whole demeanour relaxing. ‘I’ve always wanted to see it.’
22 December 2012
‘The local time here in New York is 2.45 p.m.,’ said the pilot. ‘The weather is a bracing four degrees, but the good news is we’re forecast for some sunny spells tomorrow.’
Georgia leant towards the window and peered out dubiously.
‘No snow. How disappointing.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to wish snow in New York,’ said Amy. ‘When the wind blows a blizzard up from the Battery, it can freeze you where you stand. Out in Queens, the snowploughs make drifts ten feet high.’
‘Oh, I’m sure, my dear,’ said the old lady. ‘But I have rather been harbouring a fantasy of a light sprinkling on the pavements and in the park. I must have seen it in some Gene Kelly film, I suppose.’
She glanced out of the window again, her lined mouth turned down, looking up at the gloomy sky. Perhaps she had that seasonal thingy disorder, thought Amy – that one where people became depressed when they were deprived of sunlight. But then Georgia Hamilton seemed to have been living in north London for the past two decades – she must spend half the year under a black cloud. Either way, Amy found it hard to believe that anyone who had just sat for eight hours in the warm embrace of first-class flying could be anything but happy. She herself had only ever been on a handful of long-haul flights in her entire life, and never above cattle class, so when the uniformed waiter in the Concorde Lounge at Heathrow had stepped forward and handed her a glass of pink Bollinger, Amy had almost wanted to kiss him. The lounge itself had been like a boutique hotel; she’d had a delicious three-course meal in the restaurant and a facial in the next-door Elemis Spa. It had all been free, and when their flight was announced to board she had been tempted to stow away in one of the cute little cabanas and not go – wondering to herself if squatters’ rights were in operation at airports and if so whether she should just move in and never return to her Finsbury Park apartment.
When she’d been dragged out of the lounge by Georgia, she had been amazed that the first-class cabin was just as nice. Amy had tucked in to her lobster bisque, tender fillet of beef and creamy panna cotta, accepting a glass of champagne whenever it was offered, whilst Georgia had sat quietly for most of the journey, reading a book and occasionally staring out of the window at the clouds. Amy had tried to engage her in conversation – she wasn’t sure if that was part of the job of ‘companion’; like a hitch-hiker, you were expected to earn the ride by distracting the driver – but while she had been unfailingly polite, as ever, Georgia had rebuffed every approach, so Amy had simply sat back and enjoyed being pampered.
They were the first down the air bridge and straight through customs with barely a glance. Amy felt a tingle of excitement and comfort as she smelt the cold, fuggy air of her home city.
‘I have arranged for a taxi to pick us up kerbside, I believe the term is,’ said Georgia as Amy steered a trolley with the luggage – Georgia’s smart cream suitcase and matching vanity case – to the exit.
‘Ms Hamilton?’ said a large Hispanic man in a chauffeur’s uniform, almost bowing as he said it. ‘I’m Alfonse, I’ll be your driver while you’re here.’
Georgia smiled graciously.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Alfonse. This is Miss Amy Carrell, my companion and a native of your city.’
Alfonse turned his wide smile towards Amy. ‘That so? Well welcome home, Miss Amy. Back to see the folks, huh? That’s real nice.’
He led them to a sleek Mercedes town car. A taxi? thought Amy as he held the door for her to climb in and she sank into the soft leather upholstery; it was a world away from the rickety estate cars of her local minicab firm in Finsbury Park. She glanced over at Georgia as they moved away. She had the relaxed look of those other passengers
22 December 2012
‘The local time here in New York is 2.45 p.m.,’ said the pilot. ‘The weather is a bracing four degrees, but the good news is we’re forecast for some sunny spells tomorrow.’
Georgia leant towards the window and peered out dubiously.
‘No snow. How disappointing.’
‘Believe me, you don’t want to wish snow in New York,’ said Amy. ‘When the wind blows a blizzard up from the Battery, it can freeze you where you stand. Out in Queens, the snowploughs make drifts ten feet high.’
‘Oh, I’m sure, my dear,’ said the old lady. ‘But I have rather been harbouring a fantasy of a light sprinkling on the pavements and in the park. I must have seen it in some Gene Kelly film, I suppose.’
She glanced out of the window again, her lined mouth turned down, looking up at the gloomy sky. Perhaps she had that seasonal thingy disorder, thought Amy – that one where people became depressed when they were deprived of sunlight. But then Georgia Hamilton seemed to have been living in north London for the past two decades – she must spend half the year under a black cloud. Either way, Amy found it hard to believe that anyone who had just sat for eight hours in the warm embrace of first-class flying could be anything but happy. She herself had only ever been on a handful of long-haul flights in her entire life, and never above cattle class, so when the uniformed waiter in the Concorde Lounge at Heathrow had stepped forward and handed her a glass of pink Bollinger, Amy had almost wanted to kiss him. The lounge itself had been like a boutique hotel; she’d had a delicious three-course meal in the restaurant and a facial in the next-door Elemis Spa. It had all been free, and when their flight was announced to board she had been tempted to stow away in one of the cute little cabanas and not go – wondering to herself if squatters’ rights were in operation at airports and if so whether she should just move in and never return to her Finsbury Park apartment.
When she’d been dragged out of the lounge by Georgia, she had been amazed that the first-class cabin was just as nice. Amy had tucked in to her lobster bisque, tender fillet of beef and creamy panna cotta, accepting a glass of champagne whenever it was offered, whilst Georgia had sat quietly for most of the journey, reading a book and occasionally staring out of the window at the clouds. Amy had tried to engage her in conversation – she wasn’t sure if that was part of the job of ‘companion’; like a hitch-hiker, you were expected to earn the ride by distracting the driver – but while she had been unfailingly polite, as ever, Georgia had rebuffed every approach, so Amy had simply sat back and enjoyed being pampered.
They were the first down the air bridge and straight through customs with barely a glance. Amy felt a tingle of excitement and comfort as she smelt the cold, fuggy air of her home city.
‘I have arranged for a taxi to pick us up kerbside, I believe the term is,’ said Georgia as Amy steered a trolley with the luggage – Georgia’s smart cream suitcase and matching vanity case – to the exit.
‘Ms Hamilton?’ said a large Hispanic man in a chauffeur’s uniform, almost bowing as he said it. ‘I’m Alfonse, I’ll be your driver while you’re here.’
Georgia smiled graciously.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Alfonse. This is Miss Amy Carrell, my companion and a native of your city.’
Alfonse turned his wide smile towards Amy. ‘That so? Well welcome home, Miss Amy. Back to see the folks, huh? That’s real nice.’
He led them to a sleek Mercedes town car. A taxi? thought Amy as he held the door for her to climb in and she sank into the soft leather upholstery; it was a world away from the rickety estate cars of her local minicab firm in Finsbury Park. She glanced over at Georgia as they moved away. She had the relaxed look of those other passengers
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