Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  ‘Valentina. Stop!’ a cool voice commanded from the door. Like a dog told to drop its bone, Valentina released her grip on Charlee’s ankles and stood to attention. Charlee pushed herself backwards on her stomach, onto her feet and found herself staring straight into Anastasia Markova’s anxious face. ‘Are you alright, my friend?’ she asked, straightening Charlee’s clothing and glaring at the bull mastiff now filling the doorway.

  ‘Yes - I suppose,’ Charlee said, crossly. With some sharp words in Russian, Markova ordered Valentina to stand there and not to move without her express command.

  ‘Valentina is my … minder, employed by my fiancé to keep the paparazzi at bay. She thinks she is sharing this room with me but she is not,’ she added emphatically and Valentina winced. ‘Nyet. Do you understand, Valentina?’

  ‘Da,’ she said, giving Charlee a murderous look. Charlee winced at the thought of what Valentina would do if she found out who she really was. Then she turned her back on both of them and started to unpack her holdall and smooth out her wrinkled clothes.

  ‘Don’t,’ Anastasia laid a gentle hand on Charlee’s arm. ‘Your clothes will be pressed and returned to you. Valentina - see to it.’ She moved Charlee out of the way so that Valentina could carry out her orders. Then she went over, closed the door behind the massively proportioned Babushka and locked it before turning back to Charlee. ‘Do you,’ she inquired, ‘have any more of those chocolate bars those disgusting little dogs were fighting over?’

  ‘I do,’ Charlee said cautiously, wondering if Markova was going to add insult to injury by grassing her up to the management.

  ‘Then break them out, honey, because I am starving.’

  Charlee gave Anastasia’s slight frame a wondering look - would she be able to swallow a mouthful of chocolate without its passage down her gullet being painfully apparent? Grinning at the fanciful thought, she fetched a family-sized bar of Fruit and Nut out of her bedside table drawer, broke off a quarter and handed it to Anastasia.

  ‘Enjoy. I have the feeling it’s going to be a lo-ong weekend.’

  Half an hour later, Charlee’s chain store clothes were rubbing shoulders with Dior and Chanel in the armoire. She lay on her bed, watching in fascination as Anastasia unpacked cosmetics she’d only ever read about in glossy magazines; lotions and face creams with a SPF of 50+, guaranteed to hold back the ravages of time - their active ingredients containing caviar and gold. She guessed that her toiletries had better watch it, otherwise they’d be edged off the shelf in the middle of the night by their upmarket counterparts. As surely as Valentina had tried to eject her from the bedroom.

  ‘So,’ Anastasia stretched out on her bed, her long legs practically hanging off the edge, making Charlee feel hobbit-like by comparison. ‘Now we put picture of our mens on the bedside table, yes? You first, Charlee.’ She pronounced her name Sh-arlee and Charlee closed off that part of her brain which remembered how Ffinch had called her Carlotta, and she’d called him Rafa and …

  Okay. Stop.

  Reaching into her tote bag, she took out the photograph of her and Ffinch at their ‘engagement party’, and her heart lurched. She knew it was as phony as Spam but Ffinch was still Ffinch and he looked almost edible in the photograph. She could feel the length of his body pressed up against her and remembered the moment when he’d almost lost control. She closed her eyes and shuddered, feeling suddenly bereft and longing for his touch.

  He was right, she thought, nothing could ever be the same between them after last night.

  Anastasia took the photo frame out of her slack fingers and gave it a professional once-over. ‘You love him, yes; even a photograph of him. I can see why - of course - he is hottie? Is that the word?’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Charlee commented, unable to stop her lips quirking.

  Anastasia turned the photograph over and read the engagement notice which Ffinch had insisted Charlee fix to the back of the frame ‘Your page in paper? Is romantic, very romantic.’ She handed the frame back with a sigh. Charlee stood it on her bedside table, dragging her gaze away, but every time she looked at Ffinch her heart snagged in a way that was becoming all too familiar.

  ‘Now you,’ she prompted Anastasia when she seemed reluctant to open up the hinged leather photograph frame in her hands. Mouth drooping, Anastasia handed it over and Charlee stared down at the face of a man who was the personification of Mr Potato Head: bald head, no chin, hard little eyes and a cruel mouth.

  ‘Is Yevgeny. He is very -’ she struggled for the correct word.

  ‘Kind?’ Charlee supplied optimistically.

  ‘Rich,’ Anastasia supplied, taking the photo back. She turned it round so she couldn’t see his face. ‘What Yevgeny wants, Yevgeny gets.’ She glanced at the door as if she suspected Valentina of listening at the keyhole. ‘Like …’ she paused, perhaps wondering if she was being a little too free and open with her new best friend. ‘This place.’

  ‘You mean the boot camp?’ Charlee kept her expression bland. She had the feeling, as she’d had on Christmas Eve, that Anastasia was lonely and uncertain of whom to trust. For the moment, she forgot all about her mission to get the dirt on the model and listened sympathetically to her story instead.

  ‘Yes. He bought it last summer to add to his property portfolio and spends much time here.’ She looked out of the window at the windswept marshes. She shuddered and pulled the cashmere comforter at the foot of the bed up and over her knees as if she was suddenly very cold. ‘Sailing and exploring the marshes in his little boat when the tide is high, birdwatching perhaps?’ She shrugged and her eyes took on a dead look as if she knew it wasn’t her place to question Yevgeny. Or maybe she was remembering a time when she’d asked too many questions and he’d turned nasty.

  With his hard, piggy eyes and mean expression, Charlee could imagine he was someone you crossed at your peril. She gave Anastasia a covert glance; surely she had enough money of her own? What hold did he have over her? She was drawn back to the ‘engagement party’ mock-up and her eyes lingered on Ffinch’s face longer than she intended. Really, it was becoming an obsession with her!

  ‘Why are you at boot camp?’ Anastasia probed. ‘This boot camp, I mean?’

  ‘Well…’ Charlee followed Anastasia’s lead and pulled the blanket up from the foot of her bed and settled in for a girly chat. ‘It’s been a whirlwind romance, and Ff- Rafa, that is, adores me and can’t wait for us to get married. Naturally.’

  ‘Naturally, Sh-arlee, you are beautiful girl,’ Anastasia said genuinely. ‘Gorgeous hair and blue eyes - an English rose.’

  ‘Thank you, Anastasia.’ Charlee suppressed a smile. That was the first time that particular description had been levelled at her. ‘Rafa is a civil engineer, an expert on building dams to generate hydroelectric power; green energy in some of the poorest parts of the world. He has a posting overseas coming up and wanted us to be married before he left. Apparently it’s easier for me to accompany him as his wife, especially in countries governed by Sharia Law. I wanted to lose a few pounds before the wedding and remembered summer holidays spent in nearby Brancaster as a child, and I thought - why not?’

  Anastasia took it all at face value and picked up the photograph.

  ‘You can see how much you love each other. It is in the eyes. No?’ She put Charlee’s photo frame and her own side by side and sighed. The only thing Charlee could see in Mr Yevgeny-Potato-Head’s eyes were greed and lust. She didn’t want to think about him and Anastasia together.

  There was a knock on the door and they both froze.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Charlee said, only half-jokingly, ‘it’s your killer bridesmaid, Valentina come to finish me off.’

  Anastasia pushed the comforter off her legs and frowned at Charlee before she realised it was a joke. ‘Silly gu-rl,’ she laughed and made her way over to the door to unlock it. Then she turned on her heel. ‘Sh-arlee, chocolate; hide, quickly, or we will be thrown out of camp, for sure.’ She waited while Charlee stuffed
the remains of the bar of Fruit and Nut under her blanket and then opened the door.

  ‘Miss Markova,’ the manager of the boot camp almost fell over the threshold in her eagerness to enter the room. ‘Please forgive the mix up - Markova and Montague, a simple error; the girl in the office …’ She gulped for air as she struggled to explain, holding up her clipboard for Anastasia to see. ‘You should never have been shown to this room. You will be given a room on your own and your assistant, Valentina, will be given the room next to yours.’ She clicked her fingers and a couple of chambermaids rushed in and started emptying the armoire of Anastasia’s clothing.

  Anastasia held up an imperious hand and made it clear that she didn’t want to be moved. ‘Nyet. Ya ne xochy pereselit’ sya v drygyu komnaty.’

  ‘But, Yevgeny - your fiancé - was quite insistent that …’

  ‘I will not move. But I will talk to him. I need telephone in room. See to it.’ It was plain that the manageress wasn’t pleased but she did as she was told and sent a minion scurrying for a telephone. ‘Xotelos’ bi poselit’ sya zdes’ i bit’s Sharlottoi Montagye. I will share with Sharlotta Montegyu, like Hogwarts? Yes?’ She turned an appealing face to Charlee who thanked God for the universal appeal of Harry Potter.

  ‘Exactly like Hogwarts,’ she agreed, earning herself an evil look from the manageress.

  ‘So, that is all?’ Anastasia asked, dismissing the manageress. ‘Go. Go. We do not wish to be disturbed,’ she said with all the haughtiness of a czarina. She waited until she and Charlee were alone, sank down on the bed and explained. ‘They are paid to spy on me by Yevgeny. As if I could get up to anything in this place.’ She cast another despairing look over the marshes as if they were the Norfolk equivalent of the salt mines.

  Forgetting her brief and ignoring the notion that she was developing Stockholm syndrome, only in reverse, Charlee put her arms around Anastasia’s thin shoulders and pushed her thick plait of corn yellow hair out of the way. She gave her a hug and then sat back on her bed.

  ‘It seems like neither of us wants to be here. But let’s make the most of it and have some fun. What d’you say?’

  ‘I say,’ Anastasia appeared to give the idea her full consideration. ‘Bring it on, Sh-arlee.’

  Anastasia reached across the gap between their beds to high-five Charlee and accidently knocked over Yevgeny’s photograph. She froze, sucked in her breath and looked around her, as if suspecting that the walls had eyes and ears and would report back to central intelligence.

  ‘I prefer him that way,’ Charlee said, hoping Anastasia would get the joke.

  Anastasia went very quiet then she started to laugh - loudly and uproariously. She collapsed on the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest as tears of laughter ran down her cheeks. Taking that as a signal that Anastasia ‘got her’, Charlee fetched the chocolate bar from beneath the covers where she’d hastily stowed it. Then she produced a bottle of vodka from her tote bag, unwrapped the cellophane on two new tooth mugs and the party began.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Runaway Bride, I Presume?

  Charlee and Anastasia returned from a jog to Thornham Beach later that afternoon, sweating profusely and feeling the effects of a vodka and chocolate binge. Their room had been tidied up and, Charlee suspected, her belongings had been thoroughly searched before being returned to the wardrobe. A telephone handset rested on Anastasia’s pillow and Charlee itched to contact Ffinch, but wondered how on earth she could engineer it without arousing suspicion.

  Anastasia asked if she could have the first shower. Charlee guessed that she was used to working out in some swanky gym in Mayfair and getting muddy and sweaty on a coastal path was her idea of torture. Charlee was with her on that one! She watched as Anastasia, obviously used to the wall-to-wall nudity in communal dressing rooms, stepped out of her undies and pinned her plait on top of her head.

  ‘We do not have our mans to dress up for tonight, but in two nights we have Gala Dinner and must look our best. Yes? Yevgeny will arrive tomorrow and go sailing with Natasha’s husband, Paul. So maybe I won’t see him until then.’ She spoke matter of factly, making it plain that she preferred it that way. ‘Sh-arlee - we had fun, as you said. Now rest; use phone and ring your Rafa …’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Charlee asked. ‘What about the manageress …?’

  ‘She will do what I say. But …’ Anastasia picked up her towel and gave Charlee a long look before continuing, acting as if she’d like to trust Charlee but wasn’t sure. ‘They will listen in to your call. Careful what you give away.’ It was as much as Charlee could do to stop herself from stretching out towards the phone and ringing Ffinch there and then.

  ‘Maybe I’ll ring him, later; thanks.’ She settled back on the bed with a stack of glossy bridal magazines provided by the management.

  ‘Okey dokey, laters,’ Anastasia replied.

  Charlee waited until she could hear the power shower running, dropped the magazines on the bed and reached for the phone with a shaky hand. Rooting in her bag, she found Ffinch’s mobile number and tapped it out - the signal was poor, but she felt certain she’d get through to him.

  ‘Ffinch,’ his voice came across clear and strong. Charlee’s stomach lurched and when she tried to speak, she discovered that her vocal cords had tied themselves into a knot. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Charlee,’ she squeaked out after an awkward pause. Then it was Ffinch’s turn to fall silent and she wondered what thoughts were running through his head.

  ‘Ah, the runaway bride -’

  His sardonic greeting and the fact that he’d answered the phone immediately, led Charlee to suspect he’d been waiting for her call. And, judging by his curt manner, felt he was owed an explanation for her bolting. Convinced that he was about to make another snarky comment, Charlee rushed on.

  ‘I’m using the house phone, darling.’ Her stomach flipped over at her use of the endearment which, given that he sounded extremely pissed off, was wholly inappropriate. ‘You won’t believe it; they’ve confiscated my phone along with my camera and iPad, which means I won’t be able to update my wedding blog.’ Charlee paused, hoping that he would get the message. ‘Will you let the family know?’

  ‘Oh, that is disappointing,’ Ffinch said coolly, but she sensed his brain was in overdrive. ‘I know how much reading your blog means to Uncle Sam in his nursing home. It’s the only thing that gets him out of bed in the morning’ he added, simply unable to resist the wisecrack.

  ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But what can I do?’ Charlee stalled for a moment as she thought of hellfire and brimstone Sam Walker in a nursing home with a rug over his knees.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, sweetie, I’ll have a new phone waiting for you when we meet again. Why don’t you make notes for the blog and update it when we’re home? I’ll tell Uncle Sam and your legion of girlfriends that they’ll have to wait a few days for the next blog post.’ Only the sharpest ears and most suspicious minds would have picked up Ffinch’s slight emphasis on 'new phone waiting for you when we meet again'.

  ‘You are so understanding, Pumpkin,’ she said with forced jollity. Had she imagined the longing in his voice over the word ‘home’? The word transported her to the mews where they’d laughed and shared jokes over pasta and wine. Did he miss the easy friendship of those few days after Christmas as much as she did? The time before they became, truly, sexually aware of each other. ‘I am getting plenty of ideas for my next post, which will be all about the boot camp and the fun I’m having. I’m doing Fartlek Training tomorrow morning, bright and early - can’t wait to get back on the marshes. We’re jogging towards Titchwell,’ she added, hoping he picked up the vibe.

  ‘That’s good. Now, enjoy; make the most of your stay, the big day will be upon us before we know it.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, hearing his slight emphasis on big day and not quite sure what he meant. The Gala Dinner? Seeing each other again? The end of the assignment? Reluctant to bring the c
onversation to a close, she wanted to keep him talking, listen to his voice and feel close to him. She needed to explain why, in the middle of the night, she’d acted like a second-rate seductress and then scarpered the next morning. But she guessed that’d have to wait until the Gala Dinner.

  ‘Laters.’ There was a beep as Ffinch disconnected, then an answering echo as whoever was listening in on their conversation hung up, too. In the en suite, Anastasia turned off the shower and Charlee replaced the handset on the pillow. She lay back on her bed, with her arms folded behind her head. She was in last chance saloon and the fat lady was about to sing.

  She couldn’t afford to mess up a second time.

  For someone who hated the gym at school and all forms of physical exercise, Charlee was awake surprisingly early next morning, all fired up for Fartlek Training. It was still dark and she lay in bed not wishing to disturb Anastasia who was snoring gently a few feet away from her.

  Last night she’d had the recurring dream - the one where she walked down the aisle of the village church on the arm of her husband, heart bursting with love and euphoria. But when she glanced up at the man she’d be spending the rest of her life with, he was still faceless, and she woke up with a sense of loss. Would she ever feel that happy? At least her subconscious hadn’t imprinted Ffinch’s face on her mystery man. That really would prove that she’d lost it.

  She was just drifting back to sleep when a none too gentle rap on the door brought her back to full consciousness.

  ‘Fartlek Training this morning, ladies. Breakfast at seven thirty.’

  Had the staff trained in a gulag somewhere, Charlee wondered ? Their technique lacked finesse and the exercises she’d observed them putting the other women through seemed better suited to a ninja training camp than preparing brides-to-be for the BIG DAY. Or what was coyly referred to in the welcome pack as the rigours of the bedroom. Urgh. That last thought stayed with her as she staggered into the shower and let the powerful jets of water wake her up.