The Proposal (18 page)

‘You said yourself that all that stuff you do without thinking was part of your arsenal. Learning all those things you know wouldn’t be about pleasing Daniel or his parents; it’s about never again feeling like I did at the Tower of London. It’s about never feeling so freaking awkward because I don’t know how to behave, about never feeling stupid even though people probably haven’t noticed I’ve got nothing to offer to their intelligent conversations. It’s about never wanting to feel not good enough again.’

Amy felt her shoulders sink, her whole body consumed by the force of her emotions.

‘Now that, that I can understand,’ said Georgia quietly.

She looked at Amy for a long time.

‘All right,’ she said, wiping her lips with her napkin and placing it at the side of her plate. ‘First lesson: leave the napkin where you found it.’ She stood up.

‘Where are we going?’

‘If you’re going to play the part of a lady, then we need to start where every good actor starts.’

‘Where’s that?’

Georgia’s eyes twinkled.

‘With the shoes.’

Alfonse dropped them on Madison Avenue. Amy pulled her thin coat around herself. The wind was tugging at her skirt – she hadn’t been exaggerating when she had told Georgia that New York could be one of the coldest places on earth. When the wind blew past Liberty Island, across the Hudson Bay and up through the concrete canyons of downtown, it only seemed to get colder on the way.

‘Brrrr!’ she said, stamping her feet. ‘Are we going far?’

Georgia smiled. ‘Far? But my dear, we’re already there.’

Amy looked up at the building in front of them, a huge limestone pile almost grand enough to rival the Frick. She glanced at the small type either side of the arched doorway.

‘Ralph Lauren?’

‘My New York friends assure me that this is the most elegant store in the world.’

‘But I can’t go in there,’ said Amy.

‘Why ever not?’

‘Well, for one thing, I can’t afford anything they sell.’

‘You’re a woman, Amy,’ said Georgia. ‘I’m sure that’s never stopped you before.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about,’ she replied, immediately picturing some snooty sales assistant railroading her into buying a pair of five-hundred-dollar shoes she’d spend the next two years paying off. But what was really stopping her was the fact that she had often yearned to go inside shops like this but had always kept on walking, feeling too insecure, thinking that someone would spot her and shout, ‘Impostor!’

Georgia linked her arm through Amy’s. ‘Come on, before we both freeze,’ she said.

Still Amy resisted.

Georgia held up one finger.

‘You’ve been on the stage; think of this as the same thing, all right? You’re playing a role. Remember that no one in any shop knows who you are, they have no idea of your back-ground and they can’t magically see inside your bank account. Look as if you were born to be there, that you can afford to buy the whole store, and they will treat you accordingly. I promise.’

Amy nodded and stepped inside.

Even remembering Georgia’s words, she found it hard not to let her mouth drop open. This wasn’t like any old shop; it was like walking on to a movie set. A sweep of elegant staircase dominated the lobby. Crystals dripped from giant chandeliers. An upstairs room decorated like a billionaire’s wife’s boudoir with thick oyster-coloured carpets and pastel-hued silk camisoles hanging off rails was in fact the lingerie department. Another room was decorated like a de luxe drawing room, panelled on all walls by racks of beautiful clothes.

‘Look at the price of these,’ whispered Amy from the side of her mouth, holding up the label on a pair of knickers. Georgia put her hand over it.

‘Never look at the price,’ she said.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No, my dear. First look at the garment, feel the quality, assess whether it will last for years. Finally ask yourself – and answer honestly – “Is it right?”’

‘Is it right?’

‘Is it right
for you
? Will it flatter you? Ignore what the magazines have told you is all the rage this season, ignore what you feel comfortable in, and certainly never, ever buy anything you think will fit if you lose five pounds. If you can follow all those rules, you will only ever buy clothes that show you off to your best.’

‘But Georgia, they cost—’

The old woman held up a finger.

‘Price is irrelevant. If you buy only classic, quality pieces you will have a much smaller wardrobe, but it will be a wardrobe of clothes you wear. Expensive they may be, but they will be clothes you look forward to wearing. And – this is the most important thing to remember – just by getting dressed in the right clothes each morning, you will not only look like a million dollars, you will feel it too.’

Amy was about to argue that it was hard to look like a millionaire on her meagre clothes budget when she noticed that Georgia was already moving back downstairs to the shoes. Her stomach gave a jolt.
Oh God, she doesn’t expect me to choose a pair without looking at the price, does she? I’ll be working double shifts at the Forge until next Thanksgiving.

‘Size seven?’ asked Georgia absently.

‘Six,’ replied Amy, picking up a hot-pink strappy heels and sighing. She had a soft spot for anything high and strappy. Her greatest ever bargain was a pair of sparkly Gina heels she had found in a charity shop in Chelsea, which she had worn and worn until the straps had literally fallen apart in her hands, because they made her feel as sexy as Beyoncé even if she was only doing the ironing.

But as she looked up, she saw Georgia shaking her head. One look told her to put the pink shoe back down. Instead she held aloft a black, mid-heel suede pump scooped low, with a pointed toe.

Amy couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.

‘Try these,’ ordered Georgia.

‘I’m not sure they’re me,’ said Amy diplomatically.

‘Why ever not?’ asked Georgia with surprise.

‘Well, I don’t work in an office.’

‘A shoe like this shouldn’t be hidden under a desk,’ gasped her friend. ‘They are special-occasion shoes.’

Amy smiled weakly, remembering her last big night out. The time before the Tower of London party. She’d gone clubbing in King’s Cross with some guys from the Forge – their unofficial works night out. The floor had been sticky, beer had been flying everywhere, but at least she’d been wearing trainers. Special-occasion shoes like the ones Georgia was holding wouldn’t have made it through the night in one piece, and if she turned up to the Forge in them, Cheryl would think she was on her way to a job interview. No, without Daniel in her life, shoes like this didn’t have any place in her closet.

‘Just try them,’ said Georgia more kindly as the assistant brought over the other shoe.

As Amy slipped them on, she overheard a customer asking for three pairs of the same suede moccasin in size eight, telling the assistant to send one pair to her New York apartment, one to the house in Houston and the other to the ski lodge in Aspen.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Georgia as the customer moved to the cash desk. ‘It’s easy to look that elegant when you have an unlimited budget. Well, here’s a secret. Stylish women don’t have to spend a fortune. They just have to take the time to find their own style.’

Amy was only half listening. She couldn’t believe how great her whole leg looked in the plain black shoe, a shoe that on any other occasion she would have overlooked, even if it was half the price.

‘I thought they would suit you,’ said Georgia firmly, motioning to the assistant to put them in the box.

Amy resisted smiling. She couldn’t believe she was getting fashion advice from a seventy-something
.

‘Now back upstairs.’

Amy did as she was told and followed Georgia into a room where there were mannequins adorned in sumptuous gowns. She walked around, trailing her fingers across the fabric, imagining herself dressed for a ball. She was beginning to relax and enjoy herself.

‘Oh wow, look at the feathers sewn into the skirt! It’s like Tallulah Bankhead meets
Swan Lake
.’

‘I didn’t realise that young people were aware of Tallulah Bankhead,’ smiled Georgia.

‘My nona – my grandma – was a big fan, had all her videos. She always told a story about how she had met her once, uptown in some speakeasy in Harlem, but I’m not sure Nona was really old enough. It was a nice story, though.’

Georgia sat down on a long sofa and Amy joined her.

‘I think I could set up home in this place,’ said Amy.

Georgia smiled.

‘It’s not a shop. It’s a house full of clothes. It doesn’t get more perfect than that.’

Amy looked at the older woman with interest.

‘You’re a dark horse,’ she said. ‘You, fashion . . .’

‘I can’t like clothes because I’m old? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, no,’ said Amy quickly, still finding it difficult to picture Georgia leafing through
Vogue
. ‘You’ve got great style.’

‘There are some women who can just throw together a little something and make it look fabulous. I’m not one of those women. But one can look and learn from the women who do dress well. When I was at finishing school in Paris, I had a French friend who worked in a café across the road from where we lived. She was as poor as a church mouse, but she was still as stylish as a Dior house model. She had such style, but I soon noticed that she didn’t have very many clothes. It was like a uniform: black cigarette pants, white shirts, those little stripy tops that everyone seems to wear these days, everything in the most flattering cut for her shape. Of course, true style is knowing who you are and not giving a damn. My old friend Gore Vidal said that, and it’s as true now as the day he said it.’

‘Nice clothes help, though, you gotta agree.’

‘Clothes can give you power, I’ll admit that,’ said Georgia. ‘Choosing the right outfit, a flattering outfit that makes you feel good, can change your whole personality.’ She smiled and patted Amy’s hand. ‘Next time you go to the Tower of London, you’ll need your armour.’

She gestured for Amy to stand.

‘You have excellent deportment,’ she said with a pleased nod. ‘A dancer’s posture, I noticed that immediately. You have a wonderful figure, of course, but your stance is much more important. An erect head will make any woman look taller, more elegant and more confident.’

She stepped over to a rack of dresses and began flicking through. ‘Hmm . . . possible . . . no, no, too short . . .’ she mused as she went. ‘None of these are right.’

‘I wonder if you could help?’ she said, turning to a sales assistant. ‘My friend would like a little black dress. Simple, classic, not too revealing.’

‘Size four?’ said the assistant, looking Amy up and down, then nodded and disappeared, emerging with three black dresses draped over her arm. Georgia held them up one by one, squinting at Amy like an artist regarding a life model.

‘This one, I think,’ she said, handing it to her.

‘Georgia . . .’ said Amy, widening her eyes meaningfully, but the other woman simply gave a quick shake of the head. ‘Try it on, come on, chop chop.’

Amy could tell the moment she stepped into the dress that it was going to look fabulous. Georgia had been modest; she clearly had a very good eye for clothes. It clung to her curves in all the right places, but without being in any way revealing. It was sophisticated; it made her poor sequin-shedding dress look like something from a little girl’s dressing-up box. She turned and stepped out of the changing room.

‘Ah,’ sighed Georgia when she saw her. ‘I believe it was Wallis Simpson who said that when a little black dress is right, there is nothing else to wear in its place.’

She stood up and pinched the back of the dress.

‘This is almost perfect,’ she mused. ‘I can recommend a tailor in London to take it in slightly. All the smartest women have even the finest clothes altered to exactly fit their shape. Couture clothes for off-the-peg prices.’

‘It is lovely,’ smiled Amy shyly. ‘It makes me want to go and hang outside Tiffany’s with a doughnut. Shame I can’t afford it.’

‘Did you look at the price tag?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Then don’t. We’ll take this,’ said Georgia quickly to the sales assistant.

‘Georgia, I’m serious. I don’t have any money,’ hissed Amy urgently.

‘But I’m paying for it,’ said Georgia matter-of-factly. ‘And the shoes.’

Amy looked at her wide-eyed.

‘I can’t accept that.’

Georgia tilted her head.

‘Whether it is a gift or a compliment, a lady should accept it graciously.’

Amy looked at Georgia, then back down at the dress.

‘This isn’t a joke?’

‘It’s no joke,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Now come along, we have to be somewhere else by six. And a lady – or at least these two ladies – is never late.’

It was dark outside, and New York looked even more magical. Alfonse collected them, and as they drove down Fifth Avenue, skirting Central Park, Amy drank it all in. The streets were crammed with New Yorkers wrapped up warm and doing last-minute Christmas shopping, laden down with bags – the distinctive brown and white stripes belonging to Henri Bendel, the crisp black and white of Saks. Best of all, she loved looking in the shop windows. New York stores always did wonderful holiday windows, she thought, catching sight of the art-deco-inspired displays in Bergdorf Goodman.