The Proposal (7 page)

‘Amy Carrell, this is my cousin’s son Will Hamilton,’ said Georgia quickly.

‘Hello,’ said Amy, but Will merely nodded, a slight frown on his face, and turned to Georgia, handing her a white envelope.

‘I just came to drop this round,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Will.’

‘It’s from the family,’ he said, glancing at Amy as if he didn’t want to say more in front of strangers.

‘I’m well aware of what it is, Will,’ said Georgia with a rather pinched look.

‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’

He was loitering awkwardly near the door. Amy noticed that Georgia had not suggested he take his coat off and join them for tea.

‘I’m out of the country,’ said Georgia more brightly. ‘Escaping the London weather.’

‘New York’s going to be a damn sight colder than here,’ laughed Amy, trying to defuse the tension.

‘New York?’ said Will, looking even more serious. He viewed Amy suspiciously with his dark, almost black eyes, the sort of eyes that made you feel guilty once they settled their gaze on you.

‘We’re going on a trip,’ replied Amy quickly, looking to Georgia for reassurance that she had done the right thing in telling him.

‘You’re going to New York together?’ said Will slowly. He definitely disapproved of that idea, thought Amy, watching him thrust his hand in his pocket.

‘That’s right, and I really have to pack,’ said Georgia, making it clear that the visit was now over.

‘Do you want to give me your contact details? Just in case.’

‘In case of what?’ replied Georgia, peering at him down her nose.

‘Just in case . . .’ he said, his eyes flickering towards Amy.

‘Take my number,’ offered Amy. She rattled it off and he punched it into his phone.

‘Thanks,’ he said flatly.

‘And thank you again,’ said Georgia. ‘Please pass on . . . the season’s greetings to your parents.’

The three of them stood in silence for a moment.

‘Happy Christmas, Georgia,’ he said finally. ‘Call me if you need a lift to the airport.’ And he disappeared, closing the door behind him.

Amy looked at Georgia and didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what had just happened there, but if her cousins came to the Carmichael Street house, her mom and dad could never get rid of them. They’d crack open a beer, put their feet up in front of the TV or shoot hoops in the yard. But perhaps the British were different.

‘You should probably reassure him that I’m not some Yankee con artist,’ she said finally.

‘He doesn’t think that,’ said Georgia politely.

‘I think he’s wondering why a member of his family is going to New York with a stranger.’

Georgia gave her a sympathetic glance.

‘William has a good heart,’ she said quietly. ‘But I fear the thousands of pounds spent sending him to the best schools failed to teach him the good graces of social interaction. I apologise if he made you feel uncomfortable.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Amy, trying to imagine how she would feel if her uncle Chuck won the lottery and announced he was going on a European vacation with a twenty-something blonde.

‘Now, if I show you a map of Central Park, perhaps you can point out to me where the Wollman ice rink is?’ Georgia said, her whole demeanour relaxing. ‘I’ve always wanted to see it.’

22 December 2012

‘The local time here in New York is 2.45 p.m.,’ said the pilot. ‘The weather is a bracing four degrees, but the good news is we’re forecast for some sunny spells tomorrow.’

Georgia leant towards the window and peered out dubiously.

‘No snow. How disappointing.’

‘Believe me, you don’t want to wish snow in New York,’ said Amy. ‘When the wind blows a blizzard up from the Battery, it can freeze you where you stand. Out in Queens, the snowploughs make drifts ten feet high.’

‘Oh, I’m sure, my dear,’ said the old lady. ‘But I have rather been harbouring a fantasy of a light sprinkling on the pavements and in the park. I must have seen it in some Gene Kelly film, I suppose.’

She glanced out of the window again, her lined mouth turned down, looking up at the gloomy sky. Perhaps she had that seasonal thingy disorder, thought Amy – that one where people became depressed when they were deprived of sunlight. But then Georgia Hamilton seemed to have been living in north London for the past two decades – she must spend half the year under a black cloud. Either way, Amy found it hard to believe that anyone who had just sat for eight hours in the warm embrace of first-class flying could be anything but happy. She herself had only ever been on a handful of long-haul flights in her entire life, and never above cattle class, so when the uniformed waiter in the Concorde Lounge at Heathrow had stepped forward and handed her a glass of pink Bollinger, Amy had almost wanted to kiss him. The lounge itself had been like a boutique hotel; she’d had a delicious three-course meal in the restaurant and a facial in the next-door Elemis Spa. It had all been free, and when their flight was announced to board she had been tempted to stow away in one of the cute little cabanas and not go – wondering to herself if squatters’ rights were in operation at airports and if so whether she should just move in and never return to her Finsbury Park apartment.

When she’d been dragged out of the lounge by Georgia, she had been amazed that the first-class cabin was just as nice. Amy had tucked in to her lobster bisque, tender fillet of beef and creamy panna cotta, accepting a glass of champagne whenever it was offered, whilst Georgia had sat quietly for most of the journey, reading a book and occasionally staring out of the window at the clouds. Amy had tried to engage her in conversation – she wasn’t sure if that was part of the job of ‘companion’; like a hitch-hiker, you were expected to earn the ride by distracting the driver – but while she had been unfailingly polite, as ever, Georgia had rebuffed every approach, so Amy had simply sat back and enjoyed being pampered.

They were the first down the air bridge and straight through customs with barely a glance. Amy felt a tingle of excitement and comfort as she smelt the cold, fuggy air of her home city.

‘I have arranged for a taxi to pick us up kerbside, I believe the term is,’ said Georgia as Amy steered a trolley with the luggage – Georgia’s smart cream suitcase and matching vanity case – to the exit.

‘Ms Hamilton?’ said a large Hispanic man in a chauffeur’s uniform, almost bowing as he said it. ‘I’m Alfonse, I’ll be your driver while you’re here.’

Georgia smiled graciously.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Alfonse. This is Miss Amy Carrell, my companion and a native of your city.’

Alfonse turned his wide smile towards Amy. ‘That so? Well welcome home, Miss Amy. Back to see the folks, huh? That’s real nice.’

He led them to a sleek Mercedes town car. A taxi? thought Amy as he held the door for her to climb in and she sank into the soft leather upholstery; it was a world away from the rickety estate cars of her local minicab firm in Finsbury Park. She glanced over at Georgia as they moved away. She had the relaxed look of those other passengers in the first-class cabin; an air of expectation that such a level of luxury was normal. Perhaps it was; she still really didn’t know that much about Georgia Hamilton. Of course, the first thing she had done upon leaving Georgia’s flat that rainy afternoon was to run another Google search on her. There wasn’t a huge amount – she had worked in the pre-internet age – but what snippets she did find were fascinating. This old lady who’d had to advertise for someone to travel to New York with had once been a hugely successful businesswoman. The label ‘publishing legend’ barely covered it. According to the features Amy read, throughout the eighties and nineties Georgia had been one of the most formidable forces in the industry, scoring numerous literary and commercial hits, prize-winners and runaway bestsellers. Amy realised she had even read some of the books Georgia had published. The final news piece she found, announcing Georgia’s retirement, detailed the eye-watering sum one of the Big Six international publishing houses had paid for her business. No wonder she looked so comfortable in these surroundings.

‘You know what I find so odd?’ said Georgia, staring out of the window as they sped along the expressway. ‘It’s the size of the cars. I mean, the motorway could be anywhere, but the cars are so wide.’

She pointed to a truck. ‘The lorries too, they are enormous compared to anything you’d see in England. But then the country is so vast. I suppose that’s why everyone drives.’

‘Not in New York,’ said Amy. ‘We’re different here.’

‘I heard that,’ said Alfonse.

Amy gazed out the window. She could feel her heart in her throat. The irony of accompanying Georgia to Manhattan was that they had to pass through her own borough to get there; the freeway cut right through Queens. She could see buildings and street signs that brought memories rushing back: that was the hall where her cousin had tap lessons, that was the pizza place that delivered to her neighbourhood. She was almost home, but not quite.

‘Heavens,’ said Georgia quietly as the Manhattan skyline reared up ahead of them – a cityscape of glittering towers before a golden setting sun.

‘Mm-hm,’ nodded Alfonse. ‘It’s one hell of a sight. Never tire of that one.’

‘Makes me wonder why I haven’t come home sooner,’ sighed Amy, knowing that although she had seen this vista many times before, it was impossible not to be moved.

Georgia nodded her head tightly, but her eyes were melancholy.

‘Okay, folks, have you at the hotel in just a few minutes,’ said Alfonse as they turned into the Midtown Tunnel. Amy could feel herself holding her breath as the tunnel lights spun away past them – and then there they were, as if by magic right in the centre of the city. Coming into Manhattan via the tunnel always had that jolting effect: one moment you were on the expressway, the next you were surrounded by fifty-storey buildings and fire trucks and steam and everyone was honking and yelling.

The car turned up the wide thoroughfare of Park Avenue, where tall Christmas trees were planted all the way up the centre of the road and every business window had a holiday-themed display, and pulled up outside a building with red awnings over its ground-floor windows.

‘Is this the hotel?’ asked Amy as Alfonse helped them out. ‘Looks more like one of those upscale apartment buildings.’

‘I think that’s the idea, miss,’ the driver smiled. ‘There are plenty of those look-at-me hotels on the island, but the Plaza Athénée is the sort of place you come for somewhere a little more discreet and elegant, shall we say? I believe Elizabeth Taylor and Princess Diana both liked to stay here and I think you’re gonna like it too.’

He handed her a card. ‘Here. If you or Miss Georgia need anything, day or night, you give Alfonse a call, okay?’

Amy nodded gratefully.

‘Thanks.’

Alfonse’s description was pretty much on the money. Georgia was in a suite which was sumptuous, but not overpoweringly so, whilst Amy was in a lovely room down the hall. Amy had been to a lot of high-end places with Daniel – he would never go anywhere that wasn’t what he considered ‘the best’ – but she had rarely enjoyed them as they seemed to come with a sort of inbuilt snobbery, with the guests all trying to outdo each other in some sort of po-faced Olympics. But this hotel seemed to be just as Alfonse had said – more like a temporary home-from-home for the wealthy. Certainly, as the bell captain closed the door and left them alone, Georgia looked as if she was entirely at home.

‘So, uh, what do you want to do now?’ said Amy, looking at the suitcases sitting by the door of the suite. Was she supposed to unpack for Georgia? Iron her dresses? Massage her tired feet?

‘First, I’d like you to relax,’ said Georgia pointedly, as if she had read all of that from Amy’s anxious expression. ‘I wanted a companion for this trip, not an entertainments officer from a cruise ship. Don’t feel that you have to run about picking up after me and arranging things for me to do.’

‘Oh. Okay. So what is my . . .’

‘Your role?’

Amy shrugged, blushing a little.

‘Yes, I guess.’

‘Just as the advert said: a companion, someone to accompany me wherever I go. I realise it’s a little strange for you, but think of it as if we were two old friends on holiday in New York. What would you do first?’

Go and get drunk
, thought Amy, but bit her lip.

‘I’d probably have a shower, then get pizza.’

Georgia smiled thinly. Her demeanour had been quite prickly and severe all day, but she looked as if she was starting to thaw.

‘A fine plan. I think we can do a little better than pizza, however. Why don’t you settle into your room and I’ll see if I can arrange somewhere to eat.’

‘Somewhere to eat’ was a place called Ralph, or so said the tiny gold plaque on the wall of the 68th Street building that Amy almost missed. She had never heard of it before, although the Upper East Side had never been one of her natural habitats even when she lived in the city. It was old-money New York, where Wall Street bankers and industrialists owned multimillion-dollar townhouses, where antique shops sat cheek by jowl with apartments owned by tight-faced old ladies with Pekinese dogs, and where trophy blondes spent their days running from blow-dry appointments to lunch to Mandarin classes for their children. It was all too rich a blend, thought Amy, deciding that pizza would have been infinitely preferable.