The bodyguard

Kristine Atterbury, Contributor

They start at the beginning, as they always do. Hands linked, shoes in hand, feet bare against the warmth of the asphalt. And next to them, stretching as far as the eye could see in its beauty, the beach.

It's not really seven miles of beach, the way it is advertised, more like three or four, which is why they can walk the whole length of it in less than a day. They have done it countless times before, the road on one side of them, the ocean on the other.

She moves towards the sparkling blue-green sea almost immediately but he gives her hand a gentle tug. Not yet, his eyes say. In this time, in this place, there is very little need for words between the two of them. Words will only lead to questions, denials, arguments.

After a few minutes, the road becomes too hot to bear and they both leap towards the beach, giggling like schoolchildren. The cool, wet sand soothes her feet and she smiles at him, her lover, her friend. Her bodyguard.

"So warm today," she exclaims. He studies her beaming face for a moment, savouring every inch and nuance of it before answering.

"That's true. It was always damp and rainy before. It always rains in Negril. "

"But not this time," she says, a note of triumph in her voice.

He slips an arm around her, and holds her tight. "No," he agrees. "Not this time."

By the time they have walked a little over two miles, it's time for lunch. They sit on the beach together, munching on cheese patties. She tries to remember the last time she had a patty. Then she considers how long it will be before she has another. The beef and melted cheese congeal in the back of her throat and she squeezes her eyes tight for a moment. When she opens them, he's watching her.

"Ready again?" she demands cheerfully. He tries to hold her gaze but she is already standing, brushing the sand from her bottom and adjusting her bikini top. Instead of following the road, she turns suddenly and runs toward the water, throwing herself in, stomping through the shallow ocean. She ducks her head under the water, flails her arms around, then stands up straight again. Usually, she's a good swimmer.

Leaving their belongings on the beach, he wades in and swims to her in slow, sure strokes. Her eyes are red and focused on some distant point beyond the horizon. He pulls her close and kisses her salt-brushed lips. Her arms wind around his neck and he feels both gratitude and resignation in her embrace. He kisses her until that distant, unfocused look is gone from her eyes.

It is only midday, and the beach is not empty. Everyone pretends not to know what the couple in the ocean is doing.

Her mood lifts in the early afternoon. She bounces cheerfully next to him, stopping to grab a shard of shell or coral, pointing out sunburned tourists, running ahead of him and then darting back again for a quick peck on the cheek. It is easy to slip away from reality in this beautiful, sleepy little town and her euphoria is contagious.

"How many miles left?" she asks. He looks at her and feels the atmosphere dip around them, the clouds rolling across the sky, a brittle wind whipping her hair across her cheeks.

"Just enough," he replies, reaching to put his arm around her. She ducks from under his embrace, and breaks into a run, staying ahead of him for the rest of the way.

Back at the hotel, she flits about the room, getting ready for dinner, almost manic in her movements. He sits quietly, watching her. When her cellphone rings, she gives a small gasp, then presses her lips together firmly before answering it.

"Hi, baby!"

Her voice is sharp and shrill in the quiet of the room.

He steps outside, and waits.

By dinner, her mood has grown sombre.

"Maybe we shouldn't have come," she says.

He sighs, and stares beyond her at the twinkling lights of the town behind them.

"Maybe you're right."

He watches her eyes grow bright and damp with disappointment, and he takes a large sip of wine, turning his attention to the dessert menu. After that, they eat in silence.

Back at the room, they sit on the double bed together, close and yet not touching, legs stretched out on the brightly coloured comforter. He turns on the television and flicks to one of the news channels, catching the middle of an entertainment news report. Beside him, she shifts nervously.

The report follows the shady doings of several celebrities, who's under arrest for domestic assault, who cheated on his wife, who got caught with sneaking around with her backup dancer. At the end of the report, he turns to her.

"See? Nothing to worry about."

Her shoulders are hunched together with tension. "It's just a matter of time before they find out."

He reaches over to take her hand, and she grasps it tightly. Her longing for him is a poignant, painful lump in the back of her throat. She looks at him, trying to frame him this way in her memory forever: his legs long beside her, his shoulders broad, his face serious, strong and competent.

Sensing her need the way he always does, he leans over to look into her eyes, and she dips her head towards his and kisses him, her eyes closed and her hand on his chest as her mouth moves against his, sighing with pleasure and guilt and need, loving the way his arms wrap around her, strong and powerful.

On the television, another news report begins and she tenses, waiting to hear, but then his face is before her, his pupils dilated and hot on her.

"Just forget about them for one more night. One more."

She nods to him slowly, as if in a dream, and he kisses her again, bearing her down, his hands everywhere as she gives herself up to him completely.

When she steps off the plane, her family is there to greet her. The paparazzi are also there, capturing shot after shot as she hugs each of her three children, and then her husband, his eyes cool and bored already, his arms barely coming up to embrace her, his handsome smile flashing for the cameras. He doesn't see her, doesn't notice her tan, or her windblown hair, or her eyes, slightly damp and full of emotion.

"Had a good time?" he asks, still grinning for the shots that will appear on a dozen websites and in several tabloids by the next day.

She doesn't reply, and he doesn't notice. Behind her, the bodyguard is grim and silent, fading into the background as the famous family get into the waiting car.