He pulled aside the Japanese screen that separated his bedroom from the living-room and looked with distaste at the London drizzle outside the plate-glass window. His man-servant had left his breakfast on the hot-plate, and his mail sat in a neat pile next to it. The letter from his publishers had been placed on top, and he noted with a frown that even after his ninth novel he still felt a tingle of pleasure at seeing those envelopes with ‘Ludgate and Brown, Publishers’ printed discreetly in the left-hand corner. He slit it open.
Your man at the Foreign Office is ready for the annual meeting, having checked your new one for Security. I do hope he doesn’t give you too much trouble – as you know, we are aiming for the Autumn List.
He suggests next Friday morning at 10.30 in his office.
I know this is all a great bore for you, but we must play safe after the last hullabaloo.