Arthur Hands opened the boot and took out a hacksaw.
‘We’ll have this spick and span in a jiffy,’ he said. Georgia thought he was going to need more than a rusty farm tool to get the place ready by September, let alone seven o’clock.
For the next five hours they painted and swept and cleaned, and by late afternoon the boathouse looked unrecognisable.
‘Clarissa, can you take Georgia home to change?’ said Estella, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Georgia gratefully, appreciating how much graft and thought had gone into the ball.
‘You might even enjoy it tonight,’ said Clarissa, glancing across from the wheel as they drove back along New King’s Road.
‘Do you think people will come?’ Georgia said, feeling suddenly nervous.
‘Of course people will come. Everyone gets anxious before their own party. Besides, it’s your birthday. People will definitely make more of an effort.’
Georgia nodded, although she knew her cousin was just being kind – Barnes wasn’t exactly central, and Georgia was certainly not one of the first-division debs with party pulling power.
By six thirty, the two girls were back at the boathouse. This was not a traditional debutante dance, most of which were preceded by a dinner party at the home of the hosts. You couldn’t swing a cat in their Chelsea flat, especially with Mr and Mrs Hands staying, let alone invite thirty people for a sit-down meal. Besides, if Georgia had to do the Season, she wanted to do it in her own offbeat way.
This time Clarissa gasped in delight when they arrived. The fairy lights, wound around tree trunks and balustrade, twinkled like diamond dust in the darkening sky. She could hear nightingales in the distance and the sound of bats fluttering overhead, and soft jazz was floating out of the window.
Sometime in the past hour Estella had changed out of her paint-splattered smock into a long gown that swept all the way to the floor.
‘Here she is, here she is,’ she said, her arms out wide. ‘The birthday girl. The belle of the ball. Come inside. You have an early visitor.’
Georgia held her breath, half hoping it would be Edward, and stepped inside, admiring the white and silver walls, and the willow that had been sprayed silver and artfully arranged in terrocotta pots.
André from the Swiss Chalet was standing by the window overlooking the Thames.
‘André! You came!’ She suddenly felt a little less anxious about people turning up.
‘My darling, I have something special for you tonight.’
‘Promises, promises,’ she grinned.
‘Come this way,’ he said, leading her to the far end of the room, where a five-tiered coconut cake was perched on a table.
‘It’s like Queen Charlotte’s Ball all over again.’
‘I made this once for a society wedding. The recipe is good.’
‘You made this? For me? How the hell did you get it here?’
‘Freddie McDonald brought it over in his car. I can’t believe I kept this a surprise.’
‘I know! I was in the café yesterday – how did I never notice a four-foot confection!’
‘I work late. I am used to it.’
She threw her arms around him.
‘I have some wonderful friends,’ she whispered gleefully.
‘Darling, your guests are beginning to arrive,’ said Estella, looking serious.
Sybil, Peter and cousin Richard were among the first. Georgia watched Sybil’s eyes scan the room and wondered what she could possibly criticise.
‘Your mother has gone to a lot of effort. It looks lovely. And so do you.’