‘Funny that you should say that: he was executed by Henry VIII shortly afterwards.’
‘Executed?’
‘Beheaded at the Tower of London, I’m afraid to say.’
‘I know the place.’ Amy grimaced.
Her eyes searched the painting once again, and instead of dwelling on that last night with Daniel, she found herself transported back in time, back to the days of Thomas More and Henry VIII, and although she knew very little about that period of history, it suddenly came alive in front of her.
They walked slowly through the rooms, Amy looking at the art in a wholly different light, wondering who all these people were, frozen in time, what their stories were and how they came to be immortalised on the walls of this amazing house built on greed and spite.
‘This is pretty amazing,’ she said, wandering around, wanting to reach out and touch it. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’
‘The money of the Gilded Age.’
‘Georgia, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you know so much about art? Well, not just art, but all sorts of things.’
Georgia stopped and looked at the slim gold watch on her wrist.
‘Well, I think that’s a question best answered over lunch.’
Amy looked at her own watch. Damn, was that the time? They’d been in the Frick for hours.
‘Actually, I have a confession to make. I booked us in somewhere.’
Georgia looked surprised.
‘Yeah, I know it’s your trip and all, so feel free to say no, but I thought that as I’m kind of your guide to the city, I could show you a little slice of my New York. It’s not far away.’
She bit her lip. When she had made the booking, she had imagined it being a wonderful surprise where she could impress the naïve old lady with her insider knowledge, but now she just felt presumptuous.
‘Sorry, I really shouldn’t have . . .’
‘No, no,’ said Georgia, taking her arm and turning towards the exit. ‘I’d love to see a little of the real New York while I’m here.’
Amy pulled a face.
‘I’m not sure it quite counts as the real New York, but it means a lot to me.’
‘Then that’s good enough reason,’ smiled the old lady.
Amy’s misgivings increased as Alfonse pulled up outside the restaurant. There was an enormous queue snaking from the entrance down the street.
‘Serendipity 3?’ said Georgia, reading the sign on the black shop frontage as they stepped out of the car. ‘Is this the place?’
‘Don’t worry, we have reservations, we don’t have to queue,’ said Amy as she led the way through the narrow entrance, past racks of aprons, New York paraphernalia, cookbooks and brightly coloured confectionery that looked as if it came straight out of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. No wonder Serendipity was a New York institution, the dining equivalent of Disneyland, the sort of place kids pestered their parents about for a birthday treat. Or at least that was how it had been for Amy. Growing up in Queens, a trip to Serendipity with her mom was like a visit to the circus and the fairground all rolled into one, sitting under the giant stained-glass lampshades and eating banana splits until she thought she would burst, or coming here for ice cream before the annual trip to see Santa Claus at Macy’s. As they walked up the stairs, all those happy memories came flooding back, and she couldn’t help smiling, despite the noise – inevitably, most tables were crowded with eight-year-old kids out of their minds with excitement and sugar. Georgia looked absolutely bewildered.
The waitress showed them to a table for two and handed them the enormous black and white menus. Georgia put on her reading glasses and seemed to be examining hers in forensic detail.
‘Foot-long hot dogs,’ she read, and then looked at Amy over the top of her half-moon lenses. ‘Now tell me, what exactly is a chilli dog? One hears of these things in movies and so forth, but I have always wondered.’
Amy giggled.
‘It’s a hot dog with chilli on the top.’