The Proposal (6 page)

Kind regards,

Georgia Hamilton (MA Cantab)

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Annie, coming back into the room and handing Amy a cup of black coffee.

‘I did something a bit crazy last night.’

‘Do I need to call a lawyer?’

Amy explained about the advertisement in
The Lady
and her reply from Ms Hamilton.

‘It’s a Christmas miracle,’ gasped Annie, grabbing the magazine that Amy had flung down the night before. ‘It’s like
Scent of a Woman
.’

‘
Scent of a Woman
?’

‘That movie where Chris O’Donnell takes the blind man to New York. Al Pacino. Can you imagine if you were going with someone as sexy as Al Pacino,’ she said, her breath quickening in excitement.

‘Well, last time I looked, Georgia was a woman’s name,’ said Amy, unable to share her friend’s enthusiasm about this new development to the day.

‘Amy, last night you said you wanted to go back to New York, and here’s your opportunity.’

‘Except I’m not going to be accompanying Al Pacino. Best-case scenario it’s some no-friends weirdo; worst case . . . it’s a psychopath who wants to kill me and bury me under her petunias.’

‘It will be some little old lady who can’t carry her own bags . . . Now go, give her a ring and get it sorted. Otherwise you’re coming for Christmas at my parents’ place and you’re sharing a room with the dog.’

An hour later, Amy was getting off the tube at Chalk Farm station. She still felt terrible and looked worse. Her meeting with Georgia Hamilton had been arranged for eleven o’clock, giving her time to get over to the Forge for after lunch. It had meant there was no time to go back to her apartment in Finsbury Park to change, and not wanting to turn up to her interview in last night’s now half-bald sequinned dress, she had been forced to borrow something from Annie’s eclectic wardrobe: a lemon-yellow 1950s hoop-skirt dress two sizes too big and a pair of grey suede pumps one size too small had been the most conservative items she could find. What invariably looked fantastic on Annie made Amy feel like one of those crazy bag ladies she used to see shuffling around Penn Station in the nineties.

As she turned to cross the footbridge joining Chalk Farm with Primrose Hill, her phone beeped to register a text from Nathan: ‘So do we have a five-carat sparkler on our finger yet? X’.

Snorting, she switched off the phone and quickened her pace. It was beginning to rain, and Annie’s pink parasol would provide little resistance against the December elements.

Once she had crossed the Regent’s Canal bridge, it was like entering a parallel universe, she thought, noticing that the gritty minimarts and curry buffets she had spotted at the Camden end of Chalk Farm had made way for a more serene village atmosphere. Primrose Hill was quite lovely, with its Georgian architecture and leafiness, its boho bakeries, boutiques and pavement cafés, which all made Amy wonder why she didn’t come up here more often.

She stopped in front of a smart Victorian town house and checked the address she’d scribbled on a piece of paper.

Georgia Hamilton. 27b Chalcot Terrace. She had spoken to Ms Hamilton on the phone, of course, but it had been a very short and rather formal conversation, all ‘I’d be delighted to meet you’ and ‘I’d be grateful if you’d come to see me’. Amy hadn’t really been able to glean much about the woman from her voice. Elderly, polite, polished: that probably described half the people living in this part of London. She had googled the name, with similar results. Georgia Hamilton could be a tapestry cleaner, a publishing executive or a minor B-movie actress who hadn’t made a film since 1976. Whoever she was, she was rich. Amy could see from the two bells next to the door that the building was divided into flats, but even so, she liked to read the property sections of the newspapers on Sundays, and she was aware that a duplex apartment in Primrose Hill would cost more than a mansion with stables anywhere outside the M25.

Here goes nothing, she thought, pressing the button next to the brass plaque marked simply ‘Hamilton’, then jumped when the door buzzed and a disembodied voice said ‘Second floor, please.’

Amy pushed into the high entrance hall.
God, it’s got a chandelier in the hallway
, she thought, immediately intimidated. There was a vaguely musty smell in the air and the paintwork looked in need of a refresh, but even so, it was clearly a grand old house, with large vases containing fresh flower arrangements on each landing and expensive-looking pearlescent paper on the walls.

Ascending the wide staircase, she realised she was walking on tiptoes, trying not to make any noise in this hushed space, instinctively respectful of the history of the place. She supposed it was because it was exactly as she had imagined London to be when she had first read about it as a child: this was the sort of house that would have had servants and a nanny, the sort of place you could imagine Peter Pan visiting late at night.

‘Get a grip,’ she muttered to herself as she reached the top floor and knocked on the door marked with a brass ‘2’.

‘Miss Carrell, I presume?’

Amy took a moment to examine the lady in front of her. She looked to be in her early seventies, although it was very hard to tell. Her ash-blond hair, shot through with fine silvery strands, was cut short and tucked behind her ears, and she was dressed simply in a grey blous and wide black slacks with a string of pearls around her neck and matching earrings in her lobes. Elegant, that was the word that immediately sprang to mind. The sort of high-born elegance that made Amy wonder if Georgia Hamilton knew Vivienne Lyons and all her snobby friends.

‘Yes, Amy actually,’ she said, shaking the outstretched hand.

‘American?’

‘New York,’ said Amy, feeling a little awkward as the woman looked her up and down. Perhaps the sequins would have been better than Annie’s yellow vintage sundress.

There was a pause, then Georgia Hamilton nodded, as if she had made a decision.

‘Do come inside,’ she said. ‘You can leave the umbrella by the door.’

Amy followed her down a narrow corridor and out into a light, spacious living room.

‘Wow!’ said Amy. ‘That’s some view.’

The room had a wide bay window that gave an uninterrupted vista of the slopes of Primrose Hill park and the hazy city beyond.

‘Yes, it is rather special, isn’t it?’ said the woman with a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I suppose it’s human nature to become accustomed to one’s surroundings, even if they are remarkable, but I confess I do often catch sight of the view and smile at my good fortune.’ She gestured towards an armchair. ‘Please do sit. Would you like some tea? I have just brewed a pot.’

‘Yes please,’ said Amy, perching on the edge of the chair and looking around nervously. She was immediately reminded of the Bird’s Nest. Georgia Hamilton’s home was equally eclectic and personal. But where Annie’s flat was chaotic and cluttered, a mish-mash of ideas and fleeting enthusiasms, this home was understated and calm. There were abstract paintings and black and white photographs, interesting-looking pots and ethnic-style sculptures, but it all seemed to fit together like pieces of some artistic puzzle.

‘You’ve got a lot of books.’ Amy smiled, observing the bookcases stuffed with all manner of hard- and soft-backed books.

‘I used to work in publishing,’ said Georgia, still watching her. ‘Occupational hazard, I’m afraid, though in my defence, they’re not entirely for show. I have actually read most of them.’

‘So you’re
that
Georgia Hamilton,’ said Amy, immediately regretting it. Now she would have to confess to checking up on the older woman.
I’m going to look like a stalker
, she thought.

‘Google, I take it?’ said Georgia to Amy’s surprise as she handed her a bone-china cup and saucer. ‘That’s the problem with information overload. In the modern age you can know pretty much all you ever need to know about a person before you even meet them. Where is the mystery? Where is the unwrapping of a new friend, a new lover?’

‘I don’t really like surprises,’ said Amy. ‘Not where lovers are concerned, anyway.’

The old lady tilted her head thoughtfully and took a sip of her tea.

‘And tell me, Amy, what do you do?’

She opened her mouth, ready to say that she was a dancer, waiting to explain about her injury and her training, but suddenly it seemed far easier just to admit that she was a waitress.

‘I wait tables at the Forge in Islington. It’s where I’m going after this.’

‘I was a waitress myself many years ago. No better job for people-watching, observing human nature. It’s probably why so many creatives are drawn to it. You think you are there to pay for your art, but actually, I rather find it helps your art.’

Amy smiled and the atmosphere relaxed.

‘Down to business,’ said Georgia, setting her cup aside. ‘I have booked a trip to New York to leave in a few days. Incredibly, I have never been to Manhattan and I feel that at my age I should be visiting the places I . . . well, the places I have missed.’

‘Sort of like a bucket list?’ said Amy without thinking.
Note to self: try not to suggest that the lady interviewing you has one foot in the grave
, she thought. Luckily Georgia smiled.

‘Something like that, yes. I suppose I could have gone on one of those ghastly tours for mature single travellers, but the thought of shuffling around Manhattan like a bunch of geriatric crocodiles . . .’ She waved a dainty hand. ‘Which is how I came to advertise for a travelling companion. There’s no call for concern, I’m not likely to fall and break a hip, but I’m not quite as spry as I was in my prime.’

Amy thought it best not to reply, lest she put her foot in it again.

‘So how is it that you’re able to travel, Amy?’

The question took Amy by surprise, and it must have shown on her face.

‘Well, it is Christmas, after all. I imagine most people your age are booked up with parties until New Year.’

‘Something fell through,’ said Amy awkwardly.

‘Relationship entanglements?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ she said, glancing up.

‘You have that look in your eye,’ nodded Georgia. ‘You don’t look as if you want to leave London for the holidays, Amy; you look as though you want to flee.’

Amy could see that there was no point in denying it.

‘This is my situation, Ms Hamilton—’

‘Miss,’ said the woman. ‘But please call me Georgia.’

‘I’ve had a really crappy week, and right now all I want to do is go back home. I figured this might be a way to see my folks, even if they have to come into Manhattan to meet me. If that’s a problem say so now, because that’s why I want to do this trip. But seeing my mom and dad would only take a couple of hours, and the rest of the time I’m all yours. I work hard, and I can take you to all the little places only New Yorkers know about as well as the touristy things you probably want to see and do.’

Georgia didn’t reply and Amy felt her heart lurch, suddenly realising how desperately she wanted to see her mum, get one of those big bear hugs from her dad. She needed to get
home
.

‘At least you’re honest,’ said the older woman with an amused half-smile. ‘That’s good, because the last thing I want is some con artist who’s going to run up thousands of dollars’ worth of expenses on the minibar.’

‘That’s a lot of Hershey bars,’ grinned Amy.

‘Even so, I’d be grateful if you could provide a couple of references.’

‘So I’ve got the job?’

‘My dear, I’m due to leave for America in three days’ time. Despite placing the advert three weeks ago, you’re the only apparently sane person to apply. Can you believe I got a letter from someone at HM Prison Brixton saying he was about to go on probation and would love to accompany me, although he felt there might be issues at US customs. Besides, you don’t get to my point in life without being a decent judge of character. I think this trip might work out for both of us.’

‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ said Amy, getting up to hug the old woman.

Georgia reeled back in surprise.

‘Well, if that’s settled, how about we have some more tea?’

There was a sudden buzzing sound that Amy recognised must be the intercom. She wondered if Cheryl had somehow got wind of her plans. After all, she was due to do the Boxing Day shift in the pub, and if she couldn’t get Nathan or one of the others to take it on for her, then she was in big trouble.

Georgia pressed a button on a box on the wall. ‘Yes?’ she said.

‘It’s me, can I come in?’ A male voice, but too crackly to tell any more.

Did Georgia have a boyfriend? Amy realised she knew nothing about this woman she had just agreed to accompany across the Atlantic. But then if she already had a companion, why advertise for one in a magazine? Either way, she’d have to wait until the old lady decided to tell her.

‘I’d better be going,’ she said, standing up.

‘No, no, do stay. We should discuss the details before you leave.’ Georgia picked up the silver teapot. ‘I’ll make more tea and you can tell me about this Heathrow airport I’ve heard so much about.’

Amy could tell the woman was toying with her. Her flat was full of books and
objets d’art
from around the world. On Google, Georgia Hamilton had been described as ‘a legend’ in publishing. Amy was sure this elegant, sophisticated woman had been around the globe dozens of times, even if it was the case that she had never been to New York. But wasn’t the American publishing industry based in Manhattan?

She didn’t have time to ask, as there was a rat-a-tat knock on the door of the flat.

That was quick, thought Amy. There was no lift, so only someone young and fit could have made it from street level to a second-floor apartment in that time.

Georgia left the room and she heard muffled voices at the end of the corridor. When the old lady returned, Amy was surprised to see that she was accompanied by a much younger man. He was obviously handsome, but week-old stubble verged on being a beard, and his dark hair trailed over his ears and was in desperate need of a cut. In a thick navy pea coat and big black lace-up boots, he looked as if he was about to go trapping.