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Thomas has it all: nobility, money, the girl, and a position waiting for him at the family business. But when he thinks about the life ahead of him, he can't breathe. So he takes a gap year backpacking.
Nadia...
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Glastonbury Festival, England — June.
"We'll have the lobster this evening," Beatrice said into her phone as she trudged ahead of Thomas, working her way through the churned-up mud of Glastonbury.
Thomas paused to take a final drag of his cigarette and peered back. An enormous steel pyramid rose above the chain-link fence sectioning off the backstage area. The loud, echoing drone of amplified rock music called to him. When the distortion faded into a lull, a cheer rose, and Thomas felt like something cold and heavy dropped into his belly.
He'd been enjoying himself, lost in the crush of sweaty bodies, and the songs of an up-and-coming rock band — West Thebarton, was it? But Beatrice had other ideas. He sighed, butted his cigarette into a sand bucket, flicked a dollop of mud from his trousers and shoved his hands in his pockets.
With each step, splatters of brown patterned Beatrice's cherry-red Hunter wellingtons and long, bronzed legs. Amazingly, her white summer dress remained untouched. His moleskin slacks were not faring so well.
Squinting into the light, he picked up his pace. The afternoon sun shone after its battle with dense morning clouds, though steel reinforcements gathered on the horizon.
They arrived at a teepee pavilion housing a backstage bar, and Thomas stomped hunks of sludge from his boots onto the lower step as he peered inside. It was decorated with colourful woven rugs, pennant flags and a garden of succulents. Various VIPs lounged about. Celebrities, England's social and business elite and their families.
Beatrice made a beeline for a booth on the far side of the structure, while Thomas took a circuitous route, mindful of dirtying the Persian carpets. He received a raised brow as he sank into the soft leather bench across from her, and his chest constricted.
A press photographer interrupted them. The rapid fire of shots left Thomas blinking. Society's insistence on documenting everything baffled him. Wonders of the world, milestones and kids, all those things he understood. A muddy couple waiting to buy a drink — what was so special about that?
"I'm not to be named," he said, and the man nodded. So far, he'd managed to stay relatively anonymous. But he doubted that would last long with Beatrice's ambitions.
Beatrice raised her brows as their waitress arrived. She didn't bother to look at the woman as she ordered her champagne.
Good God, has she always been like this? His lawyer's mind commenced the task of sifting.
"Darling, I'm waiting." Green cat-like eyes flashed at him.
"Oh ... er, yes." A tiny flare sparked in his chest. He snuffed it out with impeccable politeness and turned his attention to the waitress who had been taking care of them. A fresh-faced girl with the kind of natural beauty which didn't require any enhancement — and the only one doing the waiting.
