Page 41 of The Bodyguard

“You probably know where everything is better than I do,” I say as we make our way into the kitchen through the back door.

“Yep. I do.”

She pulls a large, shallow pan from a wide, deep drawer underneath the hob; takes the bacon out of the fridge and lays some rashers in the pan.

“Can you fetch me the bread?” she asks, reaching into the utensil jar and pulling out some tongs.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Put a couple of slices each on those plates, over there.”

She jerks the tongs back over her shoulder, in the direction of a pile of plates neatly stacked on the dresser.

I pick two plates off the top of the pile, set them down on the table, and place two slices of bread on each plate.

“You do eat bacon sandwiches, right?” she asks, without looking at me. Her focus is purely on the pan in front of her.

“Yeah, I eat bacon sandwiches.”

“British style, I mean.” She casts a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Just, you know, white bread, a few bacon rashers and red or brown sauce?”

I can’t help smiling. “I’ve lived in the UK for quite a while now. Bacon sandwiches are pretty much a way of life, right?”

She flashes me a smile before turning her attention back to the bacon.

The sound – and smell – of frying bacon now fills the kitchen, and I lean back against the small, round table and cross my arms as I watch her cook. She just took charge, I could quite easily have made breakfast myself, but she gave me no chance to get in first. She likes to be in control, I get that now.

“I’ll do some scrambled eggs on the side,” she says, pulling another pan from the drawer. “Can you fetch me the eggs, please? And a bowl? Thanks.”

I grab the eggs from the fridge and a bowl from the cupboard. “Anything else?”

She looks at me and smiles. She seems much more relaxed than she did a few minutes ago, and it’s nice. The atmosphere in here is almost pleasant, and for a moment I forget what we’re actually doing. WhatI’mhere to do: who we really are.

I step back and watch as she cracks eggs into the bowl and whisks them up with a little milk, salt and white pepper.

“Do you have any cheese?”

“You like cheese on your scrambled eggs?”

“Don’t you?” She looks at me with an expression that saysdoesn’t everyone like cheese on their eggs?

“I’ve never tried it, to be honest.”

She turns her head away from me, her focus back on the eggs and the frying bacon.

“Well, how about you take a risk and try it now? I suspect you’ve taken bigger risks in your time.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

I start to lay the table, and for the next few minutes, while the eggs and bacon cook, the silence returns.

“Alright. This is ready now. Can you fetch the cheese from the fridge?”

She lays the bacon on the bread, cuts our sandwiches in two, and dishes out a portion of scrambled eggs on the side.

“Want me to grate some of this?” I ask, holding the block of cheddar up.

“Please.”

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