Yes, just for a day, everybody had wanted a piece of Andrew Fairbanks. Although, after the sharks had finished with him, there weren’t that many pieces left.
And that’s showbusiness.
2
‘What don’t you like about yourself?’ asks Rosie D’Antonio. She sits on an inflatable chair shaped like a throne, in a swimming pool shaped like a swan. ‘I always ask people.’
Amy Wheeler is sitting, bolt upright, on a garden chair at the poolside, the sun in her eyes and her gun within easy reach. She likes South Carolina. This hidden off-shoot of it, at least. Early morning and the temperature in the nineties, an Atlantic breeze, and nobody, for the time being, trying to kill her. She hasn’t shot at anyone in a while, but you can’t have everything.
‘My nose, I suppose,’ says Amy.
‘What’s wrong with your nose?’ asks Rosie, sipping something green through a non-recyclable straw, her trailing hand rippling the water.
‘Don’t know,’ says Amy. She is impressed that Rosie D’Antonio is in full, perfect make-up while in the pool. How old is she? Sixty? Eighty? A mystery. The age on her file reads Refused to disclose. ‘It’s just wrong, when I look at it. It’s off.’
‘Get it done,’ says Rosie. ‘Bigger, smaller, whatever you think you need. Life’s too short to not like your nose. Hunger and famine are problems, or no Wi-Fi; noses aren’t a problem. What else?’
‘Hair,’ says Amy. She is in danger of relaxing. Feels it creeping up on her. Amy hates relaxing. Too much time to think. She prefers to do. ‘It never does what it’s told.’
‘I see that,’ says Rosie. ‘But it’s easily fixed. There’s a hair technician I use. She flies in from somewhere. Chile, I think. Five thousand dollars and your troubles are over. I’ll pay.’
‘And my ears are lopsided,’ says Amy.
Rosie tilts her head and paddles herself towards Amy, considering her very carefully. ‘I’m not seeing that. You have great ears. Like Goldie Hawn’s.’
‘I measured them with a ruler once,’ says Amy, ‘when I was at school. It’s only a millimetre, but I always see it. And my legs are too short for my body.’
Rosie nods, pushing herself back into the middle of the pool, where the sun is hitting hardest. ‘More to the point, though, Amy, what do you like about yourself?’
‘I’m English,’ says Amy. ‘I don’t like anything about myself.’
‘Yawn,’ says Rosie. ‘I used to be English too, and I got over it. Pick something.’
‘I think I’m loyal,’ says Amy.
‘That’s a good quality,’ agrees Rosie. ‘For a bodyguard.’
‘And my short legs give me a low centre of gravity,’ says Amy. ‘So I’m very good at fighting.’
‘There you go,’ Rosie nods. ‘Loyal, and very good at fighting.’
Rosie raises her face to the sun.
‘If someone does try to shoot me this week, do you have to dive in front of the bullet?’
‘That’s the idea,’ says Amy, without conviction. ‘Though that’s mainly in films.’
It’s hard to dive in front of a bullet, in Amy’s experience. They go very fast indeed.
‘Or in books, sure,’ says Rosie. ‘Would you like a joint? I’m going to have one?’
‘Best not,’ says Amy. ‘Maximum Impact gives us mandatory blood tests every three months, company policy. A single trace of any drug and I’m fired.’
Rosie gives a ‘fair enough’ grunt.
It’s not the most exciting job Amy has ever had, but it’s sunny, and she likes the client. Rosie D’Antonio, the world’s bestselling novelist, ‘if you don’t count Lee Child’. Her Spanish-style mansion on her own private island just off the coast of South Carolina. With her own personal chef.
For various operational reasons Amy once had to spend the best part of a month living inside an abandoned oil pipeline in Syria, so this is a step up. The chef brings her a plate of smoked salmon blinis. He’s not really a chef – he’s a former Navy SEAL called Kevin – but he is learning fast. Last night his boeuf bourguignon was a triumph. Rosie’s regular chef has been given two weeks’ leave. Amy, Rosie and Kevin, the Navy SEAL, are the only people on the island, and that’s how it’s going to stay for now.
‘No one’s allowed to kill me,’ says Rosie. She has paddled over to the side of the pool, and is now rolling a cigarette. ‘Except me.’
‘And I won’t let you,’ says Amy.
‘But someone might try to shoot me,’ says Rosie. ‘Given one never knows any more, the world being as it is and so on. So, if they do try, no jumping in front of the bullet, okay? Not on my account. Let them kill the old woman.’
Maximum Impact Solutions, Amy’s employer, is the world’s biggest close-protection agency, possibly the second biggest since Henk van Veen left and took half his clients with him. If someone steals from you, or someone wants to kill you, or if there is discontent among your private army, they are the people to call. Maximum Impact Solutions has many mottos, but ‘Let them kill the old woman’ is not one of them.
‘I’m not going to let anybody kill you,’ says Amy.
Amy remembers watching Rosie on the communal TV when she was growing up. Those shoulder pads, that attitude. It had meant a lot to Amy, seeing how strong a woman could be, while she slept each night curled up in a ball under her bed and dreamt of better days. Rosie will not die on her watch.
‘What’s that accent?’ asks Rosie, taking the first drag on her joint. ‘It’s cute. Is it Manchester?’
‘Watford,’ says Amy.
‘Eesh,’ says Rosie. ‘I’ve been gone too long. Tell me about Watford.’
‘It’s a town,’ says Amy. ‘In England.’
‘I know that, Amy. Is it pretty?’
‘It’s not the first word I’d use,’ says Amy. She is looking forward to ringing her father-in-law, Steve, later. It’s a Friday, so he should be around. He’ll get a kick out of hearing about Rosie. Strong women had certainly been his thing. Maybe they will be again one day.
Thinking about strong women makes Amy think about Bella Sanchez. And thinking about Bella Sanchez makes her think about Mark Gooch. And thinking about Mark Gooch makes her …
And that’s the problem right there, Amy, isn’t it! When you relax, you think. None of that stuff is her business. Stop thinking: it never works out for you. Hit things, drive fast, defuse explosives, but, for the love of God, don’t think. Life isn’t school.
‘England is nuts,’ says Rosie. ‘In the eighties they loved me, then in the nineties they hated me, in the noughties they forgot me, in the twenty tens they remembered me, and now they love me again. I haven’t changed a jot in all that time. You ever read any of my books, Amy the bodyguard?’
‘No,’ lies Amy. Everyone has read one of Rosie D’Antonio’s books. Amy has been reading her books since she was a teenager. A social worker once handed one to her, a finger on their lips to warn Amy that this contraband was their little secret. And what a secret. The death, the glamour, the clothes, the blood. Shoulder pads and poison. But it’s important not to fangirl a client. A bullet doesn’t care how famous you are. Which actually is one of Maximum Impact Solutions’ mottos.
Amy had been rereading Death Pulls the Trigger on the plane up here yesterday. They’d made a film of it with Angelina Jolie, but the book was better. Lots of sex with millionaires, lots of guns. Stuff Amy could relate to.
‘You married?’ Rosie asks. ‘Kids?’
‘Married, no kids,’ says Amy.
‘He a good guy? The husband?’
‘Yeah, he is,’ says Amy, thinking of Adam. ‘As good as I am, anyway. I like him.’