The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  ‘Ah, it was back in the day when Nick was a little-known prospective leading man,’ said Cleaver. ‘And he won a part in Neighbours.’

  ‘It was a magical moment in Australian television history,’ interrupted Nick. ‘I was a struggling student looking to make ends meet and had picked up some acting work. I was on set in Melbourne. The director called action and I walked up to a door in Ramsay Street. I knocked and Charlene Robinson opened the door. Our eyes locked.’

  ‘Clearly Kylie Minogue must have been standing on a box for that to happen,’ said Cleaver.

  ‘Our eyes locked,’ continued Nick. ‘The tension on the set was electric. Hairs stood up on the director’s arms. Charlene reached out, her fingers brushing mine as she took the package and closed the door. “That’s a wrap,” said the director.’

  ‘Magical,’ said Cleaver.

  ‘What! That’s it?’ said La Contessa.

  ‘He remains a little-known prospective leading man.’ Cleaver smirked. ‘Except in your life of course, La Contessa.’

  The green Jaguar swept up to the wrought-iron gates of Kirribilli House on Sydney’s affluent lower North Shore and stopped in a cloud of oily blue smoke. A red Tesla glided silently to a halt behind it, its air purifier working overtime to deal with the oil burner’s fumes. ‘I’ve had to get a new phone,’ said Cleaver, pulling out a card and handing it to Nick in the seat behind him. ‘Knowing your technical prowess, I have written down my new number for you.’

  ‘What happened? Tracked down by a former crim you put away?’ asked Nick. ‘Or a former Mrs Cleaver?’

  ‘The latter, I am afraid,’ said Cleaver. ‘We can’t all be as lucky in love as you. Have a wonderful night.’

  Nick stepped from the car, straightened his tux, and took a wide berth around the smoking rear of the Jaguar to open the door for his wife. She emerged in the new full-length figure-hugging red satin gown, bare shouldered and with a string of pearls around her neck. One of the two armed police officers standing by the gate gave an appreciative whistle under his breath. Baxter hopped out and glowered at the officer as Nick flourished the embossed cream card bearing their invitation. The gates swung open and they walked up the gravel drive to the front door of the twin-gabled, slate-roofed cottage that is the Prime Minister’s official residence in Sydney. A green-liveried doorman stood waiting by the entrance.

  ‘It’s not very big,’ whispered La Contessa as they crunched up the gravel. ‘I expected something, well, rather more grandiose.’

  ‘I think it packs a substantially more impressive punch once you get to the other side and see the view,’ replied Nick, sotto voce. He produced the invite again and they were directed through the green-painted front door and into the house, where two waiters stood with flutes of Champagne. More bottles stood in buckets at the foot of an ice carving of a winged unicorn that glistened on a round table in the middle of the foyer.

  ‘Make sure you look out for the two Arabian oryx out on the lawn,’ said Nick. ‘The PM imported them from Iraq as part of a breeding program to reintroduce them into the wild.’

  ‘Darling, I love that you know so much,’ said La Contessa. ‘Do you mean they are just wandering around the grounds of Kirribilli House?’

  ‘Yes, caused quite a stir at the time but the PM insisted on bringing them in as soon as he took office,’ said Nick. ‘It’s quite a quirky thing to do. They have probably flummoxed a few visitors riding past on the Manly ferry, who expect to see kangaroos hopping around the lawn rather than some strange animal from the Middle East.’

  They took the proffered flutes and were guided through the deeply carpeted drawing room with its bookcases filled with weighty tomes.

  La Contessa paused and read some of the spines. ‘A lot of political memoirs, darling,’ she said. ‘They have plenty of histories by your favourite, Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Ah yes, the great man who famously said, “All I can say is that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me,”’ said Nick.

  ‘Is that why you like him so much?’ asked La Contessa. ‘Because he was a booze hound?’

  ‘Not at all, my Ascoli accuser. I admire him because he was so clever with it,’ said Nick. ‘Not to mention the small matter of standing up to the Nazis. Remember the famous riposte he delivered to Bessie Braddock when she accused him of being disgustingly drunk? “My dear,” he told her, “you are ugly. But in the morning I shall be sober.”’

  ‘Obviously he didn’t partake of the breakfast martini,’ observed La Contessa.

  Nick did a quick double-take at his wife, almost started to speak about the British war-time Prime Minister’s whisky-and-cigar-for-breakfast routine and then thought better of it. Instead he took her arm and together they headed out onto the verandah from whence a green lawn rolled down to the water’s edge. Opposite them sat the Opera House, its tiles gleaming white under the floodlights, and to their right the Harbour Bridge towered into the night sky, circling bats filling the columns of light that illuminated its steel superstructure. The harbour was packed with boats of all shapes and sizes that were being shepherded by two bustling police launches endeavouring to keep channels clear for the green and yellow ferries. The sounds of laughter, music and intoxicated revelry drifted across the water. The two white scimitar-horned oryx were at the western end of the lawn, grazing peacefully by the fence of Admiralty House. A string quartet was set up at the far end of the verandah, filling the evening air with the soothing strains of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’.

  ‘Darling!’ cried La Contessa, throwing out her arms. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  Prime Minister Robert Monaro looked startled and appeared to jump before breaking into a smile, excusing himself and coming over to plant a delicate kiss on La Contessa’s cheek.

  ‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ he said. ‘And you too, big fella. I’m especially glad you are here tonight.’

  ‘Well it’s not every day the Prime Minister invites you to New Year’s Eve at Kirribilli House,’ said Nick, raising a slightly puzzled eyebrow. ‘I’m looking forward to whatever you have in store.’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you about —’ began the Prime Minister before he was interrupted by the arrival of a slightly plump blonde woman in an over-fussy navy blue gown. Her hair was coiffured so solidly it remained unruffled in the gentle evening breeze.

  ‘Patricia, you look absolutely divine,’ said La Contessa amid air kisses. ‘So thoughtful of you and Robert to think of us. We are really quite excited.’

  ‘Well I think it may be an evening with a few surprises,’ replied Patricia Monaro obliquely.

  Nick frowned again.

  ‘The house is absolutely stupendous,’ said La Contessa. ‘Was it like this when you moved in or have you made some changes?’

  ‘Oh yes, extensive renovations – new doors and then I completely redecorated,’ said Patricia, warming to the theme. ‘The last tenants had small children and you know what that can be like. Anyway, downstairs I put in that lovely cream wallpaper with the fleur-de-lis imprint. I picked new art from the Australiana Fund, all original you know: it was quite a big job in the end.’

  ‘I can certainly see some of your signature flourishes,’ said La Contessa, waving airily with her hands in the direction of the house. ‘Are you spending a lot of time here or in Canberra?’

  ‘Robert likes to be in Canberra on his own,’ said Patricia, a shadow crossing her features. ‘So I am here on my own quite a bit. I miss the girls, and him.’

  ‘Well it’s lovely of you to ask to share such a special night,’ said La Contessa, attempting to brighten up her friend. ‘Oh, and thank you for letting us bring Baxter.’

  ‘I didn’t, er, actually realise you meant to b-bring him . . .’ stammered Patricia as La Contessa carried on regardless.

  ‘You don’t mind if I let him off the lead to explore the gardens, do you?’ she said, already unclipping the lead. ‘There you go, Baxter. He does so love to
patrol the perimeter of anywhere he goes. It makes him feel comfortable, you know. He likes to make his mark . . .’

  La Contessa frowned as Baxter’s tail went up and his haunches dropped.

  ‘Oh no, not there in the middle of the lawn, Baxter darling. Oh dear, Nicky, did you bring the dog tidy bags?’

  ‘What’s that, Mariabella? I, er . . .’ stalled Nick, patting his pockets ineffectually.

  ‘Never mind,’ said La Contessa quietly as a French voice protested loudly. A thin red-faced man with neatly gelled hair, reminiscent of Alain Delon in his movie-making prime, made a show of extracting the white silk handkerchief from the top pocket of his designer-cut Yves Saint Laurent dinner suit and holding it to his nose.

  ‘Sacre bleu! Robert, you claim this harbour is the cleanest water in the world but something around here stinks,’ he said, walking over to the group and immediately gravitating to La Contessa. ‘Madame, I have not had the honour.’

  ‘Armand Dieudonne, France’s ambassador to Australia, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to La Contessa Mariabella Belluci,’ said Monaro, as the ambassador caressed the back of her outstretched hand with his lips.

  ‘Mon Dieu, what unexpected beauty to find here on these wild colonial shores,’ he said, before stepping back. ‘And may I present my own beautiful wife, Anne-Sophie Dieudonne.’

  A much more mature woman, strikingly elegant in a trademark Chanel simple black dress, stepped forwards and gracefully proffered her hand to La Contessa and then Nick.

  ‘How lovely to meet you,’ said Nick as La Contessa fumbled in her clutch and pulled out a vintage silk handkerchief, which she pressed to her nose. ‘Are you here building Aussie–Franco relations?’

  ‘Oh no, there is no need to improve those,’ said Anne-Sophie in a husky voice, chuckling. ‘My husband and Robert go way back. They were brothers in arms.’

  ‘Oui. I was a Legionnaire in Iraq when Robert was on long-range reconnaissance with the Special Air Service,’ interrupted Armand. ‘We have come a long way since those days, eh, Robert? But something still smells exactly the same.’

  The ambassador looked down at his befouled patent leather shoe in horror and cried out, ‘Merde de chien!’ before stomping off to rub his foot clean on the manicured grass.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said La Contessa, putting her handkerchief back in her red satin clutch. ‘The smell was really quite awful.’

  Nick politely cleared his throat as Monaro and Patricia turned to greet two new arrivals. ‘And how did you and the ambassador meet?’ he asked Anne-Sophie.

  ‘You mean what is he doing with a woman twenty-five years his senior?’ She laughed again, brushing away any protests before they could begin. ‘Of course, I am used to it here in Australia. In France it is normal – look at our President Emmanuel Macron with his wife, Brigitte.’

  ‘And who hasn’t had a crush on their schoolteacher? I still remember Miss Anson, the sports mistress: lovely form in the gymnasium,’ agreed Nick fondly before an elbow in the ribs from La Contessa silenced him.

  ‘Do carry on,’ she said to the French Ambassador’s wife.

  ‘Well, our story is one of romance and passion in the hot desert sun. I was the wife of Armand’s commanding officer in the French Foreign Legion. We fell in love and, sadly, that was the end of his military career.’

  ‘You haven’t done so badly for yourselves,’ observed Nick, nodding at the few designer-clad people dotted around the lawn. ‘This is a pretty select gathering by Australian standards.’

  ‘Oh no, you misunderstand me. This is wonderful. We have a lovely life and Armand has done very well in the diplomatic service. I just sense sometimes that he misses the military, the comradeship.’

  As if on cue, the French Ambassador let out a cry of delight and rushed across the lawn to embrace two men the Prime Minister had just ushered onto the verandah.

  ‘My point exactly.’ Anne-Sophie smiled. ‘Here are two more army boys. They both served with Robert in Iraq. That’s Charlie Johnson, now a senior diplomat for Australia in China and —’

  ‘Alexander Brown,’ interrupted La Contessa, as Nick gave her a startled look. ‘Yes, I know him well. He is part of our diplomatic team in London, I think.’

  La Contessa looked at the two new arrivals, both still in prime physical condition. She could still see the younger man Alexander had been in the laughing middle-aged man who was there today. His eyes were a twinkling blue and his grin still held a boyish hint of mischief. His hair was neatly cropped. By contrast, Charlie was leaner, his dark grey hair curling at the neck and in need of a cut, and the broken capillaries in his narrow cheeks showed the early signs of alcohol abuse that were also reflected in the slight opaque wateriness of his eyes.

  ‘Oui, you are correct,’ said Anne-Sophie. ‘Look at those boys now. There is a bond forged in blood that you cannot find anywhere else. That is what Armand misses and I cannot ever replace.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t need to replace it,’ observed La Contessa. ‘Can’t he just have it at moments like these? Is that not enough?’

  ‘Sometimes I think so,’ said Anne-Sophie sadly. ‘But there is a dark hole deep within him and only they can go there.’

  The sombre moment was broken by a sudden burst of barking and a broad Aussie voice shouting, ‘Jesus Christ, get this fucking wolf away from me!’

  ‘Baxter!’ cried La Contessa, hurrying across to the shrubbery as a red-faced man with tousled dyed hair stumbled out onto the lawn attempting to zip up his fly. ‘Oh you big bully – he is just a little beagle, not a wolf.’

  ‘Trust me, lady, he’s got a lot of teeth when you’ve got the old soldier out for a quiet piss in the bushes,’ said the man, finally managing to pull his zipper into place. ‘Is he under control now?’

  ‘Certainly. In fact he was never out of control,’ replied La Contessa icily as she rubbed the appreciative beagle’s head. ‘Although others may wish to reflect on their own control.’

  ‘That’s pretty salty, considering we haven’t properly met,’ said the florid-faced man, holding out his hand. La Contessa looked at the proffered limb with distaste.

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ he said, wiping it on his trouser leg before offering it again. ‘Hayden Hill.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps we might try again after you have washed your hands. I think the bathroom is that way. Just remember to sing “Happy Birthday” twice.’

  As the man wandered towards the house, Nick appeared by his wife’s side with a fresh flute of Champagne. ‘Making new friends?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said La Contessa. ‘I would say we got off to a frosty start.’

  ‘Well, you do know how to pick your enemies. Hayden Hill is only one of the richest men in Australia,’ said Nick. ‘If not the richest.’

  ‘But it’s mostly gambling money. I’m not sure I approve of an industry that caters to people’s baser instincts and addictions, especially when it’s done in such awful garish taste. That new casino of his is, well frankly, quite vulgar.’

  ‘Oh, I actually quite like the casino,’ said Nick, before catching his wife’s eye and bringing that thought to a swift conclusion. ‘So how did you know Alexander Brown? I wasn’t aware you kept close tabs on the Australian diplomatic corps.’

  ‘Oh I don’t, darling,’ replied La Contessa breezily. ‘I knew him back in university days. Come on, Baxter, let’s go back to the house. Alexander was a regular visitor to our share house when Robert was away.’

  ‘What? Do you mean what I think you mean?’

  ‘Oh absolutely, darling. Patricia jilted him for Robert and then continued having a red-hot torrid affair with him behind Robert’s back,’ said La Contessa. ‘Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth gaping, darling. This is shaping up to be quite a party.’

  CHAPTER 3

  A Torrid Affair

  Across the lawn a gate in the fence opened, startling the oryx as a diminutive man in a well-cut
but older-style dinner suit, with close-cropped grey hair and a military bearing let himself through, carefully closing the gate behind him. Baxter noticed the movement of the two antelopes and headed over to investigate, only to be headed off by the man as he strode towards the group on the verandah. The man stopped, dropped to one knee and scratched the beagle between the ears. Baxter’s tail wagged appreciatively, all thought of investigating the endangered antelopes completely forgotten.

  ‘Yes, they are remarkably calm.’ The Prime Minister’s voice drifted over to them as he gestured to the oryx. ‘Had them sedated so they don’t get upset at the fireworks.’

  ‘That’s the Governor-General, Sir Aiden Smith,’ said Nick, following La Contessa’s gaze to the wiry man as he stood up from stroking Baxter. ‘Vietnam war hero, won the Distinguished Service Cross and was the Chief of Army when those boys,’ he said, gesturing to the Prime Minister and two diplomats standing on the verandah, ‘were fighting with the SAS in Iraq.’

  ‘Oh, darling, you are just so clever,’ said La Contessa, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. ‘I know I’ve said it before, but how on earth do you know so much?’

  ‘I read the paper every day,’ replied Nick with a smile. ‘It’s like getting a daily history book of the world as it happens.’

  ‘As it happens that lovely house where the Governor-General came from is rather more what I was expecting,’ said La Contessa, gesturing to the stately home next door with its stone columns and expansive shaded verandah. ‘This is so much more, well, modest.’

  ‘A sign of the times, I’m afraid,’ said Nick. ‘Not these times; olden times. Admiralty House is clearly the grand residence where we expect our leader to live. And as the Governor-General is the representative of the Crown in Australia, that’s exactly where he did, and so still does, live.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said La Contessa. ‘And with the navy’s important role in the early days of the colony it would have to be Admiralty House. Still, I think now times have moved on, we should get them to swap over. Our PM should be in the bigger, better house.’