“You’re blushing.”
“I am not blushing. My complexion is responding to the ambient temperature of the room, which is too warm.”
“Your ears are pink.”
“They are not.”
They were. Both of them. Lex grinned and adjusted his cuffs.
Barnaby’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. “Stop that,” he hissed. “Your suit is bespoke. Your sleeves are the perfect length. You don’t need to paw at them. It makes you look uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Then stop touching your cuffs.”
Lex stopped touching his cuffs. He was standing in Buckingham fucking Palace in a bespoke suit with a man who couldn’t stop looking at him, and he had two Olympic golds hanging in a display box at home. Life was, by any reasonable measure, going spectacularly.
The State Rooms were enormous and confusing. The ceilings were forty feet high, coffered and gilded, with chandeliers the size of family cars hanging from chains that probably hadn’t been replaced since Napoleon was causing problems. The walls were red silk, and everywhere he looked, there was gold: goldframes, gold moulding, gold candelabra, gold leaf on every available surface.
He was surrounded by athletes he recognised and politicians he didn’t, all of them holding drinks and going about the business of ‘mingling’. A sprinter he’d shared a bus with in Tokyo was deep in conversation with a woman whose lanyard identified her as someone from the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport. Two Paralympic swimmers were being photographed in front of a portrait. A cluster of rowers stood near the fireplace, their heights making the room’s proportions slightly less absurd.
The receiving line moved fast. Lex had expected formality; the full name, the bow to the King, the handshake, and the scripted exchange. What he got was a conveyor belt treatment. They shuffled forward in pairs and trios, guided by an equerry who whispered names into the King’s ear a half-second before each introduction.
Then it was Lex’s turn, and he was standing in front of the King of the United Kingdom.
James was taller than the telly suggested. Six-three, at least, with the lean, long-armed build of a rower and light brown hair that sat in a careful wave above hazel eyes. He was wearing a navy suit too, and his handshake was warm and precise, lasting exactly two seconds.
“Mr Murphy. Congratulations on the gold.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The words came out right. Lex had practised in the mirror that morning, because Barnaby had told him the first address was always “Your Majesty” and he’d been terrified of saying “cheers, mate” out of sheer muscle memory.
The smile James directed at him was a measured one that gave nothing away, and then he was already turning to the next person in the line. The whole thing had taken two seconds.
Barnaby was next. Lex watched, expecting something more to pass between them on account of their having known each other for so long. Surely there’d be a longer handshake at the very least. But Barnaby got nothing. James shook Barnaby’s hand with the same warmth he’d directed at everyone else. “Lord Ashworth. Well done in Tokyo.” Barnaby inclined his head, said, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” and moved on.
Princess Caroline was next in the line, shorter and sharper-featured than her brother, with auburn hair pinned back and a smile that was quick and genuine. She shook Lex’s hand and told him she’d screamed at the television during his final, and Lex liked her immediately.
The group photograph was an exercise in organised chaos. Eighty athletes were herded into position on a staircase by a photographer’s assistant. Lex ended up in the third row, wedged between a table tennis player and a sailor, while Barnaby was placed at the far end of the same row, separated from him by six people. The photographer took fifteen shots with the King stood front and centre.
Then it was over, the structure dissolved, and the reception was reduced to just a room full of people holding glasses, trying to work out who was worth talking to.
Barnaby appeared at his elbow with a small white plate. On it were four items, each one placed with the spacing and precision of a jewellery display. The largest bit of food was the size of Lex’s thumbnail.
“What are those?”
“Canapés. Eat one.”
Lex picked up the nearest item. It was a circle of toast the size of a ten-pence piece, topped with something pink and a sprig of something green. He put it in his mouth. It tasted incredible, and it was gone in half a second.
“That was amazing. What was it?”
“Smoked salmon with crème fraîche and dill on a blini.”
“It was the size of a contact lens, Barns. I need about forty of those for a proper mouthful.”
“Then eat the others.” Barnaby held the plate out. “I’m keeping your mouth full so you don’t say anything regrettable to a Cabinet minister.”
“I wouldn’t say anything regrettable.”
