‘You’ll never meet your future husband in the toilet. I mean loo,’ said a voice to her right, as if it were reading her thoughts.
She turned and saw a pretty blonde, her hair scooped up in a chignon, voluminous breasts spilling over her dress like party balloons.
‘It is loo, isn’t it?’ added the girl, frowning. ‘Not bathroom. I can never remember which is U and non-U.’
‘Non-U?’ said Georgia, grateful for someone to talk to.
‘Upper class. Non-upper class,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a long list of stuff I’ve got written down in my handbag. Sofa, not settee. Writing paper, not notepaper. What, not pardon – although I think that sounds frightfully rude, don’t you?’
‘Well, I always say loo. What does that make me?’
‘Posh, of course. I love your dress, by the way. Do you mind awfully if I ask whose it is?’
‘It’s mine,’ said Georgia, feeling herself flush. The last thing she wanted to admit in front of this highly groomed girl was that she’d had to borrow her cocktail dress.
‘I mean, whose is it? The designer?’
Georgia looked down and brushed her hands modestly over the linen skirt. She had to admit that she had been delighted when Estella had unveiled it. She had taken Clarissa’s pale pink dress, made a few alterations to the bust and sleeves and, recognising that the fabric made the most wonderful canvas, painted peonies all around the hem.
‘It’s a one-off,’ she said, smiling to herself.
‘Well, I love it,’ replied the blonde. ‘When they announced that it was going to be the last of the presentations, Mum pulled me straight out of school and took me to Paris. Dad’s a wizard in business and said you have to speculate to accumulate, so we had to get the best wardrobe we possibly could for the Season.’
‘You were pulled out of school to go shopping in Paris?’ Georgia didn’t know whether to be horrified or madly jealous.
‘Well, my parents were desperate for me to do it. All a bit of a rush, though. Thank goodness Mum had already sorted out a sponsor for me.’
‘Sponsor?’
‘We paid someone to present me to court,’ she said without guile. ‘Some old biddy who makes a tidy living out of her aristocratic credentials.’
‘I wouldn’t go admitting that. You know some people around here can be complete snobs.’
‘But you’re not. I can tell.’
The girl thrust her hand into Georgia’s.
‘Sally Daly, from Birmingham. Amazing how many people are here tonight, considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘Considering that not everyone who curtseys stays on and does the Season. Most don’t, in fact.’
Georgia stared at her in disbelief, feeling suddenly duped by Estella and Sybil.
‘I wish someone had told me that before tonight.’
‘You don’t want to stay around for all the parties?’ said Sally; it was her turn to look astonished.
‘So where are you having your dance?’ she asked, more brightly.
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘Oh,’ replied her new friend with a trace of pity. ‘Well, you are to come to mine and we’ll have such fun, although I’m not sure how we’re going to be able to compete with this. Dad will be furious when he picks me up – I’m sure he’ll insist on a good nose around.’
‘Competitive, is he?’ giggled Georgia.
‘Life is one big competition for Dad.’ Sally smiled back. ‘I can’t complain, though – that’s how I got to wear couture.’