Boot Camp Bride (15 page)

Chapter Nineteen
The Homecoming

It was dark when Ffinch guided his camper van down a narrow street leading to a Victorian mews just off the King’s Road. The cobbled roadway looked picture-perfect as most of the residents had trimmed the ornamental trees outside their front doors with baubles and hung them with lights. Thick garlands tied with satin ribbons and overflowing with winter berries adorned front doors, and window boxes were planted with tiny cyclamen and winter pansies. The temperature had plummeted in the last hour and a thin rime of frost was spreading over the roofs of the former coachmen’s houses.

The mews had a magical look and Charlee felt that she’d stepped onto the set of the latest Richard Curtis movie: Christmas, Actually.

Ffinch drew up by a garage door, flipped down the driver’s sun-shield and revealed a remote control attached to it. When he pressed it, the garage door rolled up. ‘You get out and I’ll bring the bags. I have to park your side of the van close to the garage wall, otherwise it won’t fit in. Here,’ he tossed over a bunch of keys. ‘Open up. The code for the alarm is: 1951. The year my mother was born; okay?’

‘Sure.’ Charlee leapt out and walked up to the front door. The security light came on and dazzled her as she dealt with both locks - a mortise and a Yale - and then quickly located the keypad and disarmed it. She had to push hard against the panelled door to gain entry as several weeks’ post lay on the sea grass flooring. Ha - and Ffinch had complained about her entrance hall being flooded with takeaway leaflets. Bending down, she picked up the post, separating it from the junk mail and put it on the hall table next to a pile of unopened Christmas cards.

Ffinch came in after her, dropped their bags on the floor and reached for the phone on the wall. ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ Charlee’s tummy gave a hungry growl. Without bothering to consult a menu, or ask Charlee’s preferences, Ffinch speed dialled the local Indian takeaway. ‘Hi, Joginder, it’s Ffinch. The usual please, times two.’ He grinned as Joginder made some quip. ‘A colleague, if you must know. Yes, female … no, a different one. Merry Christmas to you, too, my friend.’ He replaced the phone and pulled an apologetic face at Charlee who was standing there boot-faced. How many other dinners a deux had he ordered in, she wondered? None of your business, Ffinch’s expression told her, although he did offer up a brief explanation. ‘Sorry about that. Joginder’s a great mate, but very nosy. Come on through.’

Ffinch opened an inner door that led into a large, square sitting room. An open tread staircase took up most of one wall and underneath it were sloping bookcases crammed with an eclectic collection of ancient Penguins, romances, crime novels and travel books. Ffinch went round switching on table lamps revealing more of the very masculine interior of the mews.

Rubbing her hands together to warm them, Charlee was glad that Ffinch had left the central heating on over Christmas, otherwise, it would have been freezing in there. But that was his only concession to winter and the season. The mews was bereft of baubles, streamers and the usual gewgaws associated with Christmas, and another pile of unopened cards lay cast aside on the floor near a gas fire.

‘Sit, make yourself at home, Montague. I’ll make us a coffee.’

He dropped the bags at the foot of the stairs and went through to a tiny galley kitchen. But Charlee was too inquisitive to sit still for long and the thought of seeing a domesticated Ffinch was too good an opportunity to miss. Getting up from the brown suede and chrome modular sofa, which looked like it had won some prestigious design award back in the day, she walked over to the kitchen door and leaned against its frame. The kitchen was tiny, with only just enough room for one person to pass between orange and cream Formica units comfortably.

Ffinch, obviously sensing her interest, laughed. ‘Poky, huh?’

‘Bijou,’ Charlee corrected, watching as he deftly spooned coffee into the basket of a retro chrome and teak percolator. ‘Very sixties - like something out of
The Avengers
. All browns and oranges and with huge circular, paper lampshades designed to catch your head. I can imagine Diana Rigg walking in, wearing her leather gear, or Steed throwing his bowler hat onto the coat rack. Does the mews belong to you?’

Charlee had lived in London long enough to appreciate property prices and guestimated that the mews with its Chelsea postcode would command a price tag of several million pounds.

‘Yes - and no. Actually, it belongs to my grandparents who no longer have a use for it. It will be mine one day but for now it’s a great pied-à-terre when I’m in town.’ Charlee smiled at his use of pied-à-terre and was about to say that it looked more like Austin Powers’s shag pad, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to draw them back to the scorching kiss they’d exchanged in her father’s study or to have Ffinch think she was coming on to him. Ffinch had been right to get the kiss out of the way, because now they could act normally towards each other without sexual tension muddying the water. She only hoped that Ffinch would put her response to the kiss down to enthusiasm rather than outright lust.

‘Cool,’ she said, blushing afresh as she relived the moment. Unaware of her wayward thoughts, Ffinch rummaged round in a tiny under-the-counter fridge looking for milk and then turned back to her.

‘I could have it modernised but I like it as it is - cool and retro. Apart from the plumbing, broadband, widescreen TV and the docking station for my iPod, I haven’t changed a thing.’

‘Most people would give their eye teeth to live in a mews off the King’s Road. You can imagine a Beatle, or Michael Caine living here,’ Charlee enthused. Ffinch switched on the ancient coffee percolator and looked over at her, his head tilted on one side. ‘Now what?’ she demanded with some asperity.

‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that you’re the first woman I’ve encountered who likes sixties camper vans and a mews last decorated in the early seventies. You’re different, I’ll give you that, Montague,’ he mused, seemingly perplexed by the idea. ‘Very different.’

‘Unique,’ she countered, moving to one side as he came out of the kitchen, picked up their bags and climbed the stairs. He paused on the fourth tread and looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Oh, I see, yes; lead the way,’ Charlee followed in his wake, full of curiosity. When they reached a narrow landing, he pushed a door open to reveal a small bedroom containing a single brass bed, rattan dressing table and a calico hanging wardrobe.

Ffinch placed her bag on the purple and magenta bedspread with white cotton fringing. ‘I hope you don’t suffer from migraines, the colour scheme in this room’s enough to induce an attack. But at least the bathroom,’ he crossed the narrow landing and pushed open another door, ‘is pretty up to date. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it's creaking plumbing.’

Charlee poked her head round the bathroom door and spotted a double shower stall with state-of-the-art angled water jets. Unbidden, the image of Ffinch showering with some female, their bodies covered in soap as the jets lashed them with hot water, sprung into her mind. She reminded herself it was none of her business who he brought back here.

‘Groovy, baby,’ she laughed, copying the dance from
Pulp Fiction
. Strangely enough, despite the erotic images rocketing around in her head, she felt completely at ease with Ffinch in his grandparents’ house.

‘Oh, behave …’ he responded in an Austin Powers voice and smiled back. Briefly, the tension that was always there behind his smile, the way he held himself in readiness for something she didn’t quite understand, vanished and he seemed almost happy. Then the frown that knitted his straight dark eyebrows together was back in place. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ he said, backing out onto the landing and walking downstairs.

‘Thanks.’ Charlee re-entered the bedroom and stood on a semicircular rug in clashing shades of pink and fuchsia.

Then she flopped back onto the brass bed and drummed her heels. She was overwhelmed by a great sense of release, thankful that she’d left her family home and her angst-ridden Christmas behind. Here, in this shabby mews she could wrap her professional persona around her like a comfort blanket. She could be herself, or at the very least the person she longed to be, knew she could become - Charlee Montague, investigative reporter and free spirit.

She held Great-Granny’s diamond ring up to the light, polished it on her sweater and kissed it. After all the setbacks, she couldn’t quite believe she was Ffinch’s partner and about to embark on her first professional assignment. She closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t screw up and let down everyone who believed in her: Poppy, Sam Walker and Ffinch.

But, especially, herself.

By the time she wandered downstairs, the Indian takeaway had arrived and Ffinch was spreading out foil dishes on some portable food warmers, heated by night lights. Each foil dish had a serving spoon in it and he flicked the tops off two bottles of Indian beer, handing one to her.

‘Hope you like your curry hot,’ he said.

‘We used to have curry-eating competitions at Uni, to see who could eat the hottest vindaloo before reaching for water or beer. Madly bad for one’s constitution; I’m sure I’ve given myself ulcers trying not to let the side down.’ She spooned fragrant rice onto a vintage Denby plate, dark-brown and with orange and yellow swirls.

‘Happy days?’ he asked, sliding off the sofa and leaning against the cube of brown suede that was the matching footstool to the sofa. He waited for her answer. But Charlee, in spite of her earlier resolution not be sidetracked from winning the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism, was distracted by his long, slim legs and the silver-tipped cowboy boots peeping out from beneath his jeans.

Quite the gaucho, she thought.

‘Very,’ she replied, giving herself a mental shake. ‘Naturally, I was sad to leave my friends behind but very happy to take up my post at
What’cha!
I was appointed thanks to my friendship with Poppy Walker, and some of the staff quite understandably resent that. I want to prove to Sam, to everyone, what I’m made of.’ Her slight pause made it plain that she was aware that she had to prove herself to Ffinch, too.

‘I guess we both owe our leg up in the world to Sam. He’s very astute, and wouldn’t have suggested you for this assignment if he didn’t think you had what it takes.’ He took a long swig of his beer. ‘Neither would I.’ He raised the beer bottle and chinked against hers. ‘I guess you turning up after the holidays wearing Granny’s ring will set the tongues clacking?’

‘I think you can safely assume that,’ Charlee said as she speared a piece of beef with her fork. ‘So, what happens next?’

‘We wait for the announcement to appear in
The Times
. Book you into the Thornham Boot Camp the same weekend as Markova and then we talk tactics.’

‘Tactics?’

‘The logistics of the operation. Build up our legend: let everyone at
What’cha!
know how much in lurve we are.’ His expression made Charlee think he’d travelled this road before, it had ended in disaster and he was in no hurry to repeat the mistake. Then he changed tack.

‘Shopping,’ Ffinch said, giving her a quizzical look. As if he could hear the cogs in her brain whizzing round and wondered what was distracting her. ‘Earth calling Montague, come in please.’

Charlee snapped out of her introspection. ‘What about shopping?’

‘I was thinking; we’d better kit you out in some designer running gear. I don’t think the tracksuit you’ve had since sixth form and a pair of old trainers will cut it with the kind of women who attend these boot camps.’

‘On expenses?’ she asked innocently, her mind running to Juicy Couture or Stella McCartney.

‘Of course. I wouldn’t imagine your intern’s wages would cover it. But don’t go mad, you’ll only be there Thursday to Monday. Oh, and you’d better buy a posh frock for the Gala Dinner on Sunday night. All the fiancés are invited to that.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she observed, tearing into a piece of peshwari naan and trying not to sound overly suspicious.

‘I’ve made it my business to find out as much about the camp as I can. Preparation is all, Montague. Never forget that.’ He held out his beer bottle and Charlee chinked hers against it again.

‘I’ll drink to that, partner.’ They ate in companionable silence, Charlee guessing that neither of them was in the mood for conversation. She yawned. Now that she was relaxing properly for the first time since their evening in the skip and they weren’t sniping at each other, tiredness overwhelmed her. ‘Sorry,’ she said from behind her hand as another yawn almost dislocated her jaw. ‘I think I’m going to have a shower and then turn in, if that’s okay?’

‘Sure. I’ll watch a movie, clear up and then do the same. See you in the morning, Montague. We need to hit the ground running - I’ll give you a call around about half seven.’ He swivelled round, reached for the remote and turned on the flat screen TV and began surfing through the channels, effectively dismissing her.

‘Okay, goodnight then.’ But he didn’t answer; he had the distracted look she was beginning to recognise. Putting down her beer bottle, she climbed the stairs as the opening titles from
Die Hard
burst noisily on to the screen.

Chapter Twenty
Green Card

Charlee woke up in pitch blackness. Her sleep-addled brain took a minute or so to remember where she was. She pulled the bedcovers up to her chin, inhaling the fresh smell of fabric conditioner mingled with a subtle undertone of some long-forgotten fragrance; patchouli? sandalwood? Then the thousand and one questions she’d put to the back of her mind when she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep demanded answers.

They came at her in a random, illogical order.

Had Ffinch known she’d be coming back to the mews with him and made up the spare bed in advance before leaving for Berkshire? He struck her as capable but in no way domesticated. It was more likely, she reasoned, that he had many friends who stayed over and he kept the room in a permanent state of readiness. Maybe he had a cleaner who looked after the mews for him and kept everything spick and span for him. She pictured a homely lady who left casseroles and pots of soup in the fridge and did the odd bit of shopping, too, hence the fresh milk.

More thoughts rattled round in her brain like loose marbles in a biscuit tin.

While she totally bought in to being his partner and getting the photographs Sam wanted, she couldn’t help wondering why it was necessary for her to attend the boot camp. Ffinch probably had every long-angled lens known to man and a few more besides. Surely, he could lay hidden in the reed beds until the brides came out for their early morning jog or - what was the word - Fartlek Training? Snapping Markova looking all hot and sweaty would be a piece of low-fat, gluten-free cake in those circumstances.

On Christmas Eve, he’d accused her of looking a gift horse in the mouth and here she was, doing it again. If she had any sense she’d complete the mission, impress Sam and Ffinch with her professionalism and hope they used her again sometime in the future. She had no desire to return to the fetid photo archive or spend the rest of her days walking Vanessa’s pampered rat on a rope.

Now very much awake and feeling overheated, Charlee threw back the bedcovers. She reached out and touched the radiator on the left-hand side of her bed and then drew back her hand. Who, she pondered, left their heating on all night? A man recovering from dengue fever, who felt the cold and suffered recurring bouts of malaria-like symptoms. That’s who.

Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, she swung her legs out of bed and reached for Poppy’s Christmas present - a white, fleecy onesie covered in black splodges. She smiled as she zipped herself into it, pulling up the hood with its floppy ears, to complete the transformation. Tiptoeing onto the landing, but leaving her bedroom door open because she didn’t want to wake Ffinch, Charlie suddenly felt hungry. She’d been too excited to eat last night but now fancied the cold remains of their vindaloo and maybe a glass of water. Without switching on the light, she felt her way downstairs, squeezing between the back of the sofa and the under-the-stairs bookcases. Not knowing the lay of the land, she barked her shin on the corner of a brass-edged occasional table.

‘Christ on a bike!’ she blasphemed, rubbing her knee until the pain subsided.

‘What the fuck?’ Dracula-like, Ffinch rose from the depths of the sofa where he’d obviously been asleep. He took one look at Charlee in her onesie, clearly believing he was hallucinating.

‘It’s me, Charlee,’ she said a trifle unnecessarily.

She threw back the hood of her onesie while Ffinch struggled into a sitting position, propping himself up on his elbows and shaking the sleep from his brain.

‘Of course it’s you. Who else would be roaming around at silly o’clock dressed like a …’

‘Character from
One Hundred and One Dalmatians
.’ Charlee didn’t like his sarcastic tone so she pulled herself to her full height and brushed down her fleecy suit. ‘If you must know, Poppy thought …’ She was about to explain the joke but stopped herself. Was Ffinch one of the boys or part of the management? Would he find their alternative nickname for Vanessa amusing or insubordinate?

‘Poppy?’ he prompted, as though he’d forgotten who Poppy was. Charlee didn’t respond, but headed for the kitchen instead. ‘I’ll have a coffee if you’re making one,’ he said, like a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

‘Will you now?’ Charlee muttered under her breath. ‘I’m not making coffee, but I’ll make you one. Fancy some cold vindaloo?’

‘Strangely, I’ll pass,’ he said. Getting up, he stood in the doorway watching her opening cupboards, locating mugs and plates. ‘Tell me - do you have a whole wardrobe of dodgy sleepwear? On Christmas Day, you wore a dressing gown several sizes and several years too young for you. Not to mention the bovine-shaped slippers.’

‘How kind of you to notice,’ Charlee said as she switched on the kettle. ‘For your information, I keep the sexy stuff for …’ Aware that this conversation was getting a little too personal and remembering her vow to keep everything on a professional footing, she stopped in mid-sentence.

‘For?’ he prompted, lounging against the doorframe, arms folded, looking like he was enjoying himself. ‘Gentlemen callers?’

‘Gentlemen callers! Where do you get your ideas from?’ she asked. ‘The sixties, like this house? You make me sound like Christine Keeler. Here …’ She reheated the remains of the coffee in the microwave and passed a mug to him with ill grace. She then piled a plate high with cold rice and beef vindaloo. ‘’Scuse,’ she said and waited for him to move so she could pass by without making bodily contact. She sat down on the brown suede cube footstool and tucked into her midnight feast. ‘Wha?’ she asked, crunching into a poppadom and getting shards all over herself and the carpet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.’

‘I’m not worried,’ he said, moving onto the couch and looking at her like she was a species he hadn’t encountered before. Charlee munched on, feeling very self-conscious under his unblinking scrutiny. He looked as if he was about to treat her to one of his barbed comments when his mobile rang. She glanced at the clock on the wall next to the faded Hockney print. Two thirty. Who rang at this time of the night? He must have been expecting the call and that was probably why he hadn’t gone to bed. Either that or he was an insomniac. Charlee watched his expression morph from amusement at her eating cold curry in a onesie, into something entirely different - muted excitement overlain with dark purpose.

‘I’ve got to take this.’ Giving an apologetic shrug, he went into the kitchen and pulled the concertina-style vinyl door closed behind him.

Charlee sat cross-legged on the footstool and chewed at her beef. Then she carefully put her plate on the floor and tiptoed over to the kitchen door. She could hear Ffinch’s conversation quite clearly through the gap where the door and the catch didn’t quite meet.

He was speaking passable, if not fluent, Spanish.

‘
Sí, la noche de la marea alta, lo he comprobado en las tablas de mareas e Internet -dos veces. Deja de preocuparte, no va a pasar nada. ¿Vas a estar allí
?’
Yes, the night of the high tide; I’ve checked the tide tables and the internet - twice. Stop worrying, it’ll be fine. You’ll be there? ‘
Bien. No, ella no tiene ni idea y así quiero que siga
.’ Good. No, she has no idea and that’s how I intend to keep it. Then he laughed and the rest of his conversation was lost. When he emerged from the kitchen, Charlee was back on the suede cube innocently polishing off the remains of her vindaloo and reaching for a glass of water.

‘Everything, okay?’ she asked.

‘Fine. I think I’ll turn in …’

‘Were you waiting for that phone call?’ she asked directly. ‘Is it something to do with our assignment? Something you need to share with me?’ There - she’d provided him with the chance to include her, take her into his confidence.

‘Oh, no - that? Just speaking to one of my Brazilian cousins. Different time zone. You know how it is,’ he added evasively.

‘Not sure that I do,’ she said. ‘But I do know for a fact that they speak Portuguese in Brazil and you were speaking Spanish. I couldn’t help but overhear.’ She gave a small, unrepentant shrug and walked through to the kitchen with her plate. ‘See you in the morning then, partner.’ She put enough emphasis on the word to let him know that she was aware he was keeping stuff from her. But if Ffinch noticed the nuance, he did not attempt to expand on his previous answer.

‘Sure. Laters,’ he replied, returning to the sofa and switching the television on. Charlee glanced at him as she climbed the stairs but he was staring blankly at the wall to the right of the screen, in that way he had. His mind was clearly on more weighty matters than a rerun of the old spy movie
The Ipcress File
.

It wasn’t far from the mews to Knightsbridge. However, by the time Charlee had bought two tracksuits, new trainers, a posh frock for the Gala Dinner and other things she thought necessary for the mission, she was exhausted. Ffinch had made her breakfast and then fetched an ancient motorbike from a garage across the cobbled yard, handed her a set of keys and told her to have fun. Typically, he’d roared off down the mews without telling her where he was going or when he’d be back.

Charlee was prepared to bet good money that none of his previous relationships had lasted longer than a few months - no, strike that, weeks - given his autocratic behaviour. Even if he appeared to have all the attributes most women found attractive in a man. He was undeniably sexy and good looking, a talented photographer and he came from a moneyed background, judging by the location of the mews. But that cut no ice with her. In her opinion, he came with too much baggage, too many issues to resolve. She didn’t have the time to get to know him well enough to sort out his hang-ups, she had a career to forge and she couldn’t let anything get in her way.

When he returned she would tell him that he took the whole ‘I’m a lone wolf, don’t bother me with questions, baby,’ act a little too literally. And it wasn’t attractive, well - not to her anyway.

Feeling suddenly rather lonely, she deposited the Harvey Nichols bags on the floor and wished that Poppy was here so she could show off her new clothes. Then she headed for the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Chablis, put the groceries she’d bought in the fridge and took her bags upstairs. After a quick shower, during which she dismissed the haunting image of Ffinch and one of his ladies getting up to no good in the same space, she dressed and then set about preparing pasta carbonara - her signature dish.

Her only dish if she was being totally honest.

When she next glanced out of the kitchen window, it was half past four and dark.

Walking back into the sitting room, she retrieved the Blue-ray of
Green Card
she’d bought and waited for Ffinch to come home. She imagined the scenario - eating pasta off their knees, drinking the bottle of Chianti she’d bought in Harvey Nicks, and watching a movie. The plot had a resonance for them and she envisaged them bonding over the DVD, maybe even shedding a tear at the end. Last night - apart from the secretive phone call, they’d got on pretty well together, and during breakfast it’d been the same - until he’d roared off on his bike without a word.

By seven o’clock Charlee had drunk more wine than was good for her. At seven thirty, after eating almost a full packet of grissini and with her stomach rumbling, she decided she’d have her meal. She was just about to make enough for two and plate Ffinch’s up for microwaving later but stopped herself. No way was she playing hausfrau to his master of the hall when he didn’t have the good manners to text her and say where he was. She’d lay even money on him being a reckless driver, he could be lying in A&E for all she knew, having come off his motorbike. She pushed the thought away and chastised herself for being overly dramatic.

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, she ate her pasta slowly and time passed. She pictured Ffinch surrounded by pert nurses who, in her vivid imagination, wore starched aprons and caps not seen in hospital for at least thirty years. They’d be soothing his fevered brow, applying cool ointment to his grazes while she was … Well, what was she, exactly? Worried about him or infuriated because he was acting like a total arse, and accountable to no one.

There was going to be some plain talking when he arrived home. This enterprise seemed designed to please only one of the partners.

At half past eight, the throaty roar of a motorbike reverberated through the mews and Charlee stiffened. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line, which, should Ffinch have the wit or the inclination to read her expression, would warn him that she wouldn’t be playing ball tonight. The garage door slammed closed, the key turned in the lock and Ffinch entered looking the quite the man in his bike leathers and helmet. He pushed up the visor and sniffed appreciatively.

‘Mm, that smells good.’ He put the helmet on the stairs and unzipped his leather jacket to reveal a Polartec fleece over a T-shirt. ‘What are we having?’

What are
we
having? Charlee almost choked on the last of her wine but kept her cool and smiled a bright, welcoming smile.

‘Pasta carbonara with side salad and garlic bread,’ she said, returning her plate to the kitchen. ‘For pudding - chocolate cheesecake and raspberries. And the choice of wine this evening is Chianti Classico,’ she called out from the sink, like this was Master Chef. Then she stuck her head round the kitchen door. ‘You do know how to cook pasta carbonara, don’t you? If not, this should help.’ She returned to the sitting room, handed him a tatty old cook book, removed
Green Card
from the Blue-ray player and dropped it on the sofa. Then she took down her coat from the bentwood coat rack, scooped up the house keys and put them in her handbag along with her mobile phone.