Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  She was intrigued by him, by his mood switches and sudden change of tack. There was a story here, one the journo in her wanted to learn. Why, for example, did he have a long, grey cashmere scarf wound loosely around his neck in this overheated room. Affectation? How come his eyes were dark-circled beneath his tropical tan - as though he was recovering from a long illness? Why, despite his obvious youth and vigour did he look world-weary - as though he’d been there, seen it, done it - and had worn out the tee shirt.

  Her desire to escape was overridden as her journalistic antennae started to twitch. She gave him one more sidelong glance and made mental notes to dissect later. His suit had obviously been tailored but no longer appeared to fit him; it hung loose on his rangy frame and the jacket seemed too wide for his shoulders.

  ‘Quite,’ he agreed, leading her onwards, as if he sensed her sudden interest in him and was keen to deflect it. They paused by a photograph of an ancient Romanesque temple burning white beneath an unforgiving desert sun. Once more, the titles came to Charlee’s rescue.

  Hatra, Iraq.

  Charlee knew Iraq was formerly ancient Assyria and lay along the fertile crescent of the east. Then - out of nowhere - she remembered that the opening scenes of The Exorcist had been filmed there. She’d watched the DVD with her brothers years ago when her parents had travelled north for some family wedding and she’d been left behind in the un-tender care of Tom, Wills, Jack and George.

  For months afterwards, she’d had nightmares about the girl with the green face and revolving head. She’d taken to creeping into Tom’s room when she was too frightened to sleep, knowing that she couldn’t go to her parents’ room without landing her brothers in a heap of trouble.

  ‘Ah, yes. Hatra. Where they filmed The Exorcist. A dangerous place to go,’ was all she managed as memories crowded in, thick and fast. Remembering how it’d felt to bask in her brothers’ approval, knowing that they appreciated her not dobbing them in. How, briefly, she’d been admitted into their gang of four. But it hadn’t lasted. Within days, she’d reverted to being ‘Shrimp’, fit only for retrieving cricket balls from the long grass and running errands to the village shop.

  Seemingly sensing that she’d zoned out, he moved her onto the next photograph. It was then that the penny dropped. Of course!

  The Amazon Basin … A contaminated atoll in the Pacific … Iraq.

  The photographs were taken in some of the most dangerous places on the planet. Places where only the most intrepid or foolhardy traveller dared to tread.

  ‘And this?’ he asked, drawing up at the last one: Darien Gap, Colombia and Panama. He positioned himself so that she couldn’t read the entire label, and she suspected he knew she’d been blagging. But she’d seen enough photos for one evening and so she abandoned her alter ego - Dame Charlotte Montague, darling of the lecture circuit - and reverted back to plain old Charlee Montague, bloody-minded intern, full of half-baked opinions and careless who she shared them with.

  ‘Well … clearly, only a complete idiot would go there,’ she pronounced with all the conviction of someone who knew nothing of the sort. Other than what she’d read in the Sunday papers about drug smugglers, kidnappers, Contras - all working deep in the impenetrable rainforest. She gave him one last assessing look. Sure, he was good looking; but she’d had a lifetime of being put in her place by gorgeous, exasperating males.

  The opinion of a man she’d probably never see again didn’t matter to her, either way.

  Now, did it?

  ‘An idiot?’ he pursued.

  ‘Oh yes. You know the type - ’ Charlee was so anxious to join Poppy over by the door that she didn’t register that his wry, slightly patronising smile had morphed into something considerably more tight-lipped and not quite so amiable.

  ‘I’m not sure that I do. But something tells me I’m about to find out.’

  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 p
rolonged 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.’

  ‘Re
ally?’ 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 23rd 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.