“But she’s a part of your life.”
“In the broadest definition of the word. Come now, where are we dining and on what?” She tried to grab the paper parcel from him, but he held tight.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m serious about you.”
She nodded, her eyes averted. It made her anxious, being this serious with Thomas. She felt her face grow slack.
“You know, you tug on your left earlobe when you’re nervous.” And then, more gently: “Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?”
Yes, she almost admitted. But her throat felt constricted, hot. “You don’t know me,” she said, although she knew it wasn’t true. But the prospect that he did know her made her feel so vulnerable; where would she go when it fell apart?
Thomas’s eyes were on her face—she could feel them. He didn’t argue. He didn’t seem frightened by what he saw. “Okay, then,” he finally said, and his voice was even, as if she had simply suggested toast instead of biscuits for tea. “But perhaps I will get to.”
The day was damp but not too cool, the type of overcast afternoon in which it felt that the sun simply needed a little encouragement to shine. They walked to the Embankment, crowded with other dayworkers from Westminster, but managed to find a bench for themselves. Thomas spread his mackintosh and they sat upon it underneath a low clay-colored sky and ate sandwiches that Thomas had made himself. The bread was tough but oozed mayonnaise, the pickles pleasantly sharp, the cheese tasting like a treat.
“Tell me something,” Rose said. She was looking at all the boats and ferries crawling up river, an army of them, crowding the water the same oyster hue as the sky. “How is your mother?” A pair of gulls swooped low over a barge.
“She’s all right.”
“Has the doctor been by?”
He shook his head, and Rose wasn’t sure if that meant the doctor hadn’t, or if the news was too terrible to convey. He said airlessly: “She’s feeling all right.”
“I’m glad,” she said. She took a bite of her sandwich, concentrated on chewing. She shouldn’t have asked. But how could she not? Still, his reticence was something that she, of all people, should understand. When she told him how she’d gotten out of Austria, he nodded, asking, “And your parents?” She only shook her head.
“You didn’t tell me about your interview,” she said now.
He didn’t answer, and for a moment she wondered if she had said something else to upset him, but he leaned down to pull up his trousers, revealing thick, crimson socks. “Do you like them?”
“Your socks? They’re very red.”
He nodded. “They match my tie, see?” And he pulled back his crumpled suit jacket for confirmation.
“So they do,” she said. They were a lovely red, actually, a brilliant vermilion when she least expected it. They were thick and they were heavy, practical despite their rich hue. Her heart scudded and it took her a moment to realize why. They reminded her of The Bellhop.
Something welled up inside of her and she tried to swallow it down. It felt like an ambush, the recollection. She spoke: “Were you wearing those for the interview? It seems an awfully bold choice for a junior engineering position.”
“Bold, yes; that was my thought.” He rummaged in his suit pocket, pulled out his cigarette pack, and offered her one. She took it, and he lit it, cupping it protectively before lighting one for himself. “I thought it would make me stand apart from other candidates.”
She took a drag. “And?”
“One of the partners asked me: ‘Why are you wearing so much red? Is there a political statement to your choice of color?’”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Of course not.’ If I had wanted to make such a statement, I would have sewn on a hammer and sickle.”
“Thomas! Goodness. You didn’t say that, did you?”
“No,” he said, leaning forward on the bench, inhaling deeply. “I’m terrible at sewing. But I could have drawn one. Not all engineers are decent draftsman, but I am. Do you know that about me?”
She gave him a little smile, but shook her head nevertheless. “This is not a joke,” she said, and handed her cigarette back to him. He stubbed it out on the bench leg. “You know these things aren’t jokes. Of course they wondered. Why would you give them any doubt?”
“I didn’t give them any doubt. They made their doubt. Bloody Tories. All anyone cares about is the Eton-Harrow match and they act as if a revolution is going on.”
“Oh, come now.” She brushed the few crumbs off her lap. An old man in a great overcoat was sleeping one bench over, his broad, ravaged face tipped up to the sky. Whatever little warmth or sun was on offer, Rose thought, he was determined to catch it.
“It’s five years after the war and it feels like nothing has changed. Everything is still so difficult.” Thomas flicked his cigarette filter to the ground.
“I know.” All Rose wanted to do was teach, and where was she? Stuck as a secretary for Mr. Marks. But still, she wouldn’t complain. “It’s getting better,” she said.
“We won the war.” He let out a sharp laugh. “You would have no idea from the looks of it that we won. And now with my mum . . . But it’s not just her. I want to leave. I could. An old schoolmate of mine just got a job at Grumman in New York. And Lockheed out in California is hiring loads of engineers too.”
“America? You want to go to America?” It was less a question than an echo. She was here, in London, with Thomas. Thomas was talking about leaving. She repeated these basic facts to herself in her head, as if recitation would lead to understanding.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he squeezed her hand. His fingers were warm, oily from the mayonnaise. “I really don’t. But I do want to know this: Would you ever come with me?”
“Come with you?” she repeated. But I barely know you, she thought. And yet that was not true. She well knew what was happening. It rattled her, this certainty, this feeling that could be only called happiness. She didn’t deserve it. She looked back at the sleeping old man on the neighboring bench, as if he might offer her some hard-won wisdom. But Thomas was trying to catch her eye, Thomas, with his kind expectant face, a face that was equal parts enthusiasm and determination. She liked that face. She trusted it. Him. And she was saying, softly, “Maybe.”
He kissed her. “A maybe is nearly a yes.”
She laughed. “Maybe,” she said again. Together they headed back to Westminster, walking side by side, fingers so lightly entwined that Rose was left not knowing where her hand ended and Thomas’s began. She couldn’t remember what they talked about, but she would always remember the pulse of happiness she felt, her fingertips abuzz as they brushed against his in the afternoon’s mercurial light.