Chapter Fifteen
The suit was doing all sorts of things for him.
Lex had suspected as much in the fitting room at Gieves the full name, the bow to the King, the handshake, and the scripted exchange.
What he got was a conveyor belt treatment.
They shuffled forward in pairs and trios, guided by an equerry who whispered names into the King’s ear a half-second before each introduction.
Then it was Lex’s turn, and he was standing in front of the King of the United Kingdom.
James was taller than the telly suggested. Six-three, at least, with the lean, long-armed build of a rower and light brown hair that sat in a careful wave above hazel eyes. He was wearing a navy suit too, and his handshake was warm and precise, lasting exactly two seconds.
“Mr Murphy. Congratulations on the gold.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The words came out right. Lex had practised in the mirror that morning, because Barnaby had told him the first address was always “Your Majesty” and he’d been terrified of saying “cheers, mate” out of sheer muscle memory.
The smile James directed at him was a measured one that gave nothing away, and then he was already turning to the next person in the line. The whole thing had taken two seconds.
Barnaby was next. Lex watched, expecting something more to pass between them on account of their having known each other for so long.
Surely there’d be a longer handshake at the very least. But Barnaby got nothing.
James shook Barnaby’s hand with the same warmth he’d directed at everyone else.
“Lord Ashworth. Well done in Tokyo.” Barnaby inclined his head, said, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” and moved on.
Princess Caroline was next in the line, shorter and sharper-featured than her brother, with auburn hair pinned back and a smile that was quick and genuine. She shook Lex’s hand and told him she’d screamed at the television during his final, and Lex liked her immediately.
The group photograph was an exercise in organised chaos.
Eighty athletes were herded into position on a staircase by a photographer’s assistant.
Lex ended up in the third row, wedged between a table tennis player and a sailor, while Barnaby was placed at the far end of the same row, separated from him by six people.
The photographer took fifteen shots with the King stood front and centre.
Then it was over, the structure dissolved, and the reception was reduced to just a room full of people holding glasses, trying to work out who was worth talking to.
Barnaby appeared at his elbow with a small white plate. On it were four items, each one placed with the spacing and precision of a jewellery display. The largest bit of food was the size of Lex’s thumbnail.
“What are those?”
“Canapés. Eat one.”
Lex picked up the nearest item. It was a circle of toast the size of a ten-pence piece, topped with something pink and a sprig of something green. He put it in his mouth. It tasted incredible, and it was gone in half a second.
“That was amazing. What was it?”
“Smoked salmon with crème fra?che and dill on a blini.”
“It was the size of a contact lens, Barns. I need about forty of those for a proper mouthful.”
“Then eat the others.” Barnaby held the plate out. “I’m keeping your mouth full so you don’t say anything regrettable to a Cabinet minister.”
“I wouldn’t say anything regrettable.”
“You told the Norwegian cycling team that their national anthem sounded like a funeral march for a depressed elk.”
“It does.”
“They were very upset.”
“They need to hear it from someone, Barns. That anthem’s got no energy. No drop. If I was cycling for Norway and that came on at the medal ceremony, I’d get back on the bike and ride home.”
Barnaby picked up a canapé between his thumb and forefinger, something golden and flaky with a dark filling, and held it up to Lex’s mouth. “Open.”
Lex opened. Barnaby placed the canapé on his tongue like a man administering communion, and Lex closed his mouth around it. The pastry shattered. Something rich and earthy spread across his palate, chased by a sharp tang that cut through the fat.
“Fuck me. What was that?”
“Wild mushroom tartlet with truffle and aged Comté.”
“That’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, and I once had a kebab in Romford at four in the morning that changed my life.”
Barnaby’s mouth twitched. He picked up the third canapé and held it out. This time Lex leaned forward and took it directly from Barnaby’s fingers, his lips closing over the tips. Barnaby’s hand stilled. Then he pulled back and wiped his fingers on a napkin, looking around furtively.
“Behave,” Barnaby said.
“I’m behaving. I’m eating the tiny food like a good boy.” Lex chewed. The next one was beef, seared, pink in the centre, resting on a disc of crisp potato no bigger than a two-pound coin. “You’re feeding me.”
“I’m preventing a diplomatic incident.”
“You’re feeding me, Barns. At Buckingham Palace. In front of the King and God and everyone.”
“The King is on the other side of the room, and God hasn’t been to one of these since the Reformation. Eat the last one.”
Lex ate the last one. It was some kind of cured fish on a cracker, sharp and clean and salty. He licked his thumb.
Barnaby watched him do it, looked away, and said, “I need to do photographs with the equestrian team. Stay here. Don’t touch any of the art. Don’t arm-wrestle anyone. Don’t tell the Home Secretary her job would be easier if she learned hand to hand combat.”
Barnaby set the empty plate on a passing waiter’s tray, then walked toward a cluster of people near the far windows whom Lex recognised as the British eventing squad.
He watched Barnaby cross the room and watched the shift in his carriage as he moved from Lex’s orbit into theirs.
His stride lengthened, his chin came up, and by the time he reached them he was the Marquess of Ashworth again, shaking hands and exchanging the kind of smooth pleasantries that these people had been raised to deploy since birth.
Lex turned back to the room. A waiter passed with a fresh tray of canapés, and Lex took three, because nobody had told him there was a limit and he was choosing to interpret this as an invitation to eat all he could.
He ate them in quick succession; there was something with goat’s cheese, and something with beetroot.
He was reaching for a fourth canape off a passing tray when he felt it; a prickle at the back of his neck that meant someone was watching him. He scanned the milling crowd and locked eyes with King James.