Page 14 of The Bodyguard Affair
“I doubt it,” she says over theclankof metal hangers and thewooshof fabric. “It’s always something.” Her words strike me in the heart, and I can’t help but remember the starry-eyed look she used to give him four years ago.
During the election campaign, Gretchen would stop by his office. He’d stop whatever he was doing to wrap her in his arms and plant tiny kisses all over her face and neck when he thought no one was looking. They were even advised to cool it in public to appease the conservative-leaning voters. Fast-forward to now, and she and Eric don’t even sleep in the same bed.
It doesn’t help that Eric travels constantly, domestically and internationally. And when he is home, he’s usually in his office until the late hours, reading a stack of briefings that comes up to my boobs until he falls asleep on the couch.
I tilt my chin, unsure what to say, aside from, “I’m sorry, Gretchen.”
She rights her posture immediately, as though refusing to admit the disappointment to herself. “It’s fine. It’s what I signed up for, isn’t it? Honestly, I’m more pissed about missing out on that hot stone massage than anything else.” She flicks through her phone mindlessly. “Think you can book one for me today?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now that my weekend is free, I should probably go for lunch with Mireille, the owner of that restaurant with those brushed gold caramel dome desserts. We need some more big-ticket items for the gala’s silent auction. Oh, maybe you can help mewith the kids’ variety show costumes,” she continues, her mind always racing with things to do, just like mine.
“Oh. Right. Um, actually, I was going to ask if I could have Saturday off.” She purses her lips and I can already tell the thought of it stresses her out. So I add, “But never mind. I’ll be here if you need me.” I don’t bother explaining that I had plans with my sister, Amanda, while Gretchen was supposed to be away. It’s been weeks since we last saw each other, which feels like an eternity, given we were two peas in a pod as kids, running up and down the halls of the run-down social housing complexes we lived in for years.
My sister and I were going to do lunch and then peruse a flea market, where she would inevitably buy more novelty junk she doesn’t need. Thankfully, Amanda won’t mind if I cancel. She only recently moved here from Toronto, and already she has a million friends or acquaintances she can call, unlike me, who has exactly one friend, who is now blissfully engaged to my ex.
Besides, when you have a job like mine, a social life is basically impossible. “I’m going to meet the event coordinator at the Chateau to confirm the dimensions for the stage this afternoon,” I note. Gretchen is a bit of a micromanager and likes to know what I’m up to, which is fine by me.
“Go home after that,” she instructs me. “We have the Squamish trip next week. You’ll need all the rest you can get.” Squamish is a mountainy town north of Vancouver, BC, and happens to be Eric’s riding, aka his hometown, where he was originally elected as a member of Parliament before being named the party leader. They’re going for two days to meet with local constituents. “Seriously. I’ll be checking your location to make sure you’re home by a decent hour.”
I catch myself mid-yawn and nod, though we both know leaving early is merely fantasy in this line of work. By the time I complete everything on my to-do list, it’ll be well after dinner. But that’s typical. There are no set hours, especially with the twenty-four-hour news cycle, which is why my ringer is always set to max volume, even in the middle of the night. You never know when the next scandal will break.
“I’ll have to see how it goes with the—” I’d continue, but her attention is pulled to the doorway. Eric is standing there, tie askew, bags under his eyes. He looks visibly stressed, presumably by the whole Kirkwood thing. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”
Gretchen folds her arms over her chest. “What do you need?”
“I just wanted to…” He pauses for a beat while I hold my breath, praying an apology is to follow, or it’s about to be a nightmare weekend for all of us. But instead, he looks at me and says, “Introduce Andi to my new CPO.”
By CPO, he means close protection officer, aka the James Bond–esque folks with earpieces who follow the Nichols family around 24/7. Gretchen hates it, but given Eric’s popularity, it’s necessary.
It was a little unnerving when I first started working for Gretchen, having someone dressed in all black lurking around in the shadows, watching your every move. But I’ve gotten to know most of them pretty well, particularly Ben, Kyle, and Joanna, her main CPOs, considering how much time they spend around us. They’re pretty down-to-earth if you can learn not to be personally offended by their disapproving expressions.
The new CPO’s head is turned, looking in the opposite direction. From my vantage point, his hair has an I-just-got-out-of-bed look to it and the collar of his white dress shirt is a little loose.
He’s not wide and beefy like some of the CPOs. He’s leaner, with a figure reminiscent of a soccer player—muscular and agile, but not overwhelmingly hulking. Though based on the way I have to crane my neck to look at him, he’s tall.
When he finally turns his head, our eyes meet in a devastating flash of blue.
A hot surge of recognition shoots through me. I know him.
Chapter 4
Nolan
“Any traction on another posting?” I ask into the speakerphone, cutting straight to the chase. I lean against the brick wall where all the household employees apparently loiter on break.
My boss, Jones, emits a long groan that tells me I’m pushing it. He’s sick of these weekly calls from me, begging for news. Any news. “Fuck’s sake, Crosby. I told you last week, I’m working on it, but it might take longer than we hoped. Maybe six months.”
“I can’t do six months,” I tell him straight up. The thought of enduring a gray, miserably frigid Ottawa winter makes me want to walk into oncoming traffic. If I have to freeze my nuts off, I at least want it to be somewhere interesting, like…Siberia. At least the vodka is strong there.
“You really are an impatient bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He pauses. “I don’t want to pry, but shouldn’t anotherposting be the least of your concerns right now? Don’t you want to stick around for a bit?”
“My mom has a spot in a specialized facility come September. Way better care than I can give her,” I remind him, tamping down the frustration. “Once she’s settled, I’ve got no reason to stay here.”
