From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 130)

When I must, I can be quite the raconteur and Bon Vivant. I daresay there are a fair number of people out there who consider me their friend, and while I have made it on to their Christmas card list, they have not made it on to mine. Fortunately, bachelors are known for forgetting such festival trivialities and everyone thinks I would have sent them a card if I had been organised enough. Poor old Fitzroy, they say to one another, he needs a good woman to sort him out. I most definitely do not. If I’d liked them enough to have sent a card, I would have done so. I’m an army man, and extremely organised in both my professional and my social life. I also have Griffin, and Alice, whose attention to detail would allow her to spot a smudge on the face of one of those angels who dance on the end of pins (such an odd thing for an angelic being to do.)

Look, all I’m saying is that I could have friends if I wanted them, but I don’t. Yes, I was utterly wrong about letting Alice into my life. She has brought me nothing but amusement and aide. I should have let her in ages ago. Mind you, it’s not been quite as good for her.

I did have a friend once, an excellent friend. A man named Woolsey. We met during my early days on an advanced training course. We barely knew what we were letting ourselves in for, but we were all about God, King, and Country.

I’ve mentioned attrition before. Woolsey and I were convinced the majority of our training cohort weren’t going to last very long. The other chaps were all cricketers, by which I mean they wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t cricket. Woolsey and I were prepared to scheme, confuse, betray, seduce, and lie through our teeth to get the job done. Needless to say, our instructors had high hopes for us.

Then, when Rose died, Woolsey took me out and got me very drunk. Strangely, it did help. The man knew me better than I knew myself. We shared a love of horses and the country, and although we were both excellent shots, neither of us killed for sport. We shared a love of literature, and of the fairer sex. He was a good bloke all round, and there was none finer at talking the hind legs off a donkey, while simultaneously picking your pocket and running off with your wife.

He made me laugh. I trusted him.

Then, three weeks out of training, the blighter went and got himself shot dead. Picked off by a police sniper during a raid while playing the part of an international gang leader. Various people were at fault, and I made it my business to see they never worked in the service again. But that didn’t help. He was gone.

It’s not worth having friends in my line. The only ones you can really have are fellow spies. After all, only your brothers-in-espionage will ever have a hope of understanding you. Life expectancy in the field is not long. I beat the odds, and continue to do so, but other than Alice and Jack, who I can protect, I will have no one else in my life. Ever.