your stuff,’ said Amy, sipping her water uncomfortably. ‘French. Wine. The only stuff I know is from that scene in Pretty Woman where the manager teaches Julia Roberts to count the prongs.’
Georgia raised one thin grey brow. ‘I saw that film too, and believe me, there’s a lot more to it than counting the prongs. We had weeks studying at finishing school – and I do mean studying.’
‘You went to finishing school?’ asked Amy, wide-eyed.
‘I did.’
‘In the Alps?’ She had read and reread Lace , and that bit at the beginning – where the girls were sashaying around L’Hirondelle drinking hot chocolate and fraternising with princes – was her favourite part.
‘No, I went to Paris,’ said Georgia. ‘Madame Didiot’s School for Girls. Going to Paris to finish was considered quite a smart choice. Although my mother didn’t have a bean, there was a small trust fund put to one side for my education.’
‘Wow,’ said Amy. ‘Is that where you learnt about wine?’
‘A little. I didn’t want to go to finishing school and I wasn’t a particularly good student, as Madame Didiot would certainly have confirmed. But wine I enjoyed. I probably drank too much of it in the eighties. I think most publishers of a certain age would say that.’
Georgia had ordered for them both, and when the starters arrived, Amy picked at hers.
‘So if you didn’t want to be at finishing school, why did you go?’
‘Because I had to. Because I was going to be a deb.’
‘Deb?’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘A debutante. The point of the finishing school was to prepare a young lady for her “coming out”, when she would be presented to Her Majesty the Queen as a girl worthy of English society. And it wasn’t a matter of simply turning up and curtseying properly; there was a whole season of events, parties and functions where the proper young lady would be expected to behave impeccably in every situation. And by that, I mean behave impeccably around young men. Because of course that was the real point of the debutante system: to produce good little wives for the next generation of upper-class men.’
‘So is that what Madame Didiot taught you? How to talk to men?’ asked Amy, smiling. She wished they’d had a few of those lessons at Kelsey High in Queens, where she had been so painfully shy she had broken out in a neck rash whenever certain members of the football team spoke to her.
‘Amongst other things,’ Georgia said as she took a sip of her wine. ‘Deportment, place settings, flower arranging, grooming, musical appreciation, public speaking . . . it was endless. And I have to say, at the time I rebelled against it; I could see no point in any of it. But now? Well, maybe it’s just an old woman looking at the world with jaded eyes, but now I don’t think teaching young people manners is the worst thing in the world.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘Who?’ asked Georgia, sliding her knife into her lamb.
‘A husband?’
Georgia was silent for one moment.
‘I did marry. But not to someone I met during the Season.’
‘Are you still together?’ She chose her words carefully. She had been in Georgia’s almost constant company for over twelve hours, and yet she had found out very little about her.
‘It was a short marriage. Philip and I divorced many years ago, although we remained friends until he passed away two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Still,’ said Georgia more breezily, ‘there were things I learnt in Paris and during my season which were invaluable later on, certainly when I became chief executive of my own company in the seventies. In those days it was rather unusual for a woman to attain such lofty heights. There were times when I was patronised, ignored, belittled and even threatened just for being a woman. But because of my background, I knew that I could compete at every level. I was as educated, as cultured, as well informed as even the most
Georgia raised one thin grey brow. ‘I saw that film too, and believe me, there’s a lot more to it than counting the prongs. We had weeks studying at finishing school – and I do mean studying.’
‘You went to finishing school?’ asked Amy, wide-eyed.
‘I did.’
‘In the Alps?’ She had read and reread Lace , and that bit at the beginning – where the girls were sashaying around L’Hirondelle drinking hot chocolate and fraternising with princes – was her favourite part.
‘No, I went to Paris,’ said Georgia. ‘Madame Didiot’s School for Girls. Going to Paris to finish was considered quite a smart choice. Although my mother didn’t have a bean, there was a small trust fund put to one side for my education.’
‘Wow,’ said Amy. ‘Is that where you learnt about wine?’
‘A little. I didn’t want to go to finishing school and I wasn’t a particularly good student, as Madame Didiot would certainly have confirmed. But wine I enjoyed. I probably drank too much of it in the eighties. I think most publishers of a certain age would say that.’
Georgia had ordered for them both, and when the starters arrived, Amy picked at hers.
‘So if you didn’t want to be at finishing school, why did you go?’
‘Because I had to. Because I was going to be a deb.’
‘Deb?’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘A debutante. The point of the finishing school was to prepare a young lady for her “coming out”, when she would be presented to Her Majesty the Queen as a girl worthy of English society. And it wasn’t a matter of simply turning up and curtseying properly; there was a whole season of events, parties and functions where the proper young lady would be expected to behave impeccably in every situation. And by that, I mean behave impeccably around young men. Because of course that was the real point of the debutante system: to produce good little wives for the next generation of upper-class men.’
‘So is that what Madame Didiot taught you? How to talk to men?’ asked Amy, smiling. She wished they’d had a few of those lessons at Kelsey High in Queens, where she had been so painfully shy she had broken out in a neck rash whenever certain members of the football team spoke to her.
‘Amongst other things,’ Georgia said as she took a sip of her wine. ‘Deportment, place settings, flower arranging, grooming, musical appreciation, public speaking . . . it was endless. And I have to say, at the time I rebelled against it; I could see no point in any of it. But now? Well, maybe it’s just an old woman looking at the world with jaded eyes, but now I don’t think teaching young people manners is the worst thing in the world.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘Who?’ asked Georgia, sliding her knife into her lamb.
‘A husband?’
Georgia was silent for one moment.
‘I did marry. But not to someone I met during the Season.’
‘Are you still together?’ She chose her words carefully. She had been in Georgia’s almost constant company for over twelve hours, and yet she had found out very little about her.
‘It was a short marriage. Philip and I divorced many years ago, although we remained friends until he passed away two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Still,’ said Georgia more breezily, ‘there were things I learnt in Paris and during my season which were invaluable later on, certainly when I became chief executive of my own company in the seventies. In those days it was rather unusual for a woman to attain such lofty heights. There were times when I was patronised, ignored, belittled and even threatened just for being a woman. But because of my background, I knew that I could compete at every level. I was as educated, as cultured, as well informed as even the most
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