August 2006
MARK
I don't like my new flatmate. She's bubblier than a bottle of champagne, and I fucking hate champagne—especially when a bunch of loud toffs are knocking it back like water while dancing around my living room.
I've never been happier to leave for a night shift.
After a quick pat of my pockets to check for my warrant card, keys, and wallet, I yank open my bedroom door and step into the zoo. Thumping music assaults my eardrums. If we don't get a noise complaint from neighbours, it'll be a fucking miracle.
A tall brunette glides into my path, reeking of alcohol and sickly perfume. She wobbles in her heels as she tilts a flirty smile at me.
"Hey there." One pointy fingernail grates over my chest. "Zoe said her new flatmate was hot, but we thought she was exaggerating. Stay for a drink?"
"Oh my god!" Zoe stumbles into her friend's side, eyes wide. "Mark, I'm sorry. Ignore her. I never said that. I mean, I did, but not like in a, you know, objectifying kind of way—"
"I need to go to work," I say, to save us all from this excruciating exchange. "See you tomorrow."
"Yes! Of course." Her cheeks flush as she glances around the room. "We'll be finished by the time you're back. Don't worry."
I nod and step around them. A scan of the room doesn't reassure me that this party will be finished by seven. Bottles litter the worktops, a concerning majority of them still unopened.
Zoe and I should set some ground rules. Our lease is for a year, and we're barely a week into it. If she's a party animal, that's not going to work.
On second thoughts, a noise complaint would be ideal.
*
I didn't join the police to babysit thieving scumbags, and yet somehow I spend six hours of my shift sitting in a hospital corridor because a burglar claimed he'd swallowed a battery. It's a common tactic employed to upgrade their accommodation from a custody cell to a hospital bed. Plus they know it pisses off cops.
If it was up to me, I'd call their bluff. On the highly unlikely chance they have actually been stupid enough to eat a battery... Oh well, natural selection at its finest.
Sadly, though, it's not up to me, so instead I have to sit around and watch overworked nurses fawn over some prick who'd break into their houses at the first opportunity he got.
I grind my teeth as I listen to the radio buzz with activity. My sergeant is desperate for resource. There's a fight at a pub, a domestic at a hotel, and an RTC with fatalities. I can't attend any of them. I can only listen with fear when Ben offers to attend the domestic alone.
It means I return home in an even worse mood than I left. Irritation and frustration chip away at my already-low tolerance levels as I jam the key into the lock and twist open the door.
The stench hits me first. Beer. Sambuca. Fucking champagne. Sunlight filtering through the Venetian blind—several slats now missing from the middle, others bent out of shape—reveals the war zone that used to be the living room. Empty bottles crammed onto the coffee table. Sofa cushions strewn across the carpet. Dirty plates on the windowsill. Takeaway boxes scattered near the bin. Smashed glass below the TV. The TV itself looks intact—miraculously.
Zoe's party.
Between the irritation and frustration from my pathetic shift, I barely have enough mental capacity to feel pissed off on top of that. I give it a go, though.
Stepping inside, I make a point of slamming the front door. Dread blends with the anger as I navigate the mess towards my room. If they've carried the party on in there, I'll fucking throw Zoe out myself.
I plant a palm against the shiny white wood and push. Safe. Either Zoe prioritised tidying my room, or she kept her feral friends out of it.
"Um, hey."
A nervous, quiet voice creeps across the living room and tickles the back of my neck. I've only known the girl a week. I shouldn't be a dick.
Slowly, I turn to face her. She's hovering next the sofa, wearing a fluffy pink dressing gown, blonde hair piled on top of her head. I lean against my doorframe and fold my arms.
"I'm sorry about the mess." She flicks a hand towards the blind, as if that's the worst part of this. In fairness to the girl, it's tough to identify one specific issue—the whole place is a tip. "I'll, uh, I'll get it all cleaned up, and I'll pay to replace anything that's broken. It's the first time we've all seen each other since I got back from my year abroad and I think we went a bit overboard."
I stare at her, but she looks anywhere other than me. Ashamed, probably. I hope so.
"Fine," I say. "If you could try to be quiet about it while you're cleaning, that would be great."
Her head bobs in a quick nod, but then she swipes at one eye and sniffs. Fuck. She's emotional when hungover. Fantastic.
Not my problem.
I need to sleep off the horrendous night I've just had, while she fixes the consequences of hers.
*
I wake to the smell of bacon. For a second, it's so divine that I almost convince myself yesterday was a dream. The battery bellend. The messy party. The crying flatmate.
When I open my bedroom door to a spotless living room, that convinces me further. Then I spot bottles neatly stacked in the recycling tray, and a knotted bin bag by the front door. Apparently I do indeed live with a wild animal, but at least she can clean up after herself.
"Uh, hey."
I whip my head around to the kitchen and see her standing by the hob. Tiny fingers clutch a plastic spatula above the sizzling frying pan. Sleep has mellowed this morning's high emotions, so I dial down my dickometer.
"Living room looks great. Thanks."
"I bought a new blind but didn't want to wake you by hammering into the walls, so I'll put it up while you're at work later. I'm really sorry. Again."
"I can put the blind up tomorrow. I'll be on rest days."
It's nice of her to offer, but I don't want her making a botch job of it. Easier to do it myself.
"I, uh, made you some breakfast. Or dinner. Whatever you call it when you eat at this time of day when you've just woken up... I wasn't sure what you liked, so I just did bacon because I thought that's something that can be eaten for breakfast or dinner. But if you want something else, I won't be offended."
Except, as she hovers there with flushed cheeks and hope glittering through her eyes, she very much looks like someone who would be offended if I turned down her bacon.
It smells great. And she has made an effort with the living room. I should meet her halfway.
"Bacon works," I say. "Thanks."
Relief washes over her heart-shaped face, and a small smile pulls at her lips. Either she genuinely feels guilty about last night, or she's the world's biggest people pleaser.
My money is on the second option.
"Do you want eggs, too? I make a great poached egg. Or I can do fried. Whatever you prefer. I've also got some hash browns in the oven, and I can put some beans on?"
"Sure." I say it automatically, her fast-paced words skimming through my brain without truly registering. Then I catch up, and backpedal. "Actually, no beans. Not a fan."
Her eyes light up. "Me neither!"
Which begs the question: why does she have beans in the cupboard if she doesn't like them? It adds weight to my people-pleaser theory. I thought last night's babysitting job was the height of pathetic, but seeing this girl get genuinely excited over sharing a mutual dislike for baked beans tops that.
She plates up, hands me a tray, and we sit across from each other as we eat—me in the armchair, her on the sofa. One mouthful in, guilt rattles through me. I shouldn't have called her pathetic. The food tastes fucking great. Zoe can cook.
"How was your shift last night?" she asks with a timid glance up at me.
"Shit."
Should probably expand on that, indulge her effort at conversation, especially since she's made dinner for me.
"It was busy, but I was stuck in the hospital with a burglar who'd pretended to swallow a battery."
Her lips part, then clamp together as her brow wrinkles. "Pretended? Why?"
"Because he was a fucking prick who'd rather waste police and NHS resources than spend a night in a cell."
"Oh." She looks down at her plate again. "I guess most burglars are fucking pricks, hey? And if you're ruthless enough to break into someone's home, you probably don't care about wasting resources."
The coarse language, even directly repeated, sounds strange coming from her well-spoken voice. Once again, I wonder if she's trying to level with me. Get on the same wavelength. Find common ground.
"What is it you do?" I force myself to ask.
"Oh. I'm at uni."
I already know that. She told me when applying for the spare room.
"Studying what?"
"Hospitality management with Spanish. I just got back from a year in Chile. That's why I needed somewhere to rent. All my uni friends graduated this summer, but I've still got a year left."
"And you didn't want to flat-share with them instead?"
She pierces her poached egg with the tip of her fork. Orange yolk leaks out and trickles over crispy bacon.
"Uh, no. Well, yes. I would have. But they all found a flat together while I was still in Chile, and there was no room for me, so... Here I am!"
I stare at her. At the almost imperceptible tremble of her chin. The tight fist clenched around her fork. The tense, hunched-over shoulders. Despite her faux enthusiasm, hurt is written all over her body.
"These the same friends who were here last night?" I ask.
"Yeah. It was nice seeing them, I guess. I don't know, I just felt like..." She trails off and then abruptly shakes her head and plasters on another fake smile. "Never mind. Not your problem."
On the contrary, her shitty friends trashing my flat is very much my problem. I don't point that out. I get the sense there are multiple issues in the mix here, and I'm not a fucking counsellor.
"The food is great. Thanks."
This time, her smile is real. It crinkles the corners of her eyes, stretches across her rosy cheeks. She's pretty. It's just a shame we won't get along.
*
"Do you not think you're being a little judgemental?" Ben plucks his usual sandwich—chicken and sweetcorn—from the Meal Deal shelf. "You've only known the girl a week. Give her a chance."
"I'm not being judgemental. These are opinions I've formed based on facts. For a tiny person, she makes a ridiculous amount of mess. She talks too fast for me to follow. She blushes whenever I do manage to get a word in edgeways—"
"Maybe it's your strapping good looks that have got her all flustered." Ben chuckles and punches me on the arm.
I glare at him. "Or maybe I'm just a dick and she's a people-pleaser."
"Here's a suggestion, then: don't be a dick."
We join the queue to pay, and the woman ahead gestures for us to cut in front of her. Ben flashes her a grin so wide it could illuminate football pitches.
"I'm not deliberately being a dick. That's my point." I keep my voice low to avoid eavesdroppers. "I just feel like everything I do upsets her in some way. Or like she's treading on eggshells to avoid upsetting me."
"Nah." Ben stifles a yawn and checks his watch. "That's just because you don't know each other. Give it time. You'll find common ground eventually."
We pay and stroll back to the car. Two parents are taking photos of their young kids next to it. When they spot us approaching, they usher the children away from the vehicle and shoot us an apologetic smile.
"Sorry. This is our first time in the UK. The kids love British police cars."
"No bother," Ben says. "Hey, you should get a photo of the kids with my colleague. PC Anderson here would be happy to oblige."
Fucking prick. I will have his balls for this later. The parents look elated, though, so I fix on my public-facing smile while mentally planning ways to make my partner pay.
*
A few hours later, we're driving through a busier section of town on proactive patrol.
"You spoken to Em recently?" Ben asks as we pull up to a red light.
"Couple of days ago. She didn't ask about you, if you're wondering."
Ben clicks his tongue and chuckles. "She's biding her time, mate. Once she's bored of Spain, she knows where to find me."
As much as I'd love that, I can't imagine my sister ever returning to the UK. She has a job over there, and until recently she had a boyfriend too. I never met him, but whoever he was, he wouldn't have been a match for Ben. He's been infatuated with Emma since they met two Christmases ago. Although I'd never be able to pick a better guy for her than my best friend, it's not remotely realistic when they live in different countries.
"I'm rooting for you, man," I said. "She doesn't know what's good for her unfortunately."
"Eh, I'm a patient guy. She's worth the wait."
The lights turn green, and we idle along the high street. A group of girls stagger down the pavement, arm in arm. Laughing. Shrieking. Calling out to guys on the opposite side of the road.
"Do you miss those days?" Ben flicks on his indicator and turns left. "Nights out. Getting drunk. Waking up in a strange bed."
"I'm only twenty-six," I say with a dry drawl. "Who says those days are over for me?"
"Uh, you did. Last night when you were whinging about your party girl flatmate."
"Yes, because she was partying in my flat." I reach into the footwell for my rucksack and pull out some foil-wrapped cookies. "You know I said she was a people-pleaser?"
"Are you about to tell me she's trying to please you by baking? Because that certainly pleases me." Not taking his eyes off the road, he holds out a palm and snaps his fingers.
Oaty sweetness fills the car as I peel back the foil. My mouth actually waters. It's not enough to forgive her, but it's a start.
"They're apology cookies," I tell Ben. "Apparently she likes to bake when she's hungover."
"I don't know what your issue is with her. She sounds perfect."
I smile and drop a cookie into his outstretched hand. "You're saving yourself for my sister, remember?"
He pulls into a petrol station, cuts the engine, and takes a bite. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, he moans as he chews.
"Dunno, mate," he says, mouth full of crumbs. "Unless Em can bake like this, my head might be turned."
I snap my own cookie in half. Flakes of oat trickle onto the shiny foil with a metallic patter. Mum used to bake, though she preferred cakes.
"You gonna eat that?" Ben asks.
"I was thinking about Mum." I sink my teeth into the biscuit. It's tastes as good as it smells.
Next to me, Ben rubs his hands together to brush off the crumbs. "Oh, yeah? Talk to me."
I swallow. "She loved baking. Never used to make cookies, though."
"What'd she make?"
"Cakes, mainly. Lemon Drizzle. Victoria Sponge. Black Forest Gateau."
Even now, the scent of toasty vanilla and rich cherries fills my nostrils. Mum slapping away Dad's hand as he tried to sneak an early taste. Em licking the spoon. Me complaining that the cake wasn't big enough. The nostalgia tightens my throat.
"You okay?" Ben's voice softens as he twists in the driver's seat to face me.
"Yeah." I toss him a strained smile. "Just miss them, that's all."
He reaches across to squeeze my shoulder. "They'd be proud. Promise you."
Nodding, I take another bite. While Mum never made these, the familiarity of home-cooked treats is comforting.
***
Thank you for reading :) xx
***
It's finally here! I've probably received more requests for Mark's story than any other spin-off. If you're coming here from Heart of Stone, this is going back in time (roughly 15 years) and we'll work our way forwards to present day.
If you're new here, I'd recommend you check out Heart of Stone too. This is a spin-off, so it can be read/understood on its own, but HoS is where Mark first came to life.
Updates for Bodyguard are currently once every 2 weeks on Wattpad, and every week on Ream. For those unfamiliar with Ream, it's a subscription platform which is similar to Patreon but specifically designed for reading/books. You choose a monthly tier to subscribe to in exchange for special benefits, such as early access to new books and exclusive access to my former Paid stories -- Office Affairs and Behind Office Doors. There's no minimum term so you can cancel at any time (heads up that you instantly lose access when you cancel), and there is also a "Follower" option, which is free and gets you into my author community + ad-free reading across all my existing books :)
In the meantime, what do you think of 26-year-old Mark so far?