The Proposal (25 page)

They went inside and peered into the dining room, where couples were beginning to collect for breakfast. But there was no sign of Sally and Gianni.

Edward approached the receptionist and asked if Sally Daly was staying with them.

The man at the desk looked hesitant.

‘We do value the privacy of our guests here,’ he said diplomatically in a gentle Scots accent.

‘In which case, can I have two rooms?’ Edward requested, getting out his wallet.

‘Are we going to stake out the hotel?’ asked Georgia, with a slight nagging disappointment that he had requested two rooms.

‘We need to find Sally, and then I don’t know about you, but I need to sleep.’

She looked at his handsome face, dark shadows forming moon-shaped circles beneath his eyes, and felt a spike of affection that he had done this for her. For Sally, she reminded herself.

‘We should sit in the breakfast room and see if they come down,’ he said.

‘That’s if they’re here.’

They took a table by the window and ordered some smoked mackerel.

Georgia’s eyes drifted outside and she saw a couple strolling hand in hand across the lawns.

‘I don’t believe it. It’s them,’ she said, jumping out of her seat. ‘Are you coming?’

‘I think this is a conversation you need to have with Sally alone.’

Georgia ran out of the hotel towards her friend, who looked startled as she approached.

‘Georgia. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you,’ she gasped. ‘Your family are frantic. You can’t do this. Have you done it?’

She looked at Gianni sternly.

‘Could I talk to my friend alone for a minute?’

Gianni glanced at Sally, who nodded. He squeezed her hand and walked back towards the hotel.

Georgia could barely get her words out quickly enough.

‘Don’t marry him,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t step anywhere near the anvil with this man. That’s what happens, isn’t it? A blacksmith can marry you right here, right now. Well, don’t do it, because I have something to say.’

‘We can’t get married today,’ said Sally quietly. ‘We thought we could, but the rules have changed and we have to wait over two weeks. That’s fine, though, because this is what I want to do, George.’

‘No you don’t,’ Georgia said, not even having time to register the relief that Sally was not yet married. ‘There’s something you should know. Gianni is not a count. He’s a bus boy at a London hotel and he’s been gatecrashing parties with his friend to hook up with pretty, wealthy girls. Don’t marry him. He’s after your money, and even though you probably think you’re happy, this is all just going to make you horribly miserable.’

‘I know he’s not a count,’ Sally replied simply.

That response floored Georgia.

‘You know?’

‘I know he’s a waiter from Padua. His name is Gianni Adami. He came to London to work because he lost his father in Mussolini’s war, and he sends money back to his family. I knew from our second date,’ she said quite cheerfully. ‘He told me over hot chocolate and Chelsea buns at the café in Victoria round the corner from the hotel where he works.’

‘You know he’s a bus boy? You don’t think he’s a con man . . .’

Sally laughed.

‘Darling Georgia, you always think the worst of people. So Gianni and his friends lied a little to get into the deb dances and parties. They were young men having fun.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘With all my heart. He is handsome and kind and good and I know he adores me. If that’s not what a girl is looking for in a husband, then I don’t know what is.’

‘I understand that you like him,’ said Georgia, shaking her head. ‘You might even think you love him. But Sally, you don’t have to marry him. Take your time,’ she implored.

‘But I’m pregnant,’ replied her friend simply.

Georgia couldn’t help gasping.

‘Oh Sally . . . But Gianni . . . How can you be?’

‘The baby’s not Gianni’s. We haven’t . . . we haven’t, you know, done that yet.’

‘Then whose is it?’

She grew suddenly sheepish.

‘You remember the house party in Oxfordshire?’

‘Andrew from Cirencester,’ said Georgia, feeling wretched. If only she hadn’t abandoned her friend. If only she had rescued her from the bushes.

‘Sally, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you.’

‘It was entirely my own fault. We had sex in an airing cupboard before I’d even discovered that you’d gone. It was over in minutes . . . However, the consequences might last a little longer.’ Her voice was clear and matter-of-fact but her eyes had started to water, and Georgia rested her arm gently across her friend’s shoulders.

‘Sally, there’s things we can do . . .’

‘What?’ she replied flatly. ‘Some dirty back-street room where they’d kill my baby with carbolic soap and a knitting needle and possibly kill me too? I’ve read the newspapers.’

Georgia had read the same stories. In Paris, a newspaper clipping, possibly planted by Madame Didiot, had been passed around the dorm like some warning to wayward students who let their morals get too loose.

‘Does Gianni know this?’ she asked carefully.

‘Georgia, can’t you see? That is why I think he is so wonderful. I mean, look, I am beginning to get a tiny belly so I knew I couldn’t hide it for much longer. I was desperate to tell someone, so I confided in Gianni, thinking he would finish with me on the spot, but he was so gentle and loving. Together we made a plan.’

‘To marry,’ said Georgia softly.

‘We were going to pretend that the baby was his. But we thought people might accept it more if we ran away and got married. I knew it would still be a terrible scandal, so Gianni thought we could go and live in Venice. He has an auntie there and it sounds so wonderful, Georgia. You can buy oranges the size of footballs and go to work by gondola. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?’

‘But what now?’

‘Now we have to think again. It’s around two weeks before we can marry and I can’t leave my parents in the dark for that long.’

‘They’re frantic,’ said Georgia softly.

‘Thank you for coming, George. Thank you for caring.’

‘I was worried about you. We drove through the night to get here before the day’s weddings started.’

Sally looked anxious.

‘
We?
My family aren’t with you, are they?’

‘No. Edward Carlyle. He drove me up here. All through the night.’

Sally nodded thoughtfully.

‘Then he’s handsome and kind and good and I know he adores you.’

‘I wish it were true,’ said Georgia, shrugging her shoulders. ‘But he has a girlfriend and I think he sees me as this silly little debutante he has to keep saving. Maybe he has some psychological condition . . .’

‘But are you in love with him?’

She looked up and nodded.

‘Then go and tell him. Right now. Don’t stop and think about it. Just tell him.’

‘What about you?’ asked Georgia, her heart thumping out of her chest.

‘I’ve found love. Now it’s your turn, and what better place to be true to your heart than here. GO!’ she ordered.

Georgia went back into the dining room, but Edward had left.

‘Your husband asked me to tell you he has gone upstairs,’ said the waitress, clearing away the plates of mackerel.

‘Remind me of our room numbers,’ Georgia said. The waitress checked her list of diners.

‘Sixteen and seventeen,’ she replied.

Georgia followed the signs and knocked on the door of number sixteen on the first floor. It was a few moments before it creaked open. Edward stood there with slightly ruffled hair and sleepy eyes.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

‘Sorry. Your room key,’ he said, rubbing his face.

Her eyes skirted over the rumpled bed and she felt a flood of excitement and nerves.

‘So how is she?’ asked Edward anxiously. ‘She’s not married yet, is she?’

‘She’s fine. Sally is fine. They can’t marry for at least two weeks and she knows all about Gianni. Always has done, but she loves him. It’s that simple.’

‘Is it?’ said Edward, rubbing his cheek.

‘We always hope love is simple, but sometimes it’s not, is it?’

‘No, it’s not,’ he replied softly.

‘Why are you here?’ she whispered, closing the bedroom door behind her, willing herself to stay strong. ‘Everything we have done together suggests that . . . suggests that you like me. I know you have a girlfriend, and I know she is probably very smart and rich and beautiful, but sometimes that’s not everything. Sometimes it’s about two people who just feel happy being together, and when that happens, those two people should
be
together.’

He didn’t reply immediately, and the silence spun embarrassingly around the room.

‘Georgia, I don’t like you,’ he said finally.

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling her courage desert her and her heart shatter.

‘I think I have fallen in love with you.’

‘With me?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t have a girlfriend. Not any more. There was Annabel, and I went to the ball with her and then we left university and it’s over. Because I can’t stop thinking about someone else. I can’t stop comparing every single woman I know with someone who has come into my life and lit it up like a Catherine wheel.’

He stepped forward and took her hand.

‘There’s a place just outside called the Kissing Gate.’

‘Do we need to go that far?’ she whispered.

He took her face between his hands and kissed her softly on the lips. And somewhere deep down, she felt her own fireworks go off in her heart.

24 December 2012

It had been a busy day. The busiest Christmas Eve Amy could remember. Much of it had been spent eating: breakfast pancakes with strawberry butter and maple syrup at Good Enough to Eat, hot chocolate and pumpkin muffins at Sarabeth’s Bakery in Chelsea Market, and cupcakes from Sprinkles on Lexington. She had shopped for Christmas presents for the family in Bloomingdale’s, popped into the Plaza Hotel to see their giant
Great Gatsby
-themed Christmas tree, watched the ice skaters on the rink in Central Park, and even queued up to get inside the iconic toy shop FAO Schwarz – which Georgia agreed was all part of the Christmas experience.

But pulling up outside Carmichael Street, Amy reconsidered the wisdom of inviting Georgia round to her house, which looked so much smaller and more shabby than she remembered. Her dad had said ‘the more the merrier’ when she had rung to check, but then he had once invited a hobo to dinner when he’d spotted him panhandling outside Dempsey’s: any excuse to break out his Old Navy Rum was a good one to her dad. She knew her mom would be fretting about the food and the seating and the dishes, probably furiously polishing the ‘good’ silver – that was the cutlery set from Macy’s rather than Kmart – at this very moment. Amy was more worried about the rest of the family. Would her brother Billy embarrass her with tales from their childhood? Would Uncle Chuck get drunk and insist on singing? More to the point, would it all be a little, well, lower class for such a sophisticated lady as Georgia Hamilton?

‘A charming house,’ said Georgia, as if she was reading Amy’s mind. ‘I am very much looking forward to meeting your family.’

‘Well, don’t expect too much,’ said Amy.

‘On the contrary, Amy,’ said Georgia, taking her arm as they walked up the path, ‘I am a great believer in nurture over nature and I do not think people appear from nowhere fully formed. You are a product of your family, Amy Carrell, and on that basis, I expect them to be perfectly charming.’

Amy was about to say that she could expect all she liked but that wouldn’t stop Uncle Chuck from groping her ass, when the door flew open and Amy felt herself sucked into a huge hug.

‘Merry Christmas, Aunt Amy!’ cried the two children clinging to her waist.

‘Hey, hey,’ she laughed. ‘Careful or you’ll crush all these presents I brought.’

The children started clamouring for the gifts, but Amy held them out of their reach until she was inside the house. ‘Here, go and put them under the tree.’

She looked around and was immediately hit by a rush of affection and nostalgia. The tree was where it always was in the hallway, sagging under far too many trimmings, the battered and threadbare angel she’d so loved as a girl still clinging gamely to the top. There were old-fashioned paper chains strung along the beams of every room and crêpe paper reindeers and snowmen tacked to the windows, just as there always had been. But most of all it was the smell that made Amy go weak with longing: that mixture of pine needles and cooking and punch and candles, each smell laid over that indefinable scent of ‘home’.

‘Hey, honey,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Welcome home.’

Amy fell into her father’s arms, loving the feel of him: his strength and warmth. He felt safe and right. In his embrace she was five years old again and doing cartwheels of excitement waiting for Santa.

‘Dad,’ she said. ‘This is my friend, Georgia Hamilton.’

‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ he said, stepping forward to offer his ham-hock hand. ‘Nick Carrell. Ya takin’ care of my little girl for me, I hear.’

‘Dad . . .’ said Amy, blushing.