The Proposal (23 page)

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 coffee 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. Since 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.’

Georgia lifted her head and looked at him.

‘She was wrong,’ continued Freddie after a moment. ‘You are nineteen years old, George. You need to get out there and open your heart and fall in love, and maybe even get that heart broken. But it’s worth it to feel alive, to feel love and be true to yourself. A friend isn’t enough, and you certainly don’t want to settle for me.’

‘You don’t fancy me either, do you?’ she said sadly.

‘I adore you, George. But do I think we should announce our engagement because it’s what will make our parents happy?’ He shook his head.

‘So is there anyone here you do like?’ she asked playfully.

‘I should probably consider it over a drink. Pomagne, you say . . .’

Georgia turned round, and stopped as she bumped into the solid shape of a man in a crisp black dinner jacket.

‘Happy birthday, Georgia.’

She gasped as she looked up.

‘Edward. You came,’ she said as Freddie discreetly walked away.

‘You invited me.’

She noticed he had gone a little red in the face. He accepted a glass of Pomagne from Mr Hands, who was enjoying his role as Jeeves.

‘How are you?’

‘Great. It’s my birthday,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve been drinking, dancing . . .’

‘You should introduce me to your boyfriend.’

She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she found herself nodding. It might not be a bad idea to pretend she was popular and eligible and taken, she thought, expecting to see the beautiful Annabel appear at any moment.

‘Anyway. Your present.’

‘You shouldn’t have . . .’ she smiled, tearing off the red tissue paper to find a navy box. She gasped as she opened the lid and saw the snow globe inside. Its base was painted in gold and lapis, and inside the dome was a night-time street scene of Paris.

‘You should have,’ she beamed, lifting it off its tissue paper bed.

‘I’m sure you’ll be back there soon. But in the meantime . . . just turn the little key and dream of “La Vie en Rose”.’

She did as he said, and the famous French melody floated out of the box. She looked into his eyes, desperate to know what he was thinking and why he had bought her this little treasure.

‘Thank you, Edward. I love it,’ she said, feeling a thickness in her throat.

‘Look at you. The place is packed.’

‘My mum had a windfall. I think she may have used our life savings to bribe people to come.’

‘Well, I didn’t need a bribe.’

He gave her a soft smile and she was sure that he was flirting with her. She wanted to tell him to stop, that it wasn’t fair, but the last thing she wanted to do was reveal her feelings to him. She had spent the last month steeling herself and she wasn’t going to let herself down now.

‘Well, here’s someone you didn’t invite. Not officially. Georgia Hamilton, meet my brother Christopher.’