The Ambassador by Edwina Currie

Nice house, all paid for. Had to work hard for it: I used to do a thirty-five-hour week. Not any more.’
    ‘Do you take an interest in politics?’ Strether ventured. He felt manipulative, probing in this manner, but his companion seemed amiable enough. Matt had been correct: there would be lots of occasions to mix with the elites, the Énarques, but not so many to meet an average family.
    ‘Not a lot. We vote, like. Gotta do our duty. Even so, I don’t bother every time. Not unless it’s something important.’
    ‘What was the last thing you voted on?’
    Fred screwed up his face. ‘Mayor of London, I think,’ he answered. ‘I voted for the geezer offering free tickets to the Internationals. He won, but we heard no more about it.’
    ‘The Prime Minister vetoed it,’ his wife reminded him. ‘Them NTs always get their own way in the end.’
    ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ Strether asked quickly.
    ‘Nah,’ Fred answered again. His cheerful face broke into a wide grin. ‘They look after their business and I look after mine. I ain’t got much to complain about, an’ that’s the truth of it: as long as my kids can grow up okay, and the wife’s willing, and the gee-gees run fast once in a while. I’d like to see my grandchildren some day. They’ll all be NTs, I hope. Then I’ll die a happy man.’
    The new teams were on the pitch. Fred broke off the conversation and began to howl abuse at one particular opponent. To Strether’s untutored eye, the players looked identical to the previous teams apart from the differently coloured strip. He nudged Fred and remarked on the similarity.
    ‘Yeah, well,’ Fred shrugged, ‘don’t you do that in the States? They’re NTs too. The finest quality. That one’ – he pointed –’he’s Maradona. Supposed to be, anyway. That one’s Pele. Fancy footwork but a bit slow. I prefer the Italian types meself.’
    ‘Gimme Cantona every time,’ his wife said, rolling her eyes.
    ‘When you think about it – and I don’t much – I reckon we’re sitting pretty,’ Fred added. ‘Got our pick. The best in the world. The best ever. Gawd, look at that. Pass it! Go on, you stupid tosser!’ He half rose then slumped as a penalty was declared. He prodded Strether’s arm. ‘If you don’t have this in the States, no wonder you’ve slipped behind. Sounds a bit backward to me. Yes!’ The penalty had been saved.
    Suddenly there was a commotion three rows in front, on the other side of the gangway. Two Rottweilers marched down the steps, batons in hand. In a trice they had lifted a middle-aged man in a grey tunic suit bodily out of his seat and frogmarched him, arms bent painfully behind his back, up and along the terrace to the nearest exit. Strether saw the man’s expression, a mix of fear and bewilderment, but the prisoner made no protest, other than to drag his feet. As he stumbled, one guard cracked him hard across the shins with the baton. In a moment the trio had vanished.
    The Ambassador turned to Matt, but the young staffer, who had seen only the man’s back as he disappeared with his escorts, spread his hands helplessly. Strether tugged at Fred’s arm. ‘What was that about?’
    ‘Dunno,’ the fat man answered, his attention on the play. ‘Often happens. Probably got behind with his alimony. Or taxes. Whatever it was, there’s a good reason.’
    ‘You sure?’ Strether demanded.
    ‘Oh, yeah. He’ll have been spotted when he got here. Checked out. Probably made the mistake of using his swipe card – then they’ve got ’im. No rest for the wicked, no hiding-place. You’ve got to behave now. Best for everyone.’
    For the rest of the afternoon Strether watched mostly in silence. In the basketball match the loping players, all astonishingly tall, were uniformly black, shaven-headed and aggressive. That had always been so, but now it made him think. The women soccer players were more varied, though four of the defenders had the same sturdy build and, from