Chapter 4
Many years ago I came to terms with the fact that I cannot just tell people what to do, unless I am paying them loads of money of course, but there is one person in this world that I dearly wished that I could, and she works for the British Embassy in Madrid. Whilst I was still in my hotel/hospital Maria had fielded an enquiry from her predecessor in the Embassy, ‘would I consider being ‘His Excellency’s’ guest of honour at the Christmas Ball’ and as I was still firmly strapped to my bed at the time, with no prospects any time soon of getting out of it, it was easy for her to decline the invitation on my behalf, but unfortunately she now had my number. At regular intervals thereafter more invitations for various functions followed and Maria’s responses became more creative, ‘out of bed but still in hospital’, ‘out of hospital but in a wheelchair’, ‘out of a wheelchair and out of Country’ (I was choosing lady S’s colour scheme - much more important), but recently the requests had started to become more persistent, and Marias excuses more desperate, it was starting to become obvious that pressure was being applied for me to attend ‘something’ – ‘anything’, and recently the voice at the end of the telephone had been changed to a much more officious one. The first young lady had been very polite and understanding, if anything hinting that she was ‘on my side’, and had once let slip that ‘her brother, sorry ‘His Excellency’ would be very disappointed yet again’, very intriguing, so when the battle-axe that replaced her ‘demanded’ for the third time in as many days to speak to me, ‘not a mere minion’, Maria had a major sense of humour failure and I had her put through. My sense of humour quickly followed Maria’s, but after a very veiled threat that involved converting the Tower of London back to its former glory and sharpening ‘the’ axe I finally wilted. I knew that the day would finally come, and in truth in the beginning I did hate giving speeches, and would wriggle out of them given half a chance, but along with many other courses that I had taken since my disastrous visit to Palm Beach, I had taken ‘presentation/speeches’, and was now getting more relaxed about them, so I reluctantly agreed that I might look favourably on an invitation to the summer banquette six months hence, and with a curt ‘I will be in touch’ she hung up, with not even a thank-you, she really should work on her diplomacy skills.
Five and a half months later a battered envelope arrived at El Campo, at exactly the same time as the bomb was going off in my Hunter, give or take a few minutes, so perhaps it was not given the priority it richly deserved. Four days later Maria found it misplaced at the bottom of her ‘only to be looked at when suffering from insomnia’ pile, re-opened it (all mail is opened off site just in case it was of the variety that went bang as well) and found a very grand invitation to His Excellency’s Spectacular Summer Banquette ten days hence – oops. As invitations go it was a very very grand one, it was gold with fancy edging and embossed writing, the only thing that let it down was my name ‘A Michaels’ in biro and a brief ‘any problems ring ****66’ scrawled on the back by a drunken spider. Maria and I looked at it for a few minutes, but it still didn’t go bang, then we agreed that considering the state of the envelope it must have been around the world at least four times, but as there was no stamp on it we couldn’t tell exactly when it had been sent, although I had to pay the Correos €2:95 to receive it; perhaps I would get reimbursed by the Ambassador when I finally met him. Maria flatly refused to ring the number in case it was ‘that’ woman (I wonder if they have finished the Tower of London conversion yet?) so I bravely dialled it – I was actually shaking.
Ring, ring, click, ‘good-morning-this-is-the-British-Embassy-Madrid-and-this-is-Monica-speaking-how-can-I-be-of-assistance?, and I hung up, there was no way that I was going head to head with Monica again, once at the Monastery Housing Association when I was trying to contact Paul was more than enough. I definitely paid Maria more than enough to tell her what to do, so after ‘pulling rank’, she reluctantly re-dialled the number.
Ring, ring, click – ‘good morning, British Embassy, Julie speaking, how may I be of assistance’, with ‘all of the receptionists, in all of the world’, why did I have to end up with Monica – twice, I must have upset the ‘receptionists fairy’ in a former life.
‘Good morning I have just belatedly received my employers’ invitation to the banquet next weekend. This number is written on the back of it, which he has to ring if he had any problems, he has problems, amongst them - how does he get there, and at what time, there are no instructions enclosed’.
‘Oh, that is very strange’ Julie replied, ‘perhaps it was one of the late ones that got missed after the final tranche’. How nice to know that I was not only an afterthought - but a forgotten afterthought, I thought, as I listened to the speakerphone. ‘If you can give me a FAX number I will send you a copy of the instructions that should have gone out with it’.
Maria swiftly recited the number and with a curt ‘thank-you’ hung up.
Julie thought, as the line disconnected, ‘blast, I should have got her bosses name, never mind they always make allowances for those that haven’t RSVP’d’.
‘Shall I RSVP?’ Maria said
‘Don’t bother, that should be sufficient’, I said - me forgetting that Maria hadn’t given her my name, and Maria forgetting that not everyone had a caller ID that was still on the secret list.
Russell had already reconnoitred the car park, and he wasn’t much pleased that it was at the bottom of a hill. Someone had decided that the first impression of the Embassy should be ‘spectacular’ – not practical. He tried to drop me off closer, even producing a ‘disabled person’s badge’ from the depths of the dash board, but to no avail, the non-English speaking director of all things motorised was having none of it, even after Russell tried out his passable Spanish and French. ‘Pay peanuts - get monkeys, or at least Lithuanians’ we both thought, although the director did seem to go a funny colour when I flashed my invitation at him. As Russell parked the Maybach in the car-park (that returned to being called ‘wasteland’ for the remaining 364 days of the year) it started to drizzle, and so I following the procession of underwhelmed guests up the hill huddled unrecognizably in my raincoat, and started to notice that the ‘spectacular’ part of my first impression was starting to wilt. First the pre-ordained ‘unseasonal’ rain had started to arrive, but fortunately still only sufficiently light at this time to turn all the spectacular bunting into limp soggy ‘papier mache’, then one by one the ‘indoors only’ lights began to pop, now that was fairly spectacular. Russell had of course looked up the local weather forecast and provided me with a suitable raincoat, but me being the utter gentleman I handed it to a rather rotund lady who had not looked up the local weather forecast - only for three quarters of it to be snatched away by her un-gentlemanly husband. I arrived at the portcullis/front door of the Embassy in almost total darkness and joined the rest of my travelling companions at the tail end of a very British queue, but still in the now heavy drizzle. As I debated the fact that ‘as things were definitely not going to plan, perhaps I should give up and go back to my hotel’ (I say ‘my’ hotel, but I only own one floor of it), I glanced through a window, across the room, and stood behind a grand table, overseeing the checking in of my fellow guests I saw my reason for being here. She was the archetypal plain Jane, complete with straggly mousey hair and she was looking right at me, ‘could things get any better?’ ‘Yes they could’, she put her hand to her mouth, went a funny colour, the same colour as the director of cars, and through the glass she frantically signalled me to enter via a small door off to one side, that led into a small office. As I stepped into the dry office, with its non-non-slip highly polished floors my ‘they cost an arm and a leg’ shoes decided to turn into ice-skates, and I collided with her, and we crashed unceremoniously onto an overstuffed sofa.
‘We will have to stop meeting like this’ I said, as she tried to remove one of my hands from her slight waist, but not very hard.
‘What are you doing here’ she whispered furtively
to me.
‘What are you doing you slut, can’t you keep your hands off anyone desperate enough to paw you’ came a familiar voice, it could only be the ‘battle-axe’ from the phone - that had ordered me to come here in the first place, thank you, thank you, thank you so very much, I thought.
She continued her rant, apparently everything that had gone wrong so far was her fault, including the weather, everything that was about to go wrong was her fault, and ‘what had she done with the Guest of Honour?’ Fortunately the tirade was well out of the hearing of the guests so after we finally disentangled ourselves my vision of loveliness must have decided that enough was enough and let herself go, I could tell that the battle-axe was not expecting this as it stopped her in her tracks, and not only did I thoroughly enjoy the show, but it also filled in a lot of the blanks for me. Isabel, AKA Battle-axe, was the wife of His Excellency the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary (Jeremy Paxham) (UK’s Ambassador to Spain, and my recent wrestling partner was Sherri (hopefully not the ex of a recent UK Prime Minister – nope her name is spelt with a Ch not an S - phewww), Jeremy’s sister. Jeremy’s first wife had left him just as his career in the diplomatic service was taking off, where wives are as (if not more) important than their husbands, so being of ‘independent means’ Sherri stepped into the breach. For the past ten years she had carried out the duties of an Ambassadors wife - without the messy bits (although this apparently is not uncommon even with the married ones), including organising their households, and the social events, which Isabel slated her for roundly, (so she must have really excelled at them). A few years ago Isabel then appeared on the scene, obviously only attracted by his political/social standing and money, and she quickly cajoled him into marrying her, and for the past eighteen months Sherri had been trying to hand over the duties to her, but to no avail, all Isabel was interested in was the messy bits. In desperation Sherri had apparently then written out lengthy lists, procedures and hints on all the duties and social occasions that she had overseen and e-mailed them to Isabel ‘but because you know best, you haven’t even opened the file, I’ve just checked, no wonder today is turning into such an unmitigated disaster’.
Apparently Isabel had only reluctantly taken over the reins from her when she noticed that Sherri was enjoying ‘sniffing’ after me, just to throw a spanner in the works – ‘and typical of the losers that you attract he has not had the decency to even show his face, he most likely took one look at that ghastly frock that you are wearing and ran a mile’.
‘I think the dress looks very becoming on her’ I sheepishly butted in, but I had my fingers crossed – it was terrible.
‘How dare you interrupt me you vile cretin, in my own Embassy’ she continued; ‘get out, before I have you thrown out’, and with that she stormed out.
For want of something better to say I said ‘Somehow I don’t think that now is the time to tell her who I am’.
‘I agree’ she said, and then burst into tears.
Doing the man thing I wrapped my arms around her and between sobs we decided that Isabel had obviously not recognised me, ‘she is so far up her own backside she would only recognise you if you were the richest man in the world, not merely number five’.
‘You have been doing your homework’ I said, ‘I’ve only been there for a few months’. Although I had been steadily climbing the ladder over the past few years (thanks to Itza) I had been overtaken last year by a dastardly Spaniard (actually he is a very nice man), I was now NOT the richest person this side of the pond – however will I come to terms with that?
‘Too right’ she sniffled, ‘hadn’t you noticed that you only got invites when you were ‘available’?
Now that she mentioned it, I didn’t, I was just pleased with the P & Q. (peace and quiet).
‘Well I’m available right now, do you like Chinese? I’m starving’.
‘Yes, but only with roast potatoes’ she replied.
‘Funny girl’ I thought as we departed through the ice rinks door, then I got it - Chinese ‘persons’, not Chinese ‘meals’, perhaps she was a cannibal’.
As we stepped outside to join the growing tide of refugees escaping from the Embassy, in the by now torrential downpour, one of my very waterlogged security detail, who was lurking outside the door, quickly threw his waterproof coat over us, and after a quick chat with his wrist watch he steered us to where Russell was now parked. Fortunately he had ‘relocated’ to just above the waterline of the lake that was quickly forming around (and later, over) the rest of the cars. We clambered into the Maybach and after being wrapped in blankets we were handed steaming cups of tea, ‘Sugar Miss Paxham?’ Russell asked through the open divider.
‘How on earth do you know about Sherri?’ I asked in awe.
‘You’ve been on-air’ said another of my detail (who was riding shotgun) tapping her ear piece and waving a small recording device, ‘since before that Dragon entered the room’, she was obviously the senior one as she was as dry as a bone.
‘Please, you are talking about my beloved sister-in-law’ Sherri said, and then burst into fits of laughter.
One quick look at my Senior Security Officers (SSO) face and I realised why I had given up making jokes like that to the newbies.
As we sat there waiting for the tea to hit the spot I asked Sherri ‘what now, if we go to a restaurant now I think we may need life-jackets’.
‘Well it depends on how desperate you are to eat’, she whispered, ‘me personally, I think we should go back to your hotel, get out of these soaking clothes, have a bath, make love and wait for the storm to pass – this is Madrid – it is open 24/7.
‘Do we really have to have a bath?’ I asked.
Someone must have raided a 24-hour boutique as when we finally surfaced, around midnight, Sherri had quite a choice of very flattering outfits to choose from, and had a lovely glow to her cheeks – which had absolutely nothing to do with the bath. Katie, the still dry SSO offered to have a hairdresser sent up and tentatively explained that she had found a twenty-four hour Chinese restaurant that ‘also did roast potatoes’ that we could go to if we were still hungry.
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During a brief pillow talk, Sherri had mentioned that Katie seemed ‘a bit off’ with her on the drive to the hotel, ‘have I done something to upset her?’ and I explained that I used to have a sense of humour with my new employees, but not all of them saw my funny side, and I briefly explained about the day that I changed from a ‘cuddly and benevolent benefactor’ to a ‘totalitarian dictator’ (but a very nice one), ‘she was terrified that she would end up on the streets after her comment’.
‘But I agreed with her’ she continued.
‘Yes, but for a split second she saw her world crumbling because of an ‘inappropriate’ remark’.
‘I will have to somehow let her know that I am sorry’ then we forgot all about Katie as the sheet moved.
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‘Is this payback time’ Sherri whispered.
‘YES’ I mischievously said, ‘and you will eat every single one of them’.
Later, as we came out of the restaurant, Katie came up to us and asked if she could give Sherri a hug, which sort of confused me, but I nodded and as she gave her the hug she said ‘thank-you for eating those potatoes. Whilst you were dining I rang Mr Williams (David) (my Director of Security) to give him a routine update (at two in the morning?) but when I mentioned the potatoes he asked me ‘why roast potatoes?’ and I explained about the comment you made when you were leaving the Embassy. When he stopped laughing he explained the ‘do you like children?’ - ‘Yes, but I couldn’t eat a whole one’ version of the joke.’
‘It wasn’t a joke’ Sherri said with straight face – ‘I’m a cannibal’.
I think Katie had kittens on the spot.
The next morning I was woken by the hotels telephone at the ungodly hour of ‘before midday’ and swore into it.
‘Language Andrew, lady p
resent’, and turning I saw a vision of tousled loveliness, then I remembered the horde of beauticians that had descended on her before we left for the restaurant, what seemed like a few hours ago, and revealed the true beauty that lurked just below the surface, although I had noticed it sometime before (at the Embassy of course) (naughty, naughty).
Giving her a peck (and then almost forgetting all about the phone) I reluctantly said ‘yes, can I be of assistance on this gloriously bright and beautiful morning’ into the damn instrument.
‘It’s still raining, it’s nearly afternoon, and the Ambassador is ‘fuming’ to see you in your ‘duplex’, David answered.
‘Which Ambassador’ I innocently asked, ‘there are an awful lot of Ambassadors in the world you know’.
‘The one that you pissed off big time last night’ he replied.
‘Oh that one’ I answered, that narrowed it down considerably, ‘and please don’t swear into the phone, there is a lady present’.
‘Bollox’ he said, ‘I will tell him that you will be there shortly’, and hung up – he was getting friendlier by the year. Apparently, as things had decidedly gone ‘pear shaped’ I was now surrounded by the ‘A’ team.
‘It’s your brother’ I said, ‘back in a mo’, and donning a dressing gown I started to climb the stairs to the suites duplex office.
‘Wait, I’ll come with you and give you some moral support’.
‘Not undressed like that I hope, and it will be him that needs the moral support, not me, it was HIS wife that threw ME out’, and with each stair I was getting more and more confrontational. As I have often said before ‘I do not do’ mornings (or stairs).
As I entered the suites office cum waiting room he jumped to his feet and glowered at me, he was obviously not a morning person either. ‘Why didn’t you show last night, you ruined the banquet, I will be the laughing stock of the diplomatic corps’ he almost screamed, but I was ready for him.
‘Let’s get one thing straight right now, I had nothing to do with your disaster, I did show up last night, but was promptly thrown out again. The ‘disaster’ was caused by your wife and God, 99% your wife, 1% God’. I hoped that he/she/it wouldn’t mind me dragging his/her/its name into this.
‘What has my wife got to do with it? All she had been doing was frantically trying to save the day, and at the same time trying to find my sister, she was the one who had organised the whole unmitigated disaster, but apparently she was skulking away in some corner with a loud mouthed yob’, and with that Sherri walked in, wearing my shirt, high heels and not a lot of anything else – a very sexy ensemble, that shut him up.
‘Sit down and shut up Jeremy, it’s time you had a reality check’, she snapped, and he ‘shut’ and ‘sat’. It was clear who was wearing the trousers today, figuratively speaking of course.
Apparently soon after we had left, Jeremy had had the sense to cancel the function, blaming it on the rain, as reports came flooding in to him from all departments involved in the Banquet (except the car park – the phone was flooded) that everything was going ‘tits up’, the caterers didn’t have enough food, the wine was ‘off’, the ice had melted, the ‘silver service’ was plastic, the ‘orchestra’ was a part time mariachi band (and all three of them were blind drunk), the non-non-slip floor was not only causing chaos but also broken bones, and guests were wandering around the ‘secure areas’ unabated. When it was obvious that I was also a ‘no show’ he did what all good diplomats do in cases like that – and blamed someone else (God).
Jeremy was not really on board with the whole ‘reality’ thing, until he had listened to the audio recording, three times, then he joined the real world. Sherri gave him the short (expurgated) version of events, with a little input from me i.e. the invitation that should have been hand delivered by the Sargent at Arms, who would have explained in great detail what was expected of me (it was one of his perks), but had been sent by post instead to save an ‘overnighter’ expense claim from him. He would also have ‘escorted’ me to the banquet in the Ambassadors car and formally presented me to the Ambassador (and her husband!!).
‘That reminds me – please can I have my €2:95 postage refunded’.
‘No’ they both said in unison, and then Jeremy reverted to type and went back to the Embassy ‘HIS EMBASSY’ to have a ‘meeting’. Even though it was Sunday he called a HOD’s meeting (Heads of Departments) for four o’clock, ‘could we make it?’ he asked.
After the briefest of glances I said ‘we wouldn’t miss it for the world, will Mrs Ambassador be joining us’?
‘No, she’s not a HOD’ he said.
‘Neither am I’ I thought, ‘perhaps I can be the Guest of Honour’.
It quickly became clear to me that not a lot of people liked the ‘First Lady’, and after about a quarter-of-an-hour that included His Excellency (love/damage limitation – damage limitation/love, it was a ‘no brainer’ for the consummate diplomat); she had trodden on an awful lot of toes in the short time that she had been in ‘residence’. We were just getting to the juicy bit (the ‘social functions account’, which was now controlled by Isabel) which even in its un-audited state was obviously sadly lacking in funds after some very ‘dubious’ items had appeared on the debit side (i.e. diamond necklace from the greengrocer and a new ball gown from the printers – she obviously didn’t understand the advances in ‘self-auditing’ in the E-era) when a ‘not quite a HOD yet’ slid silently in and handed a message to Jeremy, who swore. I glanced at Sherri but she didn’t bat an eye-lid, I would have to have a word with her later about this blatant discrimination. Jeremy stood and said ‘this meeting is terminated, obviously the whole matter has now been taken out of my hands, I have been ‘Summonsed back to London, to await the Foreign Secretaries pleasure’, oops. As the summons skipped the Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, (the head of the Diplomatic Service) he was obviously in very deep doo doo indeed. Turning to the lady on his right he said ‘as of this moment you are Chargé d’affaires, please arrange for the ‘diplomatic note’ to be sent to their foreign ministry, informing them of the fact.
‘They won’t like that one little bit’ the gentleman on his left said.
‘Tough’ said Jeremy (unlike an Ambassador, the host government cannot object to a ‘temporary’ Chargé d’affaires).
‘It will certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons’ lefty continued; it was obvious to all that he was angling for the job.
‘Marion is my excellent Deputy Head of Mission, the fact that she is on long term secondment from the Gibraltarian diplomatic service is of absolutely no concern to me’ (the decision to send her here had obviously been made way above his pay grade), ‘it will give them something else to try and take their voters’ minds off their Economy’. It was also clear to me that his ‘number three’ was almost as unpopular as his wife.
I had signed so many ‘Official Secrets Acts 1989’ over the past few years that I almost had ‘writer’s cramp’ at the merest glance at one, so they didn’t lock me up and throw away the key after overhearing the meeting; they gave me a cup of tea. Jeremy was obviously going around in ever-decreasing circles before his imminent departure, even though the Foreign Secretary was in China - and would be for another four days, but apparently that was a moot point, some miscreants of yore had been kept ‘awaiting his pleasure’ for years, even after one had inconsiderately died, but he managed to fit Sherri and I in for a quick family chat in front of the fire (in the middle of a Spanish summer? - but it was artificial) before he left, and the first thing that he did was apologise to me for his behaviour earlier that day, then he gave Sherri a cuddle and excusing themselves took her to one side for a moment – most likely for the ‘family’ stuff, but they were quickly back, obviously they didn’t have a very big family. ‘As he was being recalled to the UK for an indefinite length of time’, he explained, ‘it would be ‘inappropriate’ for his sister to remain in the residence’, and before I coul
d offer her my bed hospitality Jeremy asked if he could dump her on me at El Campo, although he put it a bit more diplomatically than that, ‘and would it be too much of an inconvenience if she could chat occasionally to him on a secure line, just to keep her up to date with ‘things’ - I believe your Lady S has one’: now that was news to me. After bidding farewell to Jeremy (after a group ‘crossing of fingers’ for his trip to London) we made our leisurely way to El Campo (although the helicopter that we were ‘leisurely’ sat in was going like the clappers), although I couldn’t shake off the feeling in the back of my mind that I was somehow being ‘used’, but what the hell, looking at the new Sherri I didn’t mind one little bit. On arrival we did the usual ‘welcome to El Campo’ bit, I’m not saying that it was getting slightly ‘routine’ for me, but if some kind sole had suggested that I make a video, hand it out and pointing them in the right direction, I wouldn’t have fired them on the spot, and not surprisingly Sherri had done her homework on the place as well, but I could not help but notice that David was not his normal cheerful self.
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