Page 2 of The Bodyguard

“He’s on site, at the apartments in Netherly Bridge. I’ll text him.”

“Thanks.” He reaches for the door handle, and then stops and turns back to look at me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mum’s on her way over.”

“Here?”

“Yep. She’s missed you, Sis.”

He throws me a wide grin before leaving my office, and I sit back and sigh heavily, spinning my chair back around to look out at the view of the river. I can see all the way over to the other side of the Tyne, to Gateshead and beyond. A mixture of smart office suites, art galleries, music venues, bars, restaurants and exclusive apartments surround us, we blend in here. This place, the glass-fronted offices of Nielsen Construction, it’s exactly the kind of front my father needs to run the kind of business he does in the shadows. The kind I try to avoid getting mixed up in, but sometimes it’s hard to avoid. And I’m not ignorant enough to think he doesn’t use this business, in some shape or form, as a front, I just try to side-step all the shit I don’t need to know about. But at the same time, I think I need to be a part of it, for my own safety. But in terms of my involvement within the family business – the real family business – well, Dad’s always tried to keep that to a minimum. We all have our roles. I run the construction company from this ultra-modern, riverside building. Mum’s the dutiful wife, and Ollie– well, he’s part of Dad’s world. I was never really given that option. And sometimes that bothers me. As soon as I finished university I was put front and centre of Nielsen Construction, I was to be the face of the family company, and that was the only choice handed to me. Theonlychoice. And yeah, I could’ve walked away, looked for something else, but I wanted to work with my family. I wanted to do some good, because Nielsen Construction also heads up a vast range of charities here in the north-east. What my father does behind the scenes, it has nothing to do with that side of the business. The side the world sees. And it’s my job to make sure the two stay entirely separate. But I know – of course I know – that I’m only told what I need to hear. Need to know. And that unsettles me, more than I care to admit.

I swing my chair back around as my phone rings out, and I check to see who’s calling. It’s Mum. And I contemplate rejecting it but that won’t keep her at bay forever, so I sigh quietly, and reluctantly answer it.

“Hey, Mum.”

“Lena, sweetheart! I’m down in reception. I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and take you to lunch.”

I close my eyes and silently count to three before taking a deep breath. “Come on up. I just need to finish a couple of things here and I’ll be done.”

I fire off a quick reply to an email that can’t wait until after lunch for a response, and then I get up and go over to the full-length mirror in the corner of my office and check my reflection. I look okay. A bit tired, but that’s because I’m still holding onto some of that residual anger caused by finding out my ex-fiancé is actually a grade-A cheating son-of-a-bitch. It’s done fuck all for my skin, and I’m sure it’s caused a few more fine lines to appear around my eyes, and now I’m beginning to wonder if letting him walk free was such a good idea, but I’m stopped from taking those dark thoughts any further by my mother’s appearance. She doesn’t do knocking.

“Are you all done?” she asks, setting her handbag down on a nearby chair. Sometimes I think she honestly believes that I’m nothing more than a figurehead in this company. That I do nothing more than pop in every day for a couple of hours just to show my face.

“Yeah. I’m all done.”

Mum knows I’m not really a fan of these “girly” lunches, but she’s only doing it because she wants to spend some time with me. Ollie’s right, she’s missed me, and in reality I’ve missed her too, while I was giving way too much of my time to a man who didn’t give a shit about me. Us. Yeah. I’m really starting to double-down on those second thoughts now.

“That colour really suits you, darling.”

“Hmm? This?” I glance in the mirror again, at the russet-toned pant-suit I’m wearing, teamed with an open-necked white shirt and high-heeled ankle boots, my long, dark hair pulled back into a side-ponytail. “It was the first thing that fell out of the wardrobe this morning that didn’t need ironing.”

My mother lets out a disapproving cluck and comes over to me, tugging gently on the lapels of my jacket before smoothing it down over my hips. “You’re lucky you’ve inherited my ability to make anything look good.”

Tawnee Nielsen. A woman who oozes glamour and power in equal measure, she’s a remarkably beautiful woman, tall and elegant with shoulder-length, slightly curled silver hair, high cheekbones and perfect skin, for a woman her age. An ex-model, it was love at first sight for my father, or so he tells us. It could just be another one of his stories, I don’t know, but the way he looks at Mum whenever he tells us that particular story, it feels real. And if there’s one thing I’m absolutely certain of it’s that my parents love each other with an almost fierce intensity. They love their kids. To everyone looking in we’re this perfect, successful, happy family but that’s because they don’t know the truth. They have no idea of the reality: of the shit that goes on behind the clever façade my father’s built up.

“When was the last time you had a facial?” My mother takes a step back, folds her arms, and cocks her head slightly. “You look tired.”

Yeah, ’cause I really neededthatconfidence booster. “I’m fine.”

“Are you drinking?”

“I have a couple of glasses of wine every now and again.” Every night, to be accurate. And there were a few of those nights when glasses were swapped for bottles, just after I found out what David had done, but that didn’t last. He wasn’t worth the extra calories.

“Alcohol is so bad for the skin.”

“Is there a point to this? Only, I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious now.”

“I’ll book you an appointment with Garth. He does the most incredible facials, I swear he’s knocked ten years off me.”

I turn back around to face the mirror, leaning in to take a closer look at my face while Mum contacts her miracle-working beauty therapist. Do I really look that bad? I thought I looked okay, to be honest. I mean, I’ve looked better, but that was before the stress of making sure my father didn’t end the walking abilities of my dip-shit of an ex-fiancé.

“Alright. Let’s go.” My mother slides her phone into her no-doubt obscenely expensive handbag and smiles at me. “I’ve booked us a table atDaphne’s.”

I pull myself away from the mirror and grab my own, less expensive handbag. I could easily afford the kind my mother leans more towards, but I don’t see the point in spending money unnecessarily. “You’re pushing the boat out, aren’t you?” And did she just say booked? Past tense? There was never any way I was getting out of this lunch, was there?

“Well, it’s a special occasion, isn’t it?” She throws me another smile, but this one is tinged with something I can’t quite put my finger on. And now I’m beginning to think there’s an ulterior motive to this lunch. Great! That’s almost always a bad sign, in this family. “It’s been a while since you and I have been able to spend time together like this.”

She’s right. It has. So I return her smile and link my arm through hers, planting a quick kiss on her perfectly made-up cheek. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here, I’m starving! I say we order the mezze sharing platter and a bottle of dry white wine. How does that sound?”

My mother squeezes my arm, and this time her smile is brighter. Wider. “It sounds perfect.”

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