The Proposal (22 page)

June 1958

‘Someone looks nice. Are you going on a date?’ André, the pastry chef at the Swiss Chalet café, gave a wolf whistle as Georgia emerged from the staff loos in a dark green pencil skirt and a white shirt knotted at the waist.

‘Not a date. An appointment,’ she grinned, pulling her manuscript out of her bag to show him. ‘It’s almost finished, André, my Paris memoirs, and I’m going to meet a writer, a really successful one, to find out how to get published.’

The door of the café opened with the tinkling sound of a cow bell that André had brought over from his most recent visit to Innsbruck.

‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ shouted Georgia, glancing at her watch and noticing that she was running twenty minutes late.

‘Can you not even spare any leftover
Sachertorte
?’ said a familiar voice. Georgia looked up and started laughing.

‘Sally, what on earth are you doing here?’

‘I was in the area and just telling Gianni here how absolutely delicious your cakes are.’

Sally was holding hands with a tall, swarthy young man dressed in cream trousers, a white shirt with the collar turned up and dark sunglasses. All he needed was a Ferrari or a yacht and he would have looked like Gianni Agnelli, the Fiat heir who often graced the pages of
Paris Match
– which Georgia suspected was exactly the look that this Gianni was after.

‘Gianni, meet my dear friend Georgia Hamilton. This is my Italian friend Gianni.’

‘Come this way, my friend,’ shouted André. ‘You won’t find a finer
Sachertorte
this side of Salzburg.’

‘Who is he?’ mouthed Georgia as she led Sally to a corner table.

‘I met him last week at Penny Pringle’s dance at the Dorchester. He’s utterly dreamy, isn’t he?’

‘He’s an absolute dish,’ Georgia agreed.

‘And he’s a count,’ gushed Sally, unable to hide her glee. ‘He’s got a title, and a castle in Perugia, not that it matters, because he is so lovely and I am head over heels . . . Stop me. I’m gushing.’

Georgia didn’t like to point out that it had been only a month ago that Sally had announced she was in love with Andrew from Cirencester. She hadn’t minded in the slightest that Georgia had left the Fortescues’ party, because that night she had found ‘the one’ – until Andrew had refused to take her phone calls, finally getting his room-mate to come to the phone and request that Sally stop bothering him.

‘You see, there are some decent men out there,’ Sally said sagely. ‘You just have to find yours. Don’t think that just because you’ve had your fingers burnt with Edward, it doesn’t mean that your Mr Right isn’t still out there.’

‘I’m off men.’

‘I know. I’ve introduced you to so many, and you’ve not given any of them a chance. You’re not still thinking about him, are you?’

‘Who?’

‘Edward Carlyle, of course.’

‘I haven’t thought about him in weeks,’ said Georgia scornfully, wishing she had never told Sally about her adventures in Oxford. ‘He has a girlfriend. End of story. And now I’m concentrating on my career. Speaking of which, I have to scoot. You can stay here until André leaves, though.’

On the tube, Georgia reminded herself that she hadn’t lied to Sally deliberately. She had tried her very best to forget about Edward Carlyle since that night in Oxford. She had packed her days and nights with work and writing and as many invitations as she could manage – Ascot, dances and Eton’s Fourth of June celebrations by the Thames, where her cousin Richard had looked ever so smart in his cream flannels and boater hat. She’d been introduced to many attractive and polite young men, a couple of whom had even taken her for coffee or to the picture house, but it had been impossible not to compare them all to Edward, and they had all suffered badly in that comparison. She veered from feeling duped that Edward had held her hand and made a connection with her that seemed so real and palpable she could still feel it when she lay awake at night, to feeling simply sad and unlucky. After all, he had not kissed her, or made any false promises. He had been nothing but kind and generous and had even returned the money she had sent him for her hotel and train fare with a note saying that it had been his pleasure.

She got out at Piccadilly Circus and walked briskly into Soho, checking the address in her diary and finding Wheelers Restaurant on Old Compton Street. She was informed that her dining companion had already arrived, and was led through the restaurant, her eyes peeled for a likely-looking author.

Ian Dashwood was not what she was expecting. He was in his mid thirties, rather than the fifty- or sixty-something she had assumed. He had heavy brows and a light tan, and the pale grey suit with a blue triangle of silk sticking out of the top breast pocket was both smart and sharp.

He stood up and shook her hand.

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said after brief introductions. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. To know everything you need to know about me, here’s my latest book.’ He pushed a hardback across the white tablecloth.

‘Is it an autobiography?’

‘No. Just read the author blurb,’ he laughed. ‘All my interesting bits are there in three hundred words.’

He poured her a glass of wine and glanced up at her.

‘So you want to be a writer.’

‘I am a writer,’ she smiled. ‘I just haven’t had anything published yet.’

‘Confidence. I like that in a young novelist. You’re going to get rejected at some point. We all have been. But you’ve got to have a thick skin, and a determination to keep writing, keep telling stories, even when there’s no money coming in, even when people keep telling you that there are too many hoops to jump through to make it. I hope you don’t mind oysters,’ he added, glancing through the menu.

‘I’ve never tried them.’

‘Best place to have them in London. Bacon loves it in here. Apparently he’s just left, which is a shame. He usually buys the whole place champagne when he’s in.’

‘Bacon?’

‘Francis Bacon.’

‘The artist,’ said Georgia, wide-eyed. ‘Do you know him?’

Ian nodded.

‘One of the many benefits of living in Soho. You get to meet and see all sorts of interesting people and places. There’s a coffee shop on Meard Street where I go and listen to jazz. It has coffin-shaped tables and ashtrays made from skulls.’

‘Real skulls?’ asked Georgia, spellbound by this man.

‘I’ve no idea. It’s a great place to go and write, though.’

The oysters arrived and Ian ordered another bottle of wine. He explained how he knew Uncle Peter, described the plot lines of his ten best-sellers and told her all about his morning with a Hollywood producer who was interested in turning his latest novel into a movie. He hadn’t always been a novelist – he had trained as an actor, and was quietly optimistic about his ambition to write screenplays and ultimately direct films. He told her about his working day: getting up at noon, playing chess with eccentrics in Soho coffee shops like the 2i’s, the White Monkey and the Grande, evenings spent either writing or meeting fellow creatives in drinking dens like the Colony Room. He made it sound a little bit too louche and glamorous, but left Georgia in no doubt that there could be no more enjoyable way to earn a living, and whilst he was not lacking in confidence when it came to listing his many achievements, he was generous with his advice and information, promising to introduce her to his agent and read anything she had written.

‘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.’