Chapter 28
Max
Sometimes it hurts to do the right thing.
I could see what Hunter needed from me in that moment.
But my god, it pained me to give it to him.
His words were a punch in the gut. It was only then I realised how much I had been starting to believe that he and I might one day be a real couple.
That he might decide to follow me to Athens.
I don’t know how I thought that would work, since I’ve always known his ambitions are focused on London.
But in any case, there was confirmation if I needed it that not only is he not considering it, it’s the last thing he’d ever do.
We sit in silence for the rest of the journey.
When we arrive at our destination, there are enough cars at the station that at least we’re not obliged to share with Quentin and Flora.
I catch my first glimpse of some of the other candidates, including Priyanka Patel, a sharp-tongued Oxford graduate from the trade deal’s negotiating team, and the inimitable Herbert Henry or Henry Herbert, who looks naked without his iPad.
I’m jolted by the reminder that it’s not only me and Quentin going for this job.
This is the crème de la crème of the civil service.
Chevening House is only a few miles from the station.
Our car turns through a tall metal security gate and we begin to wind down a long private drive through manicured parkland.
As we crest a gentle rise, the stately red-brick facade of the house comes into view.
Hunter leans forward in his seat, wide-eyed.
He’s so cool about everything that it hadn’t occurred to me he might be over-awed by a place like this.
We get out of the car, crunch across the gravel and enter the house’s vast hallway.
The first thing I notice is the smell of wood polish that has presumably been freshly applied.
Oil paintings loom from the walls. I hear the click of heels.
Maybe it’s because I’m focused on the sound of her shoes, but I see her from the feet upwards, like some government-edition Jessica Rabbit.
The leopard print stiletto heels that must be giving palpitations to whichever housekeeper is charged with maintaining the floors.
Wide-legged trousers, a silky blouse, and a perfectly tailored blazer.
Manicured nails clutching a can of beer.
Gold hoop earrings and bright red hair – not natural ginger but post-box red – cut in a distinctive bob. Her eyes flicker with mischief.
‘The Right Honourable Baroness Willis of Dewsbury,’ a butler announces.
‘Oh stop it, Barry,’ says the Right Honourable Baroness Willis of Dewsbury. ‘It’s Baroness Sharon, and you know it.’
The butler is no doubt using the correct form of address that he learned at whatever snooty training college he attended, but Baroness Sharon is how everyone knows her, and she has embraced it.
Part of it is definitely snobbery that a working class woman has been able to ascend to the upper echelons of society, following in the dubious tradition of British people with titles that no one can quite explain.
Part of it is simply that her nickname has a ring to it.
And no politician is better at marketing herself than Baroness Sharon, the Foreign Secretary.
She has managed to be one of the few ministers with a decent approval rating, mainly because she has convinced the British public that she’s someone who’d be fun at a party.
‘Good to meet you, boys,’ says Sharon. ‘I’ve heard all about you, Hunter.’
I look at her in surprise. Hunter’s efforts at the British Museum were successfully kept out of the press, but apparently even politicians of Sharon’s standing are aware of it.
‘How did you convince him?’ Sharon asks Hunter in fascination.
Hunter shrugs. ‘I told him the truth.’
‘Fab,’ says Sharon. ‘We need more of that in government. And we certainly need more diversity among our ambassadors.’
So the woman is an ally. Even better.
We’re interrupted by an impatient cough.
I turn to see Quentin and Flora, who eagerly introduce themselves.
Baroness Sharon looks blank. This is getting better and better.
The Foreign Secretary may be hosting this part of the selection process, but I assumed she’d remain impartial.
Instead, she’s displaying what appears to be a significant bias in our favour.
Quentin mumbles at Flora, who digs into her bag.
‘We brought you some cheese,’ Quentin declares proudly. ‘It’s a Cornish Yarg.’
Flora produces an enormous wheel of cheese that appears to be wrapped in nettle leaves, which are doing a terrible job of containing its foul stench.
‘Blimey,’ says Sharon, holding her nose. ‘Can you deal with that, Barry?’
Barry the Butler steps forward and takes the offending cheese. Quentin seems to think it’s gone well, but Flora looks mortified.
‘Barry will show you to your rooms,’ says Baroness Sharon. She smiles at me and Hunter. ‘I’ve given you boys the Royal Suite.’
‘Lovely,’ says Quentin enviously. ‘Where are we?’
Sharon offers him a glacial smile. ‘You’re on the Servants’ Corridor.’
Barry the Butler leads us up a grand wooden staircase with our bags.
We pass what feels like a dozen doors before being deposited at ours.
The room is vast, with a wide sash window overlooking the lawns and a lake beyond.
Next to a marble fireplace sits an antique writing desk and armchair.
The fabrics are all various shades of pink and coral, while the painting above the fireplace is of a nude woman reclining in some sort of Turkish bazaar.
Centre stage is a four-poster bed with a dark mahogany frame decorated with carvings of ostrich feathers.
This isn’t a bedroom. This is a boudoir.
I can’t look at Hunter. Somehow, our week of sharing a bed at home has prepared us for nothing. After this morning, I don’t know how I’m going to cope tonight.
‘Are you OK?’ Hunter asks.
I hesitate. Now is not the time to have a talk about what’s going on between us.
‘Yeah. Just, you know, nervous.’
Hunter takes my hands in his. ‘Max, did you hear Baroness Sharon back there? She’s on our side.’
‘More yours than mine, let’s be honest.’
‘I’ll play my part,’ says Hunter. ‘But this is your time to shine. You got this.’
A short while later, I head downstairs for the first assessment.
I’m desperate to know what form it’s going to take.
They didn’t provide any details in advance.
As I arrive, it’s clear that all the other candidates are equally in the dark.
They’re seated around a long mahogany table in the centre of the room, fidgeting and shuffling papers.
When Baroness Sharon enters, the whispers fade.
She’s accompanied by her Chief of Staff, a pompous former debate champion who is known for harbouring ambitions to be a politician.
Alongside them is Ambassador Gibbons, who strides in with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, in conspicuous work mode.
It doesn’t suit him. He’d clearly rather be schmoozing in some black-tie setting.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ says Sharon.
‘Yes,’ says Wrettham. ‘Thank you very much.’
Sharon grimaces. ‘We’re delighted the ambassador felt able to fly over for a second time this month.’
‘Yes,’ says Wrettham, ‘and we’re even more delighted that Baroness Dewsbury was able to squeeze us into her busy, busy schedule.’
Damn – they’re both mad the other’s here. I’d love to see the emails that led to this.
‘As this trade deal is ongoing, we thought we’d involve you all in the action,’ says Sharon. ‘We’ve actually been in talks with one of the major Greek stakeholders, and he has come to visit us this weekend. He’ll be joining us in a second.’
There’s a buzz of excitement among the candidates. This is clever. We’re not just being assessed – we’re actually getting involved in the workings of government. It heightens the stakes and will weed out anyone who can’t handle the pressure.
‘Pavlos Papadopoulos,’ says Wrettham. ‘I’m sure you’re all familiar with him. He’s a spokesperson for the Hellenic Chamber of Shipping.’
Everyone makes noises of agreement, even though personally, I’ve been on this deal for a year, and I can’t say his name rings a bell.
Sharon invites us to open our information packs, which inform us that Papadopoulos is the scion of a long-established shipping family based in Piraeus who studied maritime policy at the London School of Economics and had a background in shipping law before his current role.
‘Pavlos isn’t entirely happy with certain aspects of the deal, as I’m sure he won’t hesitate to tell you,’ Sharon says. ‘It will be your job to alleviate his concerns.’
There are more excited murmurs. This is even more thrilling.
We’re all applying for this job because we want to be close to the action, and now here we are, right at the heart of it.
I notice Quentin already skimming his information pack and I race to do the same.
I can’t let him seize any kind of advantage.
But it’s too late – one of Sharon’s aides enters, and behind them is Papadopoulos.
The room falls quiet, and everyone rises to greet him.
When I get a look at him, my mouth falls open.
It’s not Pavlos Papadopoulos.
It’s failed Shakespearean actor Gerald Pope.