Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb Page B

framed gazebo strung with fairy lights, she wondered how he’d organised all this. If he could survive capture by a guerrilla group in Colombia, she supposed that paying a member of staff to do his bidding was small fry by comparison.
    Three tables, comfortable sofas and chairs were positioned inside the decorative corral trimmed with winter foliage and berries. Huge scented candles spiked on sconces at the corners of the enclosure sent out a perfume of oranges, cloves and winter spices towards Charlee. The smoking area was warmed by overhead heaters, and onyx ashtrays filled with sand were positioned strategically on the tables. All quite different to the pub yards where her friends did their smoking. Usually there was a bucket of sand for stubbing out cigarettes, if you were lucky. Mostly, the stubs were crushed underfoot on the pavement.
    There was little time for reflection or one of her usual flights of fancy. She had to be in position, glass in hand and puffing away at a cigarette before the bridal party came out. She allowed herself one backward glance at the skip and then stationed herself under the nearest heater. She was anxious to prove that she was the woman for the job and ready for whatever fate sent her. A chill wind blew into the yard and cut through the fabric of her little black shift dress. She searched in the quilted velvet bag and did a double take when she saw the label - it was vintage Chanel. Whose was it? An ex-girlfriend’s? His mother’s? Did he have a wardrobe of props for occasions such as this? It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he did.
    Hands shaking, she extracted a solid silver cigarette case and lighter; the case was just the right size to hold six long cigarettes. Inside the lid it was engraved with signatures in different handwriting and Charlee suspected it was a family heirloom. She turned it over and saw the intertwined C’s - Cartier, what else? Why couldn’t he have given her an ordinary pack of cigarettes? It’d be just her luck to drop the heavy case down a drain or damage it, and then spend the next six months working to pay it off.
    Voices.
    Stiffening, she concentrated on carrying out the task to the best of her ability.
    With her ear for languages, she detected the cadence of upper-class vowels overlaid with Estuary English. Posh kids, trying to disguise the Received Pronunciation considered so uncool nowadays. Not her intended mark, clearly. Pulling the mobile phone out of the bag, she turned away and pretended to talk to someone on the other end, but not before registering the young prince surrounded by his circle of trusted friends. Then she practically singed her eyebrows as she inexpertly put the cigarette in her mouth, tried to light it one-handed and take a long draw without choking. Evidently, she was beneath their notice and looked just like another young woman out enjoying the Christmas Eve buzz. They carried on talking about driving down the M4 to Wiltshire to stay on their parents’ ‘estates’, and how they would need to meet up if they were to survive the ordeal.
    Then the door opened again and a troupe of long-legged beauties wearing minimal clothing but some serious jewellery walked out of the back entrance. Well, not so much walked as covered the ground in long, languorous strides with legs that looked like they belonged on thoroughbred racehorses - all bone, sinew and slender ankles. Charlee looked at her definitely average legs and wondered how it would feel to have those added inches. Or to be able to walk on five-inch Jimmy Choos without falling over. But there was no time to give full rein to her neuroses, she could feel Ffinch’s eyes boring a hole in the back of her skull and hear him saying: What are you playing at, Montague - get closer. Move in for the kill.
    The models joined the prince and his friends and they air-kissed and schmoozed each other big time. The blue bloods happy to rub shoulders with the supermodels, and the models glad