Chapter 1
Max
It was very nice of my mum to write me a letter from beyond the grave.
Can’t say it makes up for the whole dying part, but I’ve tried to take her advice to heart.
It really does help to remind myself that none of my problems are that serious.
Not even the one I’m facing right now. I’m standing at the gates of Buckingham Palace, dressed in black tie, and wondering what to do about the fact that my date hasn’t shown.
‘Would you like me to eliminate him?’ asks the woman on the door.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘It’s a security issue. If he’s not coming, we’ll need to eliminate him from the system.’
Eliminate. That’s a strong word. Maybe my date has a perfectly good excuse. I start to suggest some – he’s been mugged; he’s stuck in a tunnel; he’s got the wrong address.
‘This is Buckingham Palace,’ says the woman. ‘Hard to miss.’
When you put it like that.
The woman gives me a pitying look. ‘I think you’ve been ghosted, love.’
My stomach drops and my cheeks flush red.
Is there anything more humiliating than being ghosted?
The last time it happened to me, I sent about forty-three follow-up messages of increasing desperation before finally accepting that the guy wasn’t going to reply.
I mustn’t do that again. It’s really not that serious.
‘Go ahead,’ I say. ‘Eliminate him.’
She presses a button on her iPad. ‘There you go. His loss.’
I don’t think it is, but I appreciate the support.
The woman looks like she wants me to either burst into tears or commission a contract killing, but neither option feels very me.
After all, it’s my fault. We’d only been on three dates when I asked him if he wanted to attend a work thing with me.
He said sure, as long as it wasn’t too fancy.
I promised it wasn’t, because I was worried he’d say no if he knew where it was.
He stopped replying to my texts after I sent him the address. Like I said, totally my fault.
‘Am I good to go?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely,’ she says. ‘Just head over to my colleague. He’ll check you’re not carrying any explosives.’
For one deranged second, blowing up Buckingham Palace sounds cathartic. But no. Mustn’t dwell. Time to straighten my bow tie, walk in with dignity, and appreciate how far I’ve come.
Look, Mum! I’m in Buckingham Palace.
I grip the signet ring that my mum gave me for my eighteenth birthday.
She would have loved that I’m here tonight, even if she wasn’t really a fan of the royals apart from Diana.
It’s a shame she only got to witness the start of my career as a diplomat, when things were never this glamorous.
In the early days, my tasks included drafting an apology when a British politician described his Australian counterpart as ‘a dingo in a wig’ and trying to clarify what the Latvian Ambassador meant when he listed his dietary requirements as ‘only meat’.
Since then, I’ve been promoted several times, and I’m now no stranger to high-level meetings and swanky invitations. But tonight beats them all.
A footman in a bright red waistcoat offers me a glass of champagne, then shows me along a corridor into a ballroom.
The sheer scale of it takes my breath away.
It must be forty feet high, the walls lined with enormous gilt-framed portraits of past monarchs, from sturdy old Henry VIII to an impressionist painting of the late Queen Elizabeth II that makes her look like she has chickenpox.
Half the guests tonight are the kind of crusty old toffs who make a career out of snagging invites to the palace.
But it’s the other half, who are mostly dark haired and olive skinned, who are the real guests of honour.
It’s been more than fifty years since Greece was invited for a state visit, Britain’s highest diplomatic honour, but our two countries recently struck a trade deal to boost Britain’s standing in international shipping.
To mark the culmination of more than a year of negotiations, Britain is rolling out the red carpet, which is one of the few things we still do well.
I can see the King and Queen standing in the middle of the room, swarmed by excited guests.
I’m not talking about the actual king and queen.
Who’s excited to meet them? I’m talking about David and Victoria Beckham.
Presumably David’s here to show off his knighthood, or maybe I’m being mean, and he’s always had a passion for bilateral trade deals.
I stand taking in the scene with satisfaction.
The fact that two countries have been able to come together for mutual benefit despite all the conflict in the world is precisely why I got into this line of work.
Tonight’s agreement allows for the creation of hundreds of jobs – including one I’ve got my eye on.
They’re looking to hire a trade deal ambassador at the British Embassy in Athens, or to give it its technical term, in the field.
What I’m doing at the moment is called desk.
And yes, desk might have its glamorous moments, and field work can involve sitting at a desk, but we’re talking about Athens, the birthplace of democracy.
Across the room, I spot the British ambassador to Greece, who would be my boss if I got the Athens position.
Tonight is the perfect opportunity to put myself on his radar.
I finish my champagne and head towards him.
‘Where is he?’ says a familiar voice.
I turn to see my colleague Quentin accompanied by his girlfriend Flora.
As usual, they are both looking immaculate, Quentin in a tuxedo that Flora no doubt picked out for him, she in a striking but understated blue dress.
Flora is a hotshot lawyer who was once described as ‘the brilliant Flora Forbes’ by one of her clients in a BBC News article.
It’s a phrase that so perfectly captures her formidable head girl energy that I now think of it as her full name.
The brilliant Flora Forbes works very long hours, yet is somehow always available to accompany Quentin to events like this. She handles conversations on his behalf, organises his diary, and presumably wipes his bottom for him.
‘Who?’ I say to Quentin, even though I know exactly who he’s talking about.
‘Edwin. The orthodontist.’
I made the mistake of telling a few of my colleagues I was bringing a date. Trust Quentin to remember the details.
‘He couldn’t make it,’ I say regretfully.
Quentin and Flora share a look. I can’t have them thinking I’ve been ghosted.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He got stuck in surgery. Broken jaw.’
Quentin frowns. ‘Orthodontists don’t perform surgery.’
Shit. I didn’t actually know that.
‘He’s the patient,’ I say hurriedly.
‘Gosh,’ says Flora. ‘He broke his jaw?’
I nod sadly.
‘How ironic,’ says Quentin.
‘These things happen,’ says Flora, ever the diplomat.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll enjoy myself more without him.’
I’m not sure how much I believe that, but I hate the idea of Quentin and Flora pitying me.
Quentin and I both joined the civil service straight out of uni, which means I’ve known him and Flora for years.
Throughout that time, they’ve been solid as a rock, while I’ve never found a guy who wants to stick around.
‘Can you believe we’ve made it to tonight?’ I say. ‘I never thought we’d get this deal over the line.’
‘Yes,’ says Flora. ‘Much to celebrate.’
Quentin eyes me coolly. Since he and I took the lead on the team that implemented this deal, we’re the two front runners for this job in Athens.
‘Have you seen the seating plan?’ asks Quentin.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’
Before Quentin can answer, a man with a neat side parting and an iPad comes hurrying up to us. This is either Henry Herbert or Herbert Henry – I can never remember which way round it is. Henry or Herbert works in the Cabinet Office, who are in charge of logistics for this evening.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he says. ‘Are you Max?’
‘I am.’
Henry or Herbert glances at his iPad. ‘There’s an issue with your guest. He’s been eliminated.’
‘Yes, I know. What’s the issue?’
‘Broken jaw,’ says Quentin.
‘Much worse,’ says Henry or Herbert. ‘He’s created a gap in the seating plan.’
We all share an ominous look. It might not sound like much, but seating plans at diplomatic functions are incredibly delicate.
I still remember the dignitary who refused to sit where we’d put him because he claimed it would look like he was taking sides over the Battle of Trafalgar. Yes, the one that took place in 1805.
‘We can’t have no one opposite the Greek Finance Minister,’ says Henry or Herbert. ‘He’ll interpret it as a snub.’
‘Can we move up someone from a lower table?’ I ask.
‘No,’ scoffs Henry or Herbert. ‘It’s not that simple. The whole plan was devised based on who was bringing guests. You were asked to confirm several times.’
That’s true. I didn’t check with Edwin the orthodontist because I didn’t want to give him a chance to say no.
‘We don’t mind swapping with Max,’ says Quentin quickly.
‘Really?’ asks Henry or Herbert.
‘Not at all,’ says Quentin. ‘Happy to help.’
‘Super,’ says Henry or Herbert.
‘Wait,’ I say, ‘that doesn’t solve anything. Who’s going to take Flora’s place?’
Henry or Herbert is swishing around on his iPad like he’s David Hockney.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll bump up a couple from a lower table.’
‘But who will take their place?’
‘No one. But we can live with a gap on an outer table.’
‘Great,’ says Quentin. ‘Problem solved.’
This is what I love about diplomacy – the way that potential disasters can be avoided when everyone shows up with the right attitude. Henry or Herbert scuttles off towards the official seating chart to rearrange the names.
A short while later, a man blows a bugle and everyone starts making their way towards their places for dinner. I cross over to the seating chart to see where I’ve been repositioned. Henry or Herbert wasn’t joking when he said I was on an outer table. It’s right at the back of the hall.
I glance over at Quentin, who catches my eye with a look of smug satisfaction. I check the seating chart to see where Quentin’s name is – the seat that should have been mine. He’s on the top table, right next to the ambassador; the man who could be our future boss.
And that’s when I realise that I’ve been played.