‘It’s not a shop. It’s a house full of clothes. It doesn’t get more perfect than that.’
Amy looked at the older woman with interest.
‘You’re a dark horse,’ she said. ‘You, fashion . . .’
‘I can’t like clothes because I’m old? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, no,’ said Amy quickly, still finding it difficult to picture Georgia leafing through Vogue. ‘You’ve got great style.’
‘There are some women who can just throw together a little something and make it look fabulous. I’m not one of those women. But one can look and learn from the women who do dress well. When I was at finishing school in Paris, I had a French friend who worked in a café across the road from where we lived. She was as poor as a church mouse, but she was still as stylish as a Dior house model. She had such style, but I soon noticed that she didn’t have very many clothes. It was like a uniform: black cigarette pants, white shirts, those little stripy tops that everyone seems to wear these days, everything in the most flattering cut for her shape. Of course, true style is knowing who you are and not giving a damn. My old friend Gore Vidal said that, and it’s as true now as the day he said it.’
‘Nice clothes help, though, you gotta agree.’
‘Clothes can give you power, I’ll admit that,’ said Georgia. ‘Choosing the right outfit, a flattering outfit that makes you feel good, can change your whole personality.’ She smiled and patted Amy’s hand. ‘Next time you go to the Tower of London, you’ll need your armour.’
She gestured for Amy to stand.
‘You have excellent deportment,’ she said with a pleased nod. ‘A dancer’s posture, I noticed that immediately. You have a wonderful figure, of course, but your stance is much more important. An erect head will make any woman look taller, more elegant and more confident.’
She stepped over to a rack of dresses and began flicking through. ‘Hmm . . . possible . . . no, no, too short . . .’ she mused as she went. ‘None of these are right.’
‘I wonder if you could help?’ she said, turning to a sales assistant. ‘My friend would like a little black dress. Simple, classic, not too revealing.’
‘Size four?’ said the assistant, looking Amy up and down, then nodded and disappeared, emerging with three black dresses draped over her arm. Georgia held them up one by one, squinting at Amy like an artist regarding a life model.
‘This one, I think,’ she said, handing it to her.
‘Georgia . . .’ said Amy, widening her eyes meaningfully, but the other woman simply gave a quick shake of the head. ‘Try it on, come on, chop chop.’
Amy could tell the moment she stepped into the dress that it was going to look fabulous. Georgia had been modest; she clearly had a very good eye for clothes. It clung to her curves in all the right places, but without being in any way revealing. It was sophisticated; it made her poor sequin-shedding dress look like something from a little girl’s dressing-up box. She turned and stepped out of the changing room.
‘Ah,’ sighed Georgia when she saw her. ‘I believe it was Wallis Simpson who said that when a little black dress is right, there is nothing else to wear in its place.’
She stood up and pinched the back of the dress.
‘This is almost perfect,’ she mused. ‘I can recommend a tailor in London to take it in slightly. All the smartest women have even the finest clothes altered to exactly fit their shape. Couture clothes for off-the-peg prices.’
‘It is lovely,’ smiled Amy shyly. ‘It makes me want to go and hang outside Tiffany’s with a doughnut. Shame I can’t afford it.’
‘Did you look at the price tag?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Then don’t. We’ll take this,’ said Georgia quickly to the sales assistant.
‘Georgia, I’m serious. I don’t have any money,’ hissed Amy urgently.
‘But I’m paying for it,’ said Georgia matter-of-factly. ‘And the shoes.’
Amy looked at her wide-eyed.
‘I can’t accept that.’
Georgia tilted her head.
‘Whether it is a gift or a compliment, a lady should accept it graciously.’
Amy looked at Georgia, then back down at the dress.