‘We can’t afford all that,’ replied Georgia, aghast.
‘We can improvise,’ said Estella, as her eyes darted down to the smart moss-green patterned fabric that covered the table.
It was Sybil’s turn to look shocked.
‘Georgia can’t turn up to Ascot in a tablecloth, Estella, however handy you are with a needle and thread.’
Peter Hamilton walked in smoking a pipe. He was still wearing his overcoat and had a copy of the Racing Post tucked under his arm. He was touching fifty but was still a very good-looking man indeed, and if Georgia squinted there was a touch of her father she knew from the photographs.
‘Hello, hello. My favourite niece. How are you, pumpkin?’ he said, ruffling her hair. ‘What’s all this about tablecloths and Ascot? Can I join in the conversation or am I excluded on account of my sex?’
‘Georgia hasn’t got the appropriate wardrobe for the Season,’ said Sybil witheringly.
‘Clarissa, don’t you have anything that she could borrow?’ said Peter, turning to his daughter. ‘There’s a closet stuffed with taffeta and all you seem to wear these days are those tight skirts.’
‘Peter, those are special dresses,’ protested Sybil.
‘Nonsense. I spent five hundred pounds and I haven’t seen her wear them once since. They can’t be that special. Clarissa, take Georgia upstairs and see if she would like to borrow anything.’
‘Peter . . .’
Georgia watched a look of panic pass between mother and daughter.
‘It’s fine,’ said Clarissa with more grace than her mother. ‘Come with me, George, and you can tell me all about Paris.’
Clarissa’s bedroom was at the top of the house. Her brother Richard was still at Eton, so she had the entire floor to herself.
‘Fancy a ciggie?’ she asked, opening the window and pulling a packet of Sobranie from her bag.
‘So Daddy says you’re not staying with us,’ she said, sitting down on the bed.
Georgia shook her head. ‘No. Your dad’s found us a flat in Chelsea. Apparently it belongs to some journalist friend of his who is in Cairo. I think he realised that Estella and Sybil wouldn’t last a week in each other’s company.’
‘Chelsea. What fun,’ grinned her cousin. ‘There’s a great coffee shop down there I should introduce you to. Lots of cute Guardsmen from the barracks, too.’
‘So how is Vogue?’
The two girls used to be close. At Peter’s insistence, Clarissa and Richard would spend every summer in Devon, but that had stopped the year before Clarissa’s own season, two years earlier. Despite the odd letter, Georgia was out of the loop with her cousin’s life.
‘I love it. Gives me an excuse to buy lots of clothes without my dad complaining.’
‘Show me what you’ve got, then. Your mum nearly gave me a heart attack when she read out that list. A house dress and a pair of Turkish slippers aren’t going to cut it at Buckingham Palace.’
Clarissa laughed, and lit her cigarette. ‘What a shame you couldn’t buy anything in Paris. I’m desperate to go shopping on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Dior is a genius. I wept when he died.’
‘How could I afford Dior, Issa? I could barely afford a cup of coffee while I was at Madame Didiot’s.’
Clarissa nodded in the direction of the large wardrobes that occupied both alcov
es of the room.
‘Go on then. Have a rummage. Anything but my presentation dress.’
‘Why? Saving it for your wedding day?’
‘Fat chance,’ she said, taking a deep inhalation of smoke.
Georgia opened the wardrobe and gasped. It was fit to burst with shoes, coats and gowns. She opened a huge hatbox and pulled out sheaves of white paper that showed the first signs of colouring with age.