Under His Influence

Anna felt as if she were on a high wire; her stomach roiled and sweat broke out on her brow, yet the exhilaration so outgunned the fear that she lifted her face to the orange-streaked heavens, willing them to let this be, to let it work.

“Almost there now,” he said, smiling and ruffling her hair at her nape. She quivered under his touch—he did it all so well. Had he studied somewhere?

And then they were there, at Hampstead Heath. Anna stared at John questioningly as he parked and switched off the engine.

“Hampstead Heath?”

“You know it?”

“I live quite near here.”

“Oh? Good. So do I.”

“So, um, dinner…?”

John was already out of the car, retrieving something from the boot—a large wicker picnic hamper and a rolled-up mat.

“Oh!” Anna laughed, hopping out onto the sandy ground. “A picnic! I never thought of that.”

“Why waste an evening like this?” John looked up at the sun, which was still a long way from setting despite the intensifying colours of the sky. “Come on. I know the perfect spot. Don’t fall over on those heels, will you? Perhaps you ought to take them off.”

Anna bent sheepishly and removed the strappy sparklers, then walked barefoot across the lush grassland behind John, past the dog walkers and groups of people taking in the last of the sun’s rays for the day until they reached a quiet spot, almost on the shores of a lake, and John relieved himself of his burdens.

He unrolled the rug and snapped open the hamper, beckoning Anna to come and sit down.

“That looks amazing,” she sighed, looking inside at the cold meats, cheeses, fruits and the miniature bottle of pink champagne. “Did you go and buy all that today?”

“Well, no, I ordered it,” he admitted, shrugging. “I don’t really shop. Hard to find the time these days.”

Anna remembered something he had said, and sat watching him roll out cloths and lay knives, forks and plates before asking him, “What did you go and see my editor about? Last night? Was it a good dinner?”

“Probably not as good as this will be,” he said, continuing to focus on his preparations, popping the champagne cork and pouring Anna a glass.

“Aren’t you having any?”

“No, I’ll stick to water. Don’t want to drink and drive, especially when the weather’s warm.”

“Oh, okay. Cheers, anyway.” She raised the glass of pink bubbles, noting that he had not answered her question. “So Prendergast wasn’t as bad as I made him out to be?” she persisted.

“No, no.” John chuckled, eyeing her sidelong as he set out the different foods. “He was fine.”

“Why did you meet him? Are you giving up finance? Branching out into…business reporting, or something?”

“Actually, I am thinking of retiring from the City.”

“Retiring? How old are you?”

“As old as the hills.” John sat back, taking a chicken drumstick and tearing a chunk out. “Nah, I’m thirty-eight. But I’ve made lots of money. More money than anyone could ever possibly need. I’m thinking of using that money to advance some interesting technology projects I’ve been getting involved with.”

“Technology? You’re, like, a scientist then?”

“It’s what I studied, before going into the City. I’ve made connections with some influential people and organisations. It would be nice to have the press on our side, because we might need to do a little lobbying of the government at some point. All things being equal.” He smiled, a little coldly, and raised his glass of water. “But it’s all deadly dull. Not the thing to be discussing on an evening like this, over champagne and strawberries. I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Oh, you know all about me.”

“No, I don’t. I thought you were a journalist. But you aren’t, are you?”

“No. Oh, well, not really. Not yet. Would like to be. But I’m just a lowly sub-editor. Or rather, an even lowlier trainee sub-editor.”