A/N: This chapter and next was one which got a bit long so I split it, but the second half will be published shortly. As always, thanks for your lovely reviews.
Chapter 11: Molly
As soon as the door closed behind him, I ran towards my bedroom and jumped into bed, literally, so I bounced on it like a child. Very not in manner worthy of Home Secretary. I felt all giddy, and I knew that the champagne and wine I had been drinking earlier had little to do with it. He had everything to do with it. I replayed all the best moments from the evening in my head – and he was part of them all.
When he turned to me as I walked into the studio once the stylist was done with me, so incredibly handsome in dinner jacket and white shirt that my heart almost stopped, I had realised that his opinion of how I looked was the only opinion I cared about this evening. I had wanted him to think me beautiful and his eyes seemed to tell me that he did, and then his words too even if I had to pull them out of him. That dress was not like me, but in retrospect I knew I had been thinking of him when I bought it. Had wanted him to see me in it, had wanted him to think I was something special. Had wanted him to want me.
During the party, I loved all those brief moments when our eyes met across the room. Each time I wished I could be close to him instead of parted by a crowd, but I also liked the feeling that we shared a common secret, even if I had no idea what that was. It helped me endure talking to and dancing with Rob McDonald. He did not seem discouraged at all by the awkward near-date I had interrupted, instead he seemed more eager than ever to be close to me. His sweaty palm too far down on my back, his stale breath on my face when we danced. I knew I could not stand it a second time, so when I saw him striding towards me over the floor again, it gave me the excuse I had wanted all evening to dance with Sergeant James. Charles. I had never called him that to his face, but I had thought the name many times. Dreamed of moaning it close to his ear.
He had never touched me before and now he was holding me steadily as we danced. Despite my high heels, he was so tall compared to me and being in his arms made me feel both small and safe at the same time. Despite his length and a body that ought to be heavy from muscles, he moved so lightly over the dance floor and when he nimbly lead me it felt easier to dance, and dance well, than I ever had experienced before. Unlike Rob, his breath smelled fresh, minty and he was wearing an after-shave I really, really liked. So much that I now considered if I should go to a perfume shop this weekend and try to find it, just to have it and sniff at when I felt like it, but it would be very awkward if he spotted the bottle when he was doing his regular check of the apartment. 'How come I have a man's after-shave? Well… errrr… And it's the same that you have? You don't say!?' That was a conversation I would not like to have. It would be very weird and difficult to explain, so I simply had to hope I would get to smell him wearing it again.
And his hands on me, that was nothing like Rob's. Large, comforting, yet exhilarating hands that did not move anywhere they should not – even if I would have liked them too. And later, when he unzipped my dress… I felt his breath on my neck, like a breeze moving the little hairs there, giving me goosebumps as he carefully, excruciatingly slowly pulled the zipper down, and I was dying for him to touch me. Hoped he would do it, if only by mistake, heard my blood whiz in my ears and the faint sound from the zipper, in the otherwise compact silence. He remained completely professional, just stepped away as soon as he was done – and I liked him even more for it.
Then we just had the greatest time, relaxing in the sofa. Had the meal, mixed seriousness with banter and I felt I got to know him a little better. I could have stayed up talking to him all night, but then he had to go. Naturally, because this was not a date, he was not to sleep over or even give me a kiss on the cheek as he left. This was his workday, I was his job and it was time for him to quit and go home and leave foolish little me here. Foolish because I was beginning to fall in love with my bodyguard. I snorted at the thought, if people knew! Celebrities like singers, seemed to fall for their bodyguards every now and then. Like Brittney Spears, or Whitney Houston – but that was a film come to think of it. Anyway, for them a bit of gossip involving a hot bodyguard might only be a boost to their careers, making them more interesting. For me it would likely achieve killing my career. Yet, thinking of those brown eyes, his smile, sometimes reserved, sometimes warm, his way of biting his lower lip when he was thinking about something, the dark, thick curls that I would like to run my fingers through, grab and pull him towards me – all that made my knees feel weak and he was what I saw when I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep.
Even if I knew there could be nothing between us, the thought of seeing him again Monday morning made me feel happy anticipation all through the weekend. He started later than usual due to a meeting with his boss, and when he finally came he quickly dampened the happy feeling I had had. Suffocated it completely even. I had a meeting in my office and through the large glass window saw him arrive, replace Kim Knowles, and I smiled at him. He just looked back at me with his face completely devoid of emotions, eyes dark without any twinkle. There was no connection between us, nothing, no acknowledgement that we had had a great time together a few days ago, no sign that he ever had smiled at me or intended to do it again, that he knew me at all. I was taken completely by surprise and I felt deeply disappointed. So disappointed that it ached inside. Had he only kept me company to be kind and now he thought enough was enough and wanted to draw a line and stay completely professional? I did not know or understand, but stupidly enough it hurt. It hurt in a different way than it had when I realised Roger did not love me for me, but it hurt and it made me feel silly.
A bit later I had another one-to-one with Stephen Hunter-Dunne, one of those regular meetings I had set up to try to get a grip of him and what was going on within the Security Service. I feared what purposes he and the PM would use the RIPA-18 regulation for, the possibilities seemed endless and not in a positive way. Many in the public were against it, but I had the uneasy feeling that forces to drive it through were strong despite its unpopularity. I got no new information out of Stephen this day though, he just tried to get my permission to interfere with Anne Sampson's investigation of the 1st October attack and when I said I could not allow it because it would set a dangerous precedent, he could hardly hide his annoyance.
"Her people are getting nowhere, Home Secretary!"
"Police jurisdiction is clear Stephen."
"But…"
"That's enough. We will not discuss it any further."
He was fuming when he left me, and I had the feeling that I had an enemy rather than an ally in him, but as they say – keep your friends close and enemies even closer. That was what I was trying to do.
Sometime during that meeting, I looked out again and this time Sergeant James really had a stern-face on and was looking at me searchingly, his brows furrowed – like I was doing something bad. Again, I wondered what was the matter with him, without getting any answer of course. When it was lunch time and I finally got out from my office, it was no different. He just greeted me courtly, then kept his distance, said very few words, more like a stranger than he had been even on his first day working for me – and I understood nothing. This behaviour continued over the next days and eventually I gave up any tries of chatting and reluctantly accepted that this was the new normal.
The following Monday, I was invited to a meeting at No. 10 Downing Street. As I walked the short distance between the car and the entrance, there was a flock of journalists gathered, shouting questions and I heard;
"Moving in Home Secretary?"
"Is this your new home, Home Secretary?"
Apparently, the PM and Roger were not the only ones who speculated that I aimed for this address and it made me uneasy. I glanced at James, but he had on the stone-face that now seemed to be a permanent feature, no indication he even had heard.
My favourite ex-husband was there of course, greeting me as jovially as ever;
"The PM's pissed off. Thinks you're hogging the limelight. Naturally I disabused him of the idea that you would attempt a leadership challenge." His voice filled with sarcasm.
"What have I done now? I haven't even given any interviews since the one with Hawkes."
"No official ones maybe, but apparently you danced with one journalist at the PM's birthday party and he was completely mesmerised by your wits and charm, which he described in detail in his weekend column, so everyone's Saturday breakfast read was how amazing you are. Quite the little campaign for yourself."
"I'm sorry Roger, it seems like I'm just not able to please the two of you. Whatever I do, it's wrong. I think I even told that journalist that I'm pro RIPA-18, so I thought I was doing you good – but this time I was too charming. I can't believe it."
I walked past him and asked myself how I ever could have been married to this intolerable man.
The meeting was a discussion about RIPA-18, and behind locked doors I once again aired my fears for implementing it, tried to make them all listen until the PM and Roger essentially told me to shut up. By the end of it I felt people were swaying in their direction, the regulation one step closer to being approved. Once the meeting was over, the PM asked me to stay behind and I braced myself for another bollocking. Now the topic turned out to be another another than my party conversation with a journalist or the abominable regulation.
"What is the latest progress of the 1st October attack investigations?", he demanded to know.
I repeated the latest updates from Anne Sampson, which was that the investigations were not as fruitful as one could have hoped.
"I'm starting to lose confidence in the police's ability to make progress", said the PM. "So, I'd like to take up Stephen Hunter-Dunne's proposal for the Security Service to assume a role in interviewing the 1/10 bombers."
I wondered how he knew of that proposal. I certainly had not told him. Had he talked to Stephen himself about this? It made me very concerned, but I tried to remain calm.
"Sir, that would be setting a dangerous precedent. This can only be a police matter. I've already told Stephen no."
"And now I'm telling you yes. Make it happen, Molly. I want those bombers and all their accomplices behind bars. It does not look good that time goes by without result."
"I must object…"
"No, you mustn't. We are done here."
And I realised that I could say nothing to make him change his mind, he wanted the Security Service in on this.
"Sir."
I could not believe I had been overrun in that way. He was forcing me to force Anne Simpson to accept Stephen's interference, against my will. I knew what she would think of me when I told her. She would think that I was the one not trusting her and had MI-5 run my errands, when I was in fact trying to prevent Stephen from going off-piste. I was furious when I got into the car, sat down in my usual place behind James with Terry beside him in the driver's seat. My thoughts were floating as we drove through the streets. What was the PM and Stephen up to? I did not have a good gut feeling about this whole situation, and the direction the RIPA-18 was leaning made me feel desperate. This was all so wrong.
My thoughts were abruptly disrupted, and my focus returned to the immediate surroundings as someone fired a shot at the window on Terry's side of the car.
