Page 13 of The Bodyguard Affair
Present Day
Not everyone can say they’ve touched the prime minister of Canada’s boxer briefs. On multiple occasions.
That statement sounds far more scandalous than it actually is. Like most things in this life, the truth isn’t all that titillating. Folding and packing the PM’s unmentionables is just a typical day in the life of me—the personal assistant to Gretchen Nichols, wife of the Right Honorable Eric Nichols.
I sigh, staring at the ominously high pile of tighty-whities, wondering how many I can stack before they topple over. You’d think after Underweargate (when a pair of Eric’s tighty-whities ended up on eBay for $750), he’d diversify his underwear collection. Maybe add a splash of color, a playful pattern. But he has not, which is achoice. I respect it.
Technically, the housekeepers are responsible for laundry,but after Underweargate, the Nichols family is understandably less trusting about who handles their unmentionables. And after three years as Gretchen’s PA, I’ve been deemed trustworthy of the privilege. Lucky me.
I won’t lie—there are times I wonder how I got here. When I landed that coveted summer internship with the Democratic People’s Party fresh out of university, I was bright-eyed, idealistic, hell-bent on sticking it to the man and making the world a better place for those who need it most—one policy memo at a time. As it turns out, jobs on the Hill are Hunger Games–level competitive. So when the manager of the household staff called me out of the blue and informed that the PM’s wife urgently needed a PA with a “get-up-and-go” spirit and “sparkly” personality, I took the position, no questions asked.
I left out the part that I possessed neither of those qualities, because I wasn’t in a position to be picky. I was freshly single, in my own apartment, and I needed the money, badly. Besides, I know firsthand how quickly life can go downhill if you find yourself unemployed for too long. I also mistakenly assumed the job would offer enough flexibility to pursue my side passion: writing romance. And it did for a few months, until Gretchen realized I’m allergic to the word “no” and took over my life.
Now, my days are packed from dawn to dusk: fielding phone calls from Gretchen’s pesky mother, steaming her capsule wardrobe of neutral linens, or hand-burying the Nichols children’s deceased pet hamster in the backyard (and arranging its themed “gone but not FUR-gotten” funeral). Instead of writing sweeping love stories in my spare time, I’m in a constant state of catch-up. I’m lucky if I can get a few sentences down a day.
To be fair, being Gretchen’s PA isn’t as bad as it sounds, evenif her intensity terrifies me. Over the years, I’ve come to believe that changing the world isn’t always about grand, lofty ideals and fancy policy documents. Maybe making a difference is in those small, honorable everyday tasks, like playing Jenga with Eric’s undies. The deeds that require you to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty, literally.
I’m about to start unpacking Eric’s socks when the bedroom door bursts open. Gretchen charges in like an impeccably dressed beige storm cloud and stands over me. “I know I texted you about packing that champagne satin dress for dinner, but I was looking at pictures from the fitting and I think the cowl neck makes me look boxy, don’t you? I can’t even wear a bra with it. I know nipples arein, but mine are way too aggressive. This is what happens when you exclusively pump-feed two children,” she cautions, peeking at them disapprovingly under her blouse.
As a childless woman with my original nipples, all I can do is nod and pretend to understand the struggle. Most of the time, all Gretchen wants is to be heard.
“The beige one doesn’t scream romantic anniversary dinner, either,” she continues, lips pursed. The word “anniversary” catches my attention.
Shit.
She doesn’t know. This is the third time I’ve had to be the bearer of bad news in the past few months.
Thankfully, she’s gotten good at reading me. It takes her all of two seconds to figure it out.
“Eric canceled again, didn’t he?” she demands before I’m forced to say it aloud. As a former attorney, the woman is scarily perceptive.
I dip my chin, softening my gaze. “I know you were lookingforward to it.” She and Eric had plans to spend the weekend in Mont Tremblant for their sixth anniversary, hence the packing. It was going to be a weekend of fine dining and relaxing couple’s spa treatments. I booked the entire thing months ago, and just like that, I’ll be spending the afternoon combing through cancelation policies and negotiating refunds.
She’s more upset than she’s letting on, by the way she’s furiously digging at her cuticles, shoulders squared in an effort to look casual and unaffected. Tension aside, she’s still absolutely stunning. Her bone structure is otherworldly and her poreless, tanned skin makes me want to cry. Then there’s her long, thick hair that always looks windswept, like she walks around with a fan blowing on her at all times. If she doesn’t receive at least one compliment on her lush locks, it’s a bad day for her. If I didn’t know she was an attorney, I’d assume she was a cover model. Canadian designers are constantly sending sample pieces in hopes she’ll wear them.
She huffs. “What’s going on this time?”
“It’s Kirkwood,” I tell her, because really, that’s all she needs to know. Kevin Kirkwood is the minister of finance—well, former minister as of 6:00 a.m. He stepped down publicly, and now they’re scrambling to find a replacement.
“Sex scandal?” she confirms knowingly.
I nod.
She lets out a throaty, marginally evil laugh, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I knew I didn’t trust him the first time we met. He was trying to guess the bra size of every woman at the table. Then, at the end of the night when I was going to leave, he claimed I owed him a hug.”
She’s not lying. I’ve lost track of how many times I dodged advances by men like Kirkwood as an intern.
“Who did he stick it in this time?” Gretchen asks before I can say anything.
“The nanny.” It’s not the first time Kirkwood has been embroiled in a sex scandal. In the two times previous (both interns), it was just whispers on the Hill with no actual proof, like most scandals of this nature. But this time, the nanny herself came forward with receipts (i.e., screenshots of laughably bad sexts where he had the audacity to type the word “bosom,” as well as a terribly angled dick pic for good measure), which hit the media, finally exposing his trash bag ways once and for all.
“The nanny.” Gretchen lets out a derisive snort. “So uninspired. If you’re going to have an affair, at least do it with some pizzazz. Some flair. We never hear of them sleeping with the gardener, or the Amazon delivery person.”
A feeble laugh bubbles up from my throat. “All right, so I’m going to cancel all the weekend bookings.”
Gretchen grumbles, mentally incinerating the suitcase with her amber eyes. “It would have been nice to actually spend our anniversary together. I thought with the House rising for the summer, we’d actually have more time together,” she says, referring to the months when members of Parliament return to their home constituencies for the summer. “But he’s busier than ever, if not more with the G20 summit. And with the election coming up in the fall, I won’t see him for months.” She’s not wrong. The election is in October, and while Eric is predicted to win again, the months leading up are jam-packed with travel, events, and general campaigning.
“I’m sure he’ll make it up to you…after the election,” I say hopefully as she disappears into the mahogany-paneled walk-in closet.
