“Why?”
“The usual thing. Somebody’s said something rude about their legal system. I must say it gets bloody difficult at times pretending it’s perfectly all right to stone women for adultery and cut people’s heads off in the town center. Anyway, it’s not his fault he can’t be here, and he is really sorry. I hope you don’t mind having me as a substitute.”
As she spoke, Greta was shepherding Thomas out of the building and into a taxi she’d hailed just as they set foot on the sidewalk.
“It’s not far, but I don’t feel like dragging the picnic around with us if we can avoid it. I thought that we could have it by the river after we’ve done the Houses of Parliament.”
Thomas was touched. His feelings about Greta were as confused as ever. The evident antipathy between her and his mother made him feel that a day spent with Greta would be seen by his mother as an act of disloyalty, but what choice did he have? His father had let him down, and his mother had gone out for the day. It was kind of Greta to take the time out and bring a picnic. She didn’t need to do that. Thomas took it as a compliment, and sitting beside Greta in the taxi he felt his skin tingle as he anticipated the day ahead.
It was the Easter recess and Parliament was not sitting. The long green leather benches in the House of Commons did not interest Thomas much even when Greta pointed out the government front bench and the microphone where his father would stand when making a statement to the House. Thomas felt let down by his father but at the same time relieved that he didn’t have to spend the day with him. He could imagine how boring his father would have made it, whereas Greta told racy anecdotes about prominent politicians, prefacing each disclosure with an injunction “not to breathe a word or I’ll get into terrible trouble with your father.”
The sun was shining high in a cloudless sky when they got outside into Parliament Square just after one o’clock, and they walked down to the park carrying the picnic basket between them. There was a blanket on top of it, and Greta spread it out on the grass near the river.
“We went on a boat yesterday,” said Thomas, making conversation while Greta unpacked the rest of the picnic. “Me and my mother. We went from here up to the Tower. Past Traitors’ Gate.”
“God, it’s a grisly place,” said Greta. “I haven’t been there since I first came to London.”
“Why grisly?”
“Well, where do you start? The Princes in the Tower. Anne Boleyn. Catherine Howard.”
“Yes, we saw where they were executed.”
“By that bastard, Henry the Eighth. The most disgusting old man in history. Marries pretty girls a third of his age, and a third of his weight too, and then he kills them when they have an affair. What did he expect?”
“But they didn’t,” said Thomas eagerly. “Not Anne Boleyn anyway. Thomas Cromwell told the King she did, but she didn’t.” Henry VIII and his six wives was one of his favorite historical subjects.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I know what I would have done if I’d been married to that old goat.”
Thomas did not respond. Greta’s reference to her own sex drive made his heart beat fast. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and turned away.
“Come on, let’s not talk about people getting executed. It’s much too nice a day for that. I don’t want to get blamed for you having another sleepless night.”
“What do you mean? I slept fine.”
“That’s not what your mother said last night, Thomas. She said you had dark circles under your eyes, that she didn’t think you’d slept at all.”
“Oh, you mean the night before.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Greta looked at Thomas expectantly. She hadn’t asked any question, but it felt to Thomas exactly as if she were waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she pressed the subject further.
“It must be strange being in London after the quiet of Flyte. It takes awhile to adjust, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“The traffic can be noisy too. Even when it’s way past midnight. It often keeps me up.”
“Well, I didn’t have a problem. Not the first night and not last night either. I don’t know what my mother was talking about.”
Greta smiled. She seemed to visibly relax suddenly, and Thomas felt as if he’d given her exactly what she wanted. He knew he should have been pleased; the last thing he needed was for Greta to suspect that he’d been spying on her and her mysterious friend. However, he also felt the old sense of disloyalty stirring within him. He couldn’t even be with Greta anymore without feeling that he was treating his mother badly, and there were other things that he knew he shouldn’t forget. Like the man with the scar, and the lie she’d told his parents last night about being with her mother in Manchester.
Thomas knew that he needed to be on his guard, but it was hard when Greta was so attractive and was making such an effort to be nice to him.
“I’ve got white wine,” she said. “A little won’t hurt you, but don’t tell your parents.”
This secret didn’t require any oral agreement. Taking the polystyrene cup from Greta’s outstretched hand was quite sufficient to seal Thomas’s complicity, and the alcohol made everything glow in the warm afternoon sunlight.
“God, I wish I was wearing something more comfortable,” said Greta as she took off her jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. She had already kicked off her high-heeled shoes when they sat down.
“Not enough room in the picnic basket for cushions, I’m afraid. Look, I can’t use this jacket, Thomas. I need it for work. Do you mind me using your legs? As a pillow, I mean.”
Thomas nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak as Greta stretched her legs out on the blanket and positioned her head on his thigh. She closed her eyes and sighed with apparent contentment.
Thomas was lying on his side with his head resting on his elbow, and soon his arm began to ache, but he didn’t move. Concentrating all his attention instead on slowing down his breathing and his heartbeat, he moved his other arm until it came to rest just by where the mane of Greta’s raven hair was spread out over the pale cotton trousers that his mother had bought him the day before.
He hesitated for what seemed like an age with his hand suspended above Greta’s head before he began gently to stroke her hair. After a moment she turned her head slightly so as to move herself more fully onto his legs, and looking down, Thomas could see the rounded beginnings of her breasts. He felt himself hardening against her, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was certain that Greta couldn’t help but be aware of his excitement. However, she did not move away from him. Instead, without opening her eyes, she began to talk in a sensual, half-sleepy voice that aroused him even more.
“You know I like you, Thomas. I always have. You’re so unlike your father, and yet you remind me of him as well.”
“I like you too,” whispered Thomas.
“Your father and a boy I knew in school years ago,” Greta mused. “You remind me of him as well.” Thomas didn’t know whether she had heard him or not. “Pierre, he was called. Always quoting poetry; telling crazy stories. His father was from somewhere in France and hated it in Manchester. Maybe Pierre got it from him. His romantic nature, I mean.”
“What happened to him?”
“Pierre? He left school. Came south. Got lost in London somewhere. We kept in touch for a while, but I haven’t heard from him in ages. The last time we spoke he was working somewhere in France. I don’t know if he stayed there. He’s probably got a wife and two-point-five children by now.”
Greta broke off. A note of annoyance had crept into her voice, and a frown creased her wide forehead down to her black eyebrows. Thomas tried unsuccessfully to smooth it away with the back of his hand.
“Do I look like him?” he asked, trying to return the conversation to its previous intimate footing.