Chapter 43
Max
I wake up to the feeling of sunbeams on my face.
I roll over and see that Hunter is already out of bed.
I can hear him in the bathroom. Just for a moment, I’m pleased not to see him.
Last night honestly felt like a break-up.
I’ve tried so hard to push it aside, but it’s finally hitting me what it would mean to come out here and live without Hunter.
To try to be happy without him. I don’t know if I could do it.
But I also don’t know what it would do to me to turn away from a job that I desperately want. Look at Quentin and Flora. She put aside her own ambitions to support his career, and she couldn’t go through with it. It destroyed them.
When Hunter emerges from the shower, he has a guilty expression.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
Hunter pauses. ‘The people at the Globe liked my audition. They want me to come back in and see them – today.’
My mouth drops open. ‘Wait, why? Is this another audition?’
‘No. They won’t say. I have to sign an NDA.’
I feel a pang in my chest. ‘This has to be good news.’
Hunter frowns. ‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s not going to be bad news, Hunter. You have to go!’
This is killing me, but I can’t let my own feelings colour this moment for him.
‘I came here for you,’ says Hunter. ‘That was the deal. I can wait until after your interview. They can’t just expect me to drop everything.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘You did your part last night. I’ll be flying home later today anyway.’
Hunter looks doubtful.
‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine. Go.’
That’s all the encouragement Hunter needs. He packs his bags, and before I know it, he’s gone.
Honestly, I’m relieved. Being around him is becoming intolerable.
Every moment together is soured with the unspoken knowledge that it might be our last. Every glance, every touch reminds me of what I might be about to lose.
There’s no way that him being summoned to London can be anything other than good news.
If that’s the situation we’re going to be left in, I’d rather know.
Because I’m now convinced that the worst-case scenario – by which I mean the best-case scenario – is what will come to pass.
Hunter is going to get his job, I’m going to get mine, and the next time we see each other, we’re going to break up.
An hour or so later, I get showered and dressed and make my way to the British Embassy.
It stands on a broad, tree-lined boulevard, home to museums, several embassies, and neoclassical mansions, many of them hidden away behind iron fences and tall hedges.
The embassy is a pale, sun-bleached structure set back from the road, framed by palms and cypresses.
A security guard doesn’t move his face a millimetre when I tell him what I’m here for, he simply raises a hand and gestures me in.
Inside, the building is invitingly cool and shady.
You can hear the Athens traffic trundling past outside, but you get the feeling that nobody ever talks above a whisper.
I’m shown along a marble corridor, hearing my footsteps ring out.
As I take a seat on a leather stool, the portraits of past ambassadors and foreign secretaries on the wall opposite all feel like they are watching me.
It’s strange, after the hijinks at Chevening, that all that’s required of me today is an interview.
I can’t remember the last time I did one of these in person and with strangers.
It must have been when I first joined the civil service.
Ever since then, it’s all been internal promotions overseen by colleagues.
I think back to that naive twenty-one-year-old who sat in his ill-fitting suit in Westminster wondering what they were going to make of him.
Would he be surprised to see me here now?
Probably not, because he thought the sky was the limit.
But he would have been shocked at what it’s taken to get here.
Yet here I am, interviewing for a role in the field, in the birthplace of democracy.
The last few days have been so intense that I haven’t had a chance to sit and take it in.
And yes, the only way I can do that is by not thinking of Hunter, but when I do succeed in blocking him out, I’m proud of how far I’ve come.
Hunter is right – this is what I’ve always wanted and what I deserve. All I have to do is land the plane.
My interview is scheduled for 11 a.m. By 11.
15, I’m wondering why I haven’t yet been called.
I notice various staff members hurrying about, talking to each other under their breath.
What’s going on? Please don’t tell me something is getting in the way of my interview.
Just when I think it’s all about to fall apart, a woman comes along and invites me to follow her.
She leads me up a central staircase and into a long, narrow reception room. Tall windows flood the space with light, yet it still manages to feel gloomy. At one end of the room, there’s a table with three people, a single plastic chair in front of them.
I take in the three panel members. The first two are fairly nondescript, but that’s no surprise.
Many of the roles in a place like this suit people who prefer to be part of the furniture.
One is Greek and one is British, but they both have the same energy: formal, subdued, respectful of process.
These feel like people who will do whatever they’re told to do by their boss – the man sitting between them, Wrettham Gibbons.
‘Thank you for coming all the way to Athens,’ says Wrettham. ‘Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself.’
The next ten minutes could have been scripted.
I repeat the pitch I did for Hunter last night, but there’s not a single thing I say or that the interviewers ask in response that doesn’t feel totally predictable.
It’s not boring or underwhelming or fake or really anything.
It just is what it is, and it’s creeping towards its predictable end when I hear a commotion outside the window.
I’m not the only one. Everyone jumps at a series of loud shouts. I assume it’s some sort of traffic-related argument, but then we hear loud, coordinated chanting. It must be a protest.
The interviewers lean in and confer with each other, unsettled by the interruption. It’s not going away. If anything, it’s getting louder. It occurs to me what the interview panellists have perhaps already realised: the protesters are not merely passing the embassy – they’re targeting it.
Wrettham sighs. ‘For god’s sake.’ He looks at me. ‘It’ll be the shipyard workers. They’ve been threatening something like this. Ignore them.’
Without warning, the chants rise in volume. We all share a look. It’s immediately apparent what has happened, even if none of us can quite believe it. The protesters have entered the building.
My first thought is that this is another role play, but I rapidly conclude that this is wishful thinking.
The reaction of the interviewers is far too real.
The embassy wouldn’t hire dozens of extras to make a scene at a random job interview, and in any case, the protesters sound too raw, too angry, too present.
Nobody seems to know what to do other than sit here and attempt to ignore it.
But as I listen to the chants, I think back to my conversation yesterday on the boat with Angelo.
Maybe he’s among the protesters. I did tell him to make his views known.
Either way, that’s who’s chanting – not an angry mob but dozens of Angelos, hard-working people who have reached their limit.
If nothing else, I want them to be heard.
Without thinking, I get up from my seat and walk towards the noise. The rest of the embassy staff follow behind tentatively.
As I head down the stairs, my heart is pounding.
I worry I’m making a mistake, walking into danger.
But when I get closer, my fears fade. The protesters are passionate, but they’re not here to cause damage.
They’re not fools. I think of my mum, who got heavily involved in various disputes over nurses’ pay.
I remember her telling me that no one advocates for their job better than the people who actually do it.
‘What are they saying?’ I ask Wrettham.
He rolls his eyes. ‘More work for less money. We’re taking away opportunities. Blah blah blah. Ungrateful sods. We’ve called the police, don’t worry.’
His disregard takes my breath away. He has no intention of engaging with them himself. He conducts negotiations at a higher level, in backrooms and confidential memos. This is an intrusion into the world he occupies.
But someone has to talk to them.
I want to do it for Angelo. For my mum. For every one of these people who took a day off work to put themselves on the line.
‘Do you mind if I speak to them?’ I ask.
Wrettham looks surprised. ‘Be my guest. You won’t get anywhere.’
As I take a step down the stairs, a hush falls. Up close, I can see the anger in their eyes. They are ready to throw whatever I tell them right back in my face.
‘Hi there,’ I say. ‘I’m with the embassy.’
The embassy staffers don’t contradict me. They’re all relieved that I’m prepared to take the lead.
‘Sorry I don’t speak Greek,’ I say. ‘I hope at least some of you can understand me.’
A young man, bearded and muscular, pushes to the front of the crowd. ‘How can you justify this?’ he shouts in perfect English. ‘We’re going to be worse off under this deal.’
Maybe it’s the setting, but I immediately launch into diplomatic mode.
Unlike yesterday with Angelo, I’ve got all the talking points locked down.
But delivering them directly to the people affected feels different.
They know this is spin. I don’t have solutions to their problems. And they don’t like it.
‘This is bullshit,’ the man says. ‘It means nothing.’
I attempt a new tactic. I suggest that some of the terms are not locked down, that we might accept feedback on how they’re implemented. It’s not really true, but it has an effect. And now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
‘I can promise you that we at the British Embassy are your biggest advocates. We know that a trade deal like this depends on the workers. And we won’t proceed without your voices at the table.’
‘Yes you will!’ says the man mockingly. ‘You’re just telling us what we want to hear. You don’t care.’
‘I do care,’ I say.
As he looks back at me, I feel like he can tell that I mean it.
But it doesn’t make it any better. Just because I care, doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.
His expression turns from contempt to something worse.
Pity, or maybe lack of respect. Whatever it is, he can see that our discussion is going nowhere.
‘Come on,’ the man says to his comrades. ‘I’ve heard enough.’
Though it takes a bit more jostling and arguing, the protesters begin to retreat.
That interaction has left me feeling leaden and useless, but to my amazement, the embassy staff react as if I’ve saved the day.
For Wrettham, the victory is getting rid of them.
It doesn’t really matter what was said. As far as he’s concerned, I’m the hero of the hour.
Once everyone has recovered, one of the embassy staff asks me if I can step into a side room. I assume they want me to give a police statement or something, but only a few minutes pass before Wrettham comes to see me.
‘Thank you for waiting, Max. Usually it takes us a little more time to discuss this but . . . we’d like to offer you the job.’
My mouth drops open. There it is. The words I have been waiting to hear for as long as I can remember. They want to make me an ambassador. This is really happening.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Wrettham looks expectant.
‘Obviously I’ll need to discuss it with my husband.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,’ says Wrettham.
I feel a pang in my chest at the thought of having that conversation with Hunter. I clock Wrettham frowning at me, and realise I must look morose.
‘Yes,’ I say, perking up. ‘I’m sure he will be.’
‘Splendid,’ says Wrettham. ‘Congratulations.’
I walk out of the embassy in a daze and blink in the sunlight. My chest feels impossibly heavy. This should be a moment of triumph. This has been my dream for so long.
But it’s turned into a nightmare.
I want Hunter to hold me and reassure me, help me find a way to make this work. But nothing has changed. He doesn’t want to move to Greece.
If I take this job, it’s the end of me and him.
The thought is unimaginable. But right now, I’m not in a position to decide anything.
I get out my phone to text Hunter the news, but I can’t find the words.
I write and rewrite the message as if there’s some way to spin it that doesn’t feel like a death knell for our relationship.
But there’s no way to escape it. In the end, I tell him the brilliant, awful truth.
I got the job.