Chapter 2
Max
‘You’ll get a chance to meet him at some point,’ says Mariam.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m not worried.’
I shovel down a prawn. We’re seated for dinner, and I’ve ended up next to Mariam, our department director.
Mariam doesn’t do glamour, dressed in the same brown pantsuit she wore to our Christmas party at a bowling alley.
She probably chose to be at this table so she could sit here and check her emails in peace.
Joining us are a retired civil servant, a minor baroness, the British Eurovision contestant from the time it was hosted in Greece, and a man who introduces himself to everyone as the Giles Wibberley, as if the name speaks for itself, which it absolutely doesn’t.
‘It’s not a big deal,’ I say to Mariam. ‘I just . . .’
I pause. It’s not very professional of me to criticise a colleague, but I want her to know what Quentin did, plus I’m on my second glass of champagne.
‘Quentin took my place so he could sit next to the ambassador.’
Mariam is well aware that Quentin and I have both applied for this promotion and there’s a good chance she will lose one of her top team. But she simply shrugs.
‘Sometimes you have to be ruthless in this job.’
I feel a rush of indignation that she’s defending him. ‘Are you saying I’m not?’
Mariam chooses her words carefully. ‘You have a lot of skills that Quentin doesn’t.’
She looks over at him. ‘The problem is . . . Quentin has Flora. She balances him out.’
I look at Quentin and see precisely what Mariam is saying. Even from here, you can see the brilliant Flora Forbes at work, carefully monitoring Quentin as he talks, in case she needs to leap in to clarify his point or smooth over his edges.
‘Has it never occurred to you that you’re at a disadvantage?’ asks Mariam.
I frown at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Max, you’re applying to work for an embassy.
It’s not like other jobs. It involves a lot of hosting.
When Quentin has someone as charming and accomplished as Flora to accompany him to functions, that’s a huge advantage.
Haven’t you heard how Nancy Reagan prevented nuclear war in the ladies’ bathroom at the Geneva Summit? ’
I stare at Mariam. ‘That is so . . . old-fashioned!’
‘This is the world that we’re part of,’ says Mariam nonchalantly. ‘How many heads of state can you name who are single?’
I pause to think. ‘The Pope?’
Mariam opens her hands as if I’ve just proven her point.
Watching Flora and Quentin, I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.
They fit the traditional mould that Mariam is talking about.
It’s so easy to imagine them installed in some far-flung outpost serving cucumber sandwiches and working the room together.
‘So if you’re a single gay man, you might as well not bother?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. They would never openly discriminate, but that doesn’t mean these factors are irrelevant. Why do you think I always stuck to desk jobs?’
Though it always surprises me to recall it, Mariam is married to a member of the briefly famous anarchist rock band Chumbawamba.
By all accounts, her partner is the last person who would want to accompany her to a function like this, but it never occurred to me that Mariam has actively avoided a career as an ambassador.
‘What about this Edwin chap?’ Mariam asks. ‘Is there any future there?’
I glance down at my phone. Still no reply.
‘Orthodontics is very time-consuming,’ I say forlornly.
Mariam’s eyes soften. ‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed.’
Just then, peals of laughter ripple across the room.
I look up to see Quentin, Flora, the ambassador and his wife chuckling at something that is no doubt extremely unfunny.
It fills me with resolve. This isn’t fair.
And just because Mariam opted out of a career as an ambassador doesn’t mean I have to. I turn to her decisively.
‘I appreciate the advice, but I don’t need a partner to help me do my job. Watch me.’
The second that dinner is over, I get up from the table.
There’s still plenty of time left. I can talk to the ambassador about the crucial role I played in the trade deal.
Surely that matters more than whether or not I have a boyfriend.
As everyone moves towards the ballroom for drinks, I seize my moment and race up to him.
‘Ambassador Gibbons,’ I say, out of breath. ‘I’m Max. From the Foreign Office.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ says the ambassador, clearly having no clue who I am. ‘Please, call me Wrettham.’
Yes, the British ambassador to Greece is called Wrettham.
Wrettham Gibbons, to give him his full name.
The w and the h are silent, and it’s a shame the other letters aren’t.
Britain’s reduced influence on the world stage is hardly a surprise when our institutions are still being led by men with names like Wrettham Gibbons.
He’s an exceptionally sturdy man who looks more suited to playing full-back in an amateur rugby league than leading a foreign embassy.
Wrettham’s wife is just as sturdy as him and perhaps stars in a rugby team of her own.
She seems like she can be relied upon to be called something sensible like Susan.
‘This is my wife Jane,’ says Wrettham.
Jane smiles at me. ‘But everyone calls me—’
‘Topsy!’ shouts Quentin.
Of course they do, Topsy, of course they do. I’m not sure why I thought the wife of a man called Wrettham would be called anything other than Topsy. I certainly don’t know why I thought Quentin would leave me alone with them for more than two seconds.
‘Ah,’ I say, gritting my teeth. ‘You’ve met my colleague Quentin.’
‘Met?’ says Quentin. ‘We’re best friends.’
‘Kalyteroi filoi gia panta,’ says the brilliant Flora Forbes, sliding in beside us.
I frown at her in confusion.
‘Flora speaks Greek,’ says Topsy.
‘I did Classics at Oxford,’ says Flora. ‘Bit rusty.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Wrettham. ‘Over dinner, Flora was able to reassure one of the shipping magnates in fluent Greek over some of his concerns about the port regulations.’
Oh for god’s sake. Everything Mariam said was right. No matter how good I am at my job, how can my non-existent plus one compete with what Flora brings to the table?
‘Thank you for taking the hit tonight, Max,’ says Wrettham. ‘Quentin let us know about your no-show. Very noble of you.’
I force a smile. Thanks for that, Quentin.
‘Max doesn’t have the best luck with men,’ says Quentin.
‘Yes I do,’ I say impulsively. ‘He just couldn’t make it.’
‘Broke his jaw,’ says Flora. ‘He’s an orthodontist.’
‘Gosh,’ says Wrettham. ‘How ironic.’
‘Do you want the number of my friend’s surgeon?’ asks Topsy with concern. ‘She had to have her jaw rebuilt after she was attacked by a baboon. They did a fantastic job. She was featured on The Jeremy Kyle Show.’
‘I think he’s already sorted,’ I say politely.
‘Yes, no, he would be,’ says Topsy. ‘Well, do send our best. It would have been lovely to meet him.’
‘You will.’
Quentin raises an eyebrow. ‘We will?’
It’s one thing to lie to yourself when reality is against you. But sometimes, when the situation is really drastic, you have to lie to a few more people.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘At tomorrow’s event. I can’t wait for you all to meet him.’