‘I wouldn’t go admitting that. You know some people around here can be complete snobs.’
‘But you’re not. I can tell.’
The girl thrust her hand into Georgia’s.
‘Sally Daly, from Birmingham. Amazing how many people are here tonight, considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘Considering that not everyone who curtseys stays on and does the Season. Most don’t, in fact.’
Georgia stared at her in disbelief, feeling suddenly duped by Estella and Sybil.
‘I wish someone had told me that before tonight.’
‘You don’t want to stay around for all the parties?’ said Sally; it was her turn to look astonished.
‘So where are you having your dance?’ she asked, more brightly.
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘Oh,’ replied her new friend with a trace of pity. ‘Well, you are to come to mine and we’ll have such fun, although I’m not sure how we’re going to be able to compete with this. Dad will be furious when he picks me up – I’m sure he’ll insist on a good nose around.’
‘Competitive, is he?’ giggled Georgia.
‘Life is one big competition for Dad.’ Sally smiled back. ‘I can’t complain, though – that’s how I got to wear couture.’
‘Wow, that dress is couture?’ Georgia suddenly noticed how exquisite Sally’s dress actually was – the ostrich-feather trim, the pearlescence of the stiff tailored fabric just a little more beautiful and special than everyone else’s.
‘I got five of them,’ Sally said, guzzling down her fruit punch. ‘So let’s play hunt the eligible. Mum’s made a list of all the top deb’s delights to look out for.’
‘Deb’s delights?’
‘The men,’ she laughed. ‘Are you totally clueless? Pay attention, because one of them is going to be your future husband.’
‘Not likely,’ huffed Georgia.
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Come on, Sally. You can’t really look me in the eye and tell me you’re enjoying this. Turning up to parties, waiting, praying to be asked to dance, hoping, dreaming that it might lead to something more serious. I mean, did you see all the parents at the presentation, shuffling around, stiff, barely saying anything to one another? They probably had personalities once but marriage got in the way and drained it out of them. You’ve got a life to live. You don’t want to get married. You don’t want your wings clipped before you’ve even had the chance to spread them.’
‘But I want to get engaged. As quickly as possible,’ said Sally with astonishment. ‘You might say that you’ve got to live a little before you get married, but I think you only start living when you have found your other half to share the journey with.’
Georgia considered her new friend’s philosophy and wondered if she had a point. She took a prawn vol-au-vent from a passing silver tray and relaxed a little. Sally clearly wanted a playmate in her man-hunt, and besides, it would while away a few minutes until she could respectably leave.
Sally pointed out three Stephens, half a dozen Davids and a Malcolm who was apparently an interesting prospect if a bit of a lech. ‘Not safe in taxis’ was apparently the expression for men like him.
‘That’s Charles Darlington-Smith,’ she said, pointing to a distinguished redhead who stood head and shoulders above everyone else. ‘Nice family, good-looking, but it’s something like his tenth season, which does make you wonder what’s wrong with him.’
‘So delights are a little older than us?’ asked Georgia, her eyes still scanning the room.
‘Generally,’ confirmed Sally. ‘Which is a good thing, because I want a man not a boy.’
Through the crowd Georgia could see an upright dark-haired young man who was standing slightly apart from everyone else in a way that suggested he was enjoying being at the party as much as she was. ‘Well spotted,’ said Sally, nudging her. ‘That’s Edward Carlyle. Very rich. Family
own
a bank. Probably why he’s a bit of a snob. Nice manners, though, apparently. VSITPQ.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Georgia, looking at Edward Carlyle with intrigue.
‘More code,’ giggled Sally. ‘Very safe in taxis, probably queer.’
Georgia couldn’t help bursting out with laughter, and at that precise moment Edward Carlyle looked across and locked glances with her. She looked away and stepped back, embarrassed by the moment, wondering if he had heard them. She might not want to be here, but the last thing she wanted to be was rude, especially to someone who was probably feeling exactly the same about this night as she was.
‘Well, I’m heading back in there,’ said Sally with determination. ‘The husband hunt begins. Can’t let good couture go to waste.’
Georgia took another canapé and watched Sally disappear into the throng, silently wishing her luck.
‘Georgia Hamilton, what are you doing here?’
She glanced round to see a more familiar face coming her way. Marina Ellis had been one of her classmates at Madame Didiot’s. Although Georgia was grateful for the times Marina had allowed her first-floor bedroom window to be used as an escape route for the illicit nights out the finishing school girls used to have in Paris, she had still always found her a snob and a show-off.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she said politely, not missing the insinuation that she shouldn’t be at such a smart party. ‘How are you anyway? Having fun?’
‘We’re having such a giggle, aren’t we?’ Marina turned to her friend, whom she introduced as Melanie Archer.
‘The house is almost as distracting as the men,’ smiled Melanie, her eyes darting around the room like a hungry hawk’s.
‘I didn’t know you were friends with Sally Daly,’ said Marina, squaring up for a gossip.
‘I only just met her.’
Marina gave a low snort of what sounded like relief.
‘Well, don’t let her cling on,’ she said in a dramatic whisper.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ frowned Georgia.
‘People like that, families like hers, they just make me so cross,’ said Marina, as if it were perfectly obvious what was the matter with Georgia’s new friend. ‘She is precisely the reason why the Season is finishing. What was it that Margaret said about every tart in London buying their way in?’
Georgia had heard the famous quote uttered by the Queen’s sister, but the way Marina repeated it made it sound as though the Princess was a close personal friend.
‘Sally’s not a tart,’ she said crossly. ‘And she’s not even from London.’
‘That’s right. She’s from Birmingham, isn’t she? Father deals in scrap metal or something peculiar.’ Marina crinkled up her button nose.
‘Well, she’s wearing couture,’ replied Georgia, ‘so Mr Daly must be doing something right.’
‘Couture is something you save for your trousseau, not wear before you have even kissed a boy,’ said Marina, unmoved, as Melanie nodded in agreement. ‘It’s typical of these nouveau riche sorts. Cart before the horse and all that. I heard they’ve just bought a house in Switzerland and they can’t even ski.’ She and Melanie set about giggling.
Georgia heard the tapping of a spoon against a glass, barely audible above the din.
‘Emily’s daddy wants to make a speech,’ said Marina. ‘She’s cringing at the very thought of it, so we should go and lend some moral support.’
Georgia let the two of them go. She hadn’t realised that Marina was such friends with the wealthy Emily Nightingale, and decided that some people were here to make as many beneficial friendship alliances as they were romantic ones.
The mention of Emily’s name reminded her that she had not thanked her hostess yet and it was something she must do before she left.
There was a sweep of staircase at one end of the room, and she ascended it to a mezzanine floor that overlooked the party. It was quiet up here, with a good view of Emily standing nervously beside her father. She turned and saw a set of double doors behind her. It was roped off, but that only added to its intrigue. She unhooked the rope and opened the door to see what was behind it, gasping in delight as she saw that it led on to a beautiful terrace with views of the back of Belgravia’s finest houses – huge bay windows lit up and glowing like pumpkins in the dark.
Faintly she could hear that the speeches had started, and she was glad she was away from it all. She opened her bag, pulled out her cigarettes and lit a Gauloise. As she inhaled, she could taste the tar and smell the honeysuckle that was creeping up a trellis next to her.
‘Could I have one?’
She turned and saw a pair of the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen.
‘I’ve only got two,’ she stuttered quickly at the handsome young man who had come out on to the balcony. He had short dark blond hair and the hint of a winter tan, and he filled out his dinner jacket better than any other deb’s delight she had seen at the party.
‘Perfect,’ he grinned as she offered him the remnants of her pack.
He stuck his cigarette tip into the flame that Georgia offered him from her lighter and smiled languidly at her.
‘Couldn’t bear the speeches either?’
‘He’s just a proud father, I suppose.’ She took another drag of her cigarette. ‘No, I came out here because I hardly know anyone in there and I thought it would be better to be alone with my thoughts than alone with a bunch of strangers.’
‘Well, I can introduce you to some people. This is the second year I’ve done it. It’s not so bad if you just relax into it.’
‘You’re an old hand at the Season then,’ she grinned.
‘It’s a way of getting fed and watered for six months of the year. Plus it’s rather nice to spend the evening with beautiful girls on moonlit terraces.’
She glanced away, embarrassed.
He blew a smoke ring, his inherent confidence obvious without him even saying a word.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harry Bowen.’
‘Georgia Hamilton. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Who would you like to meet? Although I’d be happy to stand out here all night talking to you.’
‘But you don’t even know me.’
‘I’ve always found people who like being alone with their thoughts more interesting than most.’
‘Actually I’d rather be sitting at a pavement café with a group of friends or in a jazz club listening to music. I’m not really the painfully introspective sort,’ she smiled.
‘So why don’t we?’
‘Do what?’
‘Split from this place. We could go into Soho or to the King’s Road. Actually, I have an even better idea. There’s another party in Richmond, starting in about an hour, that a bunch of my friends you would really like are heading over to. We could drive out there, stay up all night and head for breakfast at Heathrow.’
‘Richmond? Heathrow?’ she said, secretly feeling swept up in the adventure of it all.
‘I love the airport. It’s a good job I haven’t got my passport with me or who knows where we might end up. It’s one of the reasons I joined the army. Other than the fact that I was too thick for university. I love the idea that we could get deployed anywhere.’
Georgia looked at him wide-eyed.
‘But surely if you were sent away, you’d be going to war? I can think of safer ways to travel.’
‘You say that as if you care.’ He smiled and she felt her heart do a little flip. She was blushing, too, and was glad the moonlight was dim.
‘What do you say? Stay or go?’
‘I’ve love to get out of here, but I fear the speeches might go on for some time. I get the feeling that Mr Nightingale likes the sound of his own voice.’
‘So let’s just slope off.’
‘How? We’ll be spotted and dragged back in by the waiters. They probably have lassoes in their pockets.’
He laughed, and she felt good.
‘Well, let’s find an escape route.’
‘It’s all right for you. You have training for this sort of thing.’
Harry was already peering over the balcony.
‘It’s only fifteen feet or so down,’ he confirmed. ‘And there’s a drainpipe all the way to the ground. Do you reckon you can do it?’
‘Are you kidding? When I lived in Paris, I used to sneak out of windows twice as high as this.’
‘You get more interesting all the time.’
Harry went first, shinning down in a matter of seconds. Georgia swung one leg over the balustrade and then the other, adjusted her feet and then edged along the rim of the balcony to follow him. Her heart was thumping and the back of her neck grew clammy as she grabbed the drainpipe.
‘Why didn’t we just walk out of the door?’ she shouted as she clung on for dear life.
As the soles of her feet hit the floor, Harry grabbed her hand and led her to a door at the end of the garden.
‘Open sesame,’ he said, turning the heavy knob, and then they were out on to a Belgravia back street, laughing and panting as they ran past the grand, white terraced houses as if they had escaped from jail.
‘My car’s just here,’ he said, leading her to a little Fiat.
He opened the door for her and she got inside. As the engine revved, she watched him move the gearstick into first, showing a flash of firm tanned forearm.
‘I feel naughty.’
‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’
He drove quickly, the car nipping through streets that became less and less recognisable, telling her about his life in the Welsh Guards – about a difficult colonel, and the regiment’s recent deployment to the Suez Canal Zone.
As they took a bridge over the river, Georgia sighed in delight.
‘This is wonderful,’ she said, the vista making her feel giddy. ‘Walking along the Seine used to be one of my favourite things.’
‘So let’s take a walk along the towpath,’ he suggested, indicating right and stopping the car beside a small pier.
He turned off the engine and draped his arm over the back of the passenger seat.
‘So do you think the speeches have finished yet?’ he smiled. He had a wonderful smile, she noticed, with perfectly aligned teeth that hinted at good genes.
‘They’ve probably sent a search party out for us. Gosh, you know I didn’t even say one word of thanks to the hostess.’
‘Is she a friend of yours?’
‘Never met her in my life. My aunt sorted out the invitation.’
‘Then she won’t even notice your arrival or departure, even though I’m sure a few of the men did.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘People notice when the prettiest girl at the party isn’t there any more.’