‘Actually, I’ve brought something with me,’ she said, pulling her manuscript out of her bag. ‘It’s just a first draft, but hopefully you can get an idea of whether it’s any good or not.’
‘Confidence, young lady,’ he said, wagging a finger.
‘All right. I think it’s pretty good. I think I can be the English Françoise Sagan,’ she said, suddenly feeling emboldened by drink.
‘Have you seen the film?’
‘Bonjour Tristesse?’ She grinned at the mention of her favourite book. ‘I loved it. Not quite as good as the novel, but I thought Jean Seberg was brilliant.’
‘You look like her,’ he said softly. ‘The hair. The smile.’
She took it as an enormous compliment and one that was definitely overly generous. But the way he said it, looked at her, made her feel special. She liked feeling like this. Beautiful and sophisticated. She liked sitting with a famous author in a fashionable place where interesting creatives came to eat and drink. She felt one of them.
She blushed and took another long slug of wine. It was hot in the restaurant and she was starting to feel dizzy.
‘I should get you back home.’
She nodded and waited whilst he paid the bill.
‘Parking is a devil for Soho residents. Blast, I haven’t got my keys. I’ll just pop up and fetch them.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the tube.’
‘It’s dark,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t be a minute. Come up and see the flat. I have to just make a quick call to New York and then we can set off. I need to catch my US agent whilst he is still in the office. In fact, I can mention you to him.’
Georgia beamed with excitement and followed him down Dean Street.
There was a doorway on a side street and he beckoned her inside. The flat was smaller and darker than she had expected, with just a view from the window of an alleyway and some bins. He went over to a small drinks cabinet and poured some vermouth and vodka into a shaker, then emptied it into two glasses.
She winced at the taste of it but tried to disguise her reaction.
‘It’s good, isn’t it? I knew you’d be a martini girl.’
He excused himself and went into the bedroom to make his call, whilst she flipped through her manuscript, wondering if she had been too hasty in letting him read it.
After a few minutes he came back into the room.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, pointing at the manuscript. ‘It tough, isn’t it, letting other people read your stuff.’
‘No one else has seen it,’ she admitted, feeling a sense of complicity between them.
He walked right up to her and stood only inches away.
‘An English Girl in Paris,’ he said, taking the manuscript out of her hand and reading the front page. ‘Is that you, then?’
She blushed and nodded.
‘Très chic. You should be my muse.’
‘Muse. What’s that?’
‘From ancient Greece. An inspiration to the literature and arts.’
‘Me?’ She laughed gently, not knowing where to look.
‘Yes, you,’ he said, stroking the soft skin underneath her jaw.
He looked at her, his gaze probing deeply into hers, and she didn’t know whether the headiness she felt was the martini and wine or something more carnal.
‘Take off your blouse.’
At first she wasn’t sure if she had heard him correctly.
‘I want to see you. I want to be inspired by you.’
Her throat tightened and her heart started hammering.
‘My muse,’ he whispered as she closed her eyes and felt him undoing her buttons.
She felt the fabric slip off her shoulders and cool air blow against her skin. His fingertips stroked the length of her arm.
‘You’re so beautiful. I want to write about you. I want to fix you forever in history.’
She stood there, her eyes still closed, as he asked her to turn around. He unclipped her bra and it fell to the floor.
‘What do you feel?’ he asked, his lips so close to her ear.
She shivered and felt her nipples harden. She blushed furiously and was glad that he was standing behind her. She heard him take a step towards her. She could feel the cotton of his shirt against her bare back.
‘I’m going to make you a woman,’ he said softly, the metal zip of her skirt offering no resistance to his fingers.
Her breath started quickening and she felt a sensation, an excitement between her legs.
‘No,’ she said, spinning round and clutching at her waist to hold up her skirt.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said more forcefully, scooping up her bra and blouse from the floor and putting them back on. Her cheeks were burning and she was too ashamed to look at him.
‘This isn’t what you think,’ said Ian quickly.
‘What is it then?’ she asked, tears burning behind her eyeballs.
‘You’ve got the wrong idea,’ he spluttered back. ‘I need inspiration for my new book. The lead character is a young woman. About your age. Innocent, beautiful, just like you. She is seduced by an older man, a wealthy white landowner in Rhodesia. You are my inspiration. My research.’
‘Is that so?’ she replied, taking deep breaths to force the air back into her lungs. She grabbed her bag and her manuscript and made for the door.
‘Don’t tell your uncle.’
‘I’m sure he’d understand if it was just inspiration.’
She clattered down the stairs and ran out on to the street, tears of shame streaming down her cheeks as she leapt on to the number 22 bus.
It was almost midnight by the time she got home. Even from the road she could see the light on in the living room of their flat and knew that Estella had been waiting up for her. She wiped her face and rubbed her cheeks, hoping there was no telltale redness around her eyes.
She went inside and found Estella in her best dress holding a glass of champagne.
‘My darling, you shall go to the ball,’ she said, smiling and swaying gently on her heels.
‘What are you talking about?’ muttered Georgia, wanting to head straight into her bedroom.
‘My exhibition. Ribbons . . . It’s sold out. Colin called me this afternoon and said that a wealthy collector had seen the brochure from my exhibition and loved it and bought the lot. He’s retrieving it all from storage and delivering it at the weekend. We have money, my love. You can have a dance.’
She tottered up to Georgia and put both hands on her shoulders.
‘Darling, what’s wrong? I thought you wanted a dance.’
A tear slipped down Georgia’s cheek. She couldn’t help it.
‘You know, just because we’ve had a little windfall doesn’t mean to say we should spend it all.’
‘But we deserve it,’ Estella said, clasping her daughter’s face between her hands. ‘Don’t cry, my love. This is a good day. I thought we could have it next month on your birthday. I’ve mentally designed the invitations already. I’m thinking the moon and stars and calligraphy on dark blue vellum. And we should invite everyone. Everyone we know.’
Georgia nodded softly.
‘And how was your night?’ Estella asked breezily. ‘How was the author? Tell me all. Was he interesting? Was he helpful?’
‘He was fine,’ said Georgia, heading for her bedroom and locking the door.
July 1958
Planning her ball distracted Georgia from dwelling on her night out with Ian Dashwood. She had told no one about it and didn’t even intend to channel the experience into one of her books. Some things were best forgotten, although every time she saw Uncle Peter, it was difficult not to tell him to choose his friends and acquaintances more wisely. Certainly Dashwood was not on the guest list for her dance, although it seemed that almost anyone that Georgia and Estella had ever met had been invited.
‘So who’s coming?’ asked Clarissa, sitting in Estella and Georgia’s flat sipping a cup of coffe
e as they prepared to go and decorate the venue.
‘Guest list’s on the table,’ said Georgia, trying to find the fourth box of fairy lights they had bought from Peter Jones the day before.
Clarissa picked it up and examined the list.
‘Edward Carlyle plus one?’ she said, her eyes wide.
Georgia stood up holding the fairy-light box, which had somehow wiggled its way under the sofa in the past twenty-four hours.
‘He’s helped me out a couple of a times so I owe him a night on the tiles,’ she said casually, thinking about the hours she had spent debating whether to invite him.
‘Helped you out?’ Clarissa raised an elegantly arched brow.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Georgia quickly. ‘Besides, he has a girlfriend. Hence the plus one.’
Estella appeared at the door.
‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘All hands on deck.’
Although she was not known for her organisational ability, for the past week she had been behaving like a sergeant major, even commandeering Mr and Mrs Hands to come up from Devon, where they were enjoying their work at the Bigbury Sands Hotel. Nothing, apparently, was being left to chance.
‘Clarissa, are you going dressed like that?’ she said, eyeing her niece’s pretty lemon sundress. ‘We have walls to paint, floors to sweep, magic to make. Just because it’s Georgia’s birthday doesn’t mean we don’t have to put in a bit of work today.’
Clarissa rolled her eyes, whilst Georgia laughed. It had been good of Clarissa to borrow her father’s car to transport all the stuff to the party venue – yards of white net and cheap satin, hundreds of long, furry willow twigs, cans of silver paint, hurricane lanterns that had been used in bomb shelters, plus food and drink.
The venue itself was a disused boathouse on a quiet stretch of the Thames between Putney and Barnes. It had been the home of a London rowing club many years earlier, but had fallen out of fashion and was subsequently abandoned. It belonged to a friend of Colin Granger, her mother’s art dealer, who had never been off the phone to Estella since the sale of her Ribbons series.
As they set off from their Chelsea flat, she scooped up the pile of post from the doormat. She glanced at them quickly, guessing that they would be an assortment of birthday cards and RSVPs. When she didn’t recognise Edward Carlyle’s handwriting among them, she stuffed them into her bag for later.
‘Look at this place,’ gasped Clarissa, as they arrived at the boathouse. The path to the entrance was covered in brambles, and even from this distance they could see that it was in considerable disrepair. ‘Have you not visited it before today?’
‘I came for a quick look,’ said Estella, waving her hand dismissively. ‘It’s nothing we can’t handle. Isn’t that right, Arthur?’
Arthur Hands opened the boot and took out a hacksaw.
‘We’ll have this spick and span in a jiffy,’ he said. Georgia thought he was going to need more than a rusty farm tool to get the place ready by September, let alone seven o’clock.
For the next five hours they painted and swept and cleaned, and by late afternoon the boathouse looked unrecognisable.
‘Clarissa, can you take Georgia home to change?’ said Estella, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Georgia gratefully, appreciating how much graft and thought had gone into the ball.
‘You might even enjoy it tonight,’ said Clarissa, glancing across from the wheel as they drove back along New King’s Road.
‘Do you think people will come?’ Georgia said, feeling suddenly nervous.
‘Of course people will come. Everyone gets anxious before their own party. Besides, it’s your birthday. People will definitely make more of an effort.’
Georgia nodded, although she knew her cousin was just being kind – Barnes wasn’t exactly central, and Georgia was certainly not one of the first-division debs with party pulling power.
By six thirty, the two girls were back at the boathouse. This was not a traditional debutante dance, most of which were preceded by a dinner party at the home of the hosts. You couldn’t swing a cat in their Chelsea flat, especially with Mr and Mrs Hands staying, let alone invite thirty people for a sit-down meal. Besides, if Georgia had to do the Season, she wanted to do it in her own offbeat way.
This time Clarissa gasped in delight when they arrived. The fairy lights, wound around tree trunks and balustrade, twinkled like diamond dust in the darkening sky. She could hear nightingales in the distance and the sound of bats fluttering overhead, and soft jazz was floating out of the window.
Sometime in the past hour Estella had changed out of her paint-splattered smock into a long gown that swept all the way to the floor.
‘Here she is, here she is,’ she said, her arms out wide. ‘The birthday girl. The belle of the ball. Come inside. You have an early visitor.’
Georgia held her breath, half hoping it would be Edward, and stepped inside, admiring the white and silver walls, and the willow that had been sprayed silver and artfully arranged in terrocotta pots.
André from the Swiss Chalet was standing by the window overlooking the Thames.
‘André! You came!’ She suddenly felt a little less anxious about people turning up.
‘My darling, I have something special for you tonight.’
‘Promises, promises,’ she grinned.
‘Come this way,’ he said, leading her to the far end of the room, where a five-tiered coconut cake was perched on a table.
‘It’s like Queen Charlotte’s Ball all over again.’
‘I made this once for a society wedding. The recipe is good.’
‘You made this? For me? How the hell did you get it here?’
‘Freddie McDonald brought it over in his car. I can’t believe I kept this a surprise.’
‘I know! I was in the café yesterday – how did I never notice a four-foot confection!’
‘I work late. I am used to it.’
She threw her arms around him.
‘I have some wonderful friends,’ she whispered gleefully.
‘Darling, your guests are beginning to arrive,’ said Estella, looking serious.
Sybil, Peter and cousin Richard were among the first. Georgia watched Sybil’s eyes scan the room and wondered what she could possibly criticise.
‘Your mother has gone to a lot of effort. It looks lovely. And so do you.’
She breathed a sigh of relief and touched her aunt’s arm in gratitude.
‘If I disapprove, it’s because I want the best for you,’ said Sybil, turning to look at her. ‘I see Clarissa and I wonder if she hasn’t left it too late to find the right man. I don’t want you to make the same mistake.’
‘Clarissa is only twenty-one,’ said Georgia, wanting to defend her cousin.
‘Perhaps for your children twenty-one will be nothing at all. It will be an age of irresponsibility, of freedom. But not now. I do not want my daughter to miss the boat, to miss out on a good marriage. Because life alone is hard. I admire Estella, I really do.’
‘Georgia, how are you?’
She looked up and saw Frederick McDonald. Aunt Sybil squeezed her arm encouragingly and walked away.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Bloody good bash. What do you think of the cake?’
‘I love it,’ laughed Georgia, glad to see her friend. ‘I can’t believe you’ve all been in cahoots over it. Who else knew? Sally?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He smiled, looking around the party. ‘Say, is she here? She promised to liberate some Krug from her father’s wine cellar for this evening.’
‘Our Pomagne not good enough for you?’ she chided. ‘Actually, I haven’t seen Sally. She said she’d come and help decorate the place this afternoon with Clarissa. But she didn’t show up.’
‘She’s probably debating which couture gown to wear,’ said Freddie, and they both laughed, knowing that their friend wouldn’t mind the good-natured banter. Sinc
e Queen Charlotte’s Ball, Sally and Freddie had spent many afternoons at the Swiss Chalet waiting for Georgia to finish her shift, and the three of them had become firm friends.
The boathouse had filled up considerably now. Uncle Peter had turned up the music and Mr and Mrs Hands, who had insisted on dressing up, were dispensing the canapés that Mrs Hands had spent all morning making.
Freddie asked Georgia to dance and they waltzed by the open window, the breeze blowing in off the river. She relaxed into his body and felt contented. When she thought of Freddie, it was of someone who was comfortable and safe. And whilst they might not be the magical, heady emotions she experienced when she was with Edward Carlyle – the thrill of feeling drunk just from the way someone looked at you, or the charge you felt when they touched your hand – it was infinitely preferable to what she had experienced with Ian Dashwood.
That night had taught her a lesson. It had made her feel dirty and used, and she never wanted to feel like that again. If finding a husband meant getting out there, meeting semi-strangers in London’s bars and clubs and restaurants, making yourself as vulnerable as she had been in Ian Dashwood’s Soho flat, then she wanted no part of it.
She rested her head on Freddie’s shoulder and swayed with the music, wondering if this was enough. Wondering if a happy marriage could be had with a loving friend, if not a heart-stopping lover.
‘You know, when I was younger, my mother never used to let me have a pet,’ said Freddie quietly, as if he were reading her thoughts. ‘She said it wasn’t worth it. Pets die, and I’d be so distraught and feel so much pain that it wasn’t worth having one in the first place.’
The Proposal Page 17
