A Song for Julia

from the importance of what happened.”
    “No doubt,” he said, but his face didn’t match his words.
    “You look skeptical.”
    He shrugged. “To be honest, I think your President is set on going to war, no matter what. And no number of protests is going to change that.”
    I sighed. “You’re probably right.”
    “To be perfectly fair, it’s not as if Mr. Blair is any better,” he said. “He seems to want to go along with whatever your President wants.”
    “You’re not a supporter?”
    “Of launching a war with Iraq? Hardly. But I am in Boston for business, and like a lot of people, I’m far too preoccupied with my own life to get much involved. Are you a student?”
    “At Harvard. You?”
    “Eton, then Oxford. And now I’m working for my father. I’m visiting the United States for some business meetings.”
    I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. But I did. “What year were you at Eton?”
    “I matriculated in 1996.”
    I felt a twinge of anger. “You must know Harry Easton?”
    He blinked and then raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I do, indeed. We were on the same floor our first two years at Eton, before his father was transferred to the Embassy in Beijing. How do you know him?”
    Now I was going to vomit. Harry. Why did I bring him up? Was it simply curiosity? Wondering what had happened to him? Did I still have feelings for him? Hardly, unless you count disgust, hatred, rage.
    “We attended ISB together …” At his puzzled look, I said, “International School of Beijing.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “I see. What took you there?”
    “My father was the US Ambassador.”
    He smiled. “Then it’s a very small world, indeed. Your father is Richard Thompson?”
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    “My father and your father know each other,” he said. Then his face froze for just a second. And I cursed myself. He’d just put it together: I almost heard the neurons clicking as he dredged up the old mess out of his memory. I was a minor when it all happened, so the press never got my name, though they had my father’s. None of the newspapers ever ran a single story about it. But the diplomatic community is pretty small, and it was a big enough scandal that everyone knew about it.
    It seemed that Barrett Randall was too well-mannered to broach the subject, thank God. He said, “I haven’t seen Harry in a couple of years. He ended up going to university in Switzerland, and we’ve lost touch.”
    I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything. Besides, my mother always told me that if I didn’t have anything nice to say, I should say nothing at all. Though, now that I think about it, my mother was very good at saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. But that was another subject.
    “I’ll be in Boston for a few weeks, I think. This isn’t business we’ll be able to wrap up very quickly. Could I persuade you to join me for dinner or coffee? It would be nice to know someone in the city.”
    My mind went through a sort of rapid-fire train of thoughts. Randall reminded me entirely too much of a time in my life I’d just as soon forget. On the other hand, he seemed like a reasonably nice guy and somewhat safe. I broke up with Willard back in the spring … a breakup as passionless as our relationship was in the first place. It would be nice to have a date, even if it was going nowhere.
    Especially if it was going nowhere.
    “I’d like that,” I said.

CHAPTER FOUR

    Awesome that way (Crank)
    Work on Monday was whack. First of all, I’m a short-order cook, not a frickin’ waiter. But we were short two waitresses and only one cook, so out onto the floor I went. Instead of grooving to music in the kitchen and being left alone, which I prefer, I was running this way and that, getting drinks, mopping up spills, and making an ass of myself.
    Times like this I wish I’d stayed in school.
    I had a table of four: two mommies and their brat kids. It goes like this. One mommy asks for a refill. I get it. Then the other one wants a refill. I get that. Then the kid wants a piece of pie but can’t decide what type. So I wait, and I wait, and the kid dithers, and I wait some more, and finally the mother says he can’t have any pie at all. That starts a tantrum, disturbing the rest of the restaurant, and I’m trying to get their check together when the kid swings his arms and four plates covered with the remains of their food crash down on to the floor.
    Let’s just say up front—I’m not