‘First, I’d like you to relax,’ said Georgia pointedly, as if she had read all of that from Amy’s anxious expression. ‘I wanted a companion for this trip, not an entertainments officer from a cruise ship. Don’t feel that you have to run about picking up after me and arranging things for me to do.’
‘Oh. Okay. So what is my . . .’
‘Your role?’
Amy shrugged, blushing a little.
‘Yes, I guess.’
‘Just as the advert said: a companion, someone to accompany me wherever I go. I realise it’s a little strange for you, but think of it as if we were two old friends on holiday in New York. What would you do first?’
Go and get drunk, thought Amy, but bit her lip.
‘I’d probably have a shower, then get pizza.’
Georgia smiled thinly. Her demeanour had been quite prickly and severe all day, but she looked as if she was starting to thaw.
‘A
fine plan. I think we can do a little better than pizza, however. Why don’t you settle into your room and I’ll see if I can arrange somewhere to eat.’
‘Somewhere to eat’ was a place called Ralph, or so said the tiny gold plaque on the wall of the 68th Street building that Amy almost missed. She had never heard of it before, although the Upper East Side had never been one of her natural habitats even when she lived in the city. It was old-money New York, where Wall Street bankers and industrialists owned multimillion-dollar townhouses, where antique shops sat cheek by jowl with apartments owned by tight-faced old ladies with Pekinese dogs, and where trophy blondes spent their days running from blow-dry appointments to lunch to Mandarin classes for their children. It was all too rich a blend, thought Amy, deciding that pizza would have been infinitely preferable.
‘Ms Hamilton,’ said the maître d’ as they walked inside. ‘Welcome to Ralph.’ He pronounced it ‘Rafe’. ‘May I take your coats?’
Amy tried her best not to look overawed. She had been expecting gold leaf and marble, but it was more like a grand dame’s elegant dining room, all crisp linens, antique furnishings and hushed atmosphere, which somehow made it even more intimidating.
They were given the wine list and looked at the menu, which was all in French.
Georgia pulled a pair of glasses from her bag and put them on. She made a gentle noise of approval, snapped the menu shut and announced that she was having the lamb.
‘Where was that?’ asked Amy, only recognising the words ‘tarte Tatin’, which was on the Forge’s Specials board on Fridays.
‘Would you like me to translate?’ asked Georgia, peering down the end of her nose.
‘I’ll have the lamb too,’ said Amy, not wishing to suffer any more food-related embarrassment for one week.
The sommelier approached and Amy watched quietly as Georgia spoke to the man, not just knowledgeably discussing vintages, growing regions and grapes, but asking what cut of lamb they were to be eating and how rich was its sauce, before deciding on a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. The sommelier left with a smile that said she had chosen both expensively and well.
‘You know your stuff,’ said Amy, sipping her water uncomfortably. ‘French. Wine. The only stuff I know is from that scene in Pretty Woman where the manager teaches Julia Roberts to count the prongs.’
Georgia raised one thin grey brow. ‘I saw that film too, and believe me, there’s a lot more to it than counting the prongs. We had weeks studying at finishing school – and I do mean studying.’
‘You went to finishing school?’ asked Amy, wide-eyed.
‘I did.’
‘In the Alps?’ She had read and reread Lace, and that bit at the beginning – where the girls were sashaying around L’Hirondelle drinking hot chocolate and fraternising with princes – was her favourite part.
‘No, I went to Paris,’ said Georgia. ‘Madame Didiot’s School for Girls. Going to Paris to finish was considered quite a smart choice. Although my mother didn’t have a bean, there was a small trust fund put to one side for my education.’
‘Wow,’ said Amy. ‘Is that where you learnt about wine?’
‘A little. I didn’t want to go to finishing school and I wasn’t a particularly good student, as Madame Didiot would certainly have confirmed. But wine I enjoyed. I probably drank too much of it in the eighties. I think most publishers of a certain age would say that.’
Georgia had ordered for them both, and when the starters arrived, Amy picked at hers.
‘So if you didn’t want to be at finishing school, why did you go?’