Protecting Miss Dawes - a job like any other

Chapter 3: Molly

He intrigued me, I could not deny that. He also annoyed me, and I was not sure if I liked or did not like having him by my side, or rather a few steps behind.

It was long since I got used to having bodyguards in general. When I first was told that my position now was such that I had been assigned one, it felt like a joke. Me, Molly Dawes from East Ham, was considered important enough to have a bodyguard! I nearly laughed out loud, but the serious face of the head of security, made me mask it as a cough attack. I was not sure if he bought it, because he looked quite suspicious.

"You do realise you may be a target from now on, Ma'am?"

I said I did, but it was not until later I realised how much my life now was changed. That when the door to the highest power in the country had opened for me, other doors had been closed simultaneously. Even though I now had the possibility to make decisions which few citizens could make, my own freedom was seriously limited. I could no longer go for a stroll in the park, or even sneak down to my local kiosk to buy a Cadbury chocolate and a high-quality magazine like 'Hello' without a shadow at my heels. Going visiting my family in East Ham was completely out of the question, judged to be too dangerous. It did not matter that I had ran those streets up and down or fetched my drunken dad from the pub when I was far too young to do so, now that I was a grown woman and the Home Secretary, it was not safe for me to set foot there. I understood the logic of it, but I found it hard to accept - and it made me feel caged. I missed being able to pop over to mum and Nan for tea and biscuits. I missed not being able to visit my sister and nephews. I missed hanging with my brothers and sisters watching TV on a Sunday evening, fighting over a bag of crisps. If I wanted to see them, it had to be carefully set up. Preferably they should visit me. They did, but not as often as I would have wished. They were never comfortable in my flat, never relaxed, my class journey and the current difference between our lives and homes too apparent. It was just that, that I was the same on the inside, only lonelier now. I still needed them but could not be close to them. It made me unhappy, but I realised it was the prize I had to pay. Most days it was bearable, some days it was not.

My journey from East Ham to be Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department, or in short the Home Secretary, had started with Ms. Jenkins. She was my teacher in secondary school and had somehow identified something in me that she did not see in her other students. She encouraged me, helped me with the homework as I had no help from home, made me believe that I could manage anything, that I was capable and smart. She also helped me to apply for a grant to a private school and when I got it, visited my parents and managed to convince them to let me accept it. She convinced me I could alone handle taking the bus which on school days would bring me to a very different part of the city, and she convinced me that it would get better, that I had to do it again when I came running to her, crying, after my first day among those children that on the surface were so different from me. She told me I was tougher than them, not born with a silver spoon up my arse, and more intelligent than the majority. She told me I had potential, I had been given a chance and if I just showed some grit, I would be able to fly anywhere I wanted. So, I endured, never fitted in exactly, but in time was accepted, excelled and went on to university where I was something of a star - and she was right, I flew.

I did not plan to get into politics it just happened as a sort of extension of engagements I had during my university years and the right people picking up that I had an interesting profile and helped me to move forward, driven by their own motives just as much as for the benefit of me. A young female who had risen from poor circumstances in her own capacity, that was the kind of poster girl that was in high demand. That was how I cynically thought of it later, but I did not realise that from the start.

I had been flattered. First by that people treated me like an equal, found me intelligent, listened to what I had to say. Later I was flattered by the realisation they wanted me on their team. So, I played along, followed the unspoken rules and sometimes the spoken too. Like when my mentor early in the political career told me I should see a speech therapist to get rid of my cockney accent. My simple background was an asset, but we did not want to exaggerate it, did we? And people had to be able to understand what I said, otherwise my message would not get though. It seemed reasonable, so I agreed, and a half-year of speech lessons amazingly enough did the trick. It was only when I got agitated I sometimes forgot myself and slipped into my old accent, and when I was with my family. Sometimes I thought I had erased part of myself when I changed the way I spoke, but most of the time I just considered it a trade-off. My motive for being in politics was not power itself, which I had noted to otherwise be a common driving force among politicians. Mine was to make a real difference, to allow more kids from East Ham and similar places to change their lives. To make less children, later grown-ups feel like they were not included in the society they lived in, but unwanted by-standers. If I could make that difference for ten children, or even one, then I would have achieved something in life.

Yet, some days it all felt like I was trapped in a wheel, madly spinning on, and I longed for a simpler life where I did not have to watch my every step – where I would not need to be watched over every step. Part of this journey, had been to get used to always having a shadow in the shape of a few bodyguards. It was just that this new one did not feel like a shadow. Charles James. He felt very much like a man of flesh and blood in my personal space. I had not let any man in there since my failed marriage. Truth be told, one of the reasons my marriage failed was probably because I did not even let Roger in there either, even if the main reason had been the discovery that he saw me more as a stepping-stone in his political career than a woman he truly loved. That was the big difference between us, that unlike him I wanted to love and be loved by someone just because we could not help ourselves, not for any other reason. My attempt at marriage had left me cynical, though, and now I doubted if I would ever be loved for the real me. Especially as I so seldom showed myself, for fear of making myself vulnerable.

But Charles James intrigued me from the moment I saw him. Of course, there was the obvious fact that he was bloody gorgeous, he would never melt into the shadows anywhere. I met men in tailored suits all days, but few wore them like him, like a second skin on a body so fit that any woman with an ounce of libido would at least briefly consider what it would be like to tear the suit off. There was also something else, something undefined. He seemed posh somehow, the way he talked, the way he moved, his self-confidence. Still, there was an easiness to him, but combined with quiet strength and an ability to be deadly serious. He was an employee to me, even if I was not the one to pay his salary, but already the first day he had showed that he was not afraid to talk back to me, if he thought it necessary, if he thought me wrong. I have never liked people who lick upwards, so I found it refreshing – even if it was annoying too. I had no doubt that he found me annoying in return after that first day, which was only fair because I had not been nice – but I could not help myself.

When we came inside my door and he told me to wait there while he secured the flat, he briefly put his hand on the small of my back and I was not sure if I should be annoyed because he was bossing me around, or if I should lean into him so that the warm pressure from his hand did not disappear. As the second option seemed inappropriate, I went with the first.

And when he went into my studio, he caught me off guard. No one ever went in there, because I did not allow it, and it made me feel exposed to have him in that room. I did not want him to scrutinise my family, judge my favourite books, see my secret stash of crisps, comment that the drawings made by nephews we not that skilled, or ask me how come I was cheering for West Ham. Of course, he did none of those things except asking about the football t-shirt, he just checked the room. Yet, it felt like he suddenly knew me better than most people I surrounded myself with all days. I was not comfortable with that and behaved badly.

It was like someone above gave me a reprimand for that, when I sat down to read the incident report from the 1st October attack and his name was there, as the one who had averted the whole thing. Prevented I do not know how many deaths. I looked between him and the words in the report. Here he was walking around like nothing, like he was not a damn hero of some sort and he did not tell me to sod off when I treated him like shit. It made me embarrassed, it made me feel like a very small person and I had to apologise. I saw that he had not expected it, that it was a positive surprise, and that made me glad. Like genuinely glad in the way I seldom felt these days.

Then Rob McDonald came dangling his wine bottle and it made me feel embarrassed, but in a different way. I do not know why I would care if PS James thought McDonald and I had a relationship and he might spend the night, but I did. I'm not sure what he thought when he left. Maybe nothing, maybe he did not care because after all I'm just another client to him. I should never forget that. To him, protecting me is a job like any other – and to me, he should be a bodyguard like any other.

But I felt I wanted to get to know him better. I knew nothing about him and it flew through my mind if I should order a briefing package on his past, but I felt that I wanted to get to know him in the regular way – asking questions and hope he would answer them. After I had sent McDonald home and the wine bottle stood unopened on my kitchen island, the thought of getting to know Charles James better made me go to sleep with a feeling of anticipation of the next day.