Page 19 of The Bodyguard Affair
“You think?” he asks tearfully, doubling over in the chair, finger-massaging his temples. He looks like a dejected puppy who’s been kicked out of the house into the rain by his beloved owner.
“Of course. If there’s any couple who can make it, it’s you two,” I assure, mostly to give this poor, broken man some much-needed hope.
I think it works (thankfully, because I’m grossly unqualified to give in-depth marriage advice). He considers that for a couple seconds, a promise of a smile flitting across his sharp features before he reaches out to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Andi.”
“Well, you’d have to fold your own underwear, for starters,” I point out, pushing my chair back when he stands, giving Nolan the signal that he’s ready to leave.
He gives me his trademark sunny smirk as he smooths down his suit. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Chapter 6
Nolan
“We’ve done so much good work in the past few years, but there’s so much more to do together. I’ve had the privilege of speaking to Canadians across our country at length about the greatest challenges we face today, like the rising cost of living and childcare.
“It brings me back to my own childhood. As early as nine years old, I was shoveling driveways, delivering newspapers, doing anything I could to make extra money to help my mom put food on the table, pay for the necessities, and sometimes, we fell short. We’d go hungry, or play cards over candlelight because our electricity would be shut off. And that’s not acceptable. That’s not something I can continue to accept for you.”
The lines are delivered with such eloquence and down-to-earth charm, it smacks you upside the head and leaves you a little winded. You’d never know this affordable childcare press conference was thrown together in a day as a distraction from the Kirkwood scandal. And you definitely wouldn’t know Ericspent all last night crying in a dimly lit restaurant like a groom jilted at the altar.
Based on the volume of cheers and hollers, you’d think it’s a boy band onstage, not the PM giving a speech about subsidized childcare. Then again, Eric Nichols isn’t your average politician.
The crowd is eating it up, as always. Honestly, I don’t know what kind of magic this is, but I want whatever he’s having. I have a theory that Eric could stand behind a podium, recite a nursery rhyme, and still receive a roaring standing ovation. The man has a special knack for maximizing every moment, every gesture, and knowing when to slow down and pause for impact at exactly the right times.
“Onward together, toward a better future for us and our children.”
“Eric, I love you!” an unassuming middle-aged woman screeches. She proceeds to shove her way to the front of the crowd with more force than you’d expect for someone wearing a T-shirt that readsBless This Mess.
“FP Martina White is on the move, fast approaching Tousled Wave,” I warn Ivan through my earpiece. I recognize her face from the photos shown during the team briefing earlier this morning.
The Close Protection Unit has deemed Martina a “fixated person (FP),” aka a stalker. Brent, the team lead, describes her as a forty-two-year-old who’s under the delusion that she and the PM are star-crossed lovers.
Since Eric became PM, she’s shown up at every single one of his local events. She’s also sent an astonishing number of emails and tweets professing her love, which, when printed, take up two three-ring binders. Her dedication is both frightening and a little admirable. And while it’s been determined that Martinais generally harmless as far as a risk of violence, we keep close tabs to ensure that doesn’t change.
“For fuck’s sake. I’m on her,” Ivan grunts in response. “Welcome to your first week on the job, Crosby.”
Ivan and I are perfectly positioned by the time Martina gets to Eric, reaching for his forearm. When she holds on a couple seconds longer than comfortable, I discreetly loosen her iron grip from behind, giving Eric a chance to escape naturally without making a scene. Then, Ivan swoops in, subtly blocking Martina from following.
It seems simple. So much so, I guarantee no one in the crowd, nor those watching on the news, notices anything peculiar about the entire exchange, which is exactly the point. That entire “simple” maneuver was one of countless scenarios we close protection officers practice in advance of situations like this. These basic, easy protocols keep the principal—aka the PM—safe.
Still, I keep a couple paces behind Eric as he makes his way through the crowd, shaking hands and generally hypnotizing citizens with his strikingly white smile. Usually, no one gives a shit about Canadian politicians, but Eric is different than any former PM, or most world leaders, for that matter. The team calls it the Eric Effect.
I assumed taking this job would be similar to all the other times in the military when I did protection for a political leader or dignitary. But unlike anyone else, Eric has a 74 percent approval rating, which is twice the approval rating of his political party at large. And he does it all simply by being himself. He was votedPeopleMagazine’s “Sexiest World Leader” twice in a row; women have a tendency to throw themselves (and theirbras) at him. One passing glance at his singular right dimple and it’s clear why. See, most Western world leaders have a look: white, male, and aged sixty-plus. But not Eric.
Picture a walking Disney prince, dazzling charisma and all. In all his time in office, his only scandal was getting caught on camera sneaking a cookie from his pocket during a royal event at Buckingham Palace. Because of all this extra attention, Eric is the only PM in history to require private, specialized security for himself and his family above and beyond the security provided by the federal police, which is where my team comes in.
Since the press has a complete field day whenever he leaves his residence, Eric conducts much of his daily business from his home office—the only exceptions being scheduled events and Wednesdays, when he attends House of Commons Question Periods.
Eric briefly makes eye contact with me, steeples his fingers, and moves them apart. It’s our silent code we agreed upon yesterday. When he wants me to come closer, he draws his fingers together. And when he wants me to back the fuck off like right now, he draws them apart.
As a true “man of the people,” he spends an extraordinary amount of time at each event among the crowd, just socializing. At least that’s what my boss tells me. This is my first event with him. Case in point, he’s just moved on from shaking a frail old man’s hand to playing peekaboo with a cherub-faced baby.
“Did we ever follow up with the RCMP about mental health services for Martina?” Eric asks the moment we finally shuffle him into the Suburban. It occurs to me that it’d be easy to be a dick and make fun of her in private, but the bastard seems to genuinely care about her mental health.
“We can follow up on that,” I assure, making a mental note.
“Please do.” Eric shoots me a teasing glance. “Hope that bra didn’t leave a mark on your face.” On the way out, someone flung their bra at him, and of course, the clasp hit me in the side of the face instead.
I shrug. “Better that than a fist, I guess.”
