Ian nodded.
‘One of the many benefits of living in Soho. You get to meet and see all sorts of interesting people and places. There’s a coffee shop on Meard Street where I go and listen to jazz. It has coffin-shaped tables and ashtrays made from skulls.’
‘Real skulls?’ asked Georgia, spellbound by this man.
‘I’ve no idea. It’s a great place to go and write, though.’
The oysters arrived and Ian ordered another bottle of wine. He explained how he knew Uncle Peter, described the plot lines of his ten best-sellers and told her all about his morning with a Hollywood producer who was interested in turning his latest novel into a movie. He hadn’t always been a novelist – he had trained as an actor, and was quietly optimistic about his ambition to write screenplays and ultimately direct films. He told her about his working day: getting up at noon, playing chess with eccentrics in Soho coffee shops like the 2i’s, the White Monkey and the Grande, evenings spent either writing or meeting fellow creatives in drinking dens like the Colony Room. He made it sound a little bit too louche and glamorous, but left Georgia in no doubt that there could be no more enjoyable way to earn a living, and whilst he was not lacking in confidence when it came to listing his many achievements, he was generous with his advice and information, promising to introduce her to his agent and read anything she had written.
‘Actually, I’ve brought something with me,’ she said, pulling her manuscript out of her bag. ‘It’s just a first draft, but hopefully you can get an idea of whether it’s any good or not.’
‘Confidence, young lady,’ he said, wagging a finger.
‘All right. I think it’s pretty good. I think I can be the English Françoise Sagan,’ she said, suddenly feeling emboldened by drink.
‘Have you seen the film?’
‘Bonjour Tristesse?’ She grinned at the mention of her favourite book. ‘I loved it. Not quite as good as the novel, but I thought Jean Seberg was brilliant.’
‘You look like her,’ he said softly. ‘The hair. The smile.’
She took it as an enormous compliment and one that was definitely overly generous. But the way he said it, looked at her, made her feel special. She liked feeling like this. Beautiful and sophisticated. She liked sitting with a famous author in a fashionable place where interesting creatives came to eat and drink. She felt one of them.
She blushed and took another long slug of wine. It was hot in the restaurant and she was starting to feel dizzy.
‘I should get you back home.’
She nodded and waited whilst he paid the bill.
‘Parking is a devil for Soho residents. Blast, I haven’t got my keys. I’ll just pop up and fetch them.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the tube.’
‘It’s dark,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t be a minute. Come up and see the flat. I have to just make a quick call to New York and then we can set off. I need to catch my US agent whilst he is still in the office. In fact, I can mention you to him.’
Georgia beamed with excitement and followed him down Dean Street.
There was a doorway on a side street and he beckoned her inside. The flat was smaller and darker than she had expected, with just a view from the window of an alleyway and some bins. He went over to a small drinks cabinet and poured some vermouth and vodka into a shaker, then emptied it into two glasses.
She winced at the taste of it but tried to disguise her reaction.
‘It’s good, isn’t it? I knew you’d be a martini girl.’
He excused himself and went into the bedroom to make his call, whilst she flipped through her manuscript, wondering if she had been too hasty in letting him read it.
After a few minutes he came back into the room.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, pointing at the manuscript. ‘It tough, isn’t it, letting other people read your stuff.’
‘No one else has seen it,’ she admitted, feeling a sense of complicity between them.
He walked right up to her and stood only inches away.
‘An English Girl in Paris,’ he said, taking the manuscript out of her hand and reading the front page. ‘Is that you, then?’
She blushed and nodded.
‘Très chic. You should be my muse.’