Free The English Boys by Julia Thomas Page B

been a man who cared deeply about the people he created in his novels, and if he were able to see them now, would have opinions about every aspect of their depiction on film. At any rate, taking the odd hour in the NPG made Daniel feel he was substantiating his claim on his current undertaking.
    He preferred the Victorian portraits to the other collections, for although he found photography somewhat more interesting, actors were frequently the subject of the newer collections and it was an odd sensation to see life-size photos of people one knew or with whom one worked. Hugh’s likeness had recently been added to the collection; he could be seen posing with a glass of champagne on a perch at Stonehenge. That in itself was certainly worth avoiding. It was fine to celebrate the works of actors like Sir Laurence Olivier or Dame Judi Dench, who had created a body of work which could be nothing less than deeply admired and who perhaps deserved, after decades of honing their craft, to be showcased in just such a manner, but to have his contemporaries, even his own friends, portrayed thusly, the people he got drunk with and ate with and spent half his time with … well, it was unimaginable.
    He sat down on a bench, having accomplished his plan for the morning. He’d done what he had come to do—taken a serious look at the face of Thomas Hardy—and now he had to decide what to do next. Daniel was rarely bored; the innumerable activities provided by a city the size of London practically forbade it; but, nonetheless, he hadn’t found anyone available to join him for lunch and he didn’t like to eat alone. His mother had asked him down to Brighton for the day, but he had begged off. In fact, for the last two years, he had seen his family only at Christmas and once or twice in the summer, when he would take the morning train down and the earliest return trip back to London that he could manage. He didn’t mind seeing his parents, but his brother was an irritation he preferred to avoid. He had also been invited to spend the day with Hugh’s family, but he had done so recently and felt he could forego that particular duty. He had looked forward to a day of complete self-indulgence, and yet, now that he had it, he had no idea what to do with it.
    After sitting for a few more minutes, he resolved to get a curry on the way back to his flat and spend the afternoon watching old videos. As he stood, he heard a voice call out to him.
    â€œDaniel Richardson!”
    He turned, and though he had no idea whom to expect, it certainly wasn’t the familiar face that beamed up at him, which belonged to the girl he’d recently met on the ferry. She looked even younger than she had before, wearing an absurd vintage frock that must have been quite the rage in 1962. If she had been wearing go-go boots instead of bottle-green ballet flats the color of her dress, she would have conjured images of the Beatles singing “Love Me Do.”
    â€œI see you’re stalking me,” Daniel said. He couldn’t help smiling.
    â€œIn a city of eight million people, that seems rather impossible.”
    â€œNo doubt. What are you doing here? I hadn’t pegged you as the sort to spend Sunday mornings looking at portraits.”
    â€œI was supposed to meet someone for lunch. It looks like I’ve been stood up.”
    â€œThen why don’t you have lunch with me?” he said, the words erupting from his lips before he had even considered what he was saying.
    â€œDo you often come here to pick up girls?” she asked in mock disapproval.
    â€œEvery day.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
    She smiled, her broad, full lips devoid of any lipstick. Her hair was a riot of red waves, sun-streaked and natural, reminding him of girls at school. He wondered how old she was. Surely she was nearly his age. She looked younger, but there was something knowing in