Thomas waited for nearly five minutes, wilting under the porters withering stare, until Greta appeared at the top of a flight of red carpeted stairs. She looked different today. In Flyte and again on the previous evening shed been dressed casually, but now she was wearing a dark gray business suit over a plain white blouse. The material was soft and beautifully cut to display her figure to the best advantage, and the hemline of the skirt was high above the knee, revealing the perfection of her long, tanned legs. Thomass head swam for a moment as his recent dream of Greta returned to him with sudden intensity.
She came running down the stairs carrying a picnic basket. She put down the basket and kissed him on the cheek, just like she had the night before, resting her arm on his shoulder so that he felt her breasts for a moment brushing against his chest.
Been looking after our young guest, have you, Mills? she said, turning with a mock serious expression toward the old porter, who grunted in response from behind his desk. Not even Greta in a miniskirt seemed capable of changing his dubious exterior.
Miserable Mills we call him, whispered Greta, bending toward Thomas so as not to be overheard.
I can see why, he whispered back, but his voice came out louder than hed intended and he was sure that Miserable Mills had heard them. He looked suddenly quite warlike, gripping a stapler on his desk with apparently ferocious intent.
Bad news, Im afraid, said Greta, ignoring the outbreak of militancy behind her. Your father cant make it. Theres been a semidisaster this morning. The Saudis are threatening to cancel a big defense contract.
Why?
The usual thing. Somebodys said something rude about their legal system. I must say it gets bloody difficult at times pretending its perfectly all right to stone women for adultery and cut peoples heads off in the town center. Anyway, its not his fault he cant be here, and he is really sorry. I hope you dont mind having me as a substitute.
As she spoke, Greta was shepherding Thomas out of the building and into a taxi shed hailed just as they set foot on the sidewalk.
Its not far, but I dont feel like dragging the picnic around with us if we can avoid it. I thought that we could have it by the river after weve 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 didnt 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 didnt 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 Ill 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 oclock, 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, its a grisly place, said Greta. I havent 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 didnt, said Thomas eagerly. Not Anne Boleyn anyway. Thomas Cromwell told the King she did, but she didnt. Henry VIII and his six wives was one of his favorite historical subjects.
Well, Im sorry to hear that. I know what I would have done if Id been married to that old goat.
Thomas did not respond. Gretas reference to her own sex drive made his heart beat fast. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and turned away.
Come on, lets not talk about people getting executed. Its much too nice a day for that. I dont want to get blamed for you having another sleepless night.
What do you mean? I slept fine.
Thats not what your mother said last night, Thomas. She said you had dark circles under your eyes, that she didnt think youd slept at all.
Oh, you mean the night before.
Yes, thats right.
Greta looked at Thomas expectantly. She hadnt asked any question, but it felt to Thomas exactly as if she were waiting for an answer. When he didnt 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, doesnt it?
I guess so.
The traffic can be noisy too. Even when its way past midnight. It often keeps me up.
Well, I didnt have a problem. Not the first night and not last night either. I dont know what my mother was talking about.
Greta smiled. She seemed to visibly relax suddenly, and Thomas felt as if hed given her exactly what she wanted. He knew he should have been pleased; the last thing he needed was for Greta to suspect that hed been spying on her and her mysterious friend. However, he also felt the old sense of disloyalty stirring within him. He couldnt even be with Greta anymore without feeling that he was treating his mother badly, and there were other things that he knew he shouldnt forget. Like the man with the scar, and the lie shed 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.
Ive got white wine, she said. A little wont hurt you, but dont tell your parents.
This secret didnt require any oral agreement. Taking the polystyrene cup from Gretas outstretched hand was quite sufficient to seal Thomass 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, Im afraid. Look, I cant use this jacket, Thomas. I need it for work. Do you mind me using your legs? As a pillow, I mean.
Thomas nodded. He couldnt 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 didnt 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 Gretas 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 Gretas 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 couldnt 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. Youre 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 didnt 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 havent heard from him in ages. The last time we spoke he was working somewhere in France. I dont know if he stayed there. Hes 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.
No, not really, said Greta irritably before she added in a softer voice: Im sorry, Thomas. Its the past. I dont like talking about it. Its not your fault.
She smiled up at him, but the afternoons spell was broken. Big Ben struck three, and Greta pulled herself up to a sitting position.
Come on, she said. Time to pack up. Weve got to be home in twenty minutes.
Why? asked Thomas, shaking his arm about in a vain attempt to rid himself of the cramp, which was now transforming itself into a painful attack of pins and needles.
Im meeting your father there. On the way to the next set of meetings. Lets hope hes managed to sort out the Saudis.
Sort out who?
The Saudis. The ones with the Islamic sensibilities. Dont you remember anything?
Thomas didnt answer. He did dimly remember the reason that Greta had given for his fathers absence, but it didnt seem important. His father was always absent, always letting him down. What mattered was the afternoon with Greta: the sun and the white wine, her head resting on his thigh, his hand in her hair, and now it was all going to be over. Why? Because of his father and his stupid work. Thomas wished that he didnt remind Greta of his father at all, but perhaps that was what she liked about him. He felt he couldnt win.