‘Sally says you work for Vogue, Clarissa,’ put in Shirley, her eyes twinkling.
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you go on fashion shoots?’
‘Not yet. I’m only in the secretary pool.’
‘She plans to move out of it any time now,’ said Sybil with barely disguised disapproval. ‘I must phone Audrey Withers and talk about your prospects, now you’ve decided to become a career woman.’
Georgia glanced over towards Clarissa, who was looking down in quiet shame. It was no secret in the Hamilton family that they just wanted to get her married off.
‘And Sally tells me you work in a coffee shop, Georgia,’ smiled Shirley, who had perhaps picked up on the tense atmosphere at the table.
‘It’s great.’ Georgia grinned back. ‘All the cake I can eat. And I even get paid for my break time, which is brilliant because that’s when I work on my book, so it feels like I’m finally getting paid for writing.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Peter, taking a long sip of champagne. ‘I was out for dinner with an interesting chap the other day. Quite a successful author, apparently. I should introduce you. I’m sure he can give you some tips on getting published.’
Peter’s offer lifted Georgia’s mood, so much so that the meal passed uneventfully and was even quite pleasant. The biggest surprise of the evening was Frederick McDonald, who was exceedingly good company. Georgia hoped that, while she didn’t
fancy him in the slightest, they could be friends.
The ritual of the ball occurred after dinner, when over a hundred of the attendant debutantes assembled upstairs before descending the sweeping staircase to the cavernous ballroom, where a giant twinkling white cake was to be cut in front of the Dowager Duchess of Northumberland. Georgia thought it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen, and it was not because of any sour grapes.
‘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.