The Proposal (39 page)

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her Ralph Lauren dress, wondering if she was going to have to sleep out here and would be found dead from hypothermia in the morning. Her dress was lovely, but it wasn’t doing much to keep the cold out, that was for sure.

‘Hey.’

Amy almost jumped in the air and whirled around.

‘Don’t worry, it’s me,’ laughed Will, approaching from the opposite direction. He was holding up a set of keys. ‘My dad sorted out the keys for the gardener’s cottage. Apparently it’s empty; he said we can have it. I’ve already moved the car.’

‘Should we not just drive home before they send the bloodhounds out to get me?’

‘I’ve had a couple of glasses of champagne. I’d better not drive for at least another few hours. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.’

‘I trust you,’ she said, her teeth chattering. ‘But hurry up and sober up, for Chrissake. I don’t want to be hanging around here any longer than I have to.’

It was just a few minutes’ walk to the gardener’s cottage. Will opened the door, turned on a small lamp and went to light a fire whilst Amy made coffee.

‘Black. No milk, sorry,’ she said, handing him a mug.

‘So are you going to tell me what happened? Warts and all?’

‘I knew I should have gone in there with a plan. I just started accusing her, and needless to say it didn’t go down too well.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Not much. Admitted that she loved Edward, though. I caught her right off guard. Christopher was standing behind me too. I’ve probably caused a whole heap more trouble.’

‘Or maybe you’ve just set the wheels in motion.’

Will took off his dinner jacket and put it on a chair.

‘Just because things don’t happen immediately doesn’t mean to say they won’t happen. I’ve told my dad about Georgia’s story, and I can tell he believes it. At least believes it
might
be true. We’re going to speak to them both tomorrow. Clarissa and Christopher.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Amy softly. ‘It’s out there now. You don’t want more family fighting.’

He took a sip of coffee and looked at her.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done.’

As she nodded, noise exploded around them – the sound of a thousand firecrackers – and bright red and white light flooded into the room.

‘The fireworks.’

‘Let’s go and look.’

The cottage was on a small hill looking down over the grounds. They went outside and as Amy watched the sparks of light explode in the sky above the house, she nudged Will.

‘I have an idea.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘You know Edward’s buried around here somewhere. In the graveyard of the local church. We should find out when the gruesome twosome are off to Antigua and bring Georgia here.’

‘That’s a good idea. Maybe we can go and see her tomorrow and put it to her. We can pick a day and I can drive us over here.’

‘Speaking of which, how are you feeling?’

‘You know, I think I’ll be all right to drive home in twenty minutes,’ he said as the fireworks faded.

‘Let’s stay out here. Just for a little while.’

‘Okay.’ He sank to the grass and crossed his legs in front of him. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what would you do if this was your last year on earth?’

‘That’s a bit of a depressing thought,’ she said, turning to look at him.

‘In a way. Or you could look at it as though you were putting your life into sharp focus. What do you want to do? What’s important to you? How do you really want to spend your days?’

‘Big questions.’

‘Big night,’ he replied.

‘I want to set up a children’s ballet company this year.’

‘Oh yeah?’ he said with interest. ‘What does that involve?’

‘Ballets for kids. Fun ones. Happy ones.’

‘How far have you got with it?’

‘Oh, not very. It’s just an idea. It was something Georgia was encouraging me with.’

‘Need any help with a script? I’ve directed a few things too.’

‘You’d help me?’ she frowned.

‘I’d like to.’

‘Payback for Georgia?’ she asked.

‘I want to help you,’ he said simply.

She started to laugh softly.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I thought you hated me.’

‘Well, I don’t make these offers to every girl,’ he smiled and stood up. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’

‘If it’s the night of big questions, we’d better stock up.’

He brushed some grass off his trousers, and as he looked at her, she could see a sudden crack in his relaxed confidence.

‘Tomorrow. After we go and see Georgia, do you want to go for some dinner?’

He smiled shyly in the darkness and she felt something pop and fizz inside her.

‘I’d like that very much.’ She nodded, trying hard not to beam.

‘Keep my seat warm,’ he grinned as he went back inside the cottage.

She put her hand on the spot where he had just been and smiled. A new year, a new start.

‘I will.’

Georgia poured herself a cognac, wondering what she should do for the rest of the afternoon. She usually went to her good friends Sally and Gianni Adami’s for their rumbustious annual New Year’s Day lunch. Since Frederick McDonald and André Bauer had retired to Salzburg five years earlier, Sally and Gianni were the only people she regularly saw from the debutante scene, a scene she had deliberately tried to distance herself from after everything that had happened. Although they were bound together by so many old and emotional memories, some of which she didn’t want to remember, Sally and Gianni were enormous fun and it was impossible to stay away from them. Besides, Georgia was godmother to their eldest son, Lucas, who, quite terrifyingly, was in his fifties now – a lawyer by trade and a father himself to four beautiful children. She remembered him as such a tiny little thing, born in Venice, where Sally and Gianni had lived for many years before they returned to London. Just that morning she had dug out an old photo album and looked at some faded old pictures of them all together at the Lido, in St Mark’s Square, on the Bridge of Sighs. Georgia had spent many happy holidays in Venice. Her old friend had been right when she said the oranges were like footballs, and travelling around by gondola – the handsome gondoliers, the candy-striped poles sticking out of the water, the canals that shimmered green in the sunshine – was pure magic.

She glanced at her watch, wondering if it was too late to make the lunch after all. Gianni had promised it would be a particularly lavish affair this year, and had threatened to make his famous limoncello cocktails to celebrate the recent sale of his nationwide chain of Italian restaurants to a private equity firm. Sally hadn’t understood why Georgia had declined this year’s invitation. Then again, her old friend didn’t know quite how ill Georgia was. And the New York trip had certainly taken it out of her.

But at least her Manhattan adventure had been everything she had hoped it would be. As good as it could be, anyway, going with someone she had never met before, someone who was not the person she was supposed to have experienced the delights of New York with for the first time.

Young Amy Carrell had been delightful company, but it had been hard on the trip not to think about what it would have been like with Edward at her side. On Christmas Day morning, whilst Amy had still been at her parents’, Georgia had enjoyed taking a long walk on her own around Central Park, imagining them together.

Of course, she could remember exactly what Edward looked like. She only had a few photographs of him, but she had looked at them so many times she could never forget. What was harder was remembering the less tangible things about him. His smell, the way he walked, the way he tossed a quip into the air, the way he smiled at her and made her feel as if she were ten feet tall. Fifty years did that to you – it rubbed away the edges until the memories were so faint, it was hard to believe they even existed.

She had been thinking a lot about death lately. It was hard not to when your body was surrendering to it. She had been furious that she had allowed herself to become emotional in front of Amy. She was a sweet girl and it wasn’t fair to burden her with problems that certainly weren’t her own. But returning from New York – her trip of a lifetime – had reminded Georgia that she was ready for the end of her life.

Her death was an inevitability that she knew would come sooner rather than later. Her doctor had told her two weeks ago that she might survive another twelve months. That was the real reason why she had refused the invitation to the Adamis’ lunch. This was probably her last New Year’s Day, and she wanted to spend it quietly with her memories and her thoughts.

The one thing she did know about death was that she didn’t fear it. Perhaps that was one of the main benefits of being alone. There were no children to despair about leaving behind. Not even a cat to worry about when she had gone.

She had already decided that she would leave some money to Lucas, although he was wealthy and successful enough not to really need it. Some would go to charity, and she would give some to Will too. She was glad that she had bought Amy Carrell the Ralph Lauren dress, and would speak to her solicitor about finding a discreet way to bankroll her children’s ballet company. She had worked hard for her money and she didn’t want it to be frittered away, but she had a feeling that young Amy would do something special with her windfall – and even if her business wasn’t a success, she would have a great deal of fun trying.

She made a note to find out a little more about Amy’s plans this evening. She had been surprised to receive a phone call from Will asking if the two of them could drop by for coffee. He’d sounded dreadful – apparently it had been a very late night, but she supposed that was the way things were with young people: staying up all night to bring in the New Year. The thought of Will and Amy arriving together even gave her a little thrill. She knew Amy had a boyfriend – who she hadn’t liked the sound of – but perhaps she could encourage a friendship between her cousin’s son and her new friend. She thought they would be good for each other. She’d lived long enough to know a good love match when she saw one.

The buzzing of her intercom disturbed her from her thoughts.

Other than Will and Amy, who’d said they would come round at about six o’clock, she wasn’t expecting any visitors. She peered through the fine voile curtains at Primrose Hill’s rare, ghostly calm.

‘Georgia Hamilton?’

‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, not instantly recognising the voice. It was elderly, well-spoken, with a touch of familiarity . . .

‘It’s Christopher. Christopher Carlyle.’

The name took her so much by surprise that she had to lean against the wall. She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes for one moment.

‘Christopher,’ she said, steeling herself. ‘What do you want?’ She hadn’t meant it to come out so curtly.

‘May I come up?’

She could almost hear her own heartbeat as she waited for him to climb the stairs. Of course he took his time. He was older than she was and the flat was a long way from the ground floor. She left the door open and went back into the living room, standing by the window and looking out as she waited for him.

It was a shock to see him. It had been fifty-four years, but for a moment those years vanished in a heartbeat. He was still tall and thin – advancing years had not given him a stoop or shrunk his frame. His blazer and cream chinos were smart – in fact he looked as if he were on the way to a cricket match, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it was January, she would imagine that he was.

‘Don’t you have better things to do on New Year’s Day?’ she said quietly, sipping at the cognac she had left on the drinks cabinet.

‘We always have a quiet New Year’s Day.’

‘Of course – the annual Stapleford party was last night.’

‘How are you, Georgia?’ he said quietly.

‘Fine. Marvellous, actually. I’ve been away. New York,’ she added, her voice as bright as she could manage.

He supported himself on the bookcase with one hand. She guessed that the walk up the stairs had taken it out of him and it had the effect of making him seem quite fragile. Certainly he looked nothing like the vital elder statesman she regularly saw on the television, popping up to discuss the state of the economy, or at some literary party in the society pages of the
Mail
. Heading up the Carlyle family had not been his original destiny, but once he had been handed the role, he seemed to have grown into it. The shallow youth she had met in that summer of 1958 had been replaced by someone far more impressive.

‘So how was last night?’ she continued. ‘Still going strong, that tradition? Clarissa always liked a party. No need to change that just because we’re getting on a bit.’

‘Your friend came, with Will.’

His words stopped her in her tracks.

‘Which friend?’

‘The American girl. Amy.’

She felt the cold twist of betrayal.

‘What was she doing there?’ she asked with as much nonchalance as she could manage.

‘She came with Will. I believe they might be together.’

‘Really?’ she replied. It was suddenly becoming clear why they wanted to see her this evening. They had evidently been up to no good – meddling, she supposed – and were coming to confess and apologise.