The Proposal

by Tasmina Perry

  Amy peered closer. She couldn’t deny that it was an amazing bit of painting. The skin seemed to glow with life; the man even seemed to have stubble.

  ‘Now imagine he’s wearing a suit and tie. Or a baseball cap if you prefer. Can you picture him as an actor or a folk singer, someone you might see on TV?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, it’s like a photograph really,’ said Amy. ‘Only more real, somehow.’

  ‘This painting is almost five hundred years old, but even so, you somehow get the feel of the man.’

  ‘Yeah, he looks really ticked off,’ laughed Amy.

  ‘Funny that you should say that: he was executed by Henry VIII shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Executed?’

  ‘Beheaded at the Tower of London, I’m afraid to say.’

  ‘I know the place.’ Amy grimaced.

  Her eyes searched the painting once again, and instead of dwelling on that last night with Daniel, she found herself transported back in time, back to the days of Thomas More and Henry VIII, and although she knew very little about that period of history, it suddenly came alive in front of her.

  They walked slowly through the rooms, Amy looking at the art in a wholly different light, wondering who all these people were, frozen in time, what their stories were and how they came to be immortalised on the walls of this amazing house built on greed and spite.

  ‘This is pretty amazing,’ she said, wandering around, wanting to reach out and touch it. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

  ‘The money of the Gilded Age.’

  ‘Georgia, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How do you know so much about art? Well, not just art, but all sorts of things.’

  Georgia stopped and looked at the slim gold watch on her wrist.

  ‘Well, I think that’s a question best answered over lunch.’

  Amy looked at her own watch. Damn, was that the time? They’d been in the Frick for hours.

  ‘Actually, I have a confession to make. I booked us in somewhere.’

  Georgia looked surprised.

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s your trip and all, so feel free to say no, but I thought that as I’m kind of your guide to the city, I could show you a little slice of my New York. It’s not far away.’

  She bit her lip. When she had made the booking, she had imagined it being a wonderful surprise where she could impress the naïve old lady with her insider knowledge, but now she just felt presumptuous.

  ‘Sorry, I really shouldn’t have . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ said Georgia, taking her arm and turning towards the exit. ‘I’d love to see a little of the real New York while I’m here.’

  Amy pulled a face.

  ‘I’m not sure it quite counts as the real New York, but it means a lot to me.’

  ‘Then that’s good enough reason,’ smiled the old lady.

  Amy’s misgivings increased as Alfonse pulled up outside the restaurant. There was an enormous queue snaking from the entrance down the street.

  ‘Serendipity 3?’ said Georgia, reading the sign on the black shop frontage as they stepped out of the car. ‘Is this the place?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we have reservations, we don’t have to queue,’ said Amy as she led the way through the narrow entrance, past racks of aprons, New York paraphernalia, cookbooks and brightly coloured confectionery that looked as if it came straight out of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. No wonder Serendipity was a New York institution, the dining equivalent of Disneyland, the sort of place kids pestered their parents about for a birthday treat. Or at least that was how it had been for Amy. Growing up in Queens, a trip to Serendipity with her mom was like a visit to the circus and the fairground all rolled into one, sitting under the giant stained-glass lampshades and eating banana splits until she thought she would burst, or coming here for ice cream before the annual trip to see Santa Claus at Macy’s. As they walked up the stairs, all those happy memories came flooding back, and she couldn’t help smiling, despite the noise – inevitably, most tables were crowded with eight-year-old kids out of their minds with excitement and sugar. Georgia looked absolutely bewildered.

  The waitress showed them to a table for two and handed them the enormous black and white menus. Georgia put on her reading glasses and seemed to be examining hers in forensic detail.

  ‘Foot-long hot dogs,’ she read, and then looked at Amy over the top of her half-moon lenses. ‘Now tell me, what exactly is a chilli dog? One hears of these things in movies and so forth, but I have always wondered.’

  Amy giggled.

  ‘It’s a hot dog with chilli on the top.’

  ‘Together? I mean, spooned on top of the bun thing?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Georgia turned back to the menu.

  ‘My goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s a pudding here for a thousand dollars.’

  ‘The Golden Opulence,’ said Amy. ‘I never tried it, but I think you get gold leaf sprinkles and flavoured caviar and a golden spoon to eat it with.’

  ‘Hmm, my mother used to have a phrase: “more money than sense”,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Well, my mom used to bring me here on my birthday and she had a saying too: “you don’t come here for a salad”. You’ve gotta splurge. Seeing as it’s a special occasion.’

  ‘Speaking of which, when are you planning on seeing your parents?’

  ‘That’s up to you . . .’

  ‘You should go tomorrow night, of course. Christmas Eve. You should certainly wake up in your own bed on Christmas morning.’

  What Georgia was suggesting was far more generous than Amy had been expecting.

  ‘But what about you?’

  Georgia waved one thin, crepey hand.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I intend to have a quiet night with a good glass of wine. Now, let’s order. How about a pot-pie and this thing called frozen hot chocolate?’

  Amy giggled.

  ‘You’ve read my mind.’

  They ordered from the waitress and Amy smiled at the sight of a table of noisy kids laughing and making a glorious mess. As she slurped her frozen hot chocolate, she glanced up and saw Georgia looking at her.

  ‘You didn’t feel very comfortable in the restaurant last night, did you?’

  Amy shrugged.

  ‘The food and the wine were great, but it just reminded me of a night I had in London a couple of weeks ago. The night when me and my boyfriend kind of finished.’

  Georgia prodded gently, and Amy found herself unburdening the story of the Foreign Office dinner.

  ‘I never thought it mattered which glass or knife you used, not really. But apparently it does to some people.’

  ‘It sounds as if your boyfriend’s parents set you up to fail, deliberately. I find unkindness more of a cardinal sin than any lapse in table manners.’

  ‘I think Daniel was just too influenced by his family, by his background.’

  ‘Are you making excuses for him?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just sad. Sad that there are still people out there who want to make you feel bad about yourself just because of where you come from.’

  ‘I believe it was Eleanor Roosevelt who said that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’

  ‘So now it’s my fault?’ she queried.

  ‘Not at all. I just think you should stop thinking you’re not good enough and remind yourself precisely how wonderful you are.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Amy said, twisting her spoon around her empty glass. ‘I live in a tiny studio apartment, I have some great friend at the Forge, but we all know it’s just paying the rent. My career is going nowhere. My life is going nowhere . . .’

  ‘Then make it go somewhere.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘Because I have money?’

  Amy nodded.

  ‘I never used to.’

  ‘I’m sure you had a classical education; that can take you places.’
/>   Georgia looked thoughtful.

  ‘Indeed, education can be the key that opens many doors. But in my day, university wasn’t considered a serious option for well-brought-up young ladies.’

  ‘So did you go?’

  ‘I went to Cambridge.’

  ‘There you are.’

  Georgia laughed softly.

  ‘I worked very hard to get there, with very little encouragement. Well, with the exception of someone . . . someone I met at the Season. Someone I cared for very deeply. He encouraged me to value education, curiosity, wherever it could be found. So when it came to it, I thought I should try and get into the best place I could, seeing as everyone was rooting for me to fail.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t people want you to succeed?’

  ‘Certain people.’ The old woman’s face was inscrutable. ‘So I worked very hard to show them what I was made of,’ she continued as if she did not want to dwell too much on the details. ‘I graduated, joined a publishing house. I always had rather lofty ideas about being a writer, but as it turned out, I was better at shaping other people’s words and ideas. I got married to someone I met in the industry, got divorced, had a little money and decided to start my own company.’

  ‘Make money for yourself rather than for other people,’ smiled Amy.

  ‘I was certainly focused. But it was more about the love of books and being able to publish those books my way that drove me.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy,’ said Amy, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her palms.

  ‘It was easier building up a company without a family and children to distract me.’

  ‘Exactly. Who needs men?’ said Amy defiantly as Georgia asked for the bill. She had felt wretched at Annie’s, when all her dreams of a future with Daniel had seemed to be in tatters. But talking to Georgia made her realise that there were new dreams out there to chase and catch hold of, like running after dandelion clocks in a summer field.

  ‘Will you help me?’ she said softly.

  ‘Help you with what, dear?’ asked Georgia, tapping her pin number into the credit card machine the cheerful waitress had brought over.

  ‘Help me make a fresh start, change my life, improve it . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help . . . I could certainly point you in the direction of some interesting authors, give you some books . . .’

  ‘Teach me to stop being such a klutz. Teach me to be elegant. Teach me to be a lady.’

  Georgia was chuckling softly. Not unkindly.

  ‘I thought we were talking about being a modern woman, not some old-school deb whose life revolves around a man.’

  ‘Please,’ said Amy, remembering how stupid and uneducated she had felt at Daniel’s dinner parties. ‘Please teach me stuff.’

  ‘Amy darling, much of what I learnt at finishing school is outdated now. I’m sure your ballet training means you can do a better curtsey than I can. Things change, move on. Besides, you shouldn’t be motivated by the way Daniel and his family treated you. They don’t matter.’

  ‘You said yourself that all that stuff you do without thinking was part of your arsenal. Learning all those things you know wouldn’t be about pleasing Daniel or his parents; it’s about never again feeling like I did at the Tower of London. It’s about never feeling so freaking awkward because I don’t know how to behave, about never feeling stupid even though people probably haven’t noticed I’ve got nothing to offer to their intelligent conversations. It’s about never wanting to feel not good enough again.’

  Amy felt her shoulders sink, her whole body consumed by the force of her emotions.

  ‘Now that, that I can understand,’ said Georgia quietly.

  She looked at Amy for a long time.

  ‘All right,’ she said, wiping her lips with her napkin and placing it at the side of her plate. ‘First lesson: leave the napkin where you found it.’ She stood up.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘If you’re going to play the part of a lady, then we need to start where every good actor starts.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Georgia’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘With the shoes.’

  Alfonse dropped them on Madison Avenue. Amy pulled her thin coat around herself. The wind was tugging at her skirt – she hadn’t been exaggerating when she had told Georgia that New York could be one of the coldest places on earth. When the wind blew past Liberty Island, across the Hudson Bay and up through the concrete canyons of downtown, it only seemed to get colder on the way.

  ‘Brrrr!’ she said, stamping her feet. ‘Are we going far?’

  Georgia smiled. ‘Far? But my dear, we’re already there.’

  Amy looked up at the building in front of them, a huge limestone pile almost grand enough to rival the Frick. She glanced at the small type either side of the arched doorway.

  ‘Ralph Lauren?’

  ‘My New York friends assure me that this is the most elegant store in the world.’

  ‘But I can’t go in there,’ said Amy.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, I can’t afford anything they sell.’

  ‘You’re a woman, Amy,’ said Georgia. ‘I’m sure that’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about,’ she replied, immediately picturing some snooty sales assistant railroading her into buying a pair of five-hundred-dollar shoes she’d spend the next two years paying off. But what was really stopping her was the fact that she had often yearned to go inside shops like this but had always kept on walking, feeling too insecure, thinking that someone would spot her and shout, ‘Impostor!’

  Georgia linked her arm through Amy’s. ‘Come on, before we both freeze,’ she said.

  Still Amy resisted.

  Georgia held up one finger.

  ‘You’ve been on the stage; think of this as the same thing, all right? You’re playing a role. Remember that no one in any shop knows who you are, they have no idea of your back-ground and they can’t magically see inside your bank account. Look as if you were born to be there, that you can afford to buy the whole store, and they will treat you accordingly. I promise.’

  Amy nodded and stepped inside.

  Even remembering Georgia’s words, she found it hard not to let her mouth drop open. This wasn’t like any old shop; it was like walking on to a movie set. A sweep of elegant staircase dominated the lobby. Crystals dripped from giant chandeliers. An upstairs room decorated like a billionaire’s wife’s boudoir with thick oyster-coloured carpets and pastel-hued silk camisoles hanging off rails was in fact the lingerie department. Another room was decorated like a de luxe drawing room, panelled on all walls by racks of beautiful clothes.

  ‘Look at the price of these,’ whispered Amy from the side of her mouth, holding up the label on a pair of knickers. Georgia put her hand over it.

  ‘Never look at the price,’ she said.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No, my dear. First look at the garment, feel the quality, assess whether it will last for years. Finally ask yourself – and answer honestly – “Is it right?”’

  ‘Is it right?’

  ‘Is it right for you? Will it flatter you? Ignore what the magazines have told you is all the rage this season, ignore what you feel comfortable in, and certainly never, ever buy anything you think will fit if you lose five pounds. If you can follow all those rules, you will only ever buy clothes that show you off to your best.’

  ‘But Georgia, they cost—’

  The old woman held up a finger.

  ‘Price is irrelevant. If you buy only classic, quality pieces you will have a much smaller wardrobe, but it will be a wardrobe of clothes you wear. Expensive they may be, but they will be clothes you look forward to wearing. And – this is the most important thing to remember – just by getting dressed in the right clothes each morning, you will not only look like a million dollars, you will feel it too.’

/>   Amy was about to argue that it was hard to look like a millionaire on her meagre clothes budget when she noticed that Georgia was already moving back downstairs to the shoes. Her stomach gave a jolt. Oh God, she doesn’t expect me to choose a pair without looking at the price, does she? I’ll be working double shifts at the Forge until next Thanksgiving.

  ‘Size seven?’ asked Georgia absently.

  ‘Six,’ replied Amy, picking up a hot-pink strappy heels and sighing. She had a soft spot for anything high and strappy. Her greatest ever bargain was a pair of sparkly Gina heels she had found in a charity shop in Chelsea, which she had worn and worn until the straps had literally fallen apart in her hands, because they made her feel as sexy as Beyoncé even if she was only doing the ironing.

  But as she looked up, she saw Georgia shaking her head. One look told her to put the pink shoe back down. Instead she held aloft a black, mid-heel suede pump scooped low, with a pointed toe.

  Amy couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.

  ‘Try these,’ ordered Georgia.

  ‘I’m not sure they’re me,’ said Amy diplomatically.

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Georgia with surprise.

  ‘Well, I don’t work in an office.’

  ‘A shoe like this shouldn’t be hidden under a desk,’ gasped her friend. ‘They are special-occasion shoes.’

  Amy smiled weakly, remembering her last big night out. The time before the Tower of London party. She’d gone clubbing in King’s Cross with some guys from the Forge – their unofficial works night out. The floor had been sticky, beer had been flying everywhere, but at least she’d been wearing trainers. Special-occasion shoes like the ones Georgia was holding wouldn’t have made it through the night in one piece, and if she turned up to the Forge in them, Cheryl would think she was on her way to a job interview. No, without Daniel in her life, shoes like this didn’t have any place in her closet.

  ‘Just try them,’ said Georgia more kindly as the assistant brought over the other shoe.

  As Amy slipped them on, she overheard a customer asking for three pairs of the same suede moccasin in size eight, telling the assistant to send one pair to her New York apartment, one to the house in Houston and the other to the ski lodge in Aspen.