The Proposal (28 page)

Idiot.

‘Who you been calling?’

She looked up. Billy was standing there, a bottle of beer aloft.

‘Just a friend.’

‘A friend in England by any chance?’ He winked. ‘Someone who doesn’t mind getting woken up at five in the morning by his girl, huh?’

Amy gasped in horror. Her brother was right. It was the middle of the night in England. He would be at his parents’ house and the call might have woken people up. Another goof . . .

‘Come on. Suze’s fella has just got a round of tequila shots in.’

‘Sure. That sounds like exactly what I need right now.’

And she walked back inside. Back to the life she had left behind.

Amy wanted to lay her head on the plate and go to sleep. The scrambled eggs looked so fluffy and soft, she could just shut her eyes and then maybe when she woke up this horrific headache would have gone and . . .

‘Amy?’

She sat up straight, the sudden movement sending a shower of sparks across her vision.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’

‘I didn’t ask if you were fine, I asked if you’d heard what I was saying.’

Amy squinted. Georgia’s voice had adopted the distinctive tone of a sergeant major.

‘Of course. Totally. You asked if I was packed.’

Georgia raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Amy realised she was supposed to answer.

‘Almost,’ she said.

That was ‘almost’ as in ‘not at all’. She hadn’t got back until eight o’clock the previous evening – the whole day lost to eating, drinking and vegging out with her family. Throw in the Christmas Eve visit to Fenies, after which she had finally got home at 2 a.m. and still had the remnants of the resulting tequila hangover, and she was fit for nothing, let alone packing.

‘Well, we leave the hotel at noon,’ said Georgia, summoning the waiter.

‘Ungh,’ said Amy.

The waiter bent his head and listened as the old woman whispered something, then nodded and moved away.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘That my friend needed a little pick-me-up,’ smiled Georgia. ‘A bloody Mary with a couple of my secret ingredients might make the packing a little easier to bear. And then some fresh air. How about a brisk walk before we check out? Well, not too brisk.’

The hotel was just a few blocks from Central Park. They entered at the East 65th gate and walked past the zoo, hearing the occasional screech and squawk, then down towards the picturesque Gapstow Bridge, where the skyline reared up ahead of them once more. Amy had always loved the park for that very reason – one minute you could feel as though you were in the great outdoors, the next you were very much in the centre of a huge, beating metropolis.

There was a vendor in the park selling coffee, and Amy put her hand in her pocket for a five-dollar bill to buy one.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked Georgia, confident that the old woman would refuse.

‘A black coffee would be marvellous.’

‘What would Madame Didiot say?’ grinned Amy.

‘Sometimes you have to shake things up a little.’

They walked a stretch in silence, soaking up the view and the gentle buzz of the park – the joggers, and the hum of noise from the Wollman rink – then stopped off at the Dairy Visitor Center, where Amy bought Annie a Central Park charm bracelet she knew she’d love.

‘So a new year is around the corner. What do you hope it holds for you?’ asked Georgia as she sipped her coffee.

‘Hopefully a little less rejection,’ Amy said quietly.

‘That sounds a bit defeatist. Seems to me like
you
need to shake things up a bit. Remember sometimes that that involves changing course.’

‘Like what? Give up dance for good?’

‘My mother was an artist. Not a very successful one, unfortunately. But she had the courage to give up the oils and fine art and become an illustrator. Quite a famous one, in fact. I was involved in publishing some of her work. You might have heard of the Shellies.’

‘I used to love those books,’ cried Amy, remembering the adventures of a dancing tortoise.

‘Use your skills to their best advantage,’ said Georgia sagely.

‘You know, I did have one idea.’ It was something she had thought about during the subway journey back to the city – an idea that she couldn’t shake out of her mind once it had popped into it.

Georgia tilted her head with interest, and it encouraged Amy to talk.

‘It was something my niece said. About ballet being boring. I mean, it is sometimes. Too long, too serious. Sometimes I just think it was created for art snobs and dinner party bores who can pay hundreds of pounds for tickets. But why shouldn’t it be aimed more at the people who can see the most wonder in it – kids. Can you imagine junior versions of
Swan Lake
,
Sleeping Beauty
or
Cinderella
full of pink and glitter and fun music? It would be a sell-out. Especially at Christmas.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ said Georgia, giving it some thought. ‘I’ve been to the Royal Opera House dozens of times, and there are always little girls there in their sparkly tutus, dying to see the ballerinas, but by the first interval they’re tugging at their mothers’ hands and asking to go. So you’d be the producer and choreographer? Start your own dance company? There’s certainly no shortage of talent going to waste in London that would love to get involved.’

Amy nodded to herself, feeling both reassured by Georgia’s words and quite overwhelmed at the idea of tackling something so big, so expensive, so overambitiously
ridiculous
as starting her own dance company. She remembered Nathan telling her that he’d had to pull his one-man show from its mooted run at the Edinburgh Fringe when he discovered it would cost £5,000 – and that was only for two nights. How on earth could she afford anything close to the proposition she was suggesting?

‘I think you Brits would describe my idea as pie in the sky.’ She smiled sadly.

‘Why would that be?’

‘Money. Lack of it.’

‘Forget about cost for a moment,’ said Georgia sagely. ‘Remember what I said when we were shopping: ask yourself, “Is it right?” If your ideas are good enough, there will always be a market, and where there’s a market, there are always ways to raise money.’

She felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket and realised she had not checked it since the night before. She had three unread messages, and as Georgia walked ahead, she stopped to read them. One was from Annie asking about her Christmas, another from her American phone provider, the third from a number she did not recognise. ‘Just checking everything is okay Stateside. Will H.’

She frowned, unable to place the name and number, and was about to bury the phone back in her pocket when it started to ring. Looking at the caller ID, she almost gasped in surprise.

‘Daniel,’ she said out loud as Georgia turned around to see what was going on.

Ever since she had made the drunken call on Christmas Eve, she had been cringing about her weakness in the face of egg nog, condemning herself for being sentimental, maudlin and definitely not cool. She carried on walking towards Georgia, letting the phone vibrate in her hand.

‘Perhaps you should take it,’ said Georgia, who went and sat discreetly on the nearest bench.

Amy hesitated and then pressed accept, giving herself no time to think how to play it.

‘Hello?’

‘Happy Christmas,’ he said.

Amy felt her heart flip over at the sound of his voice.
Don’t freak out
,
she scolded herself, angry that his call was making her feel like this.

‘Is that you, Daniel?’

‘Forgotten my voice already?’ he replied, joking but with an undercurrent of hurt.

‘No, I’m just surprised to hear from you.’

‘Well, you did call . . . Where are you? There was a strange ringtone when I dialled.’

‘Long story.’

And not one I’m about to tell you – like answering an advert in the back of
The Lady
doesn’t smack of desperation.

‘Have you gone home?’ he asked.

‘Yes and no.’

There was a pause, and a surge of cold wind cooled her angry cheeks.

‘Why are you being so cagey?’ asked Daniel. He sounded funny: not his usual confident master-of-the-universe self. She wondered where he was. What he was doing on a Boxing Day afternoon in England. Probably something involving tweed and guns and shooting poor little birds out of the sky, she thought, remembering his conversation with his friends at the Tower party.

‘I’m not being cagey,’ she said defensively.

Another pause.

‘I want to see you. I was glad that you rang.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she’d been drunk, that she wished she had been stronger and not called, but she knew that would be the wrong move. Besides,
he wanted to see her
. Her heart was beating faster just listening to his voice.

Don’t screw it up now.

‘I’m flying back tonight. Ring me tomorrow,’ she said, as casually as she could.

‘So you
are
in New York.’

She longed to tell him she had been staying at the Plaza Athénée and had bought clothes on Madison Avenue and had learnt about wine and food from Clive at Eleven Madison Park, but she sensed that it was the mystery that was making him suddenly interested. Why hadn’t she tried this before?

‘What time do you land? I can pick you up,’ he added. He sounded eager now.

‘It’s fine. We have a driver.’

‘Who’s we?’ he asked, his voice lifting in pitch. ‘Who’s got a driver?’

‘As I said, it’s a long story,’ she replied. She could feel herself smiling now. She was enjoying this power switch, this feeling that she was in control and calling the shots.

‘How about you tell me about it tomorrow night? I can book somewhere nice.’

She looked over at Georgia, who glanced away quickly when she realised Amy had caught her watching her.

‘I really have to go, Daniel.’

‘How about Claridge’s? You like it there,’ he said, now sounding desperate.

She let him dangle for a moment. She did love it in Claridge’s. They had gone there for their third date. In the days when he had pulled out all the stops to impress her, the days before she had actually slept with him.

‘Okay. I’ll see you there at eight. If you can’t get a table, let me know and I can make a few calls.’

‘Of course I can get a table,’ he said as Amy pressed the end call button.

Georgia stood up from the bench and smiled.

‘It looks as if your luck is about to change, Amy Carrell,’ she said, and Amy knew that she had played that phone call perfectly.

‘It seems weird saying goodbye.’

Amy was sitting in the idling taxi, peering up at Georgia’s Primrose Hill apartment building, not really wanting to get out, not wanting the adventure to end. It had only been a matter of days since she had first stood there debating whether to go up and meet the crazy old lady from the advert, but so much had happened in that time, it felt like weeks – years even.
The weather hasn’t improved,
she thought, eyeing the grey clouds, but it was warmer than New York. And at least it wasn’t raining. You always had that to cling to in London: it could be worse, it could be raining.

Georgia smiled.

‘You know, as soon as I handed that advert over to the magazine, I thought it was a mistake. But I was wrong. And I am glad it was you who answered, Amy Carrell.’

Amy hovered for a moment, unsure what to say. It was clearly time to say goodbye: should she hug the old lady? An air kiss? Or just a handshake? She considered Georgia a friend, felt they had shared a great deal over the past few days, but she really had no idea if Georgia felt the same way or if she simply thought of Amy as the hired help.

‘Thanks, Georgia. Thanks for everything,’ she said simply. ‘I hope, you know, it was as good as you wanted it to be.’

Georgia touched her hand.

‘It was certainly more fun than I expected,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘We should do lunch in the new year. Or maybe go to the Courtauld – you’ll love it there, it’s just as inspiring as the Frick.’

‘Does this mean we’re friends?’ said Amy with a grin. ‘’Cos you can’t shake me off that quickly. And I want you down at the Forge next weekend. I’m going to whip my friends there into shape – serving from the left and all that fancy stuff – and I want you to come and see if we’ve got it nailed.’