‘So what is?’
‘A good marriage,’ she said softly.
He looked at her with surprise.
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘Well, things are different now.’
He frowned, urging her to speak.
‘Our farm burnt down two weeks ago. No one was hurt, but it took everything we had with it, including most of my mum’s paintings. She’s an artist, so it was a bit of a blow. All she’s got left are a few canvases in a lock-up unit in Hammersmith. The only options open to us are the streets or a good marriage.’
‘Not the only two, surely?’ said Edward, frowning.
‘Marriage is just a contract,’ she said dismissively. ‘Look, the Randolph,’ she pointed out, wanting to change the subject. ‘Is this the hotel you were talking about? It looks expensive . . .’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said touching her on the shoulder and leading her inside. She stood back as he booked a room and a bellboy disappeared upstairs with her case.
‘Edward, this is so kind of you. I have a job now, like you suggested. I have savings. I can repay you as soon as I get back to London.’
‘Why don’t you just buy me a drink?’
‘I’ve only got a shilling.’
‘Then I’ll sub you the difference.’ He smiled. ‘Come on. We might just catch last orders.’
Usually he had quite a serious face, but when he smiled, the corners of his dark grey eyes creased and a small dimple appeared in his lower right cheek. She wanted to tell him that it suited him, but was disturbed by the concierge, who handed over two room keys.
‘Have a pleasant stay at the Randolph, Mr and Mrs Carlyle.’
Georgia stifled a laugh and they both rushed back outside.
‘I’m your wife now?’ she giggled. ‘That’s a promotion from cousin.’
‘It was easier than explaining why a single young woman was coming in off the streets,’ he smiled. ‘The Randolph is frightfully respectable. By the way, here’s some money for your train fare tomorrow.’
They started to walk, and passed three or four pubs without going inside. Georgia stopped seeing the beauty of Oxford and started to listen to Edward, whose own life seemed to contain as much magic and wonder as the buildings around her. She couldn’t believe that in the last year alone he had packed in as much as she had done in a lifetime. He was twenty-two and in the fourth year of a classics degree, which had meant lots of long holidays filled with adventures. He had skied in Switzerland, safaried in Kenya and spent the previous summer driving from London to Constantinople. In return she told him all about Paris – the secret little places that she loved: the beehives in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the canals that fed into the Seine, the Forney library with its Rapunzel turrets and La Pagode Japanese-style movie house. And as they walked and talked, laughing and listening to each other, she felt for once as if she had something interesting to say, although occasionally she did lose her train of thought. When he laughed and that dimple appeared in his cheek; when he looked at her directly with his dark grey eyes; when she noticed that he really was very good-looking indeed.
‘Well, I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said as they walked over a bridge and past a beautiful college called Magdalen.
‘Expecting what?’
‘A good night coming from nowhere. I only slipped out for a packet of cigarettes.’
‘And two hours ago I was trapped at some terrible party.’
Edward nodded.
‘That’s what’s so scary and exciting about life. It can turn on a coin toss.’
‘Or a drunken decision.’
‘Or a person you meet on the street.’
She felt his hand brush against hers and it almost made her jump out of her skin. She had no idea if it was deliberate or accidental, whether he had just bumped into her or whether he had wanted to take hold of her hand. Whatever it was, it had set her heart racing and the air between them had turned thick with an energy that she had only noticed a few minutes earlier.
A car horn beeped behind them and made her jump.
‘Carlyle! Is that you?’
A large convertible slowed down and stopped in front of them. It seemed to be full of people – six or seven at least, all dressed in black tie, with the exception of two girls wearing layers and layers of tulle.
‘All right, boys. Where are you off to?’ He seemed to know them well, although there was a hesitancy in his voice that suggested he wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see them.
‘Tried to gatecrash the Pembroke Ball. No bloody luck, though,’ said a floppy-haired blond boy almost hanging out of the back seat. ‘Security is tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet. We’re heading over to Mark Headingly’s party instead. Only on Circus Street. Do you fancy it?’
‘Not tonight, Bradders,’ replied Edward, as Georgia breathed a silent sigh of relief.
‘Come on. It’s Saturday night and it’s literally just there. You can almost see it. In fact, bugger it, I’ll walk with you. Darling Julia’s been sitting on my leg.’
‘Oh blast, is that what it was?’ said another voice, to a chorus of guffaws.
There was the creak of a car door and three boys tumbled on to the pavement, spilling a bottle of champagne one of them was holding.
‘Seriously, it’s fine,’ protested Edward. ‘I was just about to turn in.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bradders, taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘The night is young and we have a bootful of champagne. Who needs Pembroke?’ he roared.
Two of the young men scooped Edward into a chair lift, and as they started running down the street with him, Georgia felt a wave of disappointment so strong it made her lose her breath.
‘Ride with us,’ shouted the girl called Julia, and Georgia felt she had no option but to hop in the car for the thirty-second journey to Circus Street. They beeped Edward and Bradders as they zoomed past them, Georgia giving them a half-hearted thumbs-up sign.
By the time they had parked the car, Edward had caught up with them.
‘Hijacked. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, pasting on her widest smile.
‘We can stay for five minutes and then leave.’
‘We can stay as long as you like,’ she replied, not knowing if he was just being polite and really wanted to be with his friends.
They stepped inside the house, which was heaving with people, some wearing ball gowns and black tie, others in more casual attire. Loud jazz was playing in the background, smoke obscured couples kissing in dark corners.
‘Who are these people?’ whispered Georgia.
‘Boys I knew from school. They’re all right usually. I just think everyone is determined to go out with one last blast before we graduate and settle down to responsibility.’
‘I think I owe you a drink,’ said Georgia, feeling nervous.
‘I’m sure there’s a supply of something horrible and home-brewed in the kitchen. Let’s go and find it.’
And then he took her hand. This time she knew it was for real, as his fingers knitted between hers, and she felt a heady blend of nerves and excitement course around her.
There was indeed home brew in the kitchen, and it was not good. Edward wondered if it was potato liquor, and they both decided they were not going to risk drinking it. Edward went to ask Bradders about the stash of champagne in the car boot whilst Georgia nipped to the loo. She looked in the tiny mirror in the bathroom under the stairs and tried to rearrange her hair. Her rouge and lipstick were still in her handbag on the bus, so she pinched her cheeks to try and give them some colour.
When she emerged, it felt as if she was stepping out of the house on a date. Yes, she had preferred it when it was just the two of them. Walking around the streets of Oxford had been extraordinary and magical, and yet it had been warm and familiar, as if she were playing out her own version of Estella’s night-in-Paris story she had heard so many times before.
But the party fizzed with another
, intimate sort of promise, and the thought of retreating to a dark corner with Edward was one that thrilled her.
‘How on earth did you get Edward out on a Saturday night two weeks before Finals?’
Georgia turned and saw Julia inches away from her holding a cigarette.
‘Why? Where should he be?’
‘He’s been locked away for the last month revising, although I’ve no idea why. He’s going to walk a first and it’s not as if it matters. They’re keeping the top seat at the family bank warm for him even if he gets a gentleman’s degree.’
She laughed, her lips, stained purple by red wine, making her teeth look bright white and slightly frightening in the dark.
‘I haven’t seen you before. Which college are you at?’
‘I’m not.’
‘The secretarial college?’ she asked with faint disapproval.
‘I live in London.’
‘So what are you doing in Oxford?’
‘A long story.’ Georgia grinned. ‘I’m en route somewhere and Edward’s helping me get there.’
‘He’s adorable, isn’t he?’ replied Julia, blowing a smoke ring. ‘Oxford’s top catch. We all think that Annabel is the luckiest girl in the world.’
‘Annabel?’
‘His girlfriend, of course. Every boy at Oxford is a little bit in love with her too, so I suppose you could call them Oxford’s beautiful couple. No one is going to want to be photographed next to them at the Magdalen Commem ball, that’s for certain. I’ve already seen the dress she’s picked out for it, and she’s going to look divine.’
Georgia felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. He was handsome and smart and rich – of course he had a girlfriend. It certainly explained why he hadn’t been seen at any more debutante parties – the catch of Oxford had been caught. As Julia made her excuses and left, Georgia could see Edward threading through the crowd towards her. His eyes locked with hers, and as he smiled, the disappointment almost crushed her.
‘Champagne,’ he said triumphantly, raising the bottle.
‘I should go,’ said Georgia quickly. ‘It’s late. I don’t want the hotel to lock its doors.’
‘Then we could stay up all night.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have to get an early train.’
‘How about breakfast?’
She shook her head, determined that her expression shouldn’t betray her emotions.
‘I think the first train is very early.’
‘But you don’t have to catch that one. There’ll be plenty of others.’
‘I need to get back.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll walk you back to the hotel.’
‘Really, there’s no need.’
‘It’s time I went back too.’
They took the short route back. Down the High Street and right at Cornmarket Street. She babbled about the many debutante parties that were coming up, and even threw Jacques – by now almost a forgotten name – into the conversation for good measure.
‘Good night, Mrs Carlyle,’ said Edward as they stood on the steps of the hotel.
‘Thanks again, Edward. You’re a real pal.’
They stood in silence for a second. He stretched out and touched her fingers, but she flinched away.
‘Good night,’ she said quickly, and ran inside the hotel, and when she turned back to see where he was, he had gone.
June 1958
‘Someone looks nice. Are you going on a date?’ André, the pastry chef at the Swiss Chalet café, gave a wolf whistle as Georgia emerged from the staff loos in a dark green pencil skirt and a white shirt knotted at the waist.
‘Not a date. An appointment,’ she grinned, pulling her manuscript out of her bag to show him. ‘It’s almost finished, André, my Paris memoirs, and I’m going to meet a writer, a really successful one, to find out how to get published.’
The door of the café opened with the tinkling sound of a cow bell that André had brought over from his most recent visit to Innsbruck.
‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ shouted Georgia, glancing at her watch and noticing that she was running twenty minutes late.
‘Can you not even spare any leftover Sachertorte?’ said a familiar voice. Georgia looked up and started laughing.
‘Sally, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I was in the area and just telling Gianni here how absolutely delicious your cakes are.’
Sally was holding hands with a tall, swarthy young man dressed in cream trousers, a white shirt with the collar turned up and dark sunglasses. All he needed was a Ferrari or a yacht and he would have looked like Gianni Agnelli, the Fiat heir who often graced the pages of Paris Match – which Georgia suspected was exactly the look that this Gianni was after.
‘Gianni, meet my dear friend Georgia Hamilton. This is my Italian friend Gianni.’
‘Come this way, my friend,’ shouted André. ‘You won’t find a finer Sachertorte this side of Salzburg.’
‘Who is he?’ mouthed Georgia as she led Sally to a corner table.
‘I met him last week at Penny Pringle’s dance at the Dorchester. He’s utterly dreamy, isn’t he?’
‘He’s an absolute dish,’ Georgia agreed.
‘And he’s a count,’ gushed Sally, unable to hide her glee. ‘He’s got a title, and a castle in Perugia, not that it matters, because he is so lovely and I am head over heels . . . Stop me. I’m gushing.’
Georgia didn’t like to point out that it had been only a month ago that Sally had announced she was in love with Andrew from Cirencester. She hadn’t minded in the slightest that Georgia had left the Fortescues’ party, because that night she had found ‘the one’ – until Andrew had refused to take her phone calls, finally getting his room-mate to come to the phone and request that Sally stop bothering him.
‘You see, there are some decent men out there,’ Sally said sagely. ‘You just have to find yours. Don’t think that just because you’ve had your fingers burnt with Edward, it doesn’t mean that your Mr Right isn’t still out there.’
‘I’m off men.’
‘I know. I’ve introduced you to so many, and you’ve not given any of them a chance. You’re not still thinking about him, are you?’
‘Who?’
‘Edward Carlyle, of course.’
‘I haven’t thought about him in weeks,’ said Georgia scornfully, wishing she had never told Sally about her adventures in Oxford. ‘He has a girlfriend. End of story. And now I’m concentrating on my career. Speaking of which, I have to scoot. You can stay here until André leaves, though.’
On the tube, Georgia reminded herself that she hadn’t lied to Sally deliberately. She had tried her very best to forget about Edward Carlyle since that night in Oxford. She had packed her days and nights with work and writing and as many invitations as she could manage – Ascot, dances and Eton’s Fourth of June celebrations by the Thames, where her cousin Richard had looked ever so smart in his cream flannels and boater hat. She’d been introduced to many attractive and polite young men, a couple of whom had even taken her for coffee or to the picture house, but it had been impossible not to compare them all to Edward, and they had all suffered badly in that comparison. She veered from feeling duped that Edward had held her hand and made a connection with her that seemed so real and palpable she could still feel it when she lay awake at night, to feeling simply sad and unlucky. After all, he had not kissed her, or made any false promises. He had been nothing but kind and generous and had even returned the money she had sent him for her hotel and train fare with a note saying that it had been his pleasure.
She got out at Piccadilly Circus and walked briskly into Soho, checking the address in her diary and finding Wheelers Restaurant on Old Compton Street. She was informed that her dining companion had already arrived, and was led through the restaurant, her eyes peeled for a likely-looking author.
Ian Dashwood was not what she was expecting. He was in his mid thirties, rather th
an the fifty- or sixty-something she had assumed. He had heavy brows and a light tan, and the pale grey suit with a blue triangle of silk sticking out of the top breast pocket was both smart and sharp.
He stood up and shook her hand.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said after brief introductions. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. To know everything you need to know about me, here’s my latest book.’ He pushed a hardback across the white tablecloth.
‘Is it an autobiography?’
‘No. Just read the author blurb,’ he laughed. ‘All my interesting bits are there in three hundred words.’
He poured her a glass of wine and glanced up at her.
‘So you want to be a writer.’
‘I am a writer,’ she smiled. ‘I just haven’t had anything published yet.’
‘Confidence. I like that in a young novelist. You’re going to get rejected at some point. We all have been. But you’ve got to have a thick skin, and a determination to keep writing, keep telling stories, even when there’s no money coming in, even when people keep telling you that there are too many hoops to jump through to make it. I hope you don’t mind oysters,’ he added, glancing through the menu.
‘I’ve never tried them.’
‘Best place to have them in London. Bacon loves it in here. Apparently he’s just left, which is a shame. He usually buys the whole place champagne when he’s in.’
‘Bacon?’
‘Francis Bacon.’
‘The artist,’ said Georgia, wide-eyed. ‘Do you know him?’
Ian nodded.
‘One of the many benefits of living in Soho. You get to meet and see all sorts of interesting people and places. There’s a coffee shop on Meard Street where I go and listen to jazz. It has coffin-shaped tables and ashtrays made from skulls.’
‘Real skulls?’ asked Georgia, spellbound by this man.
‘I’ve no idea. It’s a great place to go and write, though.’
The oysters arrived and Ian ordered another bottle of wine. He explained how he knew Uncle Peter, described the plot lines of his ten best-sellers and told her all about his morning with a Hollywood producer who was interested in turning his latest novel into a movie. He hadn’t always been a novelist – he had trained as an actor, and was quietly optimistic about his ambition to write screenplays and ultimately direct films. He told her about his working day: getting up at noon, playing chess with eccentrics in Soho coffee shops like the 2i’s, the White Monkey and the Grande, evenings spent either writing or meeting fellow creatives in drinking dens like the Colony Room. He made it sound a little bit too louche and glamorous, but left Georgia in no doubt that there could be no more enjoyable way to earn a living, and whilst he was not lacking in confidence when it came to listing his many achievements, he was generous with his advice and information, promising to introduce her to his agent and read anything she had written.
The Proposal Page 16
