Charlotte Phillips - Man vs. Socialite

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.

THREE

‘So we start at Jack’s base camp with him talking through the kit you need. Then you head out with him into the wilderness on foot.’

Evie clutched desperately at the sides of the passenger seat as a production assistant dressed in head to toe waterproofs bumped the Jeep along what barely passed for a muddy track. The silver-grey tendrils of dawn were creeping in across the Scottish Highlands and the landscape was soaked by a relentless drizzle of fine rain, the kind that lulled you into thinking it was nothing while insidiously soaking you to the bone. Leaving the awful hotel in the small hours had felt like leaving civilisation.

‘There’s a support team though—right?’ she said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t film himself doing all this stuff, does he? It wouldn’t just be the two of us with no backup.’

She’d made time for a bit more research after last night’s encounter, courtesy of the hotel’s erratic Wi-Fi. Footage of Jack Trent neck deep in icy water, Jack Trent eating mealworms, Jack Trent manoeuvring his way down a treacherous rock face with accompanying waterfall. The thought of spending even one night camping alone in the middle of this freezing craggy landscape with Jack Trent made nerves flutter crazily in her stomach, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he looked like an Adonis.

‘He has a cameraman tag along at various locations to film the survival-skills demonstrations, river crossings, game preparation, that kind of thing,’ she said, glancing briefly across from the mud-flecked windscreen.

The words ‘game preparation’ rebounded sickly through Evie’s mind.

‘Minimal crew though—the programme isn’t meant to look glossy. It’s meant to look like it’s thrown together. It all adds realism. Any night filming he does by himself on a handheld camera. Some of it’s in diary format where he talks direct to camera. He really is on his own out there, not holed up in some hotel.’

There was a decidedly pointed tone to that last sentence. Was there a single member of the female species who wasn’t sappily in love with Jack Trent?

‘Yeah, I got that.’

If she had a quid for every time someone told her how wrong she’d got it...

‘And if anything were to go wrong, which it can’t possibly, the guy’s ex-special forces. He’s survived in some of the most punishing terrain in the world. He led a hostage-rescue mission in Colombia. I think he’s up to managing a weekend in the Scottish Highlands with you.’

* * *

The camera was rolling even as she climbed out of the mud-splashed Jeep. Her feet in their new vice-gripping walking boots immediately sank to the ankle into the boggy ground. She followed the production assistant into a sparse brick building outside which were parked a variety of outward-bound vehicles. Crew moved around, shifting film-making equipment. So it sounded as if they took running footage and edited it down later. Fine as long as you didn’t speak before thinking. She resolved to keep her wits about her.

‘Have you seen any of Jack’s shows before?’

‘A few clips,’ she said shortly. Did she look like someone who enjoyed watching people trek for miles and drink filtered urine? ‘Has he seen any of mine?’

Clearly not. The production assistant swept on without comment.

‘OK...well, first up we cover equipment, clothing, that kind of thing. Jack will work through your kit list with you. The camera will be rolling, just crack on as normal and soon you’ll forget it’s even there. You must be used to it anyway on your own show. We’ll edit and cut as necessary, quick turnaround to make the most of the public interest. Should be able to run it in the usual Miss Knightsbridge prime-time slot next week.’

The camera crew assumed positions and a hand signal from the director had the filming kick in.

‘Miss Knightsbridge is much more planned than this,’ Evie said, glancing around the freezing-cold bare brickwork of the draughty room. ‘It’s not exactly scripted but all the locations and events are worked out beforehand. If things get a bit stilted the producer throws in a controversial topic for us all to discuss, to help things get heated. Essentially the producers stir it up.’

Her own life was really miles away from the drama it came across as on TV, not that she’d be giving that fact away. Cup-of-cocoa-quiet-life Evie was hardly likely to be of any more interest to the viewers of this show than those of her own. No way. She intended to stick to the tried and tested brash persona that had won her the prospect of an independent future before she’d stuffed it all up.

‘Is that why you made that comment about me?’ Jack said, walking in. Her stomach gave a slow flip, clearly nerves at what was to come. He was fully kitted out in survival wear. Walking boots, hard-wearing trousers like her own hideous ones, jacket that looked as if it was made from a duvet. He looked as if he were about to shout a gang of squaddies through an assault course. A twist of trepidation worked its way through her stomach at what exactly the next couple of days was likely to involve. ‘Because your show is a tissue of lies you assumed mine is too?’

His very first words on camera and he’d made sure they referenced her faux pas. Not even so much as a ‘welcome to the show’. She watched him sorting through a pile of kit. He barely even glanced in her direction, clearly intending to be true to last night’s word, doing her no favours. She shook her head a little to clear it, feeling the camera on her, annoyed with herself for trying to get him onside the previous evening. Why the hell did she need his help? Lack of encouragement wasn’t exactly new to her—she’d spent half her life self-motivating to counteract her father’s indifference. She’d get through this hideous experience on her own. Chester’s advice flashed through her mind and she latched onto it grimly: grovel, act contrite and come across as a game-for-anything fish out of water, sweetie. The public will lap it up. Here was her chance to redeem herself.