Boot Camp Bride (4 page)

Chapter Six
Fools Rush In

Charlee was only too happy to elaborate. ‘It’s like those extreme bush tucker trials/wildlife programs you see on TV. Bear Grylls and Ray what’s-his-face -’

‘Mears?’ he helped out.

‘Exactly. Everybody knows those places are dangerous. So why go there?’ Charlee shrugged, like a hard-bitten journo. ‘It’s all been done before. We geddit, right? Move on.’

Taking that as her cue, she made her way over to the table where the unsold books were stacked. Overtaking her, he barred her way and prevented her from leaving. It was plain that she’d ruffled his feathers, but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. Surely, after her gaffe about the cat woman, disagreeing with him over some celebrity author was small fry?

But apparently, it was a big deal. To him.

‘Let me get this straight. You don’t think that the author deserves some credit for donating the royalties from the book to provide a hospital boat for the remote region of the Amazon where he was rescued?’

‘Rescued?’ The word leapt out and suddenly he had her full attention. She sensed that a tale of epic proportions was about to unfold; a scoop, maybe. A world exclusive that she, Charlee Montague, would snatch from more experienced journalists. Naturally.

‘Surely you know the story?’ he asked, implying that either she’d been living on the moon or was a total idiot. The cool, autocratic look that swept her from head to toe made it clear he thought her capable of fitting into either category but probably the latter. Charlee gave him a thin-lipped smile, inwardly smarting as she struggled to hide the depth of her ignorance. She’d been too busy studying for her finals this summer and working to pay off her overdraft to notice what’d been happening in the real world.

Luckily, he was very happy to fill in the gaps. ‘The author -’

‘Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch?’ Charlee read the name on the spine of one of the books piled high on the signing table. She was just about to make some sarcastic comment like: ‘is that name for real’, when some instinct for self-preservation stopped her. She’d already seriously pissed him off twice this evening, time to quit while she was ahead.

‘You’ve heard of him?’ he asked.

‘Who hasn’t?’ she lied. Then she frowned. Actually, the moniker was vaguely familiar. But, maybe she was confusing him with Rafael Nadal, tennis-god and all-round hottie. Or perhaps it was an echo from childhood … one of those Ninja Turtle things had been called Raphael. Hadn’t it? Then there was the Renaissance painter … In danger of being carried away again, Charlee reined herself in with the mantra: Concentrate. Focus. Centre.

She sensed that the validation of this author was very important to him. Perhaps he wanted to ensure that the gallery sold shedloads of books and he got his juicy commission. Maybe she looked like she had money to spare.

‘He wanted to raise peoples’ awareness of some of the most hazardous places on earth,’ he went on. ‘Places where ordinary people live in poverty and disappear without a trace … where even the aid agencies daren’t go. South America seems to have slipped below the radar and peoples’ consciences, despite Brazil hosting the next Olympics and the Pope originating from Argentina. Perhaps the deprivation there isn’t as cool or fashionable as Africa.’

Sensing that a lecture was about to follow, Charlee cut him off with, ‘Like I said, we get it. What I don’t get is why Mr double-barrelled-explorer had to go there - physically, I mean. There are stock images of these places. He could have downloaded those, written his copy and the book wouldn’t have been any different. He could have given the money it took to mount the expedition to the Cat People of the Amazon. Or, whatever.’

She sensed that her dismissive 'whatever' riled him because he struggled to keep his cool.

Ha! That’d teach him to patronise her. She gained the impression that he was trying to redress the balance of power between them. She’d won their game of rock, paper, scissors, but clearly he was going for the world series. Maintaining a bright, friendly expression and not wanting him to guess she was intent on scoring further points, Charlee prolonged the conversation.

It wasn’t over until the fat lady sang, or she said it was.

‘What if the author felt compelled to go? What if he wanted to show the poverty? Tell the world what he’d seen with his own eyes?’ he asked, clearly trying to convert her to his cause. Not to mention the incentive of selling more books, a cynical but knowing voice whispered in her ear. He had a point, and she actually agreed with him; but she wasn’t going to let him know. Matters had gone too far for either of them to back down now.

The game wasn’t over and there was everything to play for.

His passionate defence of the author and his campaign made him look strikingly attractive.

Charlee gave her head a little shake and sublimated her instinctive reaction to his sheer maleness even as she made a covert inventory of him. Sexy little frown that creased his forehead (tick) - the combative light in his blue-grey eyes (tick) - the appealing downward curve of his mouth as he sought the words that would win his argument and convince her she was wrong (tick). Even the way he ran his hands through his dark hair as if she drove him to distraction drew an unwanted response from her.

However, she swallowed hard and carried on. The only way she’d managed to hold her own with her brothers was never to back down. And this was no different …

‘Yeah, I can just imagine how tough it was with a backup team and a documentary crew every step of the way. The whole expedition must have cost a bomb. Money that could - should - have been given directly to the Cat People.’ She gestured towards the photograph of the woman with the body piercings and continued. ‘And, by the way, have you ever noticed how the people behind the camera never get a mention? For all I know, he could have had Fortnum and Mason hampers parachuted into the jungle and his own personal stylist with him, while his team lived on berries and drank rancid water.’

‘Now you’re being bloody ridiculous,’ he snapped, and reached for one of the books.

Charlee experienced a moment of triumph because she’d broken through the ennui that men of his class affected. A world-weariness that she didn’t find in the least bit attractive. She liked her men bright-eyed and enthusiastic, burning with the rightness of their cause; wanting to make a difference. Um - rather like him in fact, her more rational self pointed out. For one wild moment she thought he was about to bring the weighty tome crashing down on her head and she cringed.

Instead, he opened it at the dedication page and read aloud. ‘To my wonderful crew. For leading you where angels fear to tread; apologies and sincere thanks for everything I put you through. Rafa Ffinch.’ She took the book from him and read the inscription. Then she flipped back to the front dust cover flap and gave a slow, appreciative whistle.

‘Finally,’ he managed through gritted teeth. ‘She’s impressed.’

‘More astounded, actually.’

‘Astounded?’

‘Yeah. That anyone would part with thirty quid for a book like this.’ Charlee closed it with a loud snap before handing it back. ‘Anyone who actually had to work for a living, that is.’ Her tone implied that he was a stranger to hard work. ‘Thanks; but no thanks. I’ll wait for it to be three for two at Waterstones, or reduced on Amazon. Unless you want to give me a free copy before they’re taken back to the warehouse and pulped?’

He looked torn between a desire to say something cutting and original and the need to finish his tale. Like it really meant something to him, something more than just another book launch at a swish London gallery. ‘Let me tell you more about the rescue and then you can decide if the book’s worth a whole thirty pounds.’ He said it like the amount was small change and Charlee was one of those lowlifes who watched
Comic Relief
without reaching for their credit card at the end of the evening.

‘Okay.’ She parked her derriere on the book-signing table and waited for him to begin.

Under different circumstances, she’d have loved nothing more than to hear tales of the author’s derring-do and rescue in the Amazon Basin. She could just imagine herself as Fonseca-Ffinch’s right-hand woman … no, strike that … his equal partner. Standing shoulder to shoulder with him on some peak in Darien, machete at the ready, prepared to hack through virgin rainforest. Facing danger together, working as a team, overcoming obstacles … nothing behind them but miles of impenetrable jungle. Only the blue of the Pacific before them as they trod in the footsteps of Cortez and the conquistadors …

Eldorado. The City of Gold.

Instead, the mood was broken as staff stacked chairs and swept the floor. She looked over his shoulder and saw Poppy advancing towards them, obviously fed up with waiting. He caught her distracted look and half-turned his head, clearly sensing that time had run out and he wouldn’t be able to finish his story, or persuade her to buy a copy of the book.

‘One of your friends?’

‘Best friend. Actually.’

‘I see she’s bought one of the books.’

‘Poppy’s minted. Maybe I’ll borrow it off her and read it this weekend.’

‘And maybe you won’t.’ He shrugged, as though he’d had enough of her posturing.

‘I -’

Suddenly the rebel without a clue had no mocking words left in her arsenal. With one cold, dismissive look he managed to make her feel petty, small-minded and parochial. As though, in her attempt to best him, she’d disparaged something significant and worthwhile. She wanted to tell him that her posturing was just that. An act: a role she had to play in order to survive the sniper fire in
What’cha!
’s offices.

That she was on his side.

There was a slight commotion as the staff took the unsold books off the table and whipped the linen cloth from under her with a magician-like flourish. Not wishing to land on the floor in an ungainly heap, Charlee stood up, but when she turned around Poppy was at her side and her adversary had gone.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ Charlee returned Poppy’s greeting, trying hard to act cool and not swivel her head through 360-degrees, like the girl in
The Exorcist
, in search of him.

‘You two were getting on well,’ Poppy began, like it mattered to her. Then she gave Charlee a bright smile, tucked the book more securely under her arm and gave her watch another look. ‘What was the thing with the hands?’

‘It’s a long story …’ Charlee let out a long breath, feeling as if she’d run a marathon. It no longer felt like the night was young and she was up for some fun. She wanted to be quiet, reflective and to think over her encounter with Gallery Guy.

‘Here. Hold the book while I find my mobile and call one of the firm’s taxis.’ Poppy handed the heavy book to Charlee. Curious, she turned the book over to read the blurb on the back cover, and then let out a long:

‘Nooooooh.’

Staring back in full technicolour was a head and shoulders portrait shot of the author. The man she’d just spent the last twenty minutes with.

Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch.

The man who now believed she was a complete pain in the arse and the rudest woman on the planet. She returned the book to Poppy as though it was burning coals. Hoping, once it was no longer in her hands, that she could disassociate herself from it, her behaviour - and its author.

‘Nooooooh,’ Charlee repeated the keening cry as she glanced towards the doors and saw Fonseca-Ffinch in deep conversation with Sam Walker, Vanessa and Sally. Ominously, they kept glancing in her direction and frowning, with Sam Walker shaking his head in apparent disbelief. She just knew she was being dropped in it, big time, by the intrepid explorer.

‘What’s the matter?’ Poppy followed Charlee’s gaze and appeared to sum it all up in a trice. It wasn’t long before Sally came mincing over, an evil parody of a Cheshire cat’s grin all over her face.

‘You are sooo in trouble, Montague,’ she informed delightedly. ‘You’ve really cocked up this time. Insulted the guest of honour; dissed his book and accused him of defrauding the charity he founded. Classic, Montague, classic.’

‘Really?’ Charlee tried to wrong-foot Sally with a show of nonchalance. But her stomach was churning like a cement mixer full of rubble as the realisation of what she’d done hit home.

‘Yes. Really. Chief wants to see you first thing Monday morning.’ She delivered the
coup de grâce
with relish. ‘And this time? Not even being Miss Walker’s best friend is going to save you.’

She turned on her designer heels and went back to join the group by the door. For once, Poppy could offer no words of comfort and Charlee was left trembling with anxiety and wondering where she was going to find another job two days before the world shut down for the Christmas holidays.

Chapter Seven
The Unwilling Apprentice

Two days later on December 23
^rd
Charlee was at her desk emptying her drawer before the rest of the office arrived. Being fired was bad enough. But having to run the gauntlet of the office wags, as she packed her belongings into a document box, scattering emergency supplies of tights, tampons and fused together Kit Kats in her wake would be even worse. She shut the drawer with a decisive snap.

Time she stopped dithering, drew the threads of her argument together and prepared the case for the defence before Sam Walker called her to his office for a well-deserved dressing down. She’d spent the weekend holed up in her bedsit deciding the course to take. She’d appear contrite - naturally; sorry for all the offence she’d caused Mr Big Author, and promise never to do it again. But, taking the rap for Friday night’s debacle wouldn’t be easy. She couldn’t get it out of her head that somehow Fonseca-bloody-Ffinch had deliberately goaded her into behaving badly.

Not that she’d ever needed any encouragement to go just that step too far. The unguarded remark, the unasked for comment were her stock in trade. She was rash and unthinking - and this time she wasn’t going to get away with it. Rebel without a clue he’d called her. Rebel without a job was nearer the mark this morning.

She resisted the urge to clear her desk and focused instead on rearranging items of stationery in serried ranks, like war game figures. She sighed. News of her dismissal would put a damper on the Montague family Christmas and bring a whole load of recriminations down on her head. Her parents’ censorious faces swam into focus; they’d been dead against her becoming a journalist in the first place. With her double first in Languages and Politics, they reasoned, she could become a political lobbyist, a parliamentary research assistant, a translator at The Hague or coach foreign students desperate to enter a top-notch English university. Taken a second or even third degree - gained her doctorate; she had the mental capacity for it, they were constantly telling her … but her heart wasn’t in it.

She wanted the thrill of the scoop, the lure of the exclusive. She longed for danger, the knowledge that she was on the trail of the BIG ONE. Why, even Sam Walker at his most acerbic had recognised she had a nose for a story, an instinct for sensing when the great white whale was about to surface and everyone else was headed off in the opposite direction following a false lead. Maybe that was the reason he’d overlooked some of her minor gaffes since she’d joined
What’cha!
Shrugged off Vanessa’s complaints about her copy, which she knew was better than anything the other interns handed in.

Equally, Sam knew that she was the only reason Poppy came to work every morning when she’d rather be off eventing or hunting with her mother. However, that was another story and Charlee pushed it to the back of her mind. She knew that one day she would make her name and earn the respect of her peers. Then she’d no longer be the add-on in the Montague family. The menopausal baby who’d arrived unexpectedly after four strapping boys and announced her presence with a squalling red face and a shock of white-blonde hair. To them, she’d always be ‘Shrimp’, the runt of the litter - but it was time she rewrote her entry in the family bible.

She snapped out of her reverie when a couple of party poppers went off at close range. Their contents shot through the air and came to rest on her head, draping her in multicoloured dreadlocks. Charlee glared at the two post boys who swaggered in wearing Santa hats making a racket with party blowers.

The post boys were flirty, impudent and rather overdid the whole cock-e-nay geezer act in an attempt to make the day-to-day grind of their job bearable. Usually Charlee gave as good as she got; but today she wasn’t in the mood for their Del-Boy-Meets-Chas-and-Dave routine.

‘You’re here a bit bleedin’ early, ain’t cha, Charl.’ One handed her a stack of jiffy bags. ‘Don’t want to overdo it, you’ve gotta save your energy for dancing wiv us tonight at the knees-up. I’ve been practising my Salsa, just for you.’ He laid a hand over his heart like a lovelorn swain and danced a few steps.

‘Sure. Whatever,’ Charlee responded unenthusiastically and started to rip open the jiffy bags

They noticed her mood straightaway: ‘You are going, ain’t cha?’

‘Dunno. It’s complicated,’ she gave a half-hearted shrug.

‘Yeah. We ’eard.’

Their exchanged look confirmed her worst suspicions. Her hours of gainful employment were drawing to a close. The post boys knew everything that went down at
What’cha!
They eavesdropped shamelessly as they made their way round the building and were very good at stringing pieces of seemingly unconnected gossip together to make a story. They spread rumours faster than the Ebola virus.

‘Upset Chief and his mate, didn’t cha?’ He nodded towards Sam Walker’s office. ‘Don’t worry, Charl. You know Chief. He’ll give you a bollocking and forget …’

‘Not this time,’ she cut in, unable to draw any comfort from their words. Sighing, she took the rest of the mail from them and pretended to deal with it. Getting the message, they gave one last toot on their party blowers and trundled the mail cart down the corridor towards the Features Office. No doubt to gossip about her to a more than receptive audience.

Not this time … the words haunted her.

She’d humiliated the guest of honour and let down the magazine. It didn’t get any worse. Pressing the palms of her hands onto the desktop, she practised some deep breathing exercises. However, being as she’d quit yoga after two sessions, she wasn’t entirely sure how one attained spiritual enlightenment in under ten minutes. The best she could hope for was a state of despair underwritten with mild terror.

Thinking back to everything that had passed between herself and Fonseca-Ffinch, Charlee decided there was no point going into the meeting spoiling for a fight. It was her stubborn, combative streak that had got her into trouble in the first place. No. She’d have to take full responsibility for acting unprofessionally and offending his lordship - no matter how much it stuck in her craw. Sam Walker’s punishment, when it came, would be swift and harsh.

But maybe - if she swallowed her pride and grovelled low enough - she’d get away with a verbal warning. Momentarily, hope fluttered in her chest and then reality kicked in. Who was she kidding? Fonseca-Ffinch was man of the moment; she was an intern. No amount of slick talking was going to get her out of this one.

Of course - now it was too late, she remembered everything about him. His reputation as the photographer who captured the zeitgeist: the politician with the rent boy, the celebrity snorting coke at his daughter’s wedding, and the stand-off between police and G8 protestors last summer.

Through his connections - she’d read somewhere that his parents were career diplomats - he had an access to the rich and famous that other journos could only dream of and weep over. While they had to settle for pushing telephoto lenses through the bars of remote controlled gates and the second best shot, he commanded the front page and earned colossal syndication rights.

Now there was this book:
The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet
, which had received glowing reviews in most of the Sundays. The book she’d refused to spend her hard-earned cash on was being hailed as ‘one man’s mission to bring hope to the hopeless’.

Because of his experiences in the Amazon, he’d chosen to devote himself to improving the lot of the people there. The very tribe, as Charlee had learned from yesterday’s article, who’d found him unconscious on the bank of a piranha-infested stretch of the Amazon, carried him to their village and brought him back from the brink of death. She burned with shame as she recalled how she’d derided them with a smart-arsed remark: ‘Now that’s what I call an extreme makeover.’

Using his advance, he’d established a fund to provide a hospital boat to ply the long stretch of the Amazon and bring much needed medical aid to the people who lived there. The journalist who’d written the piece in the colour supplement had added to Charlee’s wretchedness with every well-chosen word. "Fonseca-Ffinch is an antidote for all that is cynical and self-serving in the world; a template for those who give so freely of their time and money to help those less fortunate. He has travelled the road to Damascus and the scales have fallen from his eyes".

How had she put it?

Oh yes: ‘I’d be astounded that anyone would part with thirty quid for a book like this.’

She deserved to be fired - instead of planning her defence, she should write her resignation and leave it on Sam Walker’s office desk. Jump before she was pushed. Charlee groaned as her mood swung between belligerence and despair. Fonseca-Ffinch was in danger of becoming a living saint, whereas she …

 The hands of the office clock made a large clunk as they reached the top of the hour and Poppy Walker strolled into the office wearing a shearling coat and a pair of to-die-for boots, looking just like Cameron Diaz in
The Holiday
, one of their favourite films. She was carrying two coffees in a cardboard holder and almond croissants wrapped in a napkin. She gave Charlee a worried look and then put the drink in front of her.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think I can,’ Charlee said unconvincingly. The aroma of coffee wafted over to her and the croissant shed its delicious flakes on her desk, making her stomach rumble.

‘’Course you can. You’re the condemned prisoner the original hearty breakfast was created for. Get that down you, girl. You don’t want to face Chief on an empty stomach, do you?’

They pulled a face, both well aware of Sam Walker’s volatility and Charlee’s spirits plummeted even lower. Within the confines of this building, Walker was God Almighty, with a team of shit-hot, hand-picked subs acting as his vengeful archangels. When he called you into his office, you were never sure if it was for a decapitation or a pat on the back. He kept his staff in awe of him, his daughter Poppy included.

‘What mood’s he in?’ Charlee asked Poppy. It’d been through her persistent lobbying that she’d landed the job in the first place and she felt she’d let Poppy down, too.

‘Strangely calm.’ Poppy frowned as she took the lid off her cappuccino and stirred the coffee with a pencil. ‘He’s been shut up in his study all weekend. Mostly on the phone to his old Fleet Street cronies. Mummy was furious because we had friends staying over and he hardly passed the time of day with them. Then Rafa … ’

Charlee frowned. She didn’t want to hear, read or learn anything more about Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch unless it was that he was leaving the country, for good! There was a loud bang on the office door and both girls started, Charlee spilling coffee all over her white shirt. Poppy leapt away from her. That coat looked like it would need dry cleaning at least once a week and coffee stains are pretty unforgiving.

‘Montague.’ Sam Walker strode past her office without seeming to glance her way. ‘My office. If you please.’ Well, it didn’t please her, but Charlee guessed that wasn’t quite what he meant.

‘Chief.’ She pulled herself up smartly and almost saluted.

‘And, Montague,’ he paused. And without turning round added, ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to your hair. But sort it. Now! ’

Closing her eyes, Charlee groaned and remembered the party popper dreadlocks.

 
‘Sorry,’ Poppy whispered and helped her to pick the last bits of stretchy, multicoloured plastic out of her hair. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘How do I look?’ Charlee asked, seeking reassurance.

‘Scared?’ Poppy ventured, apparently not quite grasping the concept of giving moral support to a friend.

‘Thanks.’ Wiping her hands down the sides of her skirt, Charlee walked down the corridor and prepared herself for execution.