She looked into Georgia’s tired grey eyes and thought of her ordering room service and a bottle of good Burgundy at the hotel the following evening. No one deserved to be alone at Christmas, even if they believed that was what they wanted.
‘To my house. In Queens.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s your family time.’
‘I want you to come and I think you’d enjoy it. No one there knows a Beaujolais from a Budweiser, but my mom does these great butterscotch carrots that have just got your name on them.’
‘In which case, we had better brief Alfonse.’ And Amy swore she could see Georgia’s eyes sparkle.
May 1958
‘I’m so glad you agreed to come,’ grinned Sally Daly as they passed through the gates of Giles House on the outskirts of a picturesque village near Wytham Woods in Oxfordshire.
The debutante parties and dances had moved into the countryside, and Georgia clutched the little cream suitcase on her lap tightly as the two girls arrived at their destination.
‘We’ll have a great time,’ she said, smiling as brightly as possible, though her heart was sinking at the thought of spending the next twelve hours in the house ahead of her. But she had made a promise to herself and to her mother that she would throw herself wholeheartedly into the Season. After all, what was it someone had said to her recently? That if she resisted life less, she might enjoy it more.
So she’d had a makeover at the cosmetics counter at Debenham & Freebody and had her hair trimmed into a neat and stylish crop, which somehow made it look more blond.
She had been to the polo at Cowdray Park, the horse trials at Badminton, throwing herself into the Season with such aplomb that she even had Sybil smiling.
Tonight’s festivities were being hosted by one Mr and Mrs Charles Fortescue for their daughter Judy, a tall, red-haired debutante who was part of a rather cliquey and competitive set who loved horses. According to Sally, who seemed to know every deb on the circuit and was plugged into all the gossip, tonight was not a dance, but a house party, with almost sixty guests staying at the property overnight. Deb’s delights were apparently being shipped in from the university, and from the agricultural college at Cirencester, and hopes were high for meaningful encounters, even though the men would apparently all be leaving at midnight.
Georgia had painted her toenails, waxed her legs, and cleared up a blemish with a face mask. Perhaps if she found her husband-to-be sooner rather than later, she would save herself from having to go to more parties like this one.
As the taxi made its way up the long drive, she took a moment to observe the Fortescue property, which was large if a little faded around the edges. The past few weeks had been quite wet ones, but tonight was a clear and warm evening, and as the sun dipped behind the line of trees, it sent streamers of golden light across the grounds.
At the front door, the girls were met by a stern-looking housekeeper dressed in black.
‘You’re late,’ she said, not even bothering to look at them directly.
‘We caught a different train from the one we were supposed to.’
‘They are all outside playing croquet. Drinks are being served any minute on the terrace. You should go to your rooms and unpack, but you had better be quick.’
Outside, Georgia glimpsed at least seventy people in the garden. Tables groaned under the weight of jugs of Pimm’s and silver bowls of strawberries.
‘I assume you are Georgia Hamilton and Sally Daly,’ said the housekeeper, running her finger down a clipboard. ‘You’re the only ones not accounted for.’
They both nodded.
‘Follow me. I’ll show you to your rooms.’
The girls trailed behind her through the house, past a boot room where two enormous elephant’s feet now stored umbrellas, and up a flight of stairs.
Sally was in a single room that overlooked the back garden.
‘Goody, a room to myself,’ she cheered.
‘You are upstairs,’ said the housekeeper to Georgia as they headed towards the attics, the house getting progressively more dark. Many of the bedroom doors were open, and she peered inside at camp beds and mattresses covering every floor. It looked more like an army barracks than a family home.
Finally she was led into a small room in the eaves. There was a single bed and two camp beds squashed in, which left barely enough room to swing a cat.
Despite the snobbish whispers she still heard about Sally – that her mother was on her third nose job, and how the Rolls-Royce that dropped her off at parties was definitely de trop – it was no surprise that she had been allocated the good room, whilst Georgia was banished to Siberia. Sally spent her days inviting impoverished aristos to the Dalys’ house in Biarritz; Georgia had to dodge questions about why she wasn’t having her own dance.
Shimmering into a pale green silk dress, she pinned a white gardenia she had picked from the grounds on the lapel, which disguised the smell of cigarette smoke she had picked up from the train. On her way downstairs she dropped into Sally’s room but her friend had already gone, and even before she reached the ground floor she could hear the arrival of the first of the buses that were shipping the Cirencester boys from the village pub where they were staying.
‘Come along, come along,’ said a man with a magnificent moustache. She assumed this must be Judy’s father. ‘Grab a bevvy and then into the barn.’