Boot Camp Bride (12 page)

‘I think your vicar has overdosed on P.G. Wodehouse as well as Fielding,’ Ffinch bent down and whispered in Charlee’s ear with all the tenderness of a lover. ‘Wave; smile, that’s the way.’

‘I think you’ve overdosed on banned substances,’ Charlee said, wriggling out of his grasp the second the hunt and its followers had disappeared behind the high hedges lining the lanes. ‘Was that charade just to wind my brothers up - not that I’m adverse to that - or is there method in your madness?’

Ffinch looked at her long and hard, his eyes uncertain - as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind how far to take her into his confidence. Charlee read the conflict in his face, knew he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust her and was annoyed that it mattered. At the first opportunity, she’d let him know that the feeling was mutual.

‘Let’s go indoors,’ he said, steering her towards the house with his hand in the small of her back. Charlee skidded to a halt like a cartoon character, dug her heels in and waited until he’d removed his hand. ‘My God, you’re prickly this morning. More so than usual,’ he breathed as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘And with good reason,’ she returned, tossing her head like one of the thoroughbreds heading off down the lane. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing but you can stop your play-acting now, there’s no one around to fool or impress.’ Her sparky look was designed to remind him she was no pushover.

They entered the Walkers’ house and Charlee led the way into the kitchen, the heart of the house. Here she’d wept on Daphne Walker’s shoulder - in lieu of her mother’s - when at the tender age of thirteen her first romance had broken up. It was in this kitchen, among the equestrian paraphernalia draped over chair backs and a welsh dresser covered in rosettes, that she’d opened the letter offering her an unconditional place to read Politics and Modern Languages. In the same untidy room, Sam Walker had conducted an informal interview for her internship at
What’cha!
with Daphne at his shoulder, beaming encouragement at her honorary daughter and daring him to turn her down.

 On all of those occasions, her parents had been unavailable, too busy pursuing their careers and deaf to her insistence that she wanted to become a journalist. They weren’t being deliberately obstructive, Charlee knew that. They simply didn’t get her in the same way that Daphne did - and that’s what hurt the most. She suspected her mother was only half joking when she referred to her as their ‘Little Changeling’.

‘No, not the kitchen - Sam’s study,’ Ffinch stalled her, holding up his hands to show that he wouldn’t touch her again without her permission. He waited for her to precede him into the holy of holies and Charlee’s brain shifted up a gear. This was the only room in the house, apart from Sam and Daphne’s bedroom, out of bounds to Charlee and Poppy when they were growing up. To be ushered in there by Ffinch made Charlee realise that Sam Walker, at least, recognised she was no longer a child.

The acknowledgement made her heart swell with satisfaction.

‘Charlotte,’ Sam greeted, looking up from his laptop. He preferred to leave all that ‘horsey nonsense’, as he put it, to Poppy and Daphne and never rode to hounds. He had a glass of whisky by his right hand and Charlee guessed he was happy in his own company. And Ffinch’s, she thought, eying him surreptitiously and wondering if he’d spent the night in the camper van in these freezing temperatures, or in the guest room.

 ‘Sit down, Charlotte. You, too, Rafa.’

They moved copies of the week’s newspapers and back issues of
Horse and Hound
off chairs. Ffinch, with a gallant little bow, allowed Charlee to choose the most comfortable seat - a French bergère chair with deep cushions, rattan sides and matching footstool.

‘Saw your brothers and that idiot of a vicar talking to you,’ Sam said, pointing out of the window with a paper knife.

‘Yes,’ Charlee replied, careful of what she said, not sure what this was all about. ‘The Rev Trev now thinks Ffinch and I will be visiting him at the vicarage to book St Peter’s for a summer wedding.’ She smiled weakly at Sam, hoping for enlightenment.

‘Oh, that?’ Sam laughed, winking at Ffinch. ‘Just sowing the seeds, Montague. Just sowing the seeds.’

‘What seeds? Will one of you please tell me what’s going on?’ Charlee demanded, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Am I in, or out? Ffinch’s partner or not?’

‘Sam?’ Ffinch raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sam to give him the go ahead. ‘Okay, here’s the thing.’ Ffinch moved the cat off the window seat and perched there in its place. ‘Sam wants photos of Anastasia Markova taken at the Thornham Boot Camp for Brides.’

‘What kind of photos?’ Charlee asked glancing from Sam to Ffinch.

‘Her looking dishevelled, less than perfect, anything. Having a strop whilst covered in mud would be great. Rumour has it she’s sold exclusive rights to
Mirror, Mirror
and we want to run a spoiler.’ Sam looked positively gleeful at the thought of pulling the rug out from under
What’cha!
’s biggest rival.

Charlee had heard rumours that
What’cha!
was losing money and in danger of closing if sales didn’t pick up. There were so many style/celebrity lifestyle magazines that
What’cha!
needed to pull two-headed mutant rabbits out of the hat every edition in order to survive. The situation was discussed openly at the water cooler and Charlee had experienced a pang when she’d first heard the news. She’d hoped to stay on at the magazine when her internship was over, but that was beginning to look increasingly unlikely.

Perhaps pulling off a coup with Markova would keep them afloat a while longer. If she pulled it off and prevented
What’cha!
from becoming another casualty of the recession it would be her way of repaying Sam and Daphne for their many kindnesses over the years. Eyes shining, she imagined landing the scoop of the year and how it’d surpass her brothers’ achievements. Why - she might even allow Ffinch a small role in helping her achieve this goal.

Glancing round, Charlee examined the framed front covers of
What’cha!
hanging on the panelled walls. The magazine had started life as an equestrian monthly -
Snaffle and Bit
- and had belonged to Daphne Walker’s family. In the mid-eighties Sam had been brought in to boost
Snaffle and Bit
’s circulation and had ended up marrying the boss’s daughter. By 1990,
Snaffle and Bit
had morphed into
What’cha!
and had become a cheaper version of
Hello
. Now little remained of the original equestrian magazine, apart from Poppy’s ‘Life in the Country’ column, which was heavily edited by Charlee and Daphne. It was the remaining link with the old family magazine and Daphne was reluctant to see it disappear.

Daphne, like Poppy, was happy with whatever Sam did as long as the money to fund their horse fetish kept rolling in. By helping Sam, Charlee would be helping the magazine and two people she most cared about. Take a few snaps of Anastasia Markova getting wet and muddy - how hard could it be?

But her smile faded as the flaw in the plan became staringly obvious.

‘The other night, outside the nightclub, when I got my phone out, Anastasia turned away and held her hand up to her face because she thought I was taking a photo. I can’t see her letting anyone with a camera get that close,’ Charlee reasoned. ‘Can you?’

‘You did brilliantly the other night, Charlee. I’m sure you’d be able to pull it off.’ Sam poured out two glasses of his finest malt and came round to their side of the desk. Sam’s home persona never failed to amaze Charlee. At
What’cha!
he was the hellfire and brimstone proprietor/editor with a sharp tongue, strong cockney accent and unpredictable temperament. Most of his sentences were peppered with four letter words and even Vanessa feared his mercurial moods. But at home, he spoke with a Home Counties accent and behaved like a neutered tomcat, totally under the sway of its mistress.

He’d never praise Charlee openly at the office, so she made the most of it.

‘I’d certainly have a bloody good go,’ Charlee said and clinked glasses with Sam. ‘But, wouldn’t I have to enrol in the boot camp to get that close?’

‘Yes, you would.’ Sam exchanged a telling look with Ffinch.

‘There is another flaw in this plan. I’m between boyfriends at the moment.’ She glossed over her lack of success with the opposite sex and steeled herself for one of Ffinch’s dry comments. She’d had plenty of boyfriends at university, but no one special. She hadn’t thought about any of them since leaving, being too wrapped up in her internship. ‘Even supposing the man of my dreams came galloping up the drive on a white horse at the end of the meet, I’d hardly have time to get to know him, let alone become engaged before the month is out. Anastasia will be at the boot camp during the second week in January.’

‘Maybe you wouldn’t have to look too far for a fiancé,’ Sam suggested artlessly.

‘When I carried out some research into the boot camp yesterday,’ Charlee went on, ‘I discovered that the owners require proof of the bride’s forthcoming nuptials. Or, at the very least, evidence of the engagement.’ She stopped swirling round the contents of her glass, raised her head and continued, ‘You might not believe this, but some girls enrol in bridal boot camps just for a lark. Viewing it as some kind of psycho bridezilla alternative to a girly weekend in Dublin.’ Charlee’s pained expression made it plain that such behaviour was her idea of hell, with torture as a side order. ‘The camp is a favourite with A-listers and they don’t want to mix with … well, the likes of me. Hence the strict security.’

 ‘Not something you’d be up for then, Charlee?’ Sam asked, pressing home his suit and topping up their glasses. Charlee held up her left hand and waggled her ring finger at him.

‘I’d be up for it, sure, if there was a story to uncover. But without the requisite fiancé I’d fall at the first hurdle.’

‘Or should that be climbing wall?’ Ffinch asked, joining the conversation.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it was the kind of thing you’d want to get involved with, Ffinch. You’re allergic to love, marriage and all it entails, aren’t you? What was it you said in Sam’s office - No moon in June. No roses round the door. No happily ever after. You - taking photos of a supermodel? Why am I not buying this?’ she asked, giving them a direct look.

‘Okay Charlee, we’ll level with you,’ Sam interjected. ‘I told you Charlee’d need persuading before she’d agree to our proposal, Rafa.’

‘What proposal are we talking about exactly?’ Hoping that her partnership with Ffinch was back on the cards, Charlee adopted the persona of a hard-bitten journo.

‘Sam, I don’t think Charlee needs -’ Ffinch began but Sam cut across him.

‘Charlee, here’s the deal. I want to sell
What’cha!
’

‘Sell
What’cha!
But it’s your life …’ Charlee said in shocked tones. Rumours circulating round the photocopier were one thing, but Sam admitting they were true was quite another.

‘Maybe so, but it's losing money,’ he said, simply. ‘Now’s the right time to sell, the time for me to bow out. But one last scoop … that’s all I ask.’

Looking far from convinced, Charlee frowned at both men.

‘I’d hardly call a few photos of Anastasia Markova in the mud a scoop. Even if she is marrying a Russian billionaire,’ she said, knowing she was talking herself out of a job. Sam might play the part of the benign husband at home but underneath he was still Sam Walker, always on the lookout for the killer story. ‘And where does Ffinch figure in all of this? One minute he’s writing
The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet
, getting kidnapped and held for ransom. The next he’s snapping girls in designer tracksuits abseiling down climbing walls or sliding across zip wires.’

‘Well, to be absolutely accurate, Charlee,’ Ffinch rejoined the conversation, ‘you’d be the one taking the photos. Not me. And as to why I’m doing it? I’m doing it for Sam because - well, let’s just say I’m repaying a debt.’ Both men maintained deadpan expressions but a significant look flashed between them, one which excluded Charlee from their circle of trust.

‘I - I.’ Charlee felt like she was being pushed into a corner. Three days ago, she’d been sorting through photographs in a cupboard that was most likely a biohazard. Two days ago, she’d been in a skip pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Yesterday, Ffinch had effectively terminated their partnership. Now they were stepping up the game and proposing to send her into a boot camp for brides - undercover.

 Just to get it all straight in her head, she posed the question she’d asked Poppy in Pret A Manger a few days ago. ‘Why not Vanessa?’ Both men pulled a ‘get real’ face at her.

‘Sally?’

‘Sally is an organiser, good at logistics but unable to think on her feet. Or blag it. You’re good at both, Charlee,’ Sam said. Two compliments in five minutes! However, she wasn’t so flattered that she couldn’t smell a rat; a whole family of them, in fact.

‘Look, Sam, if Charlee doesn’t think she’s up to this assignment, it’s best she says so now. Save us trouble in the long run …’ Ffinch put in, his tone full of faux regret.

 ‘Puleese, spare me the reverse psychology,’ Charlee said. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t up for the challenge.’ She could feel the assignment slipping through her fingers. ‘I simply want to know what’s involved.’

‘Worried you might be out of your league? That’s perfectly understandable. You are inexperienced, after all, but …’ Ffinch paused. Charlee knew Ffinch was playing her like a well-strung violin, but she’d go along with it - for now. There was another story here, one they were keeping from her. She smiled with deceptive sweetness as a prickle of journalistic sixth sense traversed the length of her spine and almost left her feeing numb. She hid her reaction from Ffinch and Sam; she wanted them to believe that she was taking their story at face value.