The Proposal (14 page)

‘You’re not going with her?’ said Don Daly as Sally left to join the ‘cake’ debs.

‘I wasn’t chosen,’ said Georgia in a dramatic whisper.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Mrs Daly, not unkindly. ‘Sally’s having a few more sessions at Lucie Clayton. You should come along next time.’

‘I think attitude rather than deportment is the problem,’ said Sybil more tartly.

‘Let them eat cake,’ whispered Frederick McDonald, which would normally have made Georgia laugh, but she was too angry with her aunt’s rudeness.

The whole thing thankfully didn’t take very long, and then the Bill Savill orchestra struck up, and Uncle Peter took Georgia’s hand for the traditional father-and-daughter dance. She felt a pang of sorrow that she was not here with her own father, and at that moment Peter gave her hand a squeeze, as if he had recognised her sadness.

‘Allow me to take this opportunity to tell you how proud I am of you. You have grown up into an intelligent and beautiful young woman,’ said her uncle, smiling gently.

‘Thank you,’ she grinned. ‘And thanks for thinking of me when you met that author.’

‘You have to ignore Sybil,’ he said after a moment. ‘You know she only wants the best for you and Clarissa.’

Georgia snorted. She didn’t mean to be impolite after all her aunt and uncle had done for her, but Sybil’s constant and obvious disappointment was beginning to grind her down.

‘Why do you put up with it, Uncle?’ she wondered out loud.

‘Marriage is a compromise,’ replied Peter matter-of-factly.

‘It’s not a compromise. Marriage has to be just right; you have to be perfect for each other. Otherwise what’s the point?’

From the sidelines she could see Estella watching them, and she thought about her own parents’ marriage.

Georgia had not been a particularly romantic child, but growing up in their old, lonely farmhouse, she had loved hearing her mother telling how she and James Hamilton had met and fallen in love, and had asked for the story again and again as if it was some sort of fairy tale.

How James had been in Paris on business and met Estella, who had been sketching on a table of a pavement café in the 14th arrondissement. They had started walking and talking, beginning in the little street in Montparnasse and ending up on the other side of the city in Montmartre, sitting on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur watching the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower. How by the time they had got to the banks of the Seine Estella had decided that she was going to marry James Hamilton, and how they had taken their honeymoon in the city just before the outbreak of war had put a stop to any further visits.

In the back of her mind Georgia had always wondered if the real reason her mother had sent her to Paris was so that she might have that same sort of heady, romantic discovery. And yet, alas, here she was being set up with the likes of Frederick McDonald, who was sweet and funny but who had as much chance of setting Georgia’s heart racing as he had of setting foot on Mars. You could not force love, she decided, making a mental note to include that point in her memoirs.

Uncle Peter was tapped on the shoulder and Frederick asked if he could cut in. Georgia took his hand and they started to waltz.

‘So what was all that curtseying to the cake thing about?’ he asked above the sound of a soaring clarinet.

‘Surely you’ve been to one of these things before?’

‘I haven’t, actually. I’m not quite sure if your aunt Sybil remembers trying to fix me up with Clarissa two years ago, but I couldn’t make it.’

‘You must be hot property,’ teased Georgia.

‘More like I’m twenty-four and my parents think it’s high time I found a wife.’

Frederick danced as well as a Frenchman, which was a considerable compliment. She wasn’t sure if he held his breath the whole time, but she certainly couldn’t hear him panting in her ear, which was the usual hazard with her dance partners.

‘How about we waltz across to the far side of the room out of eyeshot of the grown-ups and just get drunk?’ said Frederick finally, and Georgia decided she liked him more by the minute.

They took two cups of fruit punch, and Frederick pulled out a hip flask and poured a stiff measure of alcohol into each.

‘We’re going to have to get very drunk to get through this thing.’

‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ laughed Georgia.

‘I didn’t mean it like that . . .’

‘So you are going to be a diplomat?’ said Georgia, remembering what he had told her at dinner.

‘One day. Perhaps.’

‘You don’t sound very excited about it.’

‘I really want to be a journalist. Can you imagine going to the theatre or to the Summer Exhibition and getting paid to write about it?’

‘My mum says it’s wonderful when your job is your hobby. She says you never have to retire because what you do isn’t work.’

‘She’s an artist, isn’t she? I heard she did some rather fabulous pictures of the debs at your cocktail party.’

‘You heard about that?’ After the disaster of the aspic, Estella had had to improvise to give the party a little kick, and had decided to do a five-minute sketch of each guest as a going-home present.

‘My sister’s friend went. She’s quite proud of her caricature. Seemed to overlook the fact that she’d been given a nose the size and shape of a banana.’

‘Mother said she was experimenting in cubist cartooning.’

‘She should do a strip for the
Evening Post
.’

‘That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’ Georgia sighed.

Glancing back at Estella, she saw that she was being asked to dance by a rather dishy-looking deb’s delight. She was not wearing white so Georgia felt sure the young man could not be confused. However, she did look pretty sensational. Not dissimilar to Lola Wigan, the ethereal debutante who had modelled the bride’s dress at the recent Berkeley Dress Show and who was the hot tip for winning Deb of the Year later that summer. Unlike Georgia, Estella was just impossible to resist.

She excused herself from Frederick and went to the loo to freshen up. She found an empty cubicle, flipped down the lid and took a breather. Spurred on by Uncle Peter’s promise to introduce her to the author, she took out her small notebook from her silk bag and started writing some notes about her experiences of the night, including a few interesting turns of phrase that Frederick had used. She wasn’t entirely sure what use it would be, except that she had decided that the sequel to
An English Girl in Paris
should be about a country girl in London documenting her experience as a debutante in 1958. How strange it was that she was writing her second book even before she had finished her first, she thought as the words came swiftly.

Her ears twitched when she heard her name.

‘I see the two most curious debutantes of the season are sharing a table,’ said a voice she only faintly recognised

‘And who might that be?’ said another.

‘The Birmingham girl with the enormous bosoms, and Georgia Hamilton.’

She peered through a crack in the toilet door and saw three girls standing in front of the mirror reapplying their lipstick. It was Marina Ellis, her friend Melanie from the Eaton Square cocktail party and another debutante.

‘I think she’s quite pretty,’ said the unknown girl.

‘Pretty?’

‘She wears beautiful dresses.’

‘I thought you meant Georgia!’ giggled Marina. ‘She looks as if she has fallen out of the Salvation Army half of the time.’

‘I was still surprised that Sally got to accompany the cake.’

‘Her father has bought his way into everything else; why should it stop with Queen Charlotte’s Ball? Probably slipped the Dowager Duchess a fistful of guineas to make it happen.’

‘He’s not the only one buying favours,’ said Melanie, lowering her voice.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Marina, smelling gossip.

They huddled more closely around the basin. Georgia thought they looked like Macbeth’s witches around a bubbling pot.

‘I heard from a very good source that when Estella Hamilton paints a picture, it’s not just the canvas she gives a bit of slap and tickle.’

Marina gasped.

‘She sleeps with her clients?’

Melanie nodded.

‘That’s what I heard. Some friends of my mother’s, the Chases, commissioned her for something or other, and apparently she got far too friendly with Mr Chase. So much so that Mrs Chase ended up throwing the painting out of the window.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me one bit that she’s promiscuous,’ said Marina with feeling. ‘She looks it. All that red lipstick and hair.’

Georgia felt her hands quiver in anger. She was tempted to step out of the cubicle and confront them, but they had already changed the subject.

‘How is your date?’ Melanie asked Marina.

‘Dull as brass,’ she groaned. ‘I’ve got my eye on Charlie Edgerton. He’s already asked me to dance twice, so I need to ditch the date and take him up on his offer.’

‘What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go and find him . . .’

Georgia shut her notebook and took a deep breath through her nose.

‘How dare they!’ she whispered out loud, determined that they were not going to get away with it.

She left the Ladies’ and went back into the ballroom. Estella was talking to the father of one of the debs. Melanie’s words echoed in the back of her mind, but she blotted them out with force.

She could see Marina flirting with a tall, dark-haired man with saturnine eyes. Unlike Sally, Georgia had not made a mental log of all the deb’s delights on the circuit; however, Charles Edgerton was a veritable jackpot of good looks and good family, too eligible not to be known – or at least recognised – by everyone.

She watched them waltz across the dance floor, his tails swinging back and forth like a raven’s wing. Marina was not the most beautiful deb around, but she had certainly made an effort tonight, and even Georgia had to admit that they made a handsome couple. They danced for two songs, after which Charles excused himself. Georgia realised that this was her opportunity. She tapped him on the shoulder and he spun round.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, gathering herself up to her full height.

‘Yes?’ he replied, his eyes fleetingly looking her up and down as if he were assessing a prize filly for the Derby.

‘It has come to my attention that certain debs’ mothers have compiled a list about how eligible the young men on the circuit are. They have a code. NSIT. Not safe in taxis. VSITPQ. Very safe in taxis, probably queer. You rate very highly, by the way. In fact you’re something of a catch.’

‘Why, thank you,’ he said, looking momentarily off guard.

‘You should probably know that I have been compiling my own list,’ continued Georgia. ‘Thought it was fair to let the gentlemen know what they are letting themselves in for, considering us girls are armed with so much information.’

He smiled cautiously.

‘That young lady you have been dancing with. She’s on my list,’ she said, pulling her notebook out of her bag and looking at her scribble. ‘Ah yes, here she is. Marina Ellis. GFLPCVD.’

‘And what does that mean?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Good fun, loose, probable carrier of venereal disease. Something about an unfortunate liaison with a sailor during her time in Paris.’

The mention of Paris made him stand up and take notice. No doubt Marina had been boasting about her time on the Continent.

‘VD?’ he said slowly.

‘Only a rumour. I’m sure she’ll deny it, but you just can’t be too sure,’ said Georgia, snapping her notebook shut and lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I hear these sexually transmitted diseases are dreadful to get rid of once you’ve been given one, so good luck. Tread carefully.’

She waited one second and watched his mouth drop open, then turned on the slim heels of her shoes and returned to her table.

‘Mum, we really should be going,’ she said, removing the champagne from her mother’s hand.

‘But it’s so early,’ protested Estella.

‘I’m tired . . .’

‘Oh Georgia, stop it. Stay and dance with Freddie.’

‘Fancy another spin?’ said Frederick, offering his arm.

‘Go on,’ urged Estella as Frederick led her off.

‘Hide me,’ whispered Georgia, hooking her arm through his.

‘What on earth have you done? Spiked the punch? Laced the Dowager Duchess’ cake with arsenic?’

‘Worse.’

‘Darling Georgia, you really are a feisty one.’

They went to retrieve her wrap in anticipation of a quick getaway. When they returned to collect Estella, they were met by Sybil with a face like thunder.

‘We need to talk,’ she told Georgia sternly.

‘I was just leaving.’

‘That might be appropriate,’ replied her aunt, her mouth in a fixed, unsmiling line.

Georgia gulped hard.

‘A debutante is in tears over there, and apparently it is all because of you.’

Georgia glanced towards the exit, wondering if she should make a run for it.

‘Apparently you have been spreading wicked lies about her. Did you not think it would get back to the person concerned? Did you not think it would wound and offend her?’

‘I don’t care,’ said Georgia defiantly. ‘She deserved it.’

‘Deserved it! Georgia, the organisers of the ball have got to hear about it and demand an immediate apology.’

‘I’m not saying sorry. Not after what she said about my mother, and my friend.’

‘The Dowager Duchess witnessed the crying!’ said Sybil, not even listening to what Georgia had to say. ‘You won’t be able to show your face on the circuit again.’

‘Good. I told you at the beginning, I don’t want to be here. Stupid, snobby girls and silly tiaras and men who only want to get their hands down your knickers.’

Sybil gasped.

‘If your father was alive today . . .’

‘If my father was alive, he wouldn’t want me to go through this ridiculous charade. Because he married my mother for
love
,
and that’s what makes you happy.’

Sybil’s expression changed as her gaze moved beyond Georgia. She looked bemused and then frowned.

‘What on earth is Mrs Bryant doing here?’ she said quietly.

Georgia turned and saw the housekeeper.