She struggled to gather her wits about her as Ffinch parked the camper van in front of the garage doors and waited for her to climb out.

  ‘Almost four a.m.; you’ve been asleep for hours.’ Charlee gave an extravagant yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Her slim fitting T-shirt rode up, exposing her midriff to Ffinch’s appreciative gaze. Insanely, considering that he’d seen a lot more than that a few nights ago, she felt shy and pulled it down.

  ‘Sorry, I should have stayed awake and kept you company.’ Had she snored and dribbled slack-mouthed all the way back from Norfolk? She hoped not!

  ‘I was quite glad of the breathing space, actually. I have things to sort out now the police have their evidence and Trushev in custody,’ he added with a note of satisfaction.

  Sickness lodged in the pit of Charlee’s stomach and her breath snagged. Now that they were on his home turf the balance of power had subtly shifted. They were no longer two journos with a common goal, enjoying (almost) equal status. She’d reverted back to being the rookie; albeit one who’d helped expose a massive drugs bust, befriended the villain-in-chief’s girlfriend, leapt out of windows and dashed back to London in the middle of the night.

  Ffinch was the hero of the hour and had his copy to file before anyone else broke the story. If she was really lucky he might let her proofread it for typos. And what had she got to show for her time, apart from a bag of upmarket toiletries?

  Zilch. Nada. Jack Shit.

  And her mobile, iPad and camera were languishing back at the boot camp.

  ‘Yes, I have things to think over, too,’ she said, not wanting to be left out. But what those might actually be, escaped her at that moment. Slithering out of the camper van, she walked stiffly to the front door and unlocked it - she guessed she’d be returning the spare set of keys along with Granny’s ring tomorrow. As she disarmed the alarm, she wondered if Ffinch would change the code once she’d left, just in case she morphed into a crazed bunny boiler, unable to accept that their ‘engagement’ was over.