A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [13]
I take out the last ball.
We eat stir-fry side by side off a low table in the larger of the two sitting-rooms in Saul’s flat, hunched forward on the sofa, sweating under the chilli.
‘So is your boss always like that?’
It takes me a moment to realize that Saul is talking about the argument with Nik this afternoon.
‘Forget about it. He was just taking advantage of the fact that you were there to ridicule me in front of the others. He’s a bully. He gets a kick out of scoring points off people. I couldn’t give a shit.’
‘Right.’
Small black-and-white marble squares are sunk into the top of the table, forming a chess board which is chipped and stained after years of use.
‘How long have you been there now?’
‘With Nik? About a year.’
‘And you’re going to stay on? I mean, where’s it going?’
I don’t like talking about this with Saul. There’s something hidden in his questions, a glimpse of disappointment.
‘What d’you mean, where’s it going?’
‘Just that. I didn’t think you’d stay there as long as you have.’
‘You think I ought to have a more serious job? Something with a career graph, a ladder of promotion?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You sound like my headmaster.’
We are silent for a while. Staring at walls.
‘I’m applying to join the Foreign Office.’
This just comes out. I hadn’t planned it.
‘Don’t take the piss.’
‘Seriously.’ I turn to look at him. ‘I’ve filled in the application forms and done some preliminary IQ tests. I’m waiting to hear back from them.’
I feel the lie fall in me like a dropped stitch.
‘Christ. When did you decide this?’
‘About two months ago. I just had a bout of feeling unstretched, needed to take some action and sort my life out.’
‘What, so you want to be a diplomat?’
‘Yeah.’
It doesn’t feel exactly wrong to be telling him this. At some point in the next eighteen months a time will come when I may be sent overseas on a posting to a foreign embassy. Saul’s knowing now of my intention to join the Diplomatic Service will help to allay any suspicions he might have in the future.
‘I’m surprised,’ he says, on the brink of being opinionated. ‘You sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, why would you want to join the Foreign Office?’
A little piece of spring onion flies out of his mouth on to the table.
‘I’ve already told you. Because I’m sick of working for Nik. Because I need a change.’
‘You need a change.’
‘Yes.’
‘So why become a civil servant? That’s not you. Why join the Foreign Office? Fifty-seven old farts pretending that Britain still has a role to play on the world stage. Why would you want to become a part of something that’s so obviously in decline? All you’ll do is stamp passports and attend business delegations. The most fun a diplomat ever has is bailing some British drug smuggler out of prison. You could end up in Albania, for fuck’s sake.’
We are locked into the absurdity of arguing about a problem that does not exist.
‘Or Washington.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘Well, thanks for your support.’
It is still light outside. Saul puts down his fork and twists around. A flicker of eye contact and then he looks away, the top row of his teeth pressing down on a reddened bottom lip. He looks up and raises his eyebrows, as if something on the ceiling had just shared a secret with him.
‘Look. Whatever. You’d be good at it.’
He doesn’t believe that for a second.
‘You don’t believe that for a second.’
‘No, I do.’ He plays with his unfinished food, looking at me again. ‘Have you thought about what it would be like to live abroad? I mean, is that what you really want?’
For the first time it strikes me that I may have confused the notion of serving the State with