The Proposal

‘People like that, families like hers, they just make me so cross,’ said Marina, as if it were perfectly obvious what was the matter with Georgia’s new friend. ‘She is precisely the reason why the Season is finishing. What was it that Margaret said about every tart in London buying their way in?’

Georgia had heard the famous quote uttered by the Queen’s sister, but the way Marina repeated it made it sound as though the Princess was a close personal friend.

‘Sally’s not a tart,’ she said crossly. ‘And she’s not even from London.’

‘That’s right. She’s from Birmingham, isn’t she? Father deals in scrap metal or something peculiar.’ Marina crinkled up her button nose.

‘Well, she’s wearing couture,’ replied Georgia, ‘so Mr Daly must be doing something right.’

‘Couture is something you save for your trousseau, not wear before you have even kissed a boy,’ said Marina, unmoved, as Melanie nodded in agreement. ‘It’s typical of these nouveau riche sorts. Cart before the horse and all that. I heard they’ve just bought a house in Switzerland and they can’t even ski.’ She and Melanie set about giggling.

Georgia heard the tapping of a spoon against a glass, barely audible above the din.

‘Emily’s daddy wants to make a speech,’ said Marina. ‘She’s cringing at the very thought of it, so we should go and lend some moral support.’

Georgia let the two of them go. She hadn’t realised that Marina was such friends with the wealthy Emily Nightingale, and decided that some people were here to make as many beneficial friendship alliances as they were romantic ones.

The mention of Emily’s name reminded her that she had not thanked her hostess yet and it was something she must do before she left.

There was a sweep of staircase at one end of the room, and she ascended it to a mezzanine floor that overlooked the party. It was quiet up here, with a good view of Emily standing nervously beside her father. She turned and saw a set of double doors behind her. It was roped off, but that only added to its intrigue. She unhooked the rope and opened the door to see what was behind it, gasping in delight as she saw that it led on to a beautiful terrace with views of the back of Belgravia’s finest houses – huge bay windows lit up and glowing like pumpkins in the dark.

Faintly she could hear that the speeches had started, and she was glad she was away from it all. She opened her bag, pulled out her cigarettes and lit a Gauloise. As she inhaled, she could taste the tar and smell the honeysuckle that was creeping up a trellis next to her.

‘Could I have one?’

She turned and saw a pair of the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen.

‘I’ve only got two,’ she stuttered quickly at the handsome young man who had come out on to the balcony. He had short dark blond hair and the hint of a winter tan, and he filled out his dinner jacket better than any other deb’s delight she had seen at the party.

‘Perfect,’ he grinned as she offered him the remnants of her pack.

He stuck his cigarette tip into the flame that Georgia offered him from her lighter and smiled languidly at her.

‘Couldn’t bear the speeches either?’

‘He’s just a proud father, I suppose.’ She took another drag of her cigarette. ‘No, I came out here because I hardly know anyone in there and I thought it would be better to be alone with my thoughts than alone with a bunch of strangers.’

‘Well, I can introduce you to some people. This is the second year I’ve done it. It’s not so bad if you just relax into it.’

‘You’re an old hand at the Season then,’ she grinned.

‘It’s a way of getting fed and watered for six months of the year. Plus it’s rather nice to spend the evening with beautiful girls on moonlit terraces.’

She glanced away, embarrassed.

He blew a smoke ring, his inherent confidence obvious without him even saying a word.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harry Bowen.’

‘Georgia Hamilton. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Who would you like to meet? Although I’d be happy to stand out here all night talking to you.’

‘But you don’t even know me.’

‘I’ve always found people who like being alone with their thoughts more interesting than most.’

‘Actually I’d rather be sitting at a pavement café with a group of friends or in a jazz club listening to music. I’m not really the painfully introspective sort,’ she smiled.