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.

Being bloody patient about it, too.

"Hello again, Becky, sorry about that," and for my girlfriend. "I'll have the same please." He handed over his bank card. "On second thought, make it a bottle."

The girl flushed, even though his gaze rested just at the side of her eyes. "Of course," she said and hurried away.

"What was that?"

Thomas cringed at the tone. Best play dumb, Waterhouse. He softened his face into what he hoped resembled childlike innocence. "What was what?"

Beatrice drummed her long, red nails on the worn wooden bench and contemplated him. "Darling, we don't apologise to waiting staff. And how do you remember her name?" Smiling at him, she took his hand and stroked his fingers. "Still, it was quaint of you."

She cocked her head and bit down on the corner of a plump red lip. Under the table, a set of toes, now disengaged from their boot, ran up over his trousers. When they reached his knees and then moved higher, his body responded as any man would. He gulped.

Lady Beatrice Fortescue was the daughter of the filthy-rich Earl of Melton. An heiress, socialite, model and vixen. And even though they had been dating for a few years, he couldn't put his finger on how they had come to be.

They'd met at a charity ball. Back then, he had admired her from among the ranks of other randy young men. But he'd never designed to approach her. Wouldn't have dared. Then she charmed the pants off him, quite literally. She still did — till now at least.

He squirmed as her toes pressed. Nope, she still did.

Two had tangoed that night. Though shy, and an amateur at small talk, he had no problems in the bedroom. It was the only place he felt semi-confident. A place where it was perfectly fine to strip off one's social mask and give in to base urges. It was the closest he ever got to be himself. Whoever that was.

Compared to her, he didn't have much going for him. Sure, he had his title and wealth — now independent due to some profitable investments. But she had all this anyway, plus some. She was a minor celebrity. The sort featured in society pages, with over a million Instagram followers — or so she said. Not that this mattered to him. He avoided social media, all media, like the plague.

As a couple, they didn't add up, and he had held back from asking why she wanted him. His intuition told him he wouldn't like it. It also said it was vital for him to know.

Her voice lowered as her foot moved. He gripped the edge of the bench and leaned in closer. Listened to her whispered words as she described, in exquisite detail, what she would do when they got back to the gypsy caravan they'd rented.

Up close, he could see the faint shimmer of her make-up, and below it, the not-quite-hidden freckles. He adored freckles. They were like dot-the-dots. He loved to trace them down her face, down her swanlike neck, her chest, right down to her ... His heart quickened. Where is that bottle already?

A cough interrupted them.

Thomas sighed with the sudden release of pressure and then flinched as he took in the gawky teenage boy standing at the side of the table, face spotted with pimples and dressed in cut-off denim shorts and a gaudy shirt.

Dear God, please don't let him have heard.

"E — excuse me ... B — Beatrice Fortescue?" The boy spoke with the high-pitched squeak of early adolescence.

Beatrice turned and smiled, extending her hand for a kiss. "Lady Fortescue, and who might you be?"

Thomas could see the pulse in the boy's neck beating in a frantic rhythm as he fumbled on his reply. "I ... er ... that ... is ..."

Beatrice continued to smile as she leaned forward, hooking her prey with an even-better view of her ample bosom. Thomas' throat constricted at the sight.

"I ... umm ..."

Taking pity on the boy, Thomas stuck out his hand. "Thomas Waterhouse, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The boy turned to him, an expression of relief on his face. "Peter Baker, sir." He returned the shake.

"Thomas will do. I hope you are enjoying yourself, Peter. Did your parents bring you to Glastonbury?"

"Yes — yes, sir, um ... Thomas. My father is one of the organisers." Peter nodded his head and then glanced at Beatrice, gulping.

"She is beautiful, isn't she? Takes my breath away every time." Beatrice smiled like a cat soaking up the sun. "Would you like a picture of the two of you? You wouldn't mind would you, Bee?"

Beatrice looked daggers. "Of course not." She kicked off her second wellington, sidled out and stood, dwarfing the boy with her statuesque height of five-foot eleven-inches. The poor, or not so poor, boy's head was in line with her chest.

"Do you have a phone?" Thomas asked. Peter pulled one from his pocket and handed it over dumbly, without even looking at Thomas. "Do bend down a bit, Bee."

Her smooth forehead crinkled momentarily. Then she turned and leaned over, resting her hands on the boy's shoulder and bent forwards from the hips to plant a kiss on his cheek. The awkward pose somehow managed to appear natural and sexy, accentuating both her height and figure. He had no idea how she did it.

Beside her, the boy stood like a cardboard cutout of a deer in headlights.

"There you go, Peter." He wrapped the boy's hand firmly around the phone before he let go of it.

"Thank you, si —"

"Thomas."

"Thank you, Thomas." Peter turned to Beatrice, and Thomas saw the lipstick mark. "Thank you, Lady Fortescue."

The corners of her lips twitched. "Charmed." She waggled her fingers, signalling an end to the interaction.

Thomas watched the dazed boy walk away with his body tilted at an odd angle.

"Really, Thomas?"

"Did I do something wrong?" He hoped she wouldn't renege on her earlier promises. After all her poking and prodding, he was wound tight as a spring. "I thought PR was fundamental to keeping your fans happy."

Beatrice's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, yes," she acknowledged, at the same time waving it away as a moot point with a flick of her graceful hand. "But telling him to call you Thomas — why?"

He frowned at the comment. It was his name after all. Wasn't as if he was the boy's schoolmaster. Even at Oxford, some of his professors had preferred to be addressed by their Christian names. The remnants of his lunch flipped about in his guts. Differences of opinion with Beatrice, or anyone else for that matter, made him feel askew. She was particularly stubborn. And he, well he was the worst candidate for a barrister ever.

"You call me Thomas," he managed to say — a weak rebuttal. How was he going to get by if he couldn't manage to stand his ground with his girlfriend?

"But, darling, you are wooing me while that boy is ... well, look at him. He is common." Beatrice's face grimaced as she uttered the last word in a tone high enough to give Thomas vertigo. He felt an ache in his jaw, and a corresponding cotton-wool taste in his mouth.

Her phone rang before he could find his words.

"Pierre, mon cher ami!" Beatrice placed a hand over the microphone and turned to Thomas, whispering, "Excuse me a moment." Then she slipped out of the cubicle and moved across the room, hips swaying.

His eyes followed her, along with those of every other man in the room, and some women too, until she disappeared behind a screen of wispy material. He watched it undulate in the breeze, his body cooling. Slumping his shoulders, he dipped his finger into a pool of water trapped in an indentation in the wood and began to draw the outline of a plane, then clouds and mountains. The distressed wood darkened as he worked, with tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, and his foot tapped a tattoo.

The arrival of Becky with two glasses and a bottle in an ice bucket brought him upright. He sucked in his tongue and reached for his drink. His fingers fumbled as their fingertips touched, spilling champagne on the table.

"Shit!" he hissed.

A mature woman turned and glared. Thomas shrank down into the seat, wiping sweaty palms on his shirt.

"Sorry, sir!" Becky said.

Thomas held up his hand. "No, it was me. Don't worry yourself, it was only a drop." He let his lips twitch, and red blossomed from her chest to neck, brilliant against her white shirt. Thomas' eyes lingered after her as she walked away, admiring the muscular curves of her tanned legs and the way her skirt swished.

The first glass of champagne went down fast. Hundreds of bubbles tickling his tongue. He sipped the second one slowly as he set his mind to the matter of how to tell Beatrice about his plans. She was more than welcome to join him, though somehow, he doubted she would be thrilled at the idea. But Beatrice often travelled: Paris, Milan, New York, the Bahamas. No doubt she would jump at another reason to go abroad. Who was he to make assumptions about what would and would not appeal to her? Then again, her reaction to their accommodation here had been one of shock. And while it was far from ideal, cramped and without an en suite, it had been her idea.

The woman in question returned, her face beaming. A hopeful sign.

He rose and assisted her to her seat, suppressing a flinch as she stroked the side of his face.

"Pleasing news?"

"Oh — yes. That was Pierre. Burberry has invited me to take part in their winter fashion show in New York this September." She twirled a strand of yellow-gold hair absently around her index finger. "I'll be away from you for a couple of weeks, but I assume you will be quite busy doing your thing here," she said and flicked her hand.

"But that's perfect!" He handed her champagne over, grabbing his own and taking a large swallow.

Beatrice quirked her head. "I never knew you were so enthusiastic about my modelling."

He almost choked. "I ... well of course I am." He put down his glass and patted her hand, feeling his face heat. She was right, he never had. Such vanity just didn't appeal to him. Still, it did to her, and it had been unkind of him not to attempt interest.

He darted a glance at Becky as she topped up their glasses. "Thank you."

Beatrice's brows arched. Thomas stumbled on his words. "You see, in addition to this being wonderful news, it is serendipitous because you will be able to meet me — if you wish."

"You will be in New York?"

"Ah, no. Peru."

"Peru? What is there in Peru?"

He ignored the way her voice grated on his nerves and spoke. "Oh, Bee, so many things: Machu Picchu, mountains, the Amazon, deserts, and they're just the beginning." He found himself wildly gesticulating his arms as he described all the things to see and do. When his focus returned from his fantasy to the room, he saw, to his dismay, a crease between her brow.

"I see. But what about your job? Won't you be doing your thing?" Her hand swished again.

He ground his teeth. "Beatrice, Watermain & Sons is not going anywhere, and it has more than adequate staff. But this, it could be the one time in my life when I am without commitment. I want a gap year like other people my age."

Her arms crossed in front of her. "Are you saying I am not a commitment?"

Too late he realised his mistake. "No, Beatrice that's not what I meant, and you know it. I would love you to come with me." He caressed her hand. "Come now. You will be halfway there."

She smiled, and her green eyes twinkled. "Well ... I suppose Peru will at least have a Hilton, and my cousin Amelia knows of an excellent private tour operator. They specialise in luxury —"

"Actually," Thomas cut in, not wanting her to get ahead of herself. "I had something different in mind."

"Different, how so?"

He paused, looking at her perplexed face. "I want to go backpacking."

Her expression turned into disbelief. "Backpacking? My goodness, Thomas! Do you want us to bunk down with the riff-raff? Isn't this enough?"

"But you wanted us to come here. You said —"

Beatrice huffed.

A dull pound started in Thomas' head. This was not going well at all. Frayed fragments of his temper were slipping through his fingers, and every instinct screamed for him to walk out and leave. A lifetime of being the gentleman held him in check. Only just. Plenty of people would kill for his life. So, he should be happy. The problem was, it wasn't what he wanted. Just this once he needed to do something for himself, and be supported in it. Why couldn't someone he cared about understand this? Why couldn't she?

"Thomas, I asked you where you got such a crazy notion." She took a sip of champagne and tucked her hair behind an ear. "Please answer me."

He swallowed. "Oh, er ... Richard."

"Who is Richard?"

"One of my chums from Oxford. You met him the other month at the Commemoration Ball. The tall chap with red hair."

"The carrot top?"

"Actually, the top of a carrot is green."

Her eyes narrowed. "Remind me again who his people are."

"Er ... the Jones of Birmingham — I assume."

"I've never heard of the Jones of Birmingham."

"Well, I'm not quite sure. His last name is Jones, and he grew up in Birmingham, so I assume that is where he is from. He studied with a scholarship. Intelligent chap."

"Oh." The single, clipped word spoke volumes.

Not her too. Poor Richard couldn't catch a break.

"Before he came to Oxford, Richard took a gap year, backpacked all over the world. He swore it was the best experience of his life and argued, quite effectively I might add, that working out how to get from A to B and meeting people from all over was an essential part of the magic of it. Character building. Real-life stuff."

"So says a common Jones from Birmingham."

"And Lonely Planet, BBC and National Geographic, among other credible sources. Come on, Beatrice. Let go of this presumption of people being 'common.' It has been obsolete for at least half a century."

She quirked her eyebrow at him and took his hand. "Darling, we can go to a resort, or on tour there if you must, but the rest of this nonsense — you need to let it go."

He shook his head. "No, absolutely not. This is important to me, Bee. I realise it is not your cup of tea. I can go alone, or meet you somewhere that is more to your taste for a week or so. Goodness knows I have never stood in the way of your trips or anything else you wanted to do. In fact, I would also appreciate it if you would speak to my father on my behalf and tell him that you think this is a good idea for me."

"Tell your father it's a good idea? Have you gone mad?"

"If you care for me, you will support me."

"I will do no such thing!"

"Please, Bee!"

She turned her head to the side, ignoring him.

So, he asked her the question that had perched on the tip of his tongue since the day she chose him. "Why are you with me?"

She sniffed.

"Beatrice, answer me," he growled.

His tone must have computed because she did. She looked him straight in the eyes as she spoke. "Thomas, surely you know."

He shook his head. "No, I don't."

Her lips pressed together. The gears in her mind were almost audible as they clicked away, formulating her response. As he waited, the seed of dread that had laid dormant in his stomach burst into bloom.

"Well ... to begin with, there is your breeding. Then there is the fact that you have a situation and station." She paused a moment and lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if considering. They returned to him in time for a further series of blows. "One of the burdens of being in my position is the fear that someone only wants you for your money. Also, you do your own thing and let me do mine." Her hand whipped about in that damned manner. "And finally, darling, well ... frankly, you look good next to me."

The words stung. But not nearly as much as he would have thought. He supposed it was because deep down he'd known she was shallow. Yet her words exceeded his expectations with their complete absence of esteem and fondness, leaving him feeling like a stud horse. The pounding in his ears intensified until he thought the drums would pop.

"I look good next to you?"

"You're quite handsome."

That was enough. "I thank you for making your opinion of me clear." He stood and made to leave.

Walking away again are you, Waterhouse? the voice in his mind sneered.

"Lord Thomas Edward Waterhouse," Beatrice hissed through gritted teeth. "Don't you dare make a scene!"

At that moment, a figure moving in their direction caught his eye. Harry Styles was waving at Beatrice as he walked over. She fluttered her fingers back, then turned to Thomas and rolled her eyes. Thomas raised his hand and slid over to make room for Harry in a deft movement that gave the impression he had never meant to leave.

But he had. He would. Three more nights of 'glamping,' after that, they would have words.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Pierre, mon cher ami! — Pierre, my dear friend!

Photo by Stephen Arnold on Unsplash.