‘This isn’t a joke?’
‘It’s no joke,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Now come along, we have to be somewhere else by six. And a lady – or at least these two ladies – is never late.’
It was dark outside, and New York looked even more magical. Alfonse collected them, and as they drove down Fifth Avenue, skirting Central Park, Amy drank it all in. The streets were crammed with New Yorkers wrapped up warm and doing last-minute Christmas shopping, laden down with bags – the distinctive brown and white stripes belonging to Henri Bendel, the crisp black and white of Saks. Best of all, she loved looking in the shop windows. New York stores always did wonderful holiday windows, she thought, catching sight of the art-deco-inspired displays in Bergdorf Goodman.
‘Look at that,’ said Georgia gleefully, pointing at the mannequins. ‘They look like beauties on their way to one of Gatsby’s Great Egg parties.’
The car continued downtown all the way to 24th Street and back on to the lower reaches of Madison Avenue.
‘Here we are,’ said Georgia briskly, getting out of the car.
‘Eleven Madison Park. I don’t know this place. What is it? A hotel?’
‘Further education,’ smiled Georgia.
They went inside, off the cold street, where Georgia asked to speak to Clive.
Amy’s eyes were fixed on the glamorous and powerful clientele. Growing up in New York, she had often walked past these fancy places – restaurants with French names, or names carved in tiny letters, as if you were simply expected to know what they were; famous restaurants, bistros that you read about in Page Six, restaurants that appeared on magazine hot lists and Michelin lists – but she had never been inside one. She wished she was wearing the Ralph Lauren little black dress that was in the stiff cardboard bag in her hand, but she realised that she had an even better accessory by her side – Georgia, whose presence gave her a quiet reassurance that she had never felt when she went to these sort of places in London with Daniel.
‘Who’s Clive?’ she whispered.
‘An old friend who worked in Claridge’s for many years. Ah – here he is now.’
A fifty-something gentleman in a beautifully cut su
it extended his hand towards Georgia, who seemed to soften in his presence.
‘It’s so good to see you again,’ she said warmly as they shook hands.
‘It has been far too long, Miss Hamilton.’
‘Well, I finally made it. I suppose asking you to call me Georgia after so long would be futile?’
They all laughed, and Georgia introduced Clive to Amy before they were led upstairs away from the main dining area.
Amy had assumed they were here to eat, but perhaps not.
‘Here we go. The South Room,’ said Clive, ushering them into a small, elegant dining space on a mezzanine floor over the restaurant.
‘Look at this place,’ said Amy, gazing out through the long windows on to Madison Square Park. ‘Are we the only people here?’
‘This is one of our private dining rooms,’ explained Clive, handing her a menu.
‘I thought we could kill two birds with one stone. We get to sample some exceptional cuisine, and I can help you with this.’
‘With what?’
‘This,’ said Georgia, gesturing towards the table, formally set as if for a banquet for two.
Amy’s eyes opened wide. ‘Now? We’re going to talk about bread rolls and stuff now?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it’s just that I’m not sure I’ll be able to remember it all. I haven’t got a notebook or anything. I mean, I’d write it all on the back of a napkin if they weren’t made out of linen.’
Georgia patted her hand.
‘Relax, my dear. The point of this exercise is not to make you an expert, rather to make you comfortable being in this environment. And to learn that not everything is important.’