much on the money. Georgia was in a suite which was sumptuous, but not overpoweringly so, whilst Amy was in a lovely room down the hall. Amy had been to a lot of high-end places with Daniel – he would never go anywhere that wasn’t what he considered ‘the best’ – but she had rarely enjoyed them as they seemed to come with a sort of inbuilt snobbery, with the guests all trying to outdo each other in some sort of po-faced Olympics. But this hotel seemed to be just as Alfonse had said – more like a temporary home-from-home for the wealthy. Certainly, as the bell captain closed the door and left them alone, Georgia looked as if she was entirely at home.
‘So, uh, what do you want to do now?’ said Amy, looking at the suitcases sitting by the door of the suite. Was she supposed to unpack for Georgia? Iron her dresses? Massage her tired feet?
‘First, I’d like you to relax,’ said Georgia pointedly, as if she had read all of that from Amy’s anxious expression. ‘I wanted a companion for this trip, not an entertainments officer from a cruise ship. Don’t feel that you have to run about picking up after me and arranging things for me to do.’
‘Oh. Okay. So what is my . . .’
‘Your role?’
Amy shrugged, blushing a little.
‘Yes, I guess.’
‘Just as the advert said: a companion, someone to accompany me wherever I go. I realise it’s a little strange for you, but think of it as if we were two old friends on holiday in New York. What would you do first?’
Go and get drunk , thought Amy, but bit her lip.
‘I’d probably have a shower, then get pizza.’
Georgia smiled thinly. Her demeanour had been quite prickly and severe all day, but she looked as if she was starting to thaw.
‘A fine plan. I think we can do a little better than pizza, however. Why don’t you settle into your room and I’ll see if I can arrange somewhere to eat.’
‘Somewhere to eat’ was a place called Ralph, or so said the tiny gold plaque on the wall of the 68th Street building that Amy almost missed. She had never heard of it before, although the Upper East Side had never been one of her natural habitats even when she lived in the city. It was old-money New York, where Wall Street bankers and industrialists owned multimillion-dollar townhouses, where antique shops sat cheek by jowl with apartments owned by tight-faced old ladies with Pekinese dogs, and where trophy blondes spent their days running from blow-dry appointments to lunch to Mandarin classes for their children. It was all too rich a blend, thought Amy, deciding that pizza would have been infinitely preferable.
‘Ms Hamilton,’ said the maître d’ as they walked inside. ‘Welcome to Ralph.’ He pronounced it ‘Rafe’. ‘May I take your coats?’
Amy tried her best not to look overawed. She had been expecting gold leaf and marble, but it was more like a grand dame’s elegant dining room, all crisp linens, antique furnishings and hushed atmosphere, which somehow made it even more intimidating.
They were given the wine list and looked at the menu, which was all in French.
Georgia pulled a pair of glasses from her bag and put them on. She made a gentle noise of approval, snapped the menu shut and announced that she was having the lamb.
‘Where was that?’ asked Amy, only recognising the words ‘tarte Tatin’, which was on the Forge’s Specials board on Fridays.
‘Would you like me to translate?’ asked Georgia, peering down the end of her nose.
‘I’ll have the lamb too,’ said Amy, not wishing to suffer any more food-related embarrassment for one week.
The sommelier approached and Amy watched quietly as Georgia spoke to the man, not just knowledgeably discussing vintages, growing regions and grapes, but asking what cut of lamb they were to be eating and how rich was its sauce, before deciding on a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. The sommelier left with a smile that said she had chosen both expensively and well.
‘You know
‘So, uh, what do you want to do now?’ said Amy, looking at the suitcases sitting by the door of the suite. Was she supposed to unpack for Georgia? Iron her dresses? Massage her tired feet?
‘First, I’d like you to relax,’ said Georgia pointedly, as if she had read all of that from Amy’s anxious expression. ‘I wanted a companion for this trip, not an entertainments officer from a cruise ship. Don’t feel that you have to run about picking up after me and arranging things for me to do.’
‘Oh. Okay. So what is my . . .’
‘Your role?’
Amy shrugged, blushing a little.
‘Yes, I guess.’
‘Just as the advert said: a companion, someone to accompany me wherever I go. I realise it’s a little strange for you, but think of it as if we were two old friends on holiday in New York. What would you do first?’
Go and get drunk , thought Amy, but bit her lip.
‘I’d probably have a shower, then get pizza.’
Georgia smiled thinly. Her demeanour had been quite prickly and severe all day, but she looked as if she was starting to thaw.
‘A fine plan. I think we can do a little better than pizza, however. Why don’t you settle into your room and I’ll see if I can arrange somewhere to eat.’
‘Somewhere to eat’ was a place called Ralph, or so said the tiny gold plaque on the wall of the 68th Street building that Amy almost missed. She had never heard of it before, although the Upper East Side had never been one of her natural habitats even when she lived in the city. It was old-money New York, where Wall Street bankers and industrialists owned multimillion-dollar townhouses, where antique shops sat cheek by jowl with apartments owned by tight-faced old ladies with Pekinese dogs, and where trophy blondes spent their days running from blow-dry appointments to lunch to Mandarin classes for their children. It was all too rich a blend, thought Amy, deciding that pizza would have been infinitely preferable.
‘Ms Hamilton,’ said the maître d’ as they walked inside. ‘Welcome to Ralph.’ He pronounced it ‘Rafe’. ‘May I take your coats?’
Amy tried her best not to look overawed. She had been expecting gold leaf and marble, but it was more like a grand dame’s elegant dining room, all crisp linens, antique furnishings and hushed atmosphere, which somehow made it even more intimidating.
They were given the wine list and looked at the menu, which was all in French.
Georgia pulled a pair of glasses from her bag and put them on. She made a gentle noise of approval, snapped the menu shut and announced that she was having the lamb.
‘Where was that?’ asked Amy, only recognising the words ‘tarte Tatin’, which was on the Forge’s Specials board on Fridays.
‘Would you like me to translate?’ asked Georgia, peering down the end of her nose.
‘I’ll have the lamb too,’ said Amy, not wishing to suffer any more food-related embarrassment for one week.
The sommelier approached and Amy watched quietly as Georgia spoke to the man, not just knowledgeably discussing vintages, growing regions and grapes, but asking what cut of lamb they were to be eating and how rich was its sauce, before deciding on a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. The sommelier left with a smile that said she had chosen both expensively and well.
‘You know
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