Читать книгу Man vs. Socialite - Charlotte Phillips, Charlotte Phillips - Страница 9

TWO

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Evie’s stomach felt suddenly as if a brick had been dumped inside it. She had absolutely no desire to spend even a single second more in the company of Jack Trent. And from the way he was looking at her it was clear the feeling was mutual.

The producer clapped her hands together excitedly.

‘Absolutely. You guest on Jack’s show. One of his usual survival quests. It’s not such an off-the-wall suggestion—he’s had guests on before, demonstrating survival techniques, sampling bush tucker, that kind of thing. A day or two with the bare essentials, during which you experience Jack’s survival skills at first hand. It will take advantage of the massive public interest and makes it work to our advantage. Think about it. Could there be a better retraction than that?’

She beamed an encouraging smile in Evie’s direction. ‘You know the kind of thing. I’m thinking you serve up some kind of foraged meal and sleep in a shelter made of sticks you’ve built yourself. Perhaps do a river crossing. The public will lap it up. You can eat your words on national TV, you restore Jack’s reputation and hopefully we boost the ratings of both shows in the process. Really, it’s genius.’

‘No way!’

Evie was on her feet to protest, beaten by a split second by Jack Trent on the opposite side of the boardroom table. He was a good foot taller than her, a dark green shirt beneath his jacket picking out the darker tones in his eyes, and he certainly commanded attention. The eyes of everyone around the table, including her own, swivelled in his direction. Even his choice of daywear came from a camouflage colour palette. Shock-horror. For the first and possibly the last time, he agreed with her.

* * *

‘You’re not messing with the Survival Camp format,’ Jack said shortly. ‘This ridiculous charade has nothing to do with me. Reprimand the socialite princess if you want to, drop her show, sue her for damages, I really don’t care. I’m not the one who’s done anything wrong here.’

Socialite princess? How dared he?

‘Excuse me?’ she snapped at him indignantly.

‘Legal action is a possibility,’ the PR manager sitting on Jack’s right said.

Cold tendrils of dread thundered into Evie’s heart. She glanced sideways at Chester in a panic, her mouth paper-dry as the implications of that raced through her mind. Chester had turned an interesting shade of grey, undoubtedly thinking of his own commission. They could probably take her to the cleaners over this. Jack probably could too, if the mood took him. Months of tabloid coverage yawned terrifyingly ahead of her. Her reputation and her new jewellery business would be in tatters. The thought of her father’s reaction made her feel sick.

‘Although it’s not necessarily the best option,’ the PR continued.

A tentative surge of relief kicked in because although it was clear from this that there was another option, it clearly wasn’t going to be pleasant.

‘Doesn’t really matter who’s wrong or right.’ The executive producer took over again at the head of the table. ‘I don’t care and the viewing public don’t give a toss either. The only thing that’s important is that putting the two of you together right now is TV gold. The public are siding with Jack right now but the tabloids are still sowing that nugget of doubt. The tide could turn at any moment.’ She looked directly at Jack. ‘Mud really does stick. Doesn’t matter that there’s not an ounce of truth in it, it’s been repeated so much now in so many places that public belief in the credibility of your skills is bound to be called into question. The best way to refute this is to take it and run with it. On screen.’

‘Survival Camp is a serious premise,’ Jack said. ‘Not some reality-show fluff. It has a serious message behind it. Look at her.’ He waved an incredulous hand in Evie’s direction. ‘She wouldn’t last five minutes. Absolutely no way.’

The instant dismissal fired up a surge of defiance in her belly.

‘I’m as fit as you are,’ she snapped at him.

He laughed out loud and indignant anger burned in her cheeks, undoubtedly clashing horribly with her pink designer suit.

‘You really think a few yoga classes can give you the stamina to cross a river unaided, sweetheart?’ he shot back.

‘I don’t think you understand,’ the producer cut in. ‘You’re both under contract to do more shows. We’re within our rights to change the format as we see fit—just take a peek at the small print. Plus Adventure Bars are making noises about withdrawing sponsorship of Jack’s show. I’ve managed to talk them round on the strength of the potential publicity of this joint show. I don’t think either of you realise what a mess this is.’

‘Adventure Bars?’ Evie said.

The producer flapped a hand at her.

‘Nutritional snack bars for hardcore outdoor types. They sponsor Jack’s show. They are also,’ she added in a pointed aside to Jack, ‘sponsoring that spin-off outdoor activities initiative you’re hoping to roll out in schools. You really think that’s going to get off the ground if your main sponsor pulls out and you can’t restore public confidence?’

The injustice of it all made anger sear through Jack’s veins. He had to admit that the revelation that his sponsors were getting cold feet was news to him. He dug nails into his palms.

He’d piloted an outdoor survival course aimed specifically at kids and the interest had blown him away. He knew better than anyone about what a difference something like this could make to a generation of bored couch-potato kids who were either hanging around street corners waiting to be sucked into crime or were hooked on TV and video games. His sister Helen crossed his mind, never far away. If he could divert one kid from the path she’d taken, all the hard graft would be worth it. But no matter how hard he worked, taking it to the next step depended on consumer confidence and investment. Thanks to Princess Knightsbridge over there, both those things now hung in the balance and he was prepared to do anything to pull that situation back.

He realised with a burst of fury that he would have to do the one-off show. It could be the only way to make sure he obliterated all doubts about his integrity. And if she thought he’d be giving her an easy ride she was deluded.

The executive producer looked at Evie.

‘Without this show, Evie, I’m afraid renewing your contract for Miss Knightsbridge will be out of the question. Without the joint show we’d have to find alternative ways to minimise the bad publicity. The best course of action would probably be to quietly write you out. Of course we’d have to find a new central character for the show—’

‘I’ll do it,’ Evie cut in immediately. What choice did she have? Without this show her public image was worth nothing. There would be no more magazine articles, no more talking-heads fashion slots on daytime TV. Her fledgling jewellery business would fail before it even began. She’d be back to the quiet life, cruising along alone with no aim or direction, and this time the quiet life would probably come with hate mail. ‘I’ll do the foraging and the sleeping outside and the rubbing sticks together to make fire.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘I’d prefer not to do water though.’

Jack laughed out loud mirthlessly.

‘You think you can get through an outward-bound weekend without getting wet, sweetheart? You obviously haven’t watched the show. Think again.’

Of course she hadn’t watched the show—was he insane? She didn’t do the great outdoors. The nearest she’d ever got to it were camping holidays as a small child, and they’d never happened again after her mother died. As her Miss Knightsbridge image demanded, she did luxury hotels, spa treatments and shopping. On her own time she did comfy pyjamas, tea and toast, and American TV show box sets. Not a foraged meal in sight in either her public or private persona.

He was already up, striding towards the exit, his entire demeanour exuding white-hot anger. So all she had to do to regain public affection, keep her TV show and stop her fledgling jewellery business from going under was survive a weekend in rough terrain with a companion who hated her guts.

Just bloody great.

* * *

‘You’re going on a TV show with Evie Staverton-Lynch?’ Helen’s voice on the phone practically bubbled with interest. ‘Miss Knightsbridge?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Oh, I just love her! Her clothes are to die for. Can you ask her where she got that butterfly necklace she wore on last week’s show?’

Jack drew in an exasperated breath. All the girl did was wear designer clothes and hang out in swanky bars. And now it seemed his own sister was as sucked in by all the TV crap as everyone else.

‘She’s a reality TV star,’ he pointed out. Someone had to. ‘It doesn’t require a modicum of talent. Why is she so popular? What is it about her?’

‘It’s the whole different world thing, isn’t it? The way the other half live, the money they spend. It’s cult viewing. Everyone watches it and everyone has an opinion on it. Don’t you know that?’

Helen’s tone had a hint of you’re-too-decrepit-to-understand. The eight years between them yawned canyon-wide.

‘Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny,’ she added.

‘Did you not see the trouble she’s caused me?’ he said.

Helen made a vague dismissive noise as if she was distracted. He could just imagine her watching TV while she talked to him. Multitasking, splitting her attention down the middle. A fond smile touched his lips. He loved her in-your-face attitude. It hadn’t been long enough since she’d been holed up in the hospital, too weak to speak. And then there had been rehab. Would it ever be long enough?

‘It’s all just a publicity stunt,’ she said. ‘All designed to get more attention. Probably staged.’

‘I need it like a hole in the head,’ he said.

‘You need to lighten up’, she said. ‘With any luck you might even come out of this looking a bit hip. Your shows have been looking a bit nerdy recently.’

He could hear the teasing smile in her voice.

‘Nerdy?’ A grin spread across his face at her cheek. He could never hear enough of that.

‘This could get you a whole new audience.’

‘Will you be watching?’

Her voice softened.

‘I always watch.’

‘And you’re feeling OK and your college course is going fine?’ he checked.

‘For the hundredth time, will you stop fussing? I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’

He restrained himself from picking endlessly at her. There was a constant need to be certain she was on track, doing fine, clean. It had barely diminished since that first shocking sight of her at rock bottom, a journey she’d taken while he’d been on the other side of the world, oblivious, revelling in his army career.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back from filming,’ he said.

‘Evie Staverton-Lynch has the best fashion sense in the country. She’ll soon have you out of that camo green you keep wearing. Good luck!’ She blew him a kiss and put the phone down.

For Pete’s sake.

* * *

‘You don’t have to go through with this.’

Annabel Sutton leaned back against the plump pink cushions on Evie’s sofa and as usual said exactly what Evie wanted to hear. Annabel pulled a face as she sipped her coffee. Not her usual table in her favourite Chelsea café and clearly Evie wasn’t up to supplying the usual standard of beverage. After the reaction Evie had got in the street this morning when she’d nipped to the corner shop to buy milk, she’d insisted Annabel come to her flat instead of going out. An irate pensioner had informed her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, saying those awful things about that ‘nice young man’.

‘None of this is your fault,’ Annabel soothed. ‘Total overreaction by the TV company—the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion. And it’s not like you’re on the breadline, sweetie. You’ve got a whopping great allowance, this lovely flat, a country estate. You don’t need to take this.’ She paused. ‘The production company really suggested cutting you from the show, did you say?’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘How awful. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after that lack of support. I guess they’ll move one of the rest of us into the central role.’

Secondary player on Miss Knightsbridge, Annabel had a part-time PR job in a glossy art gallery and a fabulously supportive family who were distantly related to the Queen. It occurred to Evie that Annabel was seeing this a bit too much like an opportunity to really pull off supportive.

‘The threat of legal action was bandied about,’ Evie said shortly. ‘For potential loss of income relating to Jack Trent’s TV series, his business interests... I do this show, I avert the possibility of that.’

That would make sense to Annabel. A reason that was related to finance. Evie didn’t mention that the money was the least of her worries. The thing that really ached the most was the loss of support, the way the public had turned on her after making her feel special for once. What she really wanted, if she was honest, was to find a way to turn that around, to get things back to the way they were. To launch her jewellery business to rapturous reviews, perhaps secure a concession in one of the department stores, instead of sinking out of sight under a cloud of public dislike.

‘Plus I might be able to turn off the Internet but I still can’t leave the flat without grief from the public.’

‘Since when have you given a damn what other people think?’

Annabel was familiar with Evie’s perfected I-don’t-care-bring-on-the-fun persona. At school Evie had quickly learned that attitude earned friendship from the most popular girls. In South West London she’d continued to work at being one of the crowd, the need to belong somewhere as important to her as ever. She wasn’t sure what her friends, or the TV viewers for that matter, would make of her if they knew that given the choice of falling out of a glossy nightclub and curling up with a box set, the TV show would win every time.

‘Since I can’t put my head outside the door without pensioners accosting me.’ She thought back to this morning’s encounter. It seemed age was no barrier to the charm Jack Trent held over the opposite sex.

‘And you’re sure Jack Trent isn’t the real reason you’re up for this?’ Annabel said slyly. ‘I mean, did you see him shirtless in the papers? Utterly jaw-dropping and totally eligible. He’s never photographed with the same woman twice. I can think of people I’d rather kick out of the tent.’

Evie suppressed a flash of interest in scanning the tabloids online. Never the same woman twice? Familiar alarm bells clanged madly in her head. She’d fallen for looks and charm once too often only to find the person they were actually interested in bedding was TV’s Miss Knightsbridge, along with her glossy life. Once they’d reached that base, interest in the real Evie seemed to disappear like smoke, with the possible exception of one D-list pop star she’d dated who’d spun out the charade a bit longer because he wanted a spot on the TV show. She had absolutely no interest in spending time with Jack Trent beyond salvaging her own reputation. What he looked like without a shirt and his marital status had no place in the debate.

‘According to what I’ve read about his survival courses, I’ll be lucky to even get a tent,’ she said.

* * *

The evening before filming started and Jack arrived at the Scottish hotel habitually used by the production crew when making his TV series, and presumably the hotel Evie Staverton-Lynch had referred to in her libellous comment.

He took a small amount of pleasure in the knowledge that it was a two-star basic place, chosen because of its convenient proximity to his outward-bound centre and definitely not for its accommodation standards. No duck-down pillows and absolutely no gourmet menu. Fiercely defensive of their TV star guest, they’d given Evie the room above the kitchens with the view of the bins and an aroma of chip fat should she make the mistake of opening the windows.

The rest of the crew were predictably holed up in the hotel bar as per usual. There was no sign of Miss Knightsbridge anywhere although he’d expected her to descend on the place with a trail of staff behind her. He ordered a soft drink and flipped through the day’s newspapers lying in a pile to one side of the bar, the front pages of nearly all the red tops featuring some gleeful article about the up-and-coming show. The production company would be made up at the media interest.

He turned a page and choked on his mineral water.

Evie Staverton-Lynch’s PR team had clearly been working overtime. A double-page spread featured a colour photo of Evie looking clear-eyed at the camera and wearing a forest-green Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme T-shirt and what looked like nothing else. She had the longest, most delectable legs he’d ever seen. His mouth leached of all moisture and he took an exasperated slug of his drink. He had no wish to find her so hot and it might help if he didn’t keep inadvertently coming across full-colour photos of her in varying delicious states of undress. He forced his eyes to the accompanying article instead. The interview hit just the right tone of contrite. ‘I made a stupid untrue comment in a moment of stress. Taking the survival course is payback for that. I hope it will show how sorry I am and that Jack Trent’s show is the genuine article.’

Since when had denial of all responsibility gone out of the window in favour of doing all she could to restore his good name? He allowed himself a last look at the shapely legs and peach-glossed pout before he closed the paper. Genuine remorse or media spin? He had his doubts. He knew from past experience that people like Evie Staverton-Lynch played the press to their own advantage, changing their attitude at a moment’s notice to suit themselves. Not that he should care one bit either way as long as his reputation came out of this without a smear.

To his enormous surprise, when he checked with Reception for her room number, she hadn’t made any complaint about the sparse facilities. He got the impression from the over-attentive Reception staff that the lack of diva uproar was something of a disappointment.

‘She just arrived on her own, checked in and took herself up to the room. Didn’t even ask for the concierge to take her bags,’ the over-attentive receptionist, who according to the pink badge strategically placed on her low-cut blouse was called Sally, said. ‘Haven’t heard a peep from her since except for a call to Room Service.’

The staff had clearly been expecting her to storm back down as soon as she saw the room and felt cheated at the lack of bratty behaviour. For the first time he found himself wondering just how much of the spoilt socialite impression Evie gave was genuine. Small contradictions at first, lack of diva complaints about the crappy facilities when there was no camera around to witness the tantrum. The fact that she’d travelled up here completely alone. Where were the rich family and glossy friends and hangers-on?

He knew about using a public image to your advantage, despite the fact it made him feel uncomfortable. The media spotlight had done wonders for his charity work and his survival business. When in London he had a shortlist of on-off girlfriends to provide him with the perfect date when he needed to attend anything public. Models or starlets who shared the same showbusiness agent as him and were more than happy with the exposure of being seen out with him at charity functions or parties. He kept things casual at all costs. Enjoy the moment then move on; that was the way he liked it.

The tabloid press gleefully wrote about his glamorous girlfriends and his daredevil outdoor exploits and largely ignored his family background. And as a result the public at large had no clue about his youth, his past failures or about the selfish way he’d let his sister down. That was the way he intended to keep it.

Evie Staverton-Lynch’s success was based entirely on manipulation of the media. That didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t more to her than the papers gave away.

The hotel lift wasn’t working so he took the stairs.

* * *

Expecting Room Service with what was bound to be a substandard lasagne, Evie jumped a little in surprise when she opened the door to see Jack Trent leaning laconically against the door jamb.

‘What, no entourage?’ he said. The green eyes held a hint of amusement, which crinkled them at the corners and made her stomach give an extremely ill-judged flutter. For Pete’s sake, she was not attracted to a man who was going to take pleasure in making her crawl through mud this time tomorrow.

She kept hold of the door.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘Don’t people like you have a gang of hangers-on that accompany you everywhere? You know, for hair and make-up and general love-ins.’

Did he have any idea of the ludicrousness of that comment? None of her friends were prepared to desert their luxury London lives for somewhere as devoid of consumer durables as this in order to offer her some support. In fact, there’d been a marked drop in contact from her social circle in these last few days. Supportive friendship apparently didn’t hold much weight in the face of disassociating yourself from the bad-mouthing Jack Trent media scandal. On her own, therefore, in the middle of nowhere, she’d spent the past hour flicking through the laminated ‘Hotel Information’ brochure, working out that with no satellite TV the choice of movie that evening was reduced to one—a sci-fi blood-fest, just bloody great—and wondering if she could bear the alternative: watching something else on the tiny screen of her phone via the somewhat erratic Wi-Fi.

‘Love-ins?’ she snapped. ‘Have you not been following the media? The entire country wants to see me fall flat on my face. Ideally in a swamp.’

The public interest showed no sign of abating, much to the glee of Purple Productions. Any hope that the furore might die down had long since disappeared. Her only hope, according to Chester, was to play the apology card for all she was worth, take the flak, and hope the tide would turn in her favour.

‘That could be arranged,’ he said.

She looked up to see a grin touch the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t entirely unfriendly. It occurred to her that getting him onside could make this whole hideous situation a million times easier so she offered him a smile in return.

‘Did you want something?’

‘I thought I’d run through the kit list with you, check you’re ready for tomorrow. I like to check in with all the candidates for my courses the night before, answer any questions, that kind of thing.’

‘Very professional,’ she said.

He waited, eyebrows raised, until she pushed the door back and let him step past her into the horrible hotel room.

One of the narrow twin beds was piled high with kit delivered by an enthusiastic production minion who was clearly beside herself with glee at the prospect of Evie Staverton-Lynch freezing her arse off for the weekend in the most repellent, unglamorous set of garments she’d ever come across. She tried to imagine a single situation prior to today when she might have considered wearing waterproofs and failed to come up with one. She was a city girl; she hadn’t been near the great outdoors since the childhood camping holidays her mother had loved, and they were long gone. Her father’s strategy for moving on from the past had involved avoiding nostalgia trips of any kind. A new family holiday destination was quickly slotted in with the purchase of a house in France, to which she and Will were despatched a few times a year, always with a nanny. Revisiting the idea of outdoor living held an undertow of uneasiness at what memories it might dredge up.

Then again, Survival Camp Extreme was about as far as it was possible to get from the glimpses of sunny camping holidays by the beach that she remembered. When it came to this weekend, nostalgia was surely the least of her worries.

The minuscule room seemed infinitely smaller with Jack Trent in it and her stomach gave a traitorous flip of nerves, which she steadfastly ignored. She could schmooze with the best of them and surely even Jack Trent could be charmed. It was just a matter of hitting the right approach. She crossed the sticky carpet to the teetering pile of kit and began sifting through it, although she’d already looked through it once with growing disquiet. A balaclava lay on the top of the pile, for goodness’ sake.

She could feel his eyes on her.

‘All ready for tomorrow, then?’ he said.

She glanced up at him. The green eyes watched her steadily and she got the oddest feeling that he knew perfectly well how she was feeling. This close she was struck by the pure muscular size of him. The plain green T-shirt moulded to his huge shoulders and broad chest. She could see part of an eagle tattoo on the rock-hard muscle of his left upper bicep.

She slapped on the don’t-care smile that she’d perfected over a number of years.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she breezed.

‘Nervous?’ he pressed. She gave away the answer in the drop of her eyes and she could have kicked herself.

‘It will be fine,’ he said, his voice softened a little. Her stomach gave a skip in response. She hadn’t really thought Jack Trent did anything as sappy as reassurance. ‘Tough but fun, right?’

Fun?

‘How the hell did you get involved in this kind of thing?’ she blurted before she could stop herself. ‘I mean, it’s not exactly something vocational you decide on doing at school, is it? How do you come to the conclusion that the career for you will involve eating rodents and crossing freezing rivers?’

He grinned at the sudden outburst.

‘Says the girl who’s famous for...well, for being famous. How do you get involved in that?’

Her hand betrayed her and ran itself nervously through her hair before she brought it back to clench at her side.

‘I am not remotely nervous,’ she said, avoiding the question. ‘I work out five times a week, I run and I do toning with weights. I think I can manage what’s basically a revved-up camping trip.’

He laughed out loud, a rich, deep sound that made her traitorous stomach go soft.

‘Revved-up camping trip? Have you actually taken the time to watch any of the shows?’

‘I’ve seen a few clips,’ she said.

She wasn’t about to admit to him that his shows looked like a mud-soaked freezing nightmare. No way was she just going to take his arrogant implication that she wasn’t up to the challenge.

‘Fitness is only a small part of it,’ he countered. ‘It’s about initiative, it’s about self-control, it’s about how you react in a difficult situation with limited resources.’ He was watching her intently as if trying to read her mind. ‘I read your change of tack in the press,’ he said.

‘Change of tack?’

‘From washing your hands of all responsibility to holding your hands up and begging for forgiveness.’ He paused. ‘With accompanying photo spread.’

His green eyes held hers intently without the slightest flicker and her pulse jumped at his pointed tone. She knew perfectly well which photo spread he was referring to. She swallowed to clear her suddenly dry throat. She was determined to keep control of this situation, to squash any stupid misplaced attraction to him.

‘Are you complaining that I’ve said I’m publicly sorry?’ she said.

‘No, I’m just wondering whether it’s genuine or just a new spin.’

She glanced up at him, the blue eyes giving nothing away.

‘If it cleans any smears from your reputation, what do you care which it is?’ she asked.

He shrugged.

‘I don’t. Not really. Just trying to get the measure of you.’

Jack watched as she abandoned the pile of kit, as if she’d had any interest in it anyway, and turned to face him, giving him her full attention. She was close enough now for him to pick up the scent of her perfume. She smelled delicious and expensive. She watched him steadily with wide blue eyes that sparked off a slow burn low in his abdomen. She was seriously cute.

‘I’d really like it if we could put any bad feeling behind us,’ she said. ‘I know the situation is difficult but I really am doing all I can to put it right. I think we could both focus on the weekend ahead a lot more effectively if we made some kind of truce.’

If she thought she’d be able to charm him into going easy on her by suggesting he might not be totally focused, she was way wrong.

‘How I feel about you has no effect whatsoever on my responsibility to you in the field,’ he said. ‘I’m a professional. Your safety is my priority.’

‘So a truce isn’t out of the question, then?’ she pressed.

‘Depends on the terms,’ he said, just to see what she would do next. She was clearly used to getting her own way.

He saw her eyes widen briefly in surprise. She obviously hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. She rushed on quickly while the going was good.

‘Thing is, Jack,’ she said, ‘we both want the same thing.’

‘Which is?’

She shrugged.

‘To get through this weekend without any hitches,’ she said. ‘I know perfectly well the public want to see me slip up but would that really be the best showcase for your survival courses? Isn’t the whole point that the candidates survive? With that in mind, maybe it might be...prudent...for both of us to approach the tasks in a way that shows the situation in the best light.’

That showed her in the best light, in other words. Oh, she really was something else. Her we’re-on-the-same-side-here persuasion might work on other people but he’d had enough dealings with TV luvvies to develop immunity to that kind of manipulation. Fame and fortune mattered only inasmuch as they furthered what he considered to be his real work: his charity initiatives and the courses he’d developed for kids.

She smiled winningly at him and he wondered vaguely if she’d ever encountered a situation in her cushy existence without an expectation that she would somehow come out on top no matter what. Charm held no weight with him when held up against hard graft. And looking at her soft, beautifully manicured hands, he doubted there’d been much of that in her life. She was from a totally different world.

She held his gaze with wide blue eyes, waiting for him to just fling himself at her designer-clad feet and agree to her every whim.

‘I think we understand each other,’ he said.

‘Good.’ She smiled at him. He smiled broadly back at her.

‘Despite your brushing it off as a—what was it?—“revved-up camping trip”,’ he said, ‘you still want me to go easy on you this weekend. Sorry, sweetheart, the clue’s in the name. It’s a survival course, it’s not meant to be a piece of cake.’

She stared at him as he headed for the door.

‘I thought you came up here to check through any concerns I might have,’ she said.

‘I did. I meant legitimate ones, like your swimming ability or maybe questions about the kit. Not schmoozy concerns about getting an easy ride. No can do. I’ll see you at the base at dawn.’

He closed the door behind him and smiled at the plastic number plate on the door. He’d give it until lunchtime tomorrow before she walked off set.