Page 20 of The Bodyguard Affair
“We’ve had our fair share of those,” Ivan notes from the front seat. “Eric routinely shows up on most punchable politician lists.” The downside of being popular with the majority is that he’s vehemently hated by an asshole fringe minority who don’t want to see a half-Indian guy from the projects as their nation’s leader. And that fringe minority is loud.
“It’s true,” Eric faux-brags. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle myself.”
“He’s not lying,” Ivan informs. “The man has a black belt and a law degree. He could fuck you up and turn around and sue your ass.” That’s part of his wide appeal. He isn’t some rich kid who grew up steeped in privilege, or closely connected to politics. In fact, his mother raised him and his brothers on her own, while working full-time as a personal support worker for people with physical disabilities. He put himself through university, and then law school, where he worked for legal aid for ten years, which was where he met his wife. After getting frustrated with the legal system, he tried his hand at politics with the goal of making real change. And he has.
Ivan tilts his head to me. “Crosby, I sent you the floor plans and videos for the Squamish trip, which you’re joining, by the way,” he informs, referring to Eric’s two-day trip back to his home riding. This is news to me. As the new guy, I didn’t think I’d be traveling so soon.
A couple guys from the team have been there for a week already, casing everything out down to the floor plans for the venue, hotel, restaurants, and coffee shops the PM will visit, as well as each and every route for the motorcade. It seems like overkill to the average person, but it’s standard in this line of work. Everything must be preplanned to minimize risk. This job is all about prevention. If an incident does happen, we’ve already failed.
Before I can respond in the affirmative, Eric turns to me. “Is that okay? I know you’re taking care of your mom and—”
In all honesty, it gives me some anxiety. The whole reason I took this contract was so I could be here for the summer—until a spot opens up for Mom in the assisted living center. At the same time, I’m too new to decline work.
“It’s all good. She’ll be fine. Appreciate it, though.” I wave him off casually, casting my hard stare out the window as we pull through the gates of 24 Sussex, which is swarmed with media, presumably here about the Kirkwood scandal.
The moment we exit the vehicle, one of them steps forward, his microphone pointed at Eric. “Any comment regarding the rumors about you and your wife’s personal assistant?”
Chapter 7
Andi
I wake up to two alarming texts. The first is from Laine.
Laine:Hey! The friendliest reminder that the deadline to RSVP to the wedding is next week. We’d love to have you there. XO -L
Ugh. That feeling. The dread that always gathers in my gut on the rare occasion her name pops up on my screen. These days, my friendship with Laine consists of a few texts back and forth with some variation ofWe must hang out soon!!with many exclamation points and emojis, but ultimately no follow-up. In fact, I found out about her and Hunter’s engagement last year via social media. And two months ago, it came in the mailin the form of thick cardstock with a loopy script font, which read:
The presence of your company is requested for the wedding of
Laine Hall and Hunter Williams
Frankly, I was shocked to be invited. I still haven’t RSVP’d, despite the wedding being in less than two months. In Mexico.
I’d rather have uncontrollable, explosive diarrhea at a fancy foreign dignitary event than travel to a Mexican resort to celebrate their nuptials among an intimate group of family and close friends. But if I say no, I look bitter. Declining would also solidify the end of our friendship, and I don’t know if I have the heart to make it official, despite the writing on the wall.
So I do the mature thing: avoid it entirely and move on to Gretchen’s text.
Gretchen:See me in my office this morning when you arrive. It’s URGENT.
The aggressive use of caps lock gives me pause.
That’s odd. These days, Gretchen isn’t normally awake until around ten, which gives me plenty of time to get her clothes steamed and coffee and breakfast ready. When she texts, she’s intensely specific about what she wants. This vague and ominous text gives me nothing.
Heart hammering in double time, I throw on a wrinkled pencil skirt and cardigan from the pile on my floor, toss my hair into a quick bun, and hightail it to work on foot with no makeup. This will have to do.
I burst through the employee entrance twenty minutes later, rain-soaked hair sticking to my forehead. The door leads into the staff kitchen, where the household workers congregate for breaks.
The voice of Noella, one of the nannies, roots me in place by the door. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.”
“I always thought she had a crush on Eric. Guess it wasn’t so innocent,” says a softer voice I recognize as that of Ann, the head chef.
“Do you think she’ll get fired for this?” Noella asks.
Whoa. Something big must have gone down. Normally, I keep close tabs on the news cycle. It’s my job to stay informed. To know exactly what Eric and Gretchen are talking about at any given time. But after the whirlwind of last night’s impromptu restaurant gesture, I went to bed early and didn’t have a chance to scroll through the headlines this morning.
I poke my head around the corner like a gopher, curious. “Hi,” I squeak, removing my coat before I start sweating profusely from the humidity. The temperature in this old house only knows two extremes, arctic chill or Satan’s asshole, and right now, it’s the latter.
Noella and Ann simultaneously jump at my presence. They let my greeting hang, gaping at me in silence, like I’m a sinister ghost of prime ministers past or something. Normally, they’re friendly with me—more so Noella, who provides daily updates on her foster cats. She jumps at the chance to talk to adults whenever she can, since she spends most of her time with theNichols kids. Ann, on the other hand, hates me and my entire essence since the time I mistook her lactose-free string cheese in the communal fridge for my own. Ever since, she’s labeled all her food items in bold blood-red Sharpie.
