Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb

haunting him when he’d picked her up at her bedsit seemed to have vanished into the darkness the moment they had climbed into the skip. Maybe, like her, the stake-out and the story had pushed everything else to the edge of his consciousness.
    ‘One out of two ain’t bad,’ Charlee laughed and fetched her own sandwich out of the bag. ‘Don’t change the subject. Give.’
    ‘Okay, this isn’t about the prince and the showgirl. That was just a smoke-screen for the team back at What’cha! There’s a story unfolding here tonight, one which I’m on the trail of.’
    ‘I knew it. And?’
    ‘That’s as much as I’m prepared to divulge at the moment.’
    ‘Even to a partner?’ she asked pertly, knowing that their partnership only existed in her imagination. ‘Montague and Ffinch - sounds good to me.’
    ‘Ffinch and Montague you mean. Not that we are partners,’ he corrected, ‘you are my assistant - nothing more.’ He reached for the bag of food but Charlee held it away from him.
    ‘Then this assistant needs to know what’s expected of her or she’s leaving and taking her sandwiches with her. Then you’ll have the whole skip to yourself. Capice?’
    Ffinch shone the torch on her face. ‘You are trouble, lady. Not only that, you’ve been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos . Capice, indeed,’ he pulled a face but she could see that he was figuring out that she was no pushover. And, quite possibly, trying not to laugh. ‘Okay, Montague, here’s the thing. You’ve heard of Anastasia Markova, the model who’s marrying the Russian plutocrat?’
    Just in time, Charlee stopped herself from saying, Duh! She knew she had to play this one poker-faced and hide her excitement. ‘Sure.’ She shrugged and put the bag of sandwiches between them on the plank.
    ‘I’ve had a tip-off that she’s holding her hen night, here.’ He pulled a face and left Charlee wondering if it was the whole concept of marriage, weddings and the attendant brouhaha that cheesed him off. Or the expression ‘hen night’ with its connotations of soon-to-be brides tied to lamp posts and wearing L plates while their attendants were sick in the gutter. Dancing on tables and staggering out of nightclubs wearing pink Stetsons was so not what she would do when/if her moment arrived. ‘Montague! Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’
    ‘I don’t have to look adoringly into your eyes to prove I’m concentrating. Okay? Not that I can see them in this light,’ she added in a more conciliatory tone just in case she was seriously pissing him off and blowing her chances of being taken on another assignment. ‘Okay, so where do I fit into your plan, apart from being in charge of catering?’ She pushed the bag of sandwiches closer to him.
    ‘I need you to go over to the smoking area and stand there until they come out.’
    ‘Who comes out?’
    ‘Anastasia and her laydees,’ he explained patiently. Charlee bit her lip; the flaw in the plan was blindingly obvious - wasn’t it?
    ‘But I could be standing there all night, freezing my assets off waiting for her to put in an appearance. Or, when we spot her I can hardly clamber out of the skip, walk over and start passing round the Silk Cut, can I? And, besides, I don’t smoke and don’t carry ciggies round with me on the off-chance that - ’
    Ffinch leaned forward in the semi-darkness and put two fingers on her lips.
    ‘Montague. It’s all been taken care of … Now, are you going to shut up and listen?’
    Charlee knocked his hand away and nodded her head, fuming that he had acted so patronisingly towards her. She wasn’t a doll to be manhandled as and when he thought fit, and the sooner he realised that, the better.
     ‘I’m listening,’ she said.
     ‘Here’s how it works. I get a text from my contact inside the club to say she’s coming out. That gives us time to get you out of the skip and station you at the back door looking like you’ve been there all