Chapter 7 – Lunch is on me

Taken from: But Who Am I

Friday, January 29th, Ealing.

Kate and I had a night to ourselves, which we spent dancing and then having dinner in a gastropub near her old house. These days things between us were normal again, after a very weird period we both described as ‘misbehaving’.

On Friday morning Kate and I shared an Uber to Keller & Fox, where we said goodbye at the reception desk and Kate went to the media centre, while I went to the private gym underneath the main building and had a swim. There was someone else as well, but the pool was just wide enough for the both of us. As I was no longer a company director, it was no longer marked as reserved just for me. If I ever get rich, I’m getting a private pool under my house.

At around ten thirty I reported to the IT department. Winston knew I was coming and as soon as I walked onto the floor he bellowed: “CAPTAIN ON DECK!” and shot up from his seat, saluting me. Five other dweebs looked up from their screens, grinned and gave me the finger. Two others were in private rooms, to focus on their code.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” said Winston, puffing out his chest and still saluting.

“Five lashes each,” I growled. “Hi guys, I’m here for the day. How have you all been? Any new restraining orders? Did one of you touch a human girl yet? With consent, I mean?” I said, as I took off my coat and hung it next to Winston’s. They chuckled.

“Winston threw a laptop at us just then,” said one of the app developers.

“Just a Chromebook!” protested Winston.

“Did he hit you?”

“No.”

“Of course not. Because he throws like a girl. Like all of you fucking dweebs. Now I’m going to get coffee… Sorry, I mean I’m going to send WALLACE to get me my coffee, and then you can all line up and whine at me like the little bitches you are. WALLACE! Get me my coffee or I’ll fire you AGAIN.”

“How do you take it? Besides from a big gob of spit.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, as our pantry was in full view of two developers who would keep an eye on him, but also he wouldn’t. He just had to be reminded who is boss. Now that that was clear, he was manageable again.

“I take my coffee like I take my women: hot, steamed milk, two sweeteners and a dash of cocoa powder on top please. And one of those gingersnaps if we still have them.”

“Now who’s a bitch,” muttered Wallace as he got up from his desk, but I let him have that.

I no longer ran the IT department, as I did before I left for Saudi, but I am a pretty competent manager if I do say so myself. I’m also the only one who has lasted for over three months in the past five years. And so I helped out as often as I could, mostly by either making decisions or by presiding over group debates until we reached consensus. That’s a very Dutch way of doing things, but these were very talented if socially awkward people and they had a million opportunities to sabotage projects if I ignored or went against their wishes and advice. As long as they felt their objections had been given a fair hearing, they’d go along with whatever the majority felt was wise. It was always a balancing act between operational security, easing our own workload and not boxing ourselves into a corner a few years down the road by not updating anything as long as it worked. In my absence Winston was nominally in charge, but he was not at ease in that role and being able to say: ‘Let Martin figure it out when he gets here’ was one of the things keeping him sane. And we couldn’t afford to miss him, as he had been here ever since his internship at nineteen years old. That was two decades ago.

I mingled with everybody, admiring recent projects, praising smart solutions, allowing them to think out loud about current problems and occasionally helping them to cut their losses and scrap a development or change course. I also legitimized some decisions to say ‘no’ to the organisation, because it’s very easy to dream up elaborate IT-solutions for tiny problems that occasionally take ten minutes of your time if you’re not actually the one charged with building and maintaining it. Someone in admin had ordered an app to see how much letterheaded paper was left in the communal printers, for fuck’s sake. Get off your fat arse and walk ten feet to have a look! Or better yet, start your day by opening the paper drawer of the damned thing, as it’s next to the coffee machine anyway. Some other dolt couldn’t let go of her Palm Pilot and wanted us to write a printer driver for her 17 year old 4 MB piece of shit. Why are you carrying that thing around in 2016 and how does it still even work?! It’s not even password protected!

We’d just more or less decided to go for lunch at Barburrito, a mediocre Mexican restaurant on the concourse of nearby Paddington station, when Peter Fox and Caroline Keller walked in. I was reading a vendor contract whilst sat on the other side of Winston’s desk, my usual spot when I’m ‘on the floor’.

“Good morning,” said Peter. “Thought you were here. Hi Winston. Guys.”

“Good morning, all,” said Caroline. “Don’t let us disturb you.”

I could see Winston tensing up. He’s known both of them for over half his life, but he’s still a bit intimidated. I can see why, really. It really is as if royalty has just entered the room.

“Morning, Caroline. Peter.”

I’m told it took fifteen years before he used their first names without specifically being invited to do so.

“Winston, do you suppose we could borrow Martin for lunch? Not right now, but around one?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Wallace, sat behind three displays at the back of the room, was not in the least bit intimidated by Caroline or Peter and hollered:

“HEY BUT WE WUZ GONNA GO FOR A BAREETOW!”

Winston flinched and answered him:

“Well obviously if Mr. King can choose between having lunch with Ms. Keller and Mr. Fox and a huddle of barely toilet-trained chimpanzees, he’s going with THEM, ain’t he?! I’m sorry, Caroline, he’s… He’s not well. In the head.”

“OI!” complained Wallace. “I’M JUST SAYING, RIGHT?”

“Martin, dear, if you have a prior engagement then by all means keep it. Are you free for dinner? Peter and I would like to make up for yesterday’s misunderstanding.”

“That’s not necessary, but I’d enjoy having lunch with you. Where did you have in mind?”

“Colonnade. Peter’s finally allowed back in. Well, if you’re sure you’re free please be outside at one and we’ll pick you up. Gentlemen, is there a Team Fortress event on the horizon? I shouldn’t like to lose my skills.”

“Oh, yes! Next week? We could do it next Friday!” said Winston.

“Can I come?” asked Peter. “I just can’t imagine Caroline playing games!”

“I’m sure canon fodder is always welcome,” said Caroline, who once learned to play Team Fortress 2 to bond with the IT department and turned out to be unsettlingly good at it. So good in fact that Wallace once demanded to inspect her machine to see if she wasn’t running a bot. She wasn’t. She then proceeded to kill Wallace seventeen times in a row though, as every character and with both the main and the side weapon. I completely stopped playing for that session, I just watched the carnage by trailing Wallace’s pyro character. Security came up to our floor to see what all the hooting was about. A truly magical evening.

“I’ll be outside at one.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, everyone.”

I’ve described Colonnade before. It’s the most exclusive restaurant in London, hidden above the top floor (or what the public thinks is the top floor) of Harrods department store. They pride themselves on being able to prepare any dish you want, because they have access to the Harrods food halls below and all their suppliers. If you want something weird you’ll have to call ahead, but if a restaurant anywhere in the world serves it, they serve it too. The only limitations are the laws of physics: if you walk in and ask for a kangaroo steak and ale pie you can get it, but if they have to make it from scratch you’d better have an appetiser. Also, no surströmming, lutefisk, whale meat or that horrible durian fruit. They also refuse to serve beans on toast and rightly so.

I’ve been there a few times, once with Kate, and never did test their limits. Kate called ahead to order Dutch pea soup with rye bread, because we didn’t want to wait. I went along with that and it was great, practically identical to how our grandmother used to make it. The spoon could stand upright in it and it was the taste of ice skating on the Leiden canals and of walking home from school through the snow. There was even a small bottle of Maggi seasoning sauce.

Peter Fox had managed to get himself banned. I won’t share the exact details, but Colonnade is visited by many world leaders when they are in London. Angela Merkel likes her eisbein, Bolsonaro misses his Moqueca and their Saskatoon berry pie is the best, at least according to Pamela Anderson.

What? She’s Canadian! Anyway, Peter misbehaved towards one of their most distinguished guests and got banned. He had to write a letter of apology, which he did because flying all the way to Florida for a decent bowl of Ropa Vieja was too much, even for him.

“And for me the Ropa Vieja. I called ahead,” said Peter. He seemed a bit nervous, even though Monsieur Ouarenasse, the rotund head waiter, was all smiles.

“Certainement, Monsieur. And for Monsieur King?”

“I’ll have what Peter is having, if there is enough.”

“Mais oui! We made plenty. And to welcome you back, we will prepare freezer portions from what is left for you, Monsieur Fox. If you wish.”

“That is very kind of you! Yes, please!”

Ouarenasse bowed and left us.

“Now, Martin,” said Caroline, who had ordered something called Wind Sand Chicken, which is apparently a big deal in Hong Kong. “How is life in two countries working out?”

I shrugged.

“Fine, I guess. I tried every alternative to flying, but it’s just the fastest way to get there. At least I don’t have to bother with luggage.”

“What are the alternatives? Channel tunnel?” asked Peter.

“Yes, but I don’t like to drive that far. It lands in France, after all. Long ride home from there. Then there’s the ferry from Harwich, but that in itself is a two hour drive from London and takes a day or a night. Comfortable, but I’d rather spend that time with Mel and Edwin.”

“Isn’t there a train nowadays?”

“Yes, but that requires a reservation and it’s often fully booked. And you waste an hour in Brussels. Plus it doesn’t really leave London at a convenient time, unless I want to find myself at Amsterdam Central station at midnight. Which I don’t. Planes on the other hand depart twice an hour, there’s always room and it’s easier to get home from Schiphol, or for Mel to pick me up.”

“And she shows no signs of… shall I say remorse?”

“No, she loves it there. So does Edwin. Mel is not going anywhere. She’s got a workshop nearby, she can do almost everything by bike, she’s making friends, learning Dutch… I’m afraid you won’t see as much of Edwin as you used to, Caroline. Though you’re always welcome, you know that.”

“I know dear, but it does feel rather intrusive. From the pictures I can tell you have a lovely villa, don’t get me wrong, but Kate told me the guest room doesn’t even have its own bathroom.”

“Yeah well, that’s Dutch houses for you.”

“So now it’s just you and Miss Castle in that house in Ealing?” asked Peter. He always calls Kate that, unless we’re all having Sunday Morning Coffee With Something Nice together. And even then, sometimes.

“Yes.”

“Must feel a bit empty. And it’s not very convenient for London.”

“Yes, well I did look at property overlooking Hyde Park but wouldn’t you know it, it’s all a tad on the expensive side.”

In fact, that’s among the most expensive property in the world. I do quite well, but I’d have to borrow money to live anywhere near Mayfair or Kensington. Caroline has an apartment near Marble Arch. And I don’t begrudge her that, but I wasn’t going to let these two talk me into buying or even renting something near the office. Playing Dr. Who pays well, but not THAT well.

“But you would still want to live in the UK? Oh just mineral water for me, thank you. Is that Peruvian? Lovely.”

“Diet Coke for me, thank you.”

“A Spanish red for me, please. I’m celebrating my return to these hallowed halls. But do you intend to keep up this commute, Martin?”

“Yes. I have to. I just committed to a year of Dr. Who. Aston Martin expects me to make appearances and be seen driving their cars. And Kelly is here, of course. And Kate works here. Yes, I need a place here, but Ealing is fine.”

“May I ask what you’re paying for that house? It’s a rental property, correct?” asked Caroline, who doesn’t usually discuss money.

“Uhm, sure. It’s two thousand per month right now. Utilities not included.”

“WOW,” muttered Peter, while he was being poured a glass.

“We were sharing it between the three of us in the beginning. Now it’s just me and Kate. But I’ve offered to pay two thirds, as she’s hardly ever there for more than a few hours.”

“Didn’t Miss Castle have an apartment in…” asked Peter, and snapped his fingers.

“Southwark,” said Caroline. “Elliot’s Row. A house, not an apartment.”

“She does, but she’s renting it to Harry, her former neighbour. He was house-sitting the place next door and they asked him to move. As Kate’s house was sitting empty, she rented it to him for a song.”

“So you can’t go back.”

“Not unless we evict Harry. And his new girlfriend. Which Kate won’t do. Harry works for London Underground and is based at Waterloo. It’s a ten minute walk from there. He’ll never find something even remotely as good. And he’s a mate.”

“That’s very kind of her,” agreed Caroline, who had met the giant Rastafarian and, like me, had struggled to understand even half of what he said in his thick Jamaican accent.

“Still, Martin, I don’t think Ealing is currently the best choice for you. For one thing, there isn’t a journalist in London who does not know where you live. It’s not convenient for Kate and to be honest it’s not exactly a location where Aston Martin would want to see its vehicles parked for any length of time. As I understand it their cars barely fit the garage.”

“Well they do, but the passenger door can’t be opened once I’m parked inside. And it’s a perfectly respectable area, five minutes from a subway station. And fifteen minutes by car from Kelly. We have a Waitrose!”

“It’s a middle class area and they’re building a mosque down the road,” said Peter. “Martin, we feel you should move.”

“Do you? And where to, may I ask?”

“Martin, you make more than enough to be able to afford a home in central London. I shall have my realtor look for something suitable, if you wish. And we can provide a mortgage, if that is the issue. Ah! There is your food, Peter. Worth the wait, I hope.”

It was. I was pretty sure I’d be able to cook this dish, given the recipe and one or two tries, but the idea behind Colonnade is not about culinary grandstanding, it’s to provide comfort food for the internationally homeless. And to make shedloads of money, I’m sure. Caroline and Peter stopped nagging me and coaxed some stories about Saudi Arabia out of me. They both knew more than anyone and there was enough ambient noise not to be overheard. It was quite busy and because I don’t want to get banned I won’t name names, but I saw quite a few politicians, one or two celebs (of which I was one, it just occurred to me), a TV-chef whom I assumed had more than enough restaurants of his own to be eating at and a lot of people I didn’t know but who certainly knew Caroline. She had a lot of waving, smiling and nodding to do, but walking up to someone at their table was frowned upon. And yet, it happened just after our empty plates had been removed. An elderly man, adorned with a sharp nose and liver spots, came from a private dining room and seemed to be on his way to the restroom (I’m sorry, is that an American euphemism? I just don’t know any more) when he suddenly veered off course and headed to our table. I barely noticed it, but played back the last few seconds of what I’d seen in my peripheral vision when Caroline suddenly dabbed her lips again and rose.

“Caroline! What a delight!” said the man, with a wispy, raspy voice. Peter slapped my arm to let me know I should stand as well.

“Your Royal Highness, what a pleasure,” said Caroline. “You know Peter. And our friend Martin van de Casteele, whom you’ve met at his investiture.”

I turned to face the man, extended my hand and greeted The Duke of Edinburgh. He meets thousands of people each year, so I didn’t want to assume he knew me. He did.

“It’s Sir Martin now, I hear? Changed teams, did ya?”

“Uhm… Yes. Well, I’m on both teams now, actually. Good afternoon, your Royal Highness.”

He grabbed my hand and shook it while briefly glancing at Peter.

“Mr. Fox. Well, glad to have you! Uhm… Is ieahhauuuhhhhhuuuuuhhhhh Kelly here, too?”

He looked around, as if we’d hidden her behind a salt shaker or something. People always do that. I’m telling you; you will not overlook Kelly. She’ll be right next to me.

“I’m afraid not, Your Royal Highness.”

Look, I’m not afraid of or impressed by anyone, but twenty seconds ago I was trying to get a sliver of braised beef out from between two molars with my tongue and now I was being accosted by royalty. Eventually he let go of my hand.

“Marvellous! Marvellous!” he kept saying. “That thing you did at… what’s his name…”

He glanced at Peter as his index finger made wild circular gestures.

“One of your lot. Uhm… the talk show.”

Caroline understood what he meant.

“Graham McAfee, Your Royal Highness.”

“YES! With the tiger skin rug! Oh my Lord, how we laughed! HOW WE LAUGHED! Excellent, really.”

He was referring to the sketch I’d performed with Kelly in the special episode of Graham’s show, where I played a butler who got drunk as a skunk over the course of a meal where he plays all the guests. My arm still hasn’t quite recovered from that day.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Marvellous, marvellous,” he prattled, shaking like a blancmange on a wobbly table. “Well, I was on my way to… uh… anyway, the ah… very best of luck!”

We thanked him and sat down once his back was turned.

“Best of luck with what?” asked Peter wryly. “He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.”

“Peter, please.”

But Peter would not be shushed.

“Did he actually say ‘one of your lot’? My word… Not even Martin would say that.”

I took the bait.

“Oh hang on, am I now the international reference standard for bluntness?”

“No, for homophobia.”

“BOYS!” said Caroline. “Not now. I would like to propose coffee. Martin, do you think you can manage to ignore the confectionary tray? Or shall I ask them to portion it out?”

“Oh, so now I’m fat! I’m a fat homophobe who lives in a poor area, is that it?! I’m basically a Midwestern Republican, is that what you’re saying?”

“I did not say that. But the camera adds ten pounds. I’d rather you lost it than gained it, that is all.”

“Yeah, okay, I know, I know. I’ll just have a macchiato. Can’t imagine you eating more than a single bonbon anyway.”

“I shall abstain in solidarity.”

“And I’ll have both your portions,” said Peter. “Oh hang on, he’s back.”

Prince Philip was headed our way again, sporting a mischievous smile. He headed straight for me, so I stood up again. Peter demonstratively remained seated. So did Caroline, as Philip put his hand on her shoulder and basically used her to lean on.

“Listen, Carstairs. I thought of a joke.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness?”

“Lizzy is in there. My wife. And she loves your skits. Your, your schtick! How about… We get you one of those waiter jackets…”

He gestured at the waiters who were walking around, observed by Monsieur Ouarenasse.

“And you come and bring us our food? Huh? As Carstairs? Huh? How’s that? It’ll be hilarious!”

I didn’t really think it was, but Caroline’s subtle facial expression was clear enough. This was in no way, shape or form negotiable. And I owed the guy one, didn’t I?

“It would be my pleasure, Your Royal Highness.”

“Good man! Good man! Uhm.. what’s froggy’s name again?”

“Ouarenasse,” said Peter.

“WARNAS!”

Ouarenasse was already on his way and agreed to provide a waiter’s costume, since I was currently wearing a navy blue two-piece suit with a salmon necktie. Philip went back to his wife, giggling and grinning.

“I guess coffee will have to wait,” I sighed.

“Are you familiar with the protocol, Martin?” asked Caroline, who seemed worried.

“Don’t ask questions, don’t turn your back, ma’am as in ham except the first time, then it’s Your Majesty. We have a queen as well, you know,” I muttered. From across the room, Ouarenasse beckoned me to come to him for my suit.

“Does yours like ham?” asked Peter, who found all this hilarious.

I changed in the staff dressing room and it took a while because they wear a white bowtie that’s not a clip-on and Ouarenasse was showering me with advice and instructions on how to behave, like I’d never eaten in a restaurant before.

“Always pass over the LEFT side, very important Monsieur,” he said, while doing up my bowtie. “And you now represent Colonnade. I know you are Mr. Carstairs, but zis is REAL life, yes?”

“Yes, I understand. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. What am I serving?”

“For Her Majesty the Gleneagles pâté, which is smoked salmon, trout and mackerel. She will know, it is her favourite. For the Duke, Shahi egg curry, extra mild. Two plates, you can manage?”

“I should think so. Just serve them the food, bow, bon appetite and get lost, right?”

“Once you are excused, not before!”

“Understood.”

I then waited at the pass, sometimes called the expo, where waiters take the food that has just been prepared. Above it hung an LCD screen wrapped in kitchen foil, but still legible. A line that read: ‘Table 1, QUEEN, Gleneagles. DUKE Shahi egg, xx mild’ was flashing. Two plates arrived almost simultaneously from different chefs. The head chef looked at the plates, wiped an invisible speck off the edge with a cloth and nodded to me. I took both plates, using three fingers to hold the plate and my thumb to keep it steady. Not too hot. I gently turned around and Ouarenasse waved his hand so a sliding door opened. You’d think it would have noticed me as well, but perhaps he was worried I’d run into it.

The private dining room was on the far side of the restaurant, quite near the entrance. I made sure to walk past Peter and Caroline. Peter pretended to be fussing with his phone but I knew he was taking a picture. Caroline looked worried. A real waiter stepped aside, his eyes darting across the plate to inspect my finger position. It’s not rocket surgery, folks!

The dining room had a door, which was guarded by a man in his early fifties, with pomaded greying hair and a fairly ostentatious gold watch on a wrist under a hand that looked as if it regularly snapped steel girders in half. He wore a suit that was perfectly presentable, but clearly well-worn. I noticed an earpiece that led to a coiled wire which disappeared under his collar. He looked me over, nodded and reached behind him to open the door.

Inside, Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh were sat at a table big enough for four. This room had a skylight, or it would have been completely dark. I wondered why they dined out if they then sat in a room much like you’d find in any palace or manor house. The Queen was fiddling with her phone, but hid it in her sleeve faster than Harry Anderson. Philip sat there, grinning like an excited child.

“The Gleneagles pâté, Your Majesty,” I announced, and placed the dish in front of her. Philip was bobbing up and down at this point.

“Thank you,” she said in a clipped voice, looking over the plate. “Philip, whatever is the matter?”

“Gheee heee heeee! Hah heh heh!”

“And for you the Shahi egg curry, Your Royal Highness.”

I needed to step behind him to present the plate from the correct side.

“Hey, Liz! That’s not our waiter! Hehe! Who is this? Huh?” said Philip, because the Queen wasn’t looking at me.

The Queen looked up. Sadly, that remark got someone else’s attention as well. The man from the Royal Protection Squad, an elite Scotland Yard unit charged with providing security for the royal family, grabbed me by the neck and dragged me out of the dining room as if I were a helium balloon. The plate with the Duke’s curry was still in my hand and the contents were launched into the air, in a graceful arc of yellow rice and vibrantly red curry.

“FAKE WAITER!” yelled the security officer, pinning my head to the ground. A man and a woman who were having lunch at a nearby table, seemingly a posh, somewhat bored married couple in their late thirties, stood up so fast their chairs were launched away and produced pistols. The woman aimed at my head and the man began to scan the room. The food reached its apex and began to land on my chest, in my neck and on my face. It was hot. There was a LOT of screaming.

“Obviously you are no longer under arrest,” said the officer, as I inspected my ear for the presence of leftover rice. There wasn’t any, but it felt like there still was some. I’d had a shower. Cold cream had been applied to my neck, which had been smeared with hot curry. Hot as in piping hot; the spiciness was mild. I know this first hand, as a considerable amount of it landed in my mouth. Holy shit, that was a spectacle. Apparently the next worst thing below assaulting a Royal is assaulting Mr. Carstairs. That’s good to know, isn’t it? You wouldn’t believe the fucking pandemonium that ensued once I was down. I didn’t see much of it, what with all the food in my throat and eyes, but you can ask Peter for a five minute narrative at any time. He claims it is the funniest thing he has ever seen in his entire life. My father will go to his grave regretting the fact he wasn’t there to witness it, though the very detailed sketches Peter has produced help him a lot to deal with his grief.

“I’m so relieved to hear it. Anyway, this will have to do. Lead the way.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The officer and a senior manager from Harrods lead me through the staff area, back to Colonnade. There I was met by a handwringing Mr. Ouarenasse, who escorted us to the private dining room. The husband of the undercover couple was now guarding the door. His (presumably pretend) wife sat at a nearby table by herself, no longer fooling any of the guests. They both gave me apologetic smiles.

Inside I found Peter and Caroline having coffee with the Royal couple. Peter was in the middle of a story about me.

“… just NEVER happens to HIM, you see? It happens to OTHER people. He could fall in a dungheap and come out smelling like a rose. You remember that time someone parachuted into the Oscars? That was him. That was because he was stuck in traffic. But… Oh hey, Martin!”

“That’s enough, Peter. Your Majesty, may I introduce… again… Sir Martin van de Casteele, also known as Mr. Carstairs and Your Majesty’s MI6-agent for the operation in Saudi Arabia last year.”

“Good afternoon, 327,” said the Queen, mustering a smile as she extended her hand. I held it and bowed my head.

“Your Majesty.”

I turned to Philip.

“Your Royal Highness.”

“Frightfully sorry, old chap! Really, that was uuuuuaahhhrrm ENTIRELY on me. You’ve.. you’ve met DI Fullerton. Please, don’t blame him.”

The officers of the RPS have the same rank structure as the Metropolitan police force, so the officer was a Detective Inspector. I’m sure he didn’t do a lot of detecting or inspecting, it was just his pay grade.

“I have forgiven him. He was only doing his job.”

“Actually, Sir, you haven’t,” grinned Fullerton, who wasn’t THAT worried about my opinion of him. He had been doing his job and admirably so, it had to be said. The Queen pointed to an empty chair.

“Mr van de… Sir Martin, please join us. We’ve just ordered you another coffee. How is Kelly, may I ask?”

An hour later I was back at the office.

“Hi guys,” I said, as I hung my coat next to Winston’s. “How was lunch?”

Unusually, they ALL looked up from their screens.

“Very good, Sir,” said Winston. Then he casually got up, took a sturdy brochure from a pile on his desk and placed it on his fingertips. He then proceeded to walk to Roger’s desk at the back, but as he passed Wallace, Wallace leapt out of his chair and yelled: ‘INTRUDER!’

My entire team jumped up and started pointing finger pistols at Winston, who was then dragged down by Wallace, but they’d taken the precaution of placing the office bean bag next to Wallace’s desk so he didn’t actually hit the floor. And then they howled and guffawed like a pack of teenage wolves. I allowed them to enjoy their joke to the fullest by pretending to be dismayed. Eventually I asked:

“How did you find out?”

“Peter sent pictures!” giggled Winston, dabbing his sweaty forehead. (It doesn’t take much to wear these guys out.) And he showed me a picture of myself, as I passed our table holding two plates. Peter also managed to take one picture while I was on the ground, covered in rice and curry, but it was blurry and tilted.

“Well, isn’t that lovely,” I growled.

“Don’t worry, he used our encrypted folder and I’m not letting anyone copy it off my phone,” said Winston. “Hey, is that a burn?”

He pointed at my throat.

“A mild one. Should be fine in a day or two. Okay, pull up the log on Basingstoke. Let’s see how many fucking Russians have been banging on our doors lately.”