Boot Camp Bride (27 page)

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.

‘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.