Boot Camp Bride (13 page)

‘Charlee?’ Sam prompted.

‘I’m in. But what about - I mean, who’s going to pose as my fiancé?’

As if she didn’t know!

‘That’s where Rafa comes in. I’ll leave him to flesh out the details with you.’ Sam said. ‘I’ve been left strict instructions as to my domestic duties while Daphne’s out with the hunt. Apparently, I’m to check on the casserole in the Aga, and put the apple pie in the top oven at the designated time. I ask you!’

Throwing his hands in the air, he left them alone in his study.

Chapter Sixteen
Charades

Charlee looked round at Ffinch, expecting him to share a joke at Sam’s kowtowing to his formidable wife, but he looked grey, drained - as if he’d been bracing himself for her refusal. A great believer in the medicinal properties of good malt, Charlee reached for Sam’s bottle of Scotch, poured out several fingers’ worth and passed it to him.

She had the distinct feeling - as she had done on previous occasions - that Ffinch was constantly drawn back to the time when he’d lost two of his team. Did he blame himself for their deaths, she wondered? Judging by the downward droop of his mouth, the lacklustre light in his eyes - it was plain that he did.

‘So, how’s this going to work? Do I let my family in on the secret?’ Charlie asked in a businesslike manner, hoping to jolt him out of his introspection. Becoming aware of her scrutiny, Ffinch pulled himself out of his dark mood and downed his whisky in one.

‘No.’ He was most emphatic. ‘For this to work, we’ve got to play it for real.’

‘But, Ffinch,’ Charlee chose her words carefully, ‘we’ve made it pretty plain that we don’t like each other. Even if that’s how most marriages end up, I think at the beginning a little romance is expected. Not real romance in our case, you understand,’ she blushed a furious scarlet. ‘But a close approximation of it.’

‘You’re a consummate actress, Montague, I’ve seen you at work. I’m sure you’ll manage,’ he said with an unflattering touch of cynicism, and downed his whisky with one deft flick of his wrist.

‘I’m not sure that speaking Spanish and calling me Carlotta will cut it with my family.’ Charlee nibbled at her lower lip. ‘They’ll expect an announcement in
The Times
, a small party at the very least. A ring?’ She raised an eyebrow at him, expectantly.

‘And they shall have them. Think of it as creating our legend, isn’t that what the spooks call it?’ Then he clammed up as if he’d let his guard slip and wanted it back in place, pronto.

‘It’s just like Gerard Depardieu and Andie McDowell in that old chick-flick
Green Card
.’ Ffinch looked blank and she went on to explain. ‘He needs a green card to stay in the US, she needs a husband in order to keep her apartment. They concoct a false past with photos etc., and …’ she bit her lip, remembering how the film had ended.

‘And?’

‘They’re found out and it ends badly. But don’t worry, that won’t happen to us.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Ffinch observed with customary dryness.

Ignoring him, Charlee reached across Sam’s desk for a pad and pencil. ‘Okay, I think we need to iron out a few details before we go any further.’ Ffinch relaxed against the window pane, folded his arms across his chest and gave her the floor.

‘Fire away,’ he said, as if he found the idea of her taking control somehow diverting.

Ignoring him, Charlee continued. ‘One - Markova might be a model but she’s no airhead. I googled her. She has a degree in psychology from St Petersburg University - brains as well as great genes, and cheekbones you could slice cucumbers with. She’s bound to remember me from outside the nightclub, don’t you think?’

‘Possibly,’ Ffinch agreed. ‘Once seen, never forgotten I would imagine.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, though I’m sure it wasn’t meant as one,’ Charlee was learning to ignore his dark asides and to recognise that his default mode was set to cynical. ‘Two. Gossip is rife at
What’cha!
If I walk in after the holidays and announce our engagement, you can imagine the furore. We’ll have to make it look as realistic as we can.’ For a moment, Ffinch lost his bleak look and a wicked light shone in his smoky eyes, making him appear younger and lighter-hearted. Charlee felt as if she’d just descended in a very fast lift from the penthouse to the basement, but managed to give him a stern look. ‘Forget it, Ffinch; I’m only prepared to take the play-acting so far.’

‘Spoilsport,’ he replied. ‘You know, Montague, if I didn’t know better I’d say you take great delight in sending me “get over yourself looks” and putting me down. Anyone would think you didn’t like me.’

‘We’ve only known each other for a couple of days, Ffinch. I’m still at the trying very hard not to dislike you phase, so I wouldn’t push it,’ she advised, drawing a circle round a large number three.

‘Carry on, Montague,’ he said, putting up his hands behind his head and crossing his feet at the ankles.

‘How and when do we break the news to my family and the Walkers? My brothers will be returning home tomorrow, I think it would be a good idea to announce our ‘engagement’ after they’ve gone. Mum and Dad will ask fewer questions with them out of the way. Which brings me to number four.’ She drew the digit on the pad, circled it and added a bullet point for good measure.

‘Yes?’

‘We need a legend, as you put it. Photographs on Facebook, announcement in
The Times
, that sort of thing. Where did we meet? How long have we known each other? It has to be authentic. If it doesn’t stack up, I won’t get into the boot camp - let alone escape in one piece. From what I read on the website, they are very, very particular - over the top thorough where security’s concerned.’

‘Good point.’ He looked at her admiringly and then began to enter into the spirit of the thing. ‘Okay, here’s what I think. Announcement in
The Times
- not a problem. Backstory we can work out over the next few days, I’m staying here and then returning to my flat in London. It might be an idea if you came back with me and we could concentrate on synchronising our stories. Also, it’ll be a good smokescreen if you’re seen living at my place.’

Charlee nibbled the end of the pen and looked covertly at him through her eyelashes. With any other man, she would have suspected a come on; let’s play at nurses and doctors back at my place. But, Ffinch didn’t give off that vibe, and apart from his secrecy over this investigation she found him straight as a die. It was as if he’d tried love, it hadn’t worked out, and he was in no hurry to travel that road anytime soon.

‘Or we could move into my bedsit,’ she suggested and pretended affront when Ffinch pulled a face.

‘I’ve seen your bedsit, so - thanks but no, thanks. We’ll move you into mine. I don’t intend spending the next couple of months sleeping on your sofa, stepping over drunks on the doorstep, or fighting my way past all the junk littering your hall floor, every night after work.’

‘Oh, that’s a bit harsh. And I suppose you live in an exclusive block in Mayfair, do you?’ she asked with some asperity.

‘Chelsea. A little backwater just off the King’s Road.’ He paused, as if he was expecting a reaction to the postcode of his des res. However, Charlee’s mind was on a different tack, wondering if she could put up with him 24/7.

‘Really?’ she said, disbelievingly. ‘I thought you lived in that camper van when you weren’t abroad. Mind you - Chelsea? I’ll be able to register our wedding list at the General Trading Company or Harvey Nicks - how cool is that?’ she said, unable to resist the opportunity to wind him up. The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare for her and she felt he deserved to suffer a little.

‘I thought we agreed -’

‘Only kidd-ing,’ she said as his frown was back in place. ‘Jee-zus, you really are allergic to weddings and happily ever after, aren’t you? ’

‘Ring,’ Ffinch began, obviously trying to rein her in. ‘Is that on your list, Montague?’

‘I’ve got plenty of dress rings we could use -’

‘I’m sure you have, but I have no intention of this assignment falling at the first post because your ring looks like it came free with a copy of some supermarket magazine.’ He shook his head and then went on more seriously. ‘I’ll provide the ring, but you’ll have to look after it.’

‘I’ll sign a chitty, if you like,’ she replied, pertly. He sighed and passed a weary hand across his eyes.

‘This is going to be the shortest engagement in history, but something tells me it’s going to feel like the longest.’

‘Which brings me to another dilemma,’ Charlee began, giving him a direct look.

‘Which is?’

‘When it’s all over, Sam’s got his snaps and we’ve saved
What’cha!
from bankruptcy, we’ll go our separate ways, yeah?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Okay, let’s establish up front. Who’s the dumper - and who’s the dumpee?’

‘The what?’ He looked at Charlee as if she’d sprouted horns. ‘I swear, five minutes in your company and I feel like I belong to a different generation.’

‘That’s because you’re over thirty and need to lighten up, Ffinch.’ Her cheeks dimpled as she grinned unrepentantly at him.

‘You said that to me, on Christmas Eve. I didn’t need your unasked for advice then, and I certainly don’t need it now.’ Charlee looked at him and then saluted him, unabashed.

‘Message received, loud and clear.’ She thought about the rest of that cliqued phrase:
and get laid
. The way the women swarmed round him, it didn’t look like he’d have any problems in that department. She pulled a face - so what was his problem?

‘What was - that?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘That face.’ He drew a circle in the air, which Charlee assumed represented her face.

‘Nothing I need to share. The point is,’ she stuck the pencil behind her ear, put the pad on her knees and leaned forward, ‘I’ve got my reputation to consider.’

‘You’ve lost me there.’

‘We get engaged; we break off the engagement. People will want to know why. After I photograph Anastasia looking all dishevelled, you repay Sam for giving you your first break and he spoils
Mirror, Mirror
’s exclusive, what then?’ She gave him an honest look. ‘You’ll go off on another one of your hazardous trips and I’ll be left at
What’cha!
with everyone thinking you’ve dumped me.’

‘And that would bother you, would it?’

‘What do you think? Of course it would. I don’t want people laughing at me behind my back because I couldn’t hold on to a man like, well - like you.’ She bit her lip; the way she’d phrased it made it seem as if she was punching above her matrimonial weight. That in the normal run of things Ffinch would be out of her league.

‘Don’t worry, when it’s all over you can dump me as publically as you like. On the
Ten O’Clock News
, a plane trailing a banner over London that reads: Montague dumps Ffinch - and a plague on both their houses. Hell, you can even take out a double-page spread in
The Times
and I’ll pay for it. Such things don’t matter to me.’

‘Well, they matter to me,’ she said. He stood up, making it clear he was dismissing her. ‘One more thing -’ Ffinch groaned and glanced at his watch. ‘Will you stop acting like a man on his way to execution and start looking like a man who’s deeply in love?’ she demanded with some asperity. ‘Really, some of the looks you give me are far from flattering if you must know.’

‘You do a pretty good line in withering looks yourself, Montague.’ They looked each other up and down and she saw a rare flash of humour in his face before it disappeared.

‘And that’s another thing - Montague. I think you should get used to calling me Charlee when we’re around my family. Smoke and mirrors, you see; or, Charlotte if you prefer. I know you told me back in Sam’s office that only your friends called you Rafael, so …’

‘I guess you can call me Rafa, if you must.’

‘I must,’ she replied. She sensed that she’d worn him out with her objections, suggestions and plans. When she’d googled dengue fever last night, she’d discovered how potentially life-threatening it was. No wonder he often looked pale and drawn, his eyes dark-ringed with fatigue. But underneath she sensed steely purpose - as if some devil was driving him.

Whatever it was, Charlee suspected it had nothing to do with spiking
Mirror, Mirror
’s exclusive, and everything to do with Anastasia Markova’s attendance at the boot camp.

Just then, Sam came back into the room wearing an Emma Bridgewater Christmas apron and a frazzled expression. Charlee and Ffinch exchanged a humorous look and then killed it, but not before Sam caught it.

‘If you tell anyone that you’ve seen me wearing an apron, holding a wooden spoon in one hand and a page from a cookery book in the other, Montague - and you, too, Ffinch - I’ll …’ he threatened, waving the spoon at them.

‘Our lips are sealed, Chief.’ Walking over, Charlee removed the spoon and the laminated recipe card from his hands. ‘Let me help you. There’s only room for one domestic goddess in the house, and for the moment it’d better be me.’

Chapter Seventeen
Granny’s Ring

Over breakfast the next morning, Charlee was subjected to the third degree.

‘Your partner has a very high opinion of himself, doesn’t he?’ Jack demanded as their mother rustled up the ‘full English’ at the Aga. ‘He was bloody rude to us at the meet, smirking away, his arm around your shoulder - as if he found us vastly diverting.’

 ‘It’s just his way. You get used to it.’ She shrugged and spread her toast with butter. She resisted the urge to tell Jack that Ffinch did find them highly amusing and his mocking nickname for them.

‘And what’s with the whole Carlotta, thing?’ Tom demanded, frowning into his breakfast. ‘That was a bit, creepy, wasn’t it? I mean, it’s not as if you’re Spanish.’

‘There’s an air about him, as though he’s the cat who got the cream; like he owns you, or something,’ Wills put in. In retrospect, Charlee now knew what Ffinch’d been up to before the meet and was pleased it’d worked. However, having had enough of their cross-examining she felt it was her turn to wind them up.

‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s not as if I’m
virgo intacta
and being seen with Ffinch is ruining my marriage prospects.’ Everyone round the table spluttered into their breakfast but Charlee carried on eating toast, calmly. ‘Anyhoo, what time are you three leaving today? I promised I’d go over to the Walkers’ Stud and watch the DVD of Poppy and Daphne at HOYS back in October.’

‘HOYS?’ Miranda questioned, eating the gluten-free muesli she insisted on making fresh every morning. No wonder she looked permanently miserable, Charlee thought. Having spent three days with George and her sister-in-law, she’d reached the conclusion that a little of the newlyweds went a very long way.

‘Horse of the Year Show,’ Charlee’s brothers chorused, openly pleased to be moving on from a discussion of their baby sister’s sex life.

‘My Little Pony,’ Wills said, picking up his bacon rasher and eating it with his fingers.

 ‘Poppy Walker’s obsessed,’ Jack added, earning a glowering look from Charlee. ‘I don’t know how you can bear to sit through a DVD of horses knocking down poles and prancing sideways, Charlee. You don’t even ride.’

‘I can ride,’ Charlee corrected him. ‘I just choose not to.’ She banished a childhood memory of her pony careering round the bottom field after Jack or Wills had slapped it on its rump with a willow wand. That event had scared the bejeezus out of her and she hadn’t been on a horse since. ‘I’ve told you - when they equip horses with a set of brakes and a gear lever, I might consider getting back on one. Besides, it’s no different to you three watching rugger on Sky Sports. I don’t think the Harlequins will be knocking on the door asking the Montague brothers to play for England any time soon.

She had the satisfaction of seeing their faces droop at her honest assessment of their sporting prowess.

‘Oh, can I come?’ Miranda asked brightly, entering into the conversation.

‘No, you can’t,’ Charlee replied. ‘You’d be bored to tears and start droning on about George’s political ambitions. Poppy and I are going shopping later. Just the two of us,’ she added in a voice that left no room for negotiation. Truth was, Ffinch was still over at the Walkers' and there were one or two agenda items she wanted to go over with him.

‘Charlotte, that was very rude,’ her mother remonstrated, and then sighed as if it was no more than expected. ‘Never mind, Miranda, you and I can go into Woking to see what’s open. I’d better make the most of your company; the house will seem empty once you and the boys have gone.’

‘And that’s not rude, I suppose?’ Charlee demanded. Coming home and staying for a few days seemed harder than ever. When she’d first returned from university during the long vac, her childhood friends were still living in the vicinity and she could hang out with them. Now, like her, they had jobs elsewhere and had dispersed. She had become a stranger in her childhood home and while she felt immeasurably sad about that, she acknowledged it was a rite of passage. One day she’d return to find that her mother had kitted her bedroom out as an art studio or a sewing room and she’d be pushed out of the nest forever.

The sooner she and Ffinch announced their engagement and headed back to London, the better. Fortuitously, the bell jangled above the kitchen door and she scraped her chair back on the flagstone floor.

‘I’ll go,’ she said, glad of the excuse to escape.

Crossing the hall, she let out a pent-up sigh over the way things had turned out between herself and her family. But sadness and regret were pushed to one side when she spotted Ffinch’s distinctive camper van sitting on the drive.

Bugger!

What did he want?

He wasn’t supposed to turn up until after her brothers and Miranda had gone home. Convincing her parents their engagement was bona fide would be hard enough without the rest of the family asking one hundred and one awkward questions. She ran over to the door, wrenched it open, grabbed him by the sleeve of his flying jacket and dragged him into her father’s study.

‘You really are getting into the spirit of the thing, Montague. How romantic,’ he grinned, ‘my new fiancée can’t keep her hands off me.’

But Charlee wasn’t in the mood for his snarky comments or for what passed for humour with him. She closed the study door behind them and pressed her back against its thick panels as though keeping ravening wolves at bay. She gave him a searching and far from welcoming look.

‘What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay away until this evening.’

‘I couldn’t stay away. The attraction between us is too strong.’ He put his hand over his heart and gave her a longing look. ‘I’ve come to see your father to ask him for your hand.’

‘No, no, no. That’s out of the question. Are you mad?’ She closed the gap between them to make her point. ‘We’ll simply tell them that we’ve got engaged. That way, when we - I - break it off, it won’t be such a big deal.’ Chewing her lip, Charlee thought rapidly. ‘Maybe we should wait until we’ve got the ring?’ Things were moving too quickly and she had a sneaking suspicion that the reality of being Ffinch’s fiancée might be more than she bargained for. More than she could handle, even. He seemed wired, in uncharacteristic jovial mood and keen to get the show on the road - and that started alarm bells ringing, too.

‘I have the ring. I had it couriered from my parents in Edinburgh and it arrived this morning. Amazing what can be arranged if one is prepared to pay above the going rate.’ He tapped his breast pocket with two fingers and then rooted in his wallet. ‘I’ve cobbled together an announcement for
The Times
, the sooner we declare our undying love to the world, the better. See what you think.’ Charlee took the piece of paper from him, not much liking the sound of cobbled together or his sarcastic undying love. ‘I didn’t know your middle name so I’ve left a space for you to fill it in, should you think it necessary. My feeling is: plain and simple is the way to go.’

Mr R. Fonseca-Ffinch and Miss C. Montague

The engagement is announced between Rafael, son of
His Excellency Ambassador Salvio Fonseca-Ffinch and Mrs Richenda
Fonseca-Ffinch of Killiecrankie, Edinburgh, and Charlotte, daughter of Doctor and Mrs Henry Montague of Highclere, Berkshire.

‘Oh,’ Charlee let out a shaky breath. ‘That looks very … official.’

For some absurd reason she didn’t want to think about, her heart felt heavy and the enormity of what they were about to undertake hit home. It all seemed a mocking step too far, now. Tears pricked her nose and the print swam in front of her eyes. Fingers shaking, she handed the paper back to him, stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans and stood looking out of the window with her back towards him.

‘Shouldn’t it be?’ Ffinch seemed genuinely puzzled by her reaction. ‘I thought the idea was to present everyone with fait accompli and give them no time to ask searching questions. We might as well do the dirty deed while the Ruperts are here and get it over and done with in one fell swoop.’

‘Over and done with? Dirty deed? One fell swoop?’ Charlee spun round, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Don’t overdo the romance, will you Ffinch? We wouldn’t want me to swoon and fall into your arms, would we?’ She wiped her finger inelegantly under her nose, let out another shaky breath and then composed herself. ‘And stop referring to my brothers as the Ruperts,’ she snapped, and normal service was resumed.

‘We’re play-acting, aren’t we?’ he reminded her and then frowned and looked at her quizzically. ‘Aren’t we?’ he insisted, as if sensing her hesitation.

‘Of course we are. I remember the deal - I’m not to go all mushy on you. It’s just … well, I’ve envisaged this day in my mind and it was nothing like this.’

Ffinch looked at her long and hard and then his expression softened and his grey eyes filled with compassion, understanding. ‘I keep forgetting how young you are. I think you’re hard-bitten like me - and love has no place in your life … Cheer up, Montague, think of it as a dry run for the day when the great love of your life walks through the door and sweeps you off your size fives.’

Charlee might have known he couldn’t be soft-hearted or empathetic for long.

‘Four and a halves, actually. And I suppose you’ve been engaged at least a dozen times? You probably have to fight women off with a cricket bat. It’s all a formality to you. Well, I need a few moments to get used to the idea and then we can go into the kitchen and tell my family the “good news”.’ She enclosed the words in ironic speech marks; she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression about her - or her dedication to the job.

‘Okay, let’s have a little breather,’ he conceded. ‘You sit and tell me about this room, your father, your relationship with your parents. The Ruperts … sorry.’ He guided her over to the tweed-covered office chair by her father’s desk and made her sit while he roamed the room looking at family photos on the wall. They were mostly sporting photos of her brothers at boarding school in various guises - cricket, rugger, football and even fencing. There was one rather unflattering photo of her wearing braces and holding a lacrosse stick and she hoped Ffinch wouldn’t dwell on that one for too long. ‘Charlotte - Charlee. I guess your parents were expecting another boy and out you popped.’

Charlee didn’t like the offhand way he referred to her arrival into the world, or how close to the truth he was. Her parents had been anticipating the arrival of another boy and had Charles James all lined up for him and had hurriedly changed it to Charlotte Jane. She remembered his mocking ‘Carlotta’ and despite feeling put out with him, shivered. The name sounded like it belonged in a Latin country, where the sun always shone and the skies were unfailingly blue. Where romance flourished . . .

‘How come there are twice as many photos of the Ruperts than there are of you?’

‘Because there’s four of them and one of me?’ Charlee suggested, annoyed that he’d pricked her bubble. She didn’t want him playing amateur psychologist for a second time and rushed on. ‘Don’t you know that in large families the law of diminishing returns comes into play?’

‘I’m an only child; you’ll have to explain,’ he said, sitting on the end of the desk. Fearing for the safety of her father’s precious fishing flies Charlee pointedly moved them out of his way.

‘With the first born, album after album is filled with photographs of the precious babe. Then along comes the next and the next. The parents are exhausted, distracted and fewer photographs are taken to mark the rites of passage - first pony, first day at school and so on. Until, by the time the last child is born - in this case, me - no one bothers anymore.’

‘I see,’ Ffinch frowned.

‘My brothers charmingly explained the lack of photos by telling me I was adopted. Their little joke, everything they could do to confuse me was regarded as fair game.’

Ffinch nodded, beginning to understand the family dynamic and Charlee’s place in the pecking order. ‘Go on,’ he commanded. Charlee didn’t like being ordered around by anyone, least of all Ffinch, but hoped that if she got her backstory out of the way he would stop bugging her about her brothers.

‘Not much to tell, really. My mother had just accepted a post as an adviser on primary education after many years of trying and was devastated to find herself pregnant at forty-one. Promotion was much harder for a woman back then, remember,’ she cut her mother some unaccustomed slack. ‘With the boys away at boarding school I was practically handed over to my grandparents to bring up while mother and father pursued their careers. Mother suffered horrendous postnatal depression and my birth plunged her into an early menopause. She never really took to me, I guess … the unplanned child.’

She shrugged away the hurt. Ffinch straightened the photo of her with the lacrosse team and when he turned round, the mocking, jibing look was gone from his eyes. He regarded her intently with that ‘I wonder if I can really trust you’ look she was beginning to recognise.

‘We should form a club: “Brought Up By Their Grandparents”,’ he said, half-jokingly. ‘I spent most of my life in boarding schools when not staying with my cousins on the family coffee plantation in Brazil. My parents travelled the world, from embassy to embassy, until they hit pay dirt with their posting to Paris. My grandparents had a large hand in my upbringing, too.’ He reached inside his flying jacket and brought out a blue leather box. ‘Hence, Granny’s ring. Great-Granny’s ring to be precise, on my mother’s side - they’re the Ffinches, not the Fonsecas. Here,’ he reached over the desk and opened the box. ‘It’s yours for now; try it on.’