Chapter 10
Max
It doesn’t mean anything that I’m googling him. If you looked at my Google history, you’d find all sorts of random searches: ‘Can dogs eat tiramisu?’, ‘Julie Walters puppy farm rumours’, ‘horseradish sauce stain removal’. And that’s just the last five minutes.
But here I am, on the District line on my way to the conclusion of Greece’s state visit, and I’m looking up the performance that Hunter is doing tonight.
Hunter Moretti. Trust him to have such a hot name.
The Menier Chocolate Factory is a venue near London Bridge that is hosting some sort of musical revue.
Hunter is performing a song called ‘Being Alive’ from the musical Company.
This must be his farewell to the London stage.
His bio lists all his plaudits for this gender-flipped Grease that he starred in.
I google the production and I’m hit with a flood of results.
It’s immediately apparent that it was kind of a big deal.
The show got reviewed in the New York Times, and Hunter was singled out as the highlight.
Apparently, male Sandy and female Danny produced mixed results, but Rizzo was a masterstroke, sultry, brooding, and mesmerising.
That’s not hard to imagine. Being off-Broadway meant the show was ineligible for the Tonys, but I discover a whole forum of people who believe that Hunter should have been a dead cert for a nomination following the show’s Broadway transfer.
Except that Hunter wasn’t in the Broadway transfer.
He was the only original cast member who wasn’t.
The forum posters are mad, convinced this would have been his big break.
One forum user claims to have heard through the grapevine that it was entirely Hunter’s decision.
What happened? How did Hunter go from being on the verge of Broadway stardom to living in London and struggling for work? Something must have gone seriously wrong. I do a bit more googling, but if the answer was online, you’d better believe those forum posters would have found it.
In any case, what does it matter? There’s no way I can marry Hunter. There’s just no way.
We’d have to lie to the government, the same government that pays my salary. This Athens job will involve security checks at the highest level. It’s not a workable plan, so there’s no use thinking about these what ifs. Time to put on a brave face and forget about him.
By day three of a state visit, everyone is ready to jump into the Thames to avoid having to engage in any more excruciating small talk.
At least they’ve chosen a fitting venue for a send-off.
As I enter the gate of the Royal Botanical Gardens, I see the Temperate House standing majestically against the sunset – an ornate, painstakingly restored Victorian greenhouse, twenty metres in height, and housing over a thousand plant species.
Stepping through the arched double doors, the greenhouse rises around me like a glass cathedral.
Sun beams catch the mist, a gentle humidity brushes my cheeks .
. . and it occurs to me what a stupid place this is to hold a cocktail party.
The Greeks are barely breaking a sweat, but their pasty-faced hosts – my fellow countrymen – are wiping their brows, unbuttoning their collars, and glugging so much cucumber-flavoured water that there’s already a long queue for the bathroom.
I spot a woman taking refuge in a mist sprinkler as if she’s midway through a trek across the rainforest. Gradually, her familiar features emerge through the miasma.
‘Mariam!’ I exclaim.
‘Hello Max,’ says Mariam, wiping her brow and looking around in surprise. ‘Edwin not with you?’
I feel a pang in my chest. ‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘Oh,’ says Mariam, as if this confirms a suspicion.
‘Yeah. I was hoping he’d be able to support me through this job application, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to be available.’
Mariam can barely hide her delight. ‘That is a shame.’
I have never understood why Mariam favours Quentin over me for this promotion.
But you can’t say she’s tried to hide it.
Mariam excuses herself so she can hose down.
I’m not sure if she’s speaking metaphorically or if she’s planning to ask a gardener to whip out the power hose.
As she scoots off, it hits me how disappointed I am to be here without Hunter.
I’ve been to dozens of these events without a date, and I’ve never felt so alone.
Still, I can’t do anything about it. I need to find the ambassador and get some more face time with him without Quentin and Flora in my way.
I wander through the greenhouse. The plants are arranged in a grid, with all manner of towering palm trees and exotic ferns separated by a series of paved walkways.
I start searching the walkways, but after getting lost near a Chilean wine palm, I realise this method is not going to work.
At each end of the greenhouse is an iron spiral staircase that coils up to a viewing balcony.
Once I’m up there, it doesn’t take long before I spot Wrettham and Topsy.
I run down the stairs and race straight up to them.
‘Ambassador,’ I say, a bit too abruptly.
Wrettham looks up and excuses himself and Topsy from a woman who is the chair of the Friends of the Hellenic Society, if memory serves correctly.
‘Max,’ he says. ‘Glad we caught you. I hear your partner saved the day last night.’
Damn. How do I take credit for this so it doesn’t seem like I’m nothing without Hunter?
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘At my suggestion. It was a great team effort.’
‘Really?’ says Wrettham. ‘That’s not what I heard from Mariam.’
I’m regretting telling her what happened, given how easily I could have got away with lying, but how was I to know we’d end up here?
Wrettham smiles. ‘I’m just glad to know he’s feeling better. Can’t be fun, being attacked by a baboon.’
It was Topsy’s friend, not Hunter, who had the run-in with the baboon, but I don’t bother to correct Wrettham.
‘It’s such a shame we keep missing him,’ says Topsy. ‘He sounds wonderful.’
‘He is,’ I say with regret.
It occurs to me that I could attempt to pull off some sort of Weekend at Bernie’s situation where Hunter remains my boyfriend even though he never makes it to another event with me.
Maybe his performance at the British Museum is enough.
But I can’t commit to that before running it past him.
I decide that I need to keep things ambiguous.
‘Maybe we’ll get to meet him at Chevening,’ says Topsy.
‘Where?’
‘Shh,’ says Wrettham to Topsy.
‘It’s hardly a state secret,’ says Topsy.
Wrettham turns to me stiffly. ‘Please keep this to yourself, but the first part of this job assessment, should you make it that far, is going to be hosted by the Foreign Secretary at Chevening House. We’re making a weekend of it. And partners are welcome.’
I knew the British embassy had delusions of grandeur, but I’m not sure why they’re running this job hunt as if it’s a reality TV show.
A weekend at the Foreign Secretary’s countryside retreat makes it sound like Judges’ Houses on The X Factor.
And partners are welcome? I’m devastated at the thought of doing that without Hunter.
‘It should be very jolly,’ says Topsy. ‘Flora is going to perform selections from the Oristeia.’
‘Medea,’ says Flora from behind me. ‘Very different.’
I turn to see Quentin and the brilliant Flora Forbes slide into our conversation.
Flora is wearing a dress covered in bold sunflowers, while Quentin’s shirt carries a subtler pattern of daisies in similar shades.
For once, they haven’t quite nailed it, looking just a little too much like a newly upholstered set of armchairs.
‘There you two are!’ says Topsy. ‘Thank you so much for this afternoon.’
I pull a quizzical expression.
‘They needed someone to show them around the Greek pottery exhibition at the V and A,’ says Quentin. ‘Since Flora did her dissertation on the iconography of women’s labour on water jars, it just made sense.’
‘We had a lovely little afternoon, the four of us,’ says Topsy.
I cannot deal with this. The four of them sitting together at dinner was bad enough, but now they’ve been going on excursions together? It’s like they’ve cloned themselves.
‘I was just saying we were hoping to meet Max’s partner if Max is shortlisted for the Athens job,’ says Topsy.
‘Oh,’ says Flora, glancing around. ‘Could Edwin not make it?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not tonight.’
Quentin looks relieved. I missed his reaction to Hunter’s triumph last night, but I presume he wasn’t happy about it. I don’t know why I’m not admitting they’re never going to see him again.
‘Is he committed to a career as an orthodontist?’ Flora asks.
My heart skips a beat. ‘I think so. Why?’
‘It’s just, he’s such a brilliant performer,’ says Flora. ‘I’ve never seen him live, but his TikToks are amazing. I always thought he could do anything.’
Her words hit me right in the gut.
He could do anything. I know he could, because he did it last night.
Who else could have jumped in at short notice like that, handled all those questions that Flora threw at him, then saved the British government from a major humiliation?
Hunter did all that without breaking a sweat.
He was everything I needed and more. And there’s no reason he couldn’t continue to be.
Actually, there’s one reason. One reason that felt so extreme, I never seriously considered it.
But what if that’s the answer? We’re always being told to go the extra mile at work, push ourselves to the limit and expand what we’re capable of.
Honestly, that’s what the prospect of marrying Hunter is starting to feel like.
It’s not just a hoop to jump through to get me where I need to be.
It feels like an adventure. A crazy project that Hunter and I could do together.
Untraditional, yes, but thrilling. Maybe even life-changing.
An incredible gift to each other. What is that if not the essence of marriage?
‘He hasn’t given up performing,’ I say to Flora. ‘In fact, he’s performing tonight.’
‘Gosh,’ says Wrettham. ‘Very brave. But a good way to stick it to the baboon.’
Nobody says anything.
‘Shame you’re having to miss it,’ says Topsy.
‘I’m not,’ I say decisively. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m heading there now.’