‘He’s adorable, isn’t he?’ replied Julia, blowing a smoke ring. ‘Oxford’s top catch. We all think that Annabel is the luckiest girl in the world.’
‘Annabel?’
‘His girlfriend, of course. Every boy at Oxford is a little bit in love with her too, so I suppose you could call them Oxford’s beautiful couple. No one is going to want to be photographed next to them at the Magdalen Commem ball, that’s for certain. I’ve already seen the dress she’s picked out for it, and she’s going to look divine.’
Georgia felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. He was handsome and smart and rich – of course he had a girlfriend. It certainly explained why he hadn’t been seen at any more debutante parties – the catch of Oxford had been caught. As Julia made her excuses and left, Georgia could see Edward threading through the crowd towards her. His eyes locked with hers, and as he smiled, the disappointment almost crushed her.
‘Champagne,’ he said triumphantly, raising the bottle.
‘I should go,’ said Georgia quickly. ‘It’s late. I don’t want the hotel to lock its doors.’
‘Then we could stay up all night.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have to get an early train.’
‘How about breakfast?’
She shook her head, determined that her expression shouldn’t betray her emotions.
‘I think the first train is very early.’
‘But you don’t have to catch that one. There’ll be plenty of others.’
‘I need to get back.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll walk you back to the hotel.’
‘Really, there’s no need.’
‘It’s time I went back too.’
They took the short route back. Down the High Street and right at Cornmarket Street. She babbled about the many debutante parties that were coming up, and even threw Jacques – by now almost a forgotten name – into the conversation for good measure.
‘Good night, Mrs Carlyle,’ said Edward as they stood on the steps of the hotel.
‘Thanks again, Edward. You’re a real pal.’
They stood in silence for a second. He stretched out and touched her fingers, but she flinched away.
‘Good night,’ she said quickly, and ran inside the hotel, and when she turned back to see where he was, he had gone.
June 1958
‘Someone looks nice. Are you going on a date?’ André, the pastry chef at the Swiss Chalet café, gave a wolf whistle as Georgia emerged from the staff loos in a dark green pencil skirt and a white shirt knotted at the waist.
‘Not a date. An appointment,’ she grinned, pulling her manuscript out of her bag to show him. ‘It’s almost finished, André, my Paris memoirs, and I’m going to meet a writer, a really successful one, to find out how to get published.’
The door of the café opened with the tinkling sound of a cow bell that André had brought over from his most recent visit to Innsbruck.
‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ shouted Georgia, glancing at her watch and noticing that she was running twenty minutes late.
‘Can you not even spare any leftover Sachertorte?’ said a familiar voice. Georgia looked up and started laughing.
‘Sally, what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I was in the area and just telling Gianni here how absolutely delicious your cakes are.’
Sally was holding hands with a tall, swarthy young man dressed in cream trousers, a white shirt with the collar turned up and dark sunglasses. All he needed was a Ferrari or a yacht and he would have looked like Gianni Agnelli, the Fiat heir who often graced the pages of Paris Match – which Georgia suspected was exactly the look that this Gianni was after.