‘Gianni, meet my dear friend Georgia Hamilton. This is my Italian friend Gianni.’
‘Come this way, my friend,’ shouted André. ‘You won’t find a finer Sachertorte this side of Salzburg.’
‘Who is he?’ mouthed Georgia as she led Sally to a corner table.
‘I met him last week at Penny Pringle’s dance at the Dorchester. He’s utterly dreamy, isn’t he?’
‘He’s an absolute dish,’ Georgia agreed.
‘And he’s a count,’ gushed Sally, unable to hide her glee. ‘He’s got a title, and a castle in Perugia, not that it matters, because he is so lovely and I am head over heels . . . Stop me. I’m gushing.’
Georgia didn’t like to point out that it had been only a month ago that Sally had announced she was in love with Andrew from Cirencester. She hadn’t minded in the slightest that Georgia had left the Fortescues’ party, because that night she had found ‘the one’ – until Andrew had refused to take her phone calls, finally getting his room-mate to come to the phone and request that Sally stop bothering him.
‘You see, there are some decent men out there,’ Sally said sagely. ‘You just have to find yours. Don’t think that just because you’ve had your fingers burnt with Edward, it doesn’t mean that your Mr Right isn’t still out there.’
‘I’m off men.’
‘I know. I’ve introduced you to so many, and you’ve not given any of them a chance. You’re not still thinking about him, are you?’
‘Who?’
‘Edward Carlyle, of course.’
‘I haven’t thought about him in weeks,’ said Georgia scornfully, wishing she had never told Sally about her adventures in Oxford. ‘He has a girlfriend. End of story. And now I’m concentrating on my career. Speaking of which, I have to scoot. You can stay here until André leaves, though.’
On the tube, Georgia reminded herself that she hadn’t lied to Sally deliberately. She had tried her very best to forget about Edward Carlyle since that night in Oxford. She had packed her days and nights with work and writing and as many invitations as she could manage – Ascot, dances and Eton’s Fourth of June celebrations by the Thames, where her cousin Richard had looked ever so smart in his cream flannels and boater hat. She’d been introduced to many attractive and polite young men, a couple of whom had even taken her for coffee or to the picture house, but it had been impossible not to compare them all to Edward, and they had all suffered badly in that comparison. She veered from feeling duped that Edward had held her hand and made a connection with her that seemed so real and palpable she could still feel it when she lay awake at night, to feeling simply sad and unlucky. After all, he had not kissed her, or made any false promises. He had been nothing but kind and generous and had even returned the money she had sent him for her hotel and train fare with a note saying that it had been his pleasure.
She got out at Piccadilly Circus and walked briskly into Soho, checking the address in her diary and finding Wheelers Restaurant on Old Compton Street. She was informed that her dining companion had already arrived, and was led through the restaurant, her eyes peeled for a likely-looking author.
Ian Dashwood was not what she was expecting. He was in his mid thirties, rather th
an the fifty- or sixty-something she had assumed. He had heavy brows and a light tan, and the pale grey suit with a blue triangle of silk sticking out of the top breast pocket was both smart and sharp.
He stood up and shook her hand.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said after brief introductions. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. To know everything you need to know about me, here’s my latest book.’ He pushed a hardback across the white tablecloth.
‘Is it an autobiography?’
‘No. Just read the author blurb,’ he laughed. ‘All my interesting bits are there in three hundred words.’
He poured her a glass of wine and glanced up at her.
‘So you want to be a writer.’
‘I am a writer,’ she smiled. ‘I just haven’t had anything published yet.’
‘Confidence. I like that in a young novelist. You’re going to get rejected at some point. We all have been. But you’ve got to have a thick skin, and a determination to keep writing, keep telling stories, even when there’s no money coming in, even when people keep telling you that there are too many hoops to jump through to make it. I hope you don’t mind oysters,’ he added, glancing through the menu.
‘I’ve never tried them.’
‘Best place to have them in London. Bacon loves it in here. Apparently he’s just left, which is a shame. He usually buys the whole place champagne when he’s in.’
‘Bacon?’
‘Francis Bacon.’
‘The artist,’ said Georgia, wide-eyed. ‘Do you know him?’