‘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-ha
ul 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?