Just say yes to this unforgettable read and take a spellbinding, romantic journey from the dazzling days of the debutantes in 1950s London to glamorous modern Manhattan.
When Amy Carrell’s wealthy boyfriend ends their relationship just before Christmas, she’s left to nurse her broken heart alone. With nothing to lose, she replies to an advertisement requesting a companion for a mysterious ‘Manhattan adventure’.
Whisked off to New York with eccentric British aristocrat Georgia Hamilton, Amy experiences a glamorous side of the city that she’s never seen before. Along the way, Georgia initiates her protégée in the arts of old-school elegance.
But as Georgia shares her life lessons, Amy discovers a painful secret in her mentor’s past. A secret that shattered her future. A story of love and betrayal that only Amy has the power to put right.
For John
She hesitated before she put pen to paper, her pale hand shaking as it hovered over the form.
Apparently this was the old-fashioned way of doing things – even people her age were internet savvy enough these days to submit a classifieds advertisement online. Instead she had popped into the magazine offices on impulse, having been in Covent Garden on a lunch date with some friends. Familiar people, on familiar territory, London’s traditional publishing heartland. Her own former workplace was just a stone’s throw away, and its restaurants – Rules, Christopher’s, Joe Allen – were where she had spent many happy times, doing deals, drinking with friends. It was her life. And it had been a good one.
So was she now in her right mind doing this? Was it time to finally let go of the past rather than go running headlong into a fantasy of a life she had not even lived?
She looked up and glanced at the woman behind the desk, hoping for an encouraging gesture, or some other sign that she was doing the right thing. But the lady was on the phone and the only other thing she had to spur her on was a nagging voice in her head. The voice that had been reminding her for weeks that if she was ever going to do it, if she was ever going to go there, it was now, whilst she still could.
Today she felt every one of her seventy-two years. Recently she had noticed that society was trying to pull some sort of a con trick on millions of people just like her, that there was something good, something joyful, about getting old. She had seen the adverts around London, in magazines. Smiling white-haired women with beautiful bone structures advertised cheaper road insurance for the over-seventies. Suspiciously well-priced flats in glossy estate agent brochures were luxury retirement bolt-holes only available to the over-fifty-fives. The grey pound was apparently a potent economic force, whilst the term ‘silver surfers’ for those of her generation more internet savvy than herself implied an athleticism she had not felt since the eighties.
But right now there felt nothing good about being old. Her friends were beginning to die. Not many, not yet, but it was happening, and every time she heard more sad news, it was a reminder of her own mortality.
She had been thinking about it so much lately. Thinking about him. She wasn’t entirely sure how you could have memories about things that hadn’t even happened. All she had were her daydreams about a life they could have had together if it wasn’t for the one night that had changed her life completely. But lately it had consumed her thoughts to the point that she just had to go to New York – the one major Western city she had never been to. The one city that represented a life unlived.
Steeling herself, she began to write. Now was not the time for regrets or doubt. Old age was about doing the things you had always wanted to do, about tying up loose ends, before time ran out.
No, she was absolutely right to be here. Absolutely right to do this. She handed her form to the classifieds woman, paid her money and, after confirming when the advert would run, picked up her bag and left the office. She glanced at her watch. It was not even four thirty in the afternoon. She had things to plan, phone calls to make, and only a few hours left in the day to do it a
ll.
2012
‘He’s going to propose tonight, I can just feel it.’
Amy Carrell looked across the kitchen at her friend Nathan Jones.
‘And what makes you so sure?’ she said, picking up three plates and expertly balancing them on one arm. ‘If he was whisking me off to Paris, then I might be suspicious. But we’re going to an office party – not exactly what you’d call romantic.’
Nathan rolled his eyes.
‘Are you kidding me? It’s Christmas, darling, and the party’s at the Tower of London. At night! It’s what I would call the very essence of romance.’
‘Nathan, they used to behead people at the Tower of London . . .’
‘Correct. Anne Boleyn for one. Apparently it took several attempts because she had a very small neck.’
‘As I said. Not exactly romantic,’ grinned Amy, pushing through the double doors of the kitchen and into the roar of the dining room at the Forge Bar and Grill, one of the more fashionable eating houses on Upper Street in Islington, north London. She moved with the grace of a ballerina, swaying between tables and deftly positioning the plates in front of the diners. Tonight Amy didn’t need to remember who was having the squash risotto and who was having the escalope – everyone was having turkey. This was the sixth Christmas party she had done in the last week, and they weren’t getting any better.
‘Oi, love!’
She jumped as someone slapped her bum.
‘Bring us out another bottle of the fizz, eh?’ yelled a red-faced man, leering up at her. ‘And what about your phone number too, eh?’
‘I will send the sommelier over for you, sir,’ she answered, forcing a smile.
‘Ooh, a sexy American,’ he laughed, pinpointing Amy’s accent. ‘Why don’t you come and join us for a glass of champagne? Maybe after hours, eh?’ he added as Amy fled back to the kitchens.
‘Groper, table two,’ she said to Nathan. Her friend just nodded and peered through the porthole in the kitchen door. ‘Pink cheeks, white shirt?’
‘You got it. Total sleazeball.’
‘Don’t worry, I suspect his shirt is going to be bright red when he leaves here. I feel a wine-related accident coming on.’
‘Nut roasts!’ screamed a voice. They turned as a dishevelled woman crashed through the door. Cheryl, the Forge’s owner, had a heart of gold but swore like a trooper and was not a woman to be crossed when she had a scowl on her face like now.
‘I got three arseholes giving me crap on table six; say they need their nut roasts asap or they’re walking.’
‘Sorry, I’ll get on it,’ said Amy, moving towards the serving hatch, but Nathan held up his wrist, tapping his watch meaningfully. ‘I’ll deal with the veggies, you better skedaddle.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Cheryl, frowning.
‘It’s Daniel’s party, remember.’
‘Jeez, Amy. You only just got here.’
Thanks to an audition running seriously behind time, she had been thirty minutes late for her shift and Cheryl hadn’t let her forget it all day.
‘I’ll come in early tomorrow.’
‘You’ll do more than that. I need someone to take a double shift tomorrow. Think of the tips and tell me you’ll do it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Amy, knowing she needed the money.
‘Off you go then. Go, go,’ said Cheryl, shooing Amy away with both hands. ‘Want to use the flat to change?’
Amy smiled gratefully as her boss pushed her hand into her jeans pocket, pulled out a jangling set of keys and threw them at her.
‘He better bloody well had propose after this,’ Cheryl shouted after her as Amy grabbed her bag and vanished up the stairs.
Inside the pub’s top-floor flat, Amy looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. Her light blonde hair was all over the place, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen and – God, she sniffed her blouse – she stank of goose-fat potatoes. She looked longingly at the little shower cubicle, but there was no time for that. No time for anything, really.
Unzipping the bag, she emptied the contents on to the bed. Two crumpled dresses fell out, tangled up with heels, a hairbrush and her make-up. The first dress was a black knee-length shift she had found in a charity shop, the second rust-coloured and covered in sequins, bought in the summer sales for an occasion just like this one. It wasn’t particularly well-made – there were sequins already floating around the bottom of her bag like little lost pennies – but there was no doubt it was a knockout look-at-me dress. Considering her options, she wondered what image she wanted to project tonight. Sexy and irresistible? Or did she want sophisticated, a woman of the world, good wife material?
Back in the kitchen, she had mocked Nathan’s suggestion, and two days earlier she would have had absolute conviction that Daniel Lyons, her boyfriend of little more than one year’s standing, was more likely to fly to the moon than get down on bended knee. But that was before she had gone rummaging around his sock drawer and seen a duck-egg-blue gift box tucked away among the neat balls of fabric – a Tiffany gift box. It had been too tempting to ignore it, but before she’d had further opportunity to examine the size and shape of its contents, Dan had come back into the bedroom and she’d had to slam the drawer shut.