Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming

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      Six–nil.

      ‘How did that happen?’

      ‘Because you’re very bad at this game. Listen, I’m sorry if I interfered back there…’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s okay.’

      ‘No, I mean it. I’m sorry.’

      ‘I know you are.’

      ‘I probably shouldn’t have stuck my foot in.’

      ‘No, you probably shouldn’t have stuck your foot in. But that’s how you are. I’d rather you spoke your mind and stood up for your friends than bit your tongue for the sake of decorum. I understand. You don’t have to explain. I don’t care about the job, so it’s okay.’

      ‘Okay.’

      We tuck the subject away like a letter.

      ‘So what are you doing up here?’

      ‘I just thought I’d come up and see you. I’ve been busy with work, haven’t seen you for a week or so. You free tonight?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘We can go back to mine and eat.’

      ‘Good.’

      Saul is the only person in whom I have considered confiding, but now that we are face-to-face it does not seem necessary to tell him about SIS. My reluctance has nothing to do with official secrecy: if I asked him to, Saul would keep his mouth shut for thirty years. Trust is not an element in the decision.

      There has always been something quietly competitive about our friendship–a rivalry of intellects, a need to kiss the prettier girl. Adolescent stuff. Nowadays, with school just a vague memory, this competitiveness manifests in an unspoken system of checks and balances on each other’s lives: who earns more money, who drives the faster car, who has laid the more promising path into the future. This rivalry, which is never articulated but constantly acknowledged by both of us, is what prevents me from talking to Saul about what is now the most important and significant aspect of my life. I cannot confide in him when the indignity of rejection by SIS is still possible. It is, perversely, more important to me to save face with him than to seek his advice and guidance.

      I take out the last ball.

      We eat stir-fry chicken 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 chessboard, 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. His career, as a freelance assistant director, is going well, and 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 a teacher.’

      We are silent for a while. Staring at walls.

      ‘I’m applying to join the Foreign Office.’

      This just comes out. I didn’t plan it.

      ‘You’re what?’

      ‘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.’

      The lie falls 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 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.

      ‘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.

      ‘Look. Whatever. You’d be good at it.’

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