‘Goodie,’ Sam said slowly. ‘You know that the best operative should stay as the close protection officer, and I know you know who that is. Don’tyoubullshitme.’
Goodie looked away from him for a moment and Salem, sensing her distress, came and leaned against her leg.
Sam watched the dog and then looked at Goodie’s clenched fists before he spoke again, this time in a softer tone. ‘What’s this about,myshka?’
‘Urgh! Don’t call me that, you prick. All I’m thinking about is strategy.’
‘Is something –’ he frowned again and scratched his head ‘– are you …? I mean, I may never have thought I would ask you this particular question, but is something …upsettingyou?’ Goodie’s eyes flashed with annoyance.
‘Fuck off,’ she spat at him before stalking back towards the house.
Sam watched her stiff, retreating back, a frown still marring his features. Something was wrong with Goodie. They’d experienced some extreme situations together in the past and he’d never seen her this rattled. Even after that bloodbath in Colombia, she’d shrugged and downed a few shots of vodka once they got back to base camp. Nothing affected her. Until now.
Chapter8
You work for me
Nick stalkeddown the stairs and into the dining room.
‘What ho, Flopsy,’ Uncle Giles boomed, the volume only slightly reduced by the copious amounts of eggs and bacon stuffed into his mouth. ‘Mrs B. outdid herself again this morning. Nothing like a full English to cure a squiffy head and dicky tummy. Afraid we were all a trifle blotto last night, reunion and all that.’ Nick gave his uncle a reluctant smile before surveying the table. Everyone was tucking into breakfast, including Ed, who had settled in remarkably quickly. But, then again, his family was like that: they pulled people in, made them feel welcome, put them at ease. Nick had yet to meet anyone resistant to it … well, that was if you didn’t count Goodie. Goodie was the reason behind his stalking down the stairs rather than the usual saunter. He hadn’t laid eyes on her since she met his family in the drive yesterday afternoon. For a close protection officer she was decidedly distant, and it was pissing him off. He didn’t quite realize how much he had come to like her being in his line of sight most of the time over the last month.
‘You look cross, Uncle Nicky,’ Arabella informed him around a mouthful of pancakes. She already had straw in her hair; it wouldn’t have surprised Nick if she had slept in the bloody stable.
‘I’m not cross, hedgehog,’ he told her, and she shook her head, causing straw to fall into Bertie’s tea.
‘Oh, sorry, Bertie,’ Arabella said quickly, and to Nick’s surprise she actually looked like she was braced for his reaction.
‘Don’t worry, Bels,’ Bertie said, smiling, and ruffling her hair so that more straw fell into his tea. ‘Straw laced with manure,’ he took a long sip, ‘adds to the flavour, don’t you know.’ She giggled and her shoulders relaxed. Bertie caught Nick’s eye for a moment, frowned up at him, and gave a quick flick of his eyes in Arabella’s direction as if to say, ‘What was that?’ Nick shrugged, deciding to keep a close eye on her over the next few days. But for now he needed to get back to his mission.
‘Good morning, darling,’ he heard from behind him, and turned to see his mum walk in holding a bowl of muesli and a cup of tea, closely followed by his Auntie Rose.
‘Hi, Mum, Rose,’ he muttered distractedly before giving them both a swift kiss on the cheek and moving towards the door. Unlike the rest of the family, his mother was not widely considered to be ‘obnoxiously posh’, in fact she had a very light West Country accent, was quiet and very maternal (which was reflected in the way she dressed: standard Mum uniform of matching jumper and cardy, and hair in a short style that rarely moved even in extreme weather conditions). His Dad had met her at one of the village fêtes and he’d said it was love at first sight. Claire March had not been quite so sure of her feelings for him (the obnoxiously posh bit took some getting used to), but he was nothing if not persistent. A year after they met she became Claire Chambers and that was that. Her family may have been apprehensive at first but Nick’s grandparents were soon all sucked into the Chambers family craziness, adding some much needed sanity to the mix.
‘Are you looking for someone, darling?’ she asked, and he paused at the door, turning to his mum and raising his eyebrows. She smiled at him, and then sat down next to her husband.
‘It’s just that if you were looking for someone my advice would be to start in the kitchen,’ she said, her back turned to Nick, although he could still hear the smile in her voice.
* * *
‘Willhe be alright with Xavier’s food, dear?’ Mrs Beckett asked as she bustled around the kitchen getting a bowl and food for Salem. ‘Spect he’ll need a mite bit more though, given the size difference.’ Goodie followed the direction of Mrs Beckett’s gaze to see the pug’s fat little body dancing around a long-suffering Salem and alternating between head-butting his undercarriage and drooling on his paws. But Salem didn’t fool her; she’d seen him lick Xavier’s head before they both fell asleep next to her last night; he was a sucker for this ridiculous snub-nosed ball of energy.
Goodie started to push up to standing. ‘I will do it. Please don’t go to any trouble over …’ She trailed off, then stilled as she felt Mrs Beckett’s hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m happy to do it, love,’ Mrs Beckett said gently. ‘Reckon you could do with some time in that chair and some caffeine before you start your day.’
Goodie was not used to other people taking care of Salem for her. She looked after him just like she looked after herself.
Just like she had done since she was nine.
The idea of someone else shouldering some of her responsibilities, in however small a way, was … unsettling. To Goodie this house and the people in it wereallunsettling, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. She’d woken up this morning to the sounds and smells Mrs Beckett was creating, and to the low voices accompanying them. When she emerged into the kitchen she had come face to face with two middle-aged women. Neither showed surprise at her entrance, almost as if she was expected –almostas if they were waiting for her.
‘Hello, dear,’ one of the women had said, moving towards her, her expression cautious but warm. ‘I’m Claire, Nick’s mother. They call you Goodie, is that right?’ Goodie nodded. ‘I’m grateful to you for looking after my boy.’
Goodie shrugged. ‘I didn’t do –’
‘I know what you did, love.’ Claire cut her off, then Goodie stiffened as she moved further into her personal space as if to hug her. Taking in Goodie’s defensive stance, Claire slowed her approach and reached for Goodie’s hand instead, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it. ‘So, do you eat breakfast?’ she had asked, breaking the tense atmosphere. Goodie nodded slowly. ‘Great, because Mrs Beckett here makes a mean bacon and eggs. Word of warning though – don’t try to call her by her first name; the most informal she’ll tolerate is Mrs B.’
‘If you had a first name like mine you wouldn’t want to be called it either,’ Mrs Beckett put in, glaring at Claire. ‘Anyway Beckett reminds me of my husband George, God rest his soul.’
