‘So what was all that curtseying to the cake thing about?’ he asked above the sound of a soaring clarinet.
‘Surely you’ve been to one of these things before?’
‘I haven’t, actually. I’m not quite sure if your aunt Sybil remembers trying to fix me up with Clarissa two years ago, but I couldn’t make it.’
‘You must be hot property,’ teased Georgia.
‘More like I’m twenty-four and my parents think it’s high time I found a wife.’
Frederick danced as well as a Frenchman, which was a considerable compliment. She wasn’t sure if he held his breath the whole time, but she certainly couldn’t hear him panting in her ear, which was the usual hazard with her dance partners.
‘How about we waltz across to the far side of the room out of eyeshot of the grown-ups and just get drunk?’ said Frederick finally, and Georgia decided she liked him more by the minute.
They took two cups of fruit punch, and Frederick pulled out a hip flask and poured a stiff measure of alcohol into each.
‘We’re going to have to get very drunk to get through this thing.’
‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ laughed Georgia.
‘I didn’t mean it like that . . .’
‘So you are going to be a diplomat?’ said Georgia, remembering what he had told her at dinner.
‘One day. Perhaps.’
‘You don’t sound very excited about it.’
‘I really want to be a journalist. Can you imagine going to the theatre or to the Summer Exhibition and getting paid to write about it?’
‘My mum says it’s wonderful when your job is your hobby. She says you never have to retire because what you do isn’t work.’
‘She’s an artist, isn’t she? I heard she did some rather fabulous pictures of the debs at your cocktail party.’
‘You heard about that?’ After the disaster of the aspic, Estella had had to improvise to give the party a little kick, and had decided to do a five-minute sketch of each guest as a going-home present.
‘My sister’s friend went. She’s quite proud of her caricature. Seemed to overlook the fact that she’d been given a nose the size and shape of a banana.’
‘Mother said she was experimenting in cubist cartooning.’
‘She should do a strip for the Evening Post.’
‘That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’ Georgia sighed.
Glancing back at Estella, she saw that she was being asked to dance by a rather dishy-looking deb’s delight. She was not wearing white so Georgia felt sure the young man could not be confused. However, she did look pretty sensational. Not dissimilar to Lola Wigan, the ethereal debutante who had modelled the bride’s dress at the recent Berkeley Dress Show and who was the hot tip for winning Deb of the Year later that summer. Unlike Georgia, Estella was just impossible to resist.
She excused herself from Frederick and went to the loo to freshen up. She found an empty cubicle, flipped down the lid and took a breather. Spurred on by Uncle Peter’s promise to introduce her to the author, she took out her small notebook from her silk bag and started writing some notes about her experiences of the night, including a few interesting turns of phrase that Frederick had used. She wasn’t entirely sure what use it would be, except that she had decided that the sequel to An English Girl in Paris should be about a country girl in London documenting her experience as a debutante in 1958. How strange it was that she was writing her second book even before she had finished her first, she thought as the words came swiftly.
Her ears twitched when she heard her name.
‘I see the two most curious debutantes of the season are sharing a table,’ said a voice she only faintly recognised
‘And who might that be?’ said another.
‘The Birmingham girl with the enormous bosoms, and Georgia Hamilton.’
She peered through a crack in the toilet door and saw three girls standing in front of the mirror reapplying their lipstick. It was Marina Ellis, her friend Melanie from the Eaton Square cocktail party and another debutante.
‘I think she’s quite pretty,’ said the unknown girl.