Boot Camp Bride (6 page)

Chapter Ten
Are You Writing This Down?

Fifteen minutes later, Charlee was in their local branch of Pret, watching the pre-breakfast crowd grab their lattes and croissants. Tomorrow, as she’d pointed out to Ffinch, was Christmas Eve and she’d planned to finish work at noon, load her overnight bag and presents into the Mini and then head for home. Now she was going on this assignment with him!

She didn’t much care for the sarcastic way he’d said: tell your boyfriends they’ll have to put the kiss under the mistletoe on hold. Or how his lip had curled as if he doubted her capable of being a go-for-it trainee journo and full-time girlfriend. It annoyed her to admit that he was right. Since leaving university last summer, she’d been on a couple of abortive dates with some of Poppy’s male friends - braying Hoorays for the most part. Or, dated men she met in the wine bars where she hung out with the other interns after work. But the men only seemed interested in a quick fumble and the chance to tell her how wonderful/successful/talented they were - and how lucky she was to be dating them.

Not that she was in any hurry to find a soulmate. As she’d been quick to assure Ffinch, she was wedded to her career - love, marriage, babies and all that jazz could wait as far as she was concerned. And, in any case, she doubted her ideal man existed other than in her dreams: artistic, brave, funny, and as hungry for the exclusive - the scoop - as she was.

‘I thought double espressos, in the circumstances.’ Poppy plonked two small cups of extremely strong coffee in front of them and a couple of cheese and ham toasties. She pushed her thick black French plait over her shoulder and looked at Charlee expectantly with eyes as bright and darting as a robin’s. ‘Okay, give. What happened in Pa’s office?’

‘Don’t you ever stop eating?’ Charlee asked, already knowing the answer.

Poppy ate like a man but was stick thin because she spent half her life riding horses and the other half mucking them out. Charlee guessed that Poppy’d been up before it was light, helping with the tack and feeding routine at her mother’s riding school. When she got home this evening, she would exercise her mother’s hunters in the indoor ménage and practise her dressage. And on Boxing Day, Poppy would be out with the local hunt while Charlee stayed in bed and nursed a hangover. ‘Okay, Popps; Fonseca-Ffinch. Give.’

‘Rafa,’ Poppy began, biting into her sandwich with straight white teeth. She gets to call him Rafa, Charlee thought, but held her peace until Poppy finished chewing. ‘Rafa is an old friend of the family. I’ve had a massive crush on him for years, all the girls have - he’s totally gorgeous … but regards me as the younger sister he never had, or even worse - a cute pet, like a Labrador.’

They pulled a face at that and then laughed because their expressions exactly mirrored one another.

‘Go on,’ Charlee commanded.

‘Chief gave him his first break when no one could see past his name and his family connections. His family are diplomats and their present posting is Paris; I’ve been over there to stay with them loads of times. Okay, don’t give me that look - I’m waffling, I know. Back to Ffinch; everyone thought he was just another posh boy playing at photo journalism, cashing in on his connections until something new or more exciting took his fancy.’

‘He’s told me that, already,’ Charlee put in, sipping her strong coffee and toying with the corner of her toastie. Last night, the same thoughts had gone through her mind.

‘He was writing the last chapter of his book:
The Ten Most Dangerous Destinations on the Planet
.’

 ‘And?’ Charlee was anxious for Poppy to cut to the chase. Her explanations were notoriously long-winded and the copy she presented nearly always ended up being ‘spiked’ by the subs as unusable. But Sam Walker insisted that she come into work every day because, as he rightly suspected, she’d fritter her time away at that ‘bloody money-draining riding school,’ and never forge a career for herself.

Poppy paused and then asked severely: ‘Are you writing any of this down, Montague?’

‘Filing it away,’ Charlee grinned and tapped her temple with a forefinger. ‘In my bank vault. Carry on -’ An aptitude for language had given Charlee the ability to remember what was said, who said it and when. On top of that, she had a phenomenal recall of faces, facts and figures; she guessed that’s what had gained her a double first when she’d graduated last summer.

‘His last trip was to Darien, Colombia, where he and his team of local guides, plus two young research assistants from the University of Colombia were kidnapped by a guerrilla group and held to ransom.’ Charlee moved to the edge of her seat - this was more like it! ‘The guerrillas - or whatever they are - got wind of how rich Ffinch’s family is and saw dollar signs. Ker-ching,’ she made a noise like an old-fashioned cash register.

‘So how come -’

‘He lived to tell the tale and write this book?’ For once, Poppy stayed focused. ‘I don’t know all the ins and outs, and I don’t ask. He’s very touchy on the subject but who can blame him?’ She rifled in her pocket, brought out a piece of folded A4 lined paper and pushed it across the table to Charlee. ‘Chief knew you’d have lots of questions, so he’s drawn up a list of topics that are off limits when you’re out with Rafa.’

That struck a raw nerve with Charlee. Who did Rafa Frigging-Ffinch think he was? And why was Chief so ready to agree to his every request?

‘But I’m a journalist,’ Charlee protested. Then, catching Poppy’s expression amended it to ‘Okay, trainee journalist. How can I not ask questions? Anyway, what’s verboten?’ She took the paper off the table with the utmost reluctance and read down the list. ‘Ffinch’s family; his capture and subsequent release; the death of his two research assistants. Death?’ That struck a chord with her; she imagined their families, the guilt Ffinch must feel at not keeping them safe. ‘His rescue by an indigenous tribe; the ongoing investigation by the Colombian Drugs Agency.’

‘Pretty comprehensive, huh?’ Poppy asked, pulling a face as Charlee read on.

‘The assignment; his plans for the future … yada, yada, yada. The list’s endless,’ she complained. Then she put on a false, bright smile: ‘Oh, wait - we can discuss the weather and whether he’s having turkey or roast beef on Christmas Day. Bloody marvellous.’

‘You’ll be great together,’ Poppy soothed. ‘Just do as you’re told - you are capable of doing that, aren’t you? No wait, don’t answer that question.’ She pulled a face and then started to eat Charlee’s almost untouched toastie. ‘Chief had his reservations but I told him that you were the girl for the job …’

‘How do you mean you told Chief I was the girl for the job? Put down my toastie and explain yourself, Missy,’ Charlee said, suspecting another one of Poppy’s matchmaking efforts.

‘Look,’ Poppy said, clearly picking up the vibe. ‘Rafa isn’t interested in you in that way, he probably hasn’t even noticed that you’re a woman.’

‘Thanks for that!’

‘He wants an assistant, someone he can trust to go on this assignment and not cling to him or be difficult. You want an adventure, the chance of breaking out of the photo archive and into the big time. The scoop. He wants a no-nonsense partner who won’t throw her arms around his neck sobbing at the first obstacle. It’s a win-win situation, he gets the scoop and you get to bask in reflected glory.’ Charlee didn’t much like the sound of reflected glory but let it pass.

‘What about Vanessa?’

‘Too old?’

‘Or Sally?’

‘Too stoop-id.’

Charlee acknowledged there was truth in Poppy’s statement. After fifteen minutes in Sally’s company Rafa would be wishing himself back in the bug-infested jungle or a piranha-infested stretch of the Amazon, anything to escape her simpering. As if of the same mind, Poppy put down Charlee’s toastie and propped her chin up on the back of her hands, like a Victorian maiden.

 ‘Oh, Rafa, you are so brave. Oh, Rafa you are so clever. Oh Rafa …’ she mimicked the unfortunate Sally. ‘But you’re different. You two will be great together.’

‘Somehow I doubt that. Just as I suspect I’m only being told half the story. Why would a journo of Ffinch’s repute be interested in a royal playing away from home? Why would he need a rookie like me to accompany him?’

‘See - you’re curious and that’s what makes a good journalist. That’s why I’ll never be any good.’ Poppy sighed and polished off the last of the sandwich. ‘I just don’t care enough.’

‘Sweetie,’ Charlee put her hand over Poppy’s. ‘Your weekly ‘Life in the Country’ column’s great …’

‘Only because, more often than not, you and Mummy write it for me!’ Poppy grinned unashamedly. ‘Chief would drop it from
What’cha!
if he thought he’d get away with it. But Mummy would raise blue murder. It’s all that’s left from the original magazine he took over when they married. More coffee?’ She went to join the queue. Charlee sank back in her seat and watched Poppy sashay up to the counter like the thoroughbred she was: long limbs, slender ankles, hair in a French plait interwoven with a red ribbon.

And what was she? A bit of a pocket Venus - with unruly thick blonde hair and a generally thrown together appearance. She had the feeling that Poppy longed to take the curry comb to her - lick her into shape, maybe even rub hoof oil into the ancient, cracked boots she’d bought in a vintage shop. Smiling, she tucked the piece of paper into the expandable wallet at the back of her Moleskine to read over before Ffinch picked her up.

Then she frowned.

She had a gut feeling that the stone, paper, scissors interlude two days ago had been a set-up, a test to see if she was equal to the role Sam and Ffinch had earmarked her for. Not to mention Poppy putting her forward … But, what if she’d been picked for her size rather than her journalistic prowess. She pulled a face in concentration: what was it Ffinch had said? This assignment will mean us being in a confined space together. Think you can handle that? She pulled out the piece of paper and read down the list again. No mention of spaces, confined or otherwise. Frowning, she turned over the sheet of paper and saw more writing, this time in Sam’s unmistakable handwriting.

‘AND WHATEVER YOU DO, MONTAGUE, DON’T ARGUE WITH FFINCH OR ASK ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS …’

Charlee allowed herself a mirthless smile. Didn’t Sam know her after all these years? Asking her not to do something was guaranteed to make her do just the opposite. Now, of course, she wanted to know all about what had happened in Colombia and it would be burning a hole through the synapses of her brain until she found out.

Feck, she thought, as she read the list again. Being with Ffinch would be like being granted an audience with the Queen. Don’t speak until spoken to. Never ask a direct question. Curtsey. Address him as ‘Your Majesty’ in the first instance and ‘Sir’ thereafter. She gave an ironic sniff - as if that was likely. She was already feeling mighty irritated by him, the secrecy surrounding the assignment and Chief’s list of forbidden topics. If the object had been to put distance between them and make her find him as attractive as a case of boils, the plan was working fine.

By the sounds of it, one assignment together and then she’d be glad to see the back of Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch.

Chapter Eleven
This One’s a Classic

Bang on eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve, the intercom buzzed in Charlee’s bedsit and she picked up the handset.

‘Ffinch,’ he said without preamble.

‘Montague,’ she replied, feeling absurdly like she was in a rerun of the classic TV show,
Cagney and Lacey
. Ffinch’s brisk tone shook her from her daydream.

‘Get yourself down here, Montague. Clock’s a-ticking.’

‘Yes sir, no sir, three bags flippin’ full sir,’ she said, under her breath.

‘I heard that,’ he replied. She pulled a face and mouthed ‘good’ as she put the receiver back on the intercom, grabbed her bag, coat and the two carrier bags containing the midnight feast he’d ordered.

Then she pulled the door of the bedsit behind her and took the stairs two at a time. She skidded to a halt in the scruffy hall and allowed herself a little happy dance. ‘I’m on my first assignment - with an award-winning journalist,’ she shouted at a pile of takeaway leaflets littering the doormat. And a monumental pain in the arse, her brain added as a coda for good measure. But nothing could dampen her enthusiasm or crush her high spirits and she smiled as she stepped out into the street. Ffinch was waiting by the side of a classic VW camper van with his arms folded and a wry smile twisting his lips.

‘Oh, wow,’ Charlee exclaimed as she walked towards the classic 1960s camper van with navy and cream coachwork and split windscreen. ‘A splitty and a left hooker. I’ve always wanted one.’

‘I thought for a moment the wow was for me, Montague,’ Ffinch observed dryly as he opened the passenger door and signalled for her to climb in. ‘But I can see from your expression that isn’t the case.’ He closed the door, shrugged as though it was of no consequence, and walked round to the driver’s side.

‘It isn’t,’ she informed shortly. ‘It’s for your gorgeous camper van. 1966, isn’t it? I love Vee Dubbya camper vans, especially pre-1970 models. When I land the scoop of the decade, I’ll buy one just like this - with navy-blue and white coachwork.’ She turned towards him, her eyes shining as she fastened her seat belt, forgetting for a moment that she was annoyed with him (and Sam Walker) for the list of forbidden topics. And, if she was being totally honest, for his no flirting rule - which he seemed to bend when it suited him.

‘I hope you won’t forget who gave you your big chance,’ he commented as they moved out into the traffic. Then he slanted a sideways look at her as she pulled down the sunshade and started fluffing up her hair. ‘Is this how you’re going to be all night,’ he asked. ‘All bouncy and lit up? Like it’s Christmas or something?’ His mouth quirked in one of his mirthless smiles.

‘It is Christmas, in case you hadn’t noticed, and yes; I might be bouncy and lit up all night. But when I need to be I can be still and calm and - Oh. My. God!’ Charlee exclaimed, causing him to slam his foot on the brakes.

‘What the - Jeezus, Montague, we were nearly rammed from behind by that taxi,’ he said, plainly beginning to have second thoughts about choosing her as his partner.

‘You’ve installed the Porsche engine!’

‘Well, the guy who imported the camper from California did. Not me.’

‘California? Oh, just imagine where this camper has been,’ she sighed and stroked the dashboard like it was a favourite pet. ‘The road to Malibu, Sunset Boulevard, the Hollywood Hills.’

‘Walsall,’ he added crushingly.

‘Walsall?’

‘That’s where I take her to be serviced. The guy there’s a Vee-Dubb enthusiast and a genius at making old girls like this one run as sweet as a nut.’ He looked at her quizzically, as if she wasn’t running true to form and he was revising his opinion of her minute by minute. ‘Anyway - how did you …’

‘… know it was a Porsche engine? I’m interested in such things,’ she said simply and turned to look out of the passenger window. Damn. Now he’d think she was some kind of butch tomboy who excelled at stone, paper, scissors, knew all about car engines and arm wrestled men in bars. ‘My brothers …’ she muttered by way of an explanation. She might not harbour romantic feelings towards Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch, but she wanted him to know - should he be in any doubt - that she was all woman.

‘Ah yes - your brothers.’ Then he gave an ‘I know all about you and your family’ sort of laugh. Charlee was prepared to bet good money he’d done his homework and that Sam and Poppy had filled him in on the rest … the family of high achievers; the great disappointment she was to all concerned because of her chosen career.

Tinker. Tailor. Soldier. Sailor. Rich Man. Poor Man …

Or, as was the case with the Montagues: two veterinary surgeons. Retired HMI. Political lobbyist. Research chemist. Greenpeace activist - and, last and very much least - a wannabe journalist. All she had to measure him against was a list of proscribed questions currently burning a hole in her handbag. And a shedload more questions burning a hole in her brain.

‘What does that mean: your brothers?’ she demanded, turning towards him and giving him a scorching look. But the effect was lost because the interior of the camper van was in shadow apart from the orange glow of the street lamps.

‘You’re like Cinderella, aren’t you? Only, instead of ugly stepsisters, you have the Brothers Grimm.’

‘I’m nothing like Cinderella. And, I’ll have you know, my brothers are clever, talented, uber handsome and … and think the world of me.’ She crossed her fingers as she said the last bit, not entirely sure if it was true. It was one thing for her to bemoan her lot regarding her brothers and the way they’d teased her almost unmercifully while she’d been growing up: nearly drowning her in the lake at the bottom of the farm and hanging her dolls and teddies from the apple trees in the garden. Then, as she grew older, scaring off potential boyfriends with glowering looks, folded arms and a hundred and one questions about their intentions. The way they kept harping on about ‘men are only after one thing, Charlee, and we should know.’ It was all too embarrassing; too mortifying. She flushed in the shadowy darkness of the camper van.

But she wasn’t going to allow Fonseca-Ffinch to cast aspersions on her family. It was none of his business.

‘So where does that leave you, Little Miss Intern?’ He managed to give her another swift, assessing glance as the traffic built up and the camper van crawled along.

She made as if to answer but then clammed up; she’d trade information with him on a quid pro quo basis. She wasn’t going to answer his questions when she wasn’t allowed to ask any of her own. Why, for example, had she been chosen for this assignment - apart from her assertion that she wouldn’t go all mushy on him and her declaration that she was prepared to die an old maid clutching the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism to her scrawny bosom? If that’s what it took to make her mark.

‘It leaves me in a camper van with you on Christmas Eve, wearing thermal underwear and cooking on gas,’ she answered. ‘Could you turn down the heat before I expire?’ She fanned herself with a magazine she’d found in the glove compartment. There were all sorts of notebooks in there and a top of the range camera.

‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re freezing cold in half an hour’s time,’ he said, reaching across and rearranging the parcel shelf to his liking. Something else out of bounds? No surprise there, Charlee thought, unfastening her coat and unwrapping the pashmina from her neck.

Patronised and demoralised - this was turning out to be a very unequal partnership - she slunk lower in her seat and folded her arms across her breasts. God, he'd had more mood swings in fifteen minutes than was entirely attractive in a grown man. She’d be more than happy to walk away from tonight’s assignment without exchanging Christmas cards, let alone email addresses and mobile phone numbers.

Something was eating him. But what?

On their previous encounters, she’d sensed an undercurrent, noticed the way his eyes looked dead, even when he smiled. Like he was grieving over something - or, someone. Yet, on both occasions, he’d pulled himself out of his dolour and appeared to enjoy sparring with her. As if she drew him away from dark thoughts that haunted him. But tonight was different, he seemed driven, almost unaware of her presence until she annoyed him - then he looked surprised to find her sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

Nothing like being made to feel invisible to build up one’s confidence on a first assignment, Charlee thought.

‘Anyhoo, Ffinch,’ she began.

‘What now?’ he asked in exasperated tones. Charlee could tell that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation or company and that made her all the more determined to needle him.

‘I thought you might have had our names stuck on the windscreen. Fonseca and Montague; Rafa and Charlee. Frankly, I’m disappointed - we are partners, after all.’

‘Temporary partners,’ he said crushingly. ‘With an emphasis on
temporary
.’

‘Were you this grumpy with your last partners?’ Then she remembered that his partners had drowned in the Amazon and he’d only just escaped with his life. She could have bitten her tongue off but laid a hand on his arm instead. ‘I - I’m sorry Ffinch, that was unforgivable of me. I forgot.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he shrugged off her hand. ‘Nothing matters except getting through tonight without being spotted. Okay?’ He let out a shaky breath and when Charlee glanced at him in the orange city lights, his brow was furrowed and he looked unbearably sad. Deciding she’d said more than enough, she folded her arms across her chest and said nothing more until they drew into a side street in Mayfair. Ffinch parked the camper van on the darker side of the street and killed the engine.

‘We’re here.’

‘Here?’ Charlee looked around at the discreet hotels with their doormen, the armed policemen from the diplomatic protection group walking together in pairs, machine guns slung across their chests. The upmarket designer shops with their subdued lighting and wares visible through the grilles.

‘Not here, exactly. Close by. Come on.’

He seemed to have regained some of his good humour because he came round to her side of the camper van, opened the door and held out his hand with a gracious bow. Charlee ignored his hand and slithered out instead, glancing over at Berkeley Square and wondering if nightingales had ever sung there. Ffinch looked down at his open hand and shrugged as if Charlee’s show of independence was of little consequence to him.

He locked the camper and strode out towards Piccadilly with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. Charlee had to break into a trot at his heels in order to match his long strides. She rather suspected that he was giving no quarter after she’d so ungraciously refused to be helped down from the camper van.

The evening was wet but mild. Well dressed, affluent partygoers drifted in and out of doorways which were flanked by Christmas trees or hung with lights and garlands. Most of Charlee’s friends had returned home for Christmas and it hadn’t gone down well with her parents, her mother in particular, that she wouldn’t be travelling down to Berkshire until early tomorrow morning.

‘Don’t disturb any of your father’s patients when you arrive late, Charlotte,’ her mother’s aggrieved tone echoed in her head. And, as she followed Ffinch down a side street, she thought it quite ridiculous that her mother referred to the animals requiring overnight care at her father’s veterinary practice as patients. And she wondered, not for the first time, why her mother couldn’t be more relaxed and accepting of who she was. She sighed, and pressed her hand to her side where a painful stitch was developing. She was getting quite out of breath and Ffinch showed no sign of slowing down. In fact, it looked as if he’d forgotten she was at his heels.

Then he ducked down an alleyway between tall, elegant buildings, stopped in his tracks and held his hand up for silence, like an Indian scout. Turning, he put his finger to his lips and indicated, by nodding his head, that she should follow him - quietly. Charlee stayed true to the promise that she’d made in the camper van, that when push came to shove she could be quiet as a mouse. But excitement bubbled up inside her as she wondered what was in store.

Ffinch led the way to the back of one of the houses where dustbins were discreetly hidden behind wrought iron screens and a tarpaulin-shrouded skip stood in one corner of the yard. Outside the back entrance of what was clearly a private club, there was a canopied smoking area with sturdy wicker chairs and a table. Crouching low, he went over to the skip, deftly raised up one corner of the tarpaulin and nodded towards it.

 ‘Your coach, Cinders. Get in.’

‘What?’ Charlee mouthed, sensing the need to be quiet, circumspect. Ffinch came over, removed the two Waitrose bags from her slack fingers and repeated his instructions.

‘I said, get in. Do it now, without arguing and I’ll explain …’

It was the thought of the explanation rather than his hissed command that made Charlee comply. She gave a shudder of distaste, envisaging sitting among rotting fish tails and the remains of last night’s dinner. At his earlier insistence, she was wearing her little black number and she did not intend ruining it, not even in the line of duty. But needs must; the experienced journo had to be prepared to put personal comfort aside and get on with the job. But the skip sides were quite high and she was rather on the short side so she raised an enquiring eyebrow at Ffinch.