playing a bit fast and loose here with the chronology of the show and the UK legalizing same sex marriage. wibbly wobbly timey wimey, just roll with it ok?
Diana stands in her large walk-in closet, paralyzed with indecision. A wedding dress hangs before her. She should be putting it on. She has an appointment at the registry office for eleven sharp. She has a bouquet of calla lilies chilling in her refrigerator. She has a bride, though she wonders if perhaps Ingrid fancies herself the groom.
“We should do it,” Ingrid had whispered when it had finally become legal.
“Why?”
“To make people take us seriously. To stick it to the bigots. Because we can.”
She had not mentioned love.
The gown, crème-colored satin with a full circle skirt, had once belonged to Diana’s mother. Diana had added full length lace sleeves and taken up the hem of the skirt to the familiar tea length of her other dresses. The bodice had needed to be taken in as well, as Diana’s mother had possessed a much more womanly figure. When her mother had bequeathed her the dress, she doubted she meant for Diana to wear it to marry a British Nigerian woman.
“Why now? I like things between us as they are. I don’t need a piece of paper.”
“It would mean a lot to my family. It would make it real to them. It’s different for you.”
Ingrid still had aunties and cousins who believed she just hadn’t met the right man. At least Diana was blessed with parents who were dead and a brother who couldn’t be arsed to care whether she fancied men or women.
“Would I have to give up my flat?” Diana rather liked her flat. “Would we move in together?”
“We’d do whatever we like. Things don’t have to change right away.”
Diana touched the heavy satin of the dress. Something borrowed, but all she felt was blue.
Her mind starts whirring and spinning. Why did Ingrid want marriage? Why now? And what would happen at the Park? Ingrid had assured her it was merely a formality with HR. That, if anything, it would make their relationship more respectable, less like a secret. But Diana had never given a toss about respectable when it came to her love life. What would happen if one of them ever became First Desk—finally became First Desk? They couldn’t be in a supervisory position over the other, it wasn’t allowed.
Diana’s analytical mind spirals further upward and outward, grabbing stray details and gossip and cocktail party conversation, compiling an elegant dossier. Parties Ingrid had been invited to, but she hadn’t. A leadership seminar in Oslo—Diana had been left behind to mind the store at the Park. And last month, a garden party hosted by the Defense Minister. Half of the people there had addressed her as Ingrid’s partner. Not colleague. Partner. Seemed shocked to discover she had a career of her own in MI-5.
Ingrid is clearly being groomed for something. She has poise, intelligence, experience, and decent bona fides—even if they aren’t Diana’s own Oxbridge ones. It occurs to Diana that the only thing Ingrid doesn’t have is an adoring wife at her side.
Diana looks at her mother’s wedding dress, now seeing it for the straitjacket it is. The writing is on the wall. If she marries Ingrid, First Desk-in-waiting, it will be the death of her career. How long before some legal-minded busybody suggests it’s not appropriate for First Desk and Second Desk to be married? Before someone proposes shunting her off to the private sector? Or better yet, hints that Diana should quit work altogether and spend her afternoons ordering canapés instead of drone strikes?
Christ, she’d rather join Lamb at Slough House.
Diana has chewed her bottom lip so hard she’s drawn blood.
It’s not a wedding, it’s neutralization.
Wordlessly, Diana picks up the black dress hanging in her closet and gets ready for work.
--------
Ingrid stops by her office later that day. She’s wearing a dark suit of deepest black superfine, a bit more tailored than what she usually wears. There’s satin piping on the pockets and the lapels.
“Thought you were taking the day off today,” Ingrid says all too casually.
Diana shuffles papers around on her desk in a pantomime of busywork. “With the Five Eyes coming up, I just wanted to check everything over one last time.”
“I see.” Ingrid stands at the door. Behind her glasses, her eyes seem a bit red.
Before she leaves, Ingrid says, “I didn’t go either.”
Diana holds her gaze, nods, and turns back to her work. She knows Ingrid is lying, but she won’t call her on it—she’s broken her heart enough for one day.
