Lunching with spies like us
WHAT a small world it is. The other day I was ringing an insurance company on the subject of a bit of cover for my next foreign holiday trip. The executive asked if I was the author. I conceded that I was. “We have met,” he said, “but many years ago.”
Not terribly unusual. I have met quite a few people but this was different. In an earlier career the now senior insurance executive was once a waiter at a London hotel where I lunched regularly, the Montcalm in Great Cumberland Place. He was the head waiter.
He went on to greater things. I left London and retired to the country. The dining room was given a complete refurbishment. But apparently they put up a plaque to say I used to lunch at that table “with spies and mercenaries”.
Well, all right, when I was researching thriller novels I used to have some rather odd lunch guests but I haven’t been reminded of that for many years.