Free The Proposal by Tasmina Perry

understand it all. Because it’s me. I have felt it, I have done it.’
    She shifted her position and looked her daughter directly in the eyes.
    ‘I know you are a little embarrassed by me sometimes. I know you think I can be away with the fairies. But I am a practical woman. I don’t want to live like this any more. You might not have the height or the neck to model, but you are a beautiful young girl. You can make a good marriage, and believe me, your dreams of becoming a writer are much more likely to be within your reach if you have the cushion of financial security.’
    The train chugged to a halt at Paddington station with a long whistle and the ear-piercing screech of brakes against iron. Georgia knew there was no point in arguing any further. No point complaining that she felt like a fatted cow being sent off to market – or should that be a lamb sent to the slaughter? They were flat broke. Her fate was sealed: she was to go along with her mother’s plan to find her a suitable husband.
    Estella treated them to a taxi from the station and Georgia pressed her nose up against the glass as it weaved through the streets of London. The journey from Devon had been over six hours long. It was almost dark now, and the city was retreating into a series of lights and shadows beyond the rain-speckled window of the cab. Despite her protestations on the train, Georgia had nothing against London. She did not consider it as beautiful or romantic as Paris, which had escaped the wartime bombing, but it was hard not to feel a thrill as she saw Hyde Park, and the Dorchester Hotel twinkling in the dusk.
    Their destination was the home of her aunt Sybil and uncle Peter, who lived in a handsome white mews house behind Pimlico Road. As the taxi stopped outside and their trunks were unloaded, Georgia took a moment to admire its polished stone steps and shiny front door.
    Sybil and Peter’s uniformed housekeeper welcomed them at the door as Sybil swept down the staircase behind her.
    Georgia had not seen her aunt since the previous summer and thought she had aged considerably since then. She did not know Sybil’s precise age but she guessed it was around forty-five. Certainly in her formal dress, string of pearls around her neck and completely grey hair, she looked a decade older than Estella, who was wearing pink capri trousers, a turban hat and a long white jacket made of alpaca.
    ‘At last,’ said Sybil, kissing them both lightly on the cheek. ‘Come through,’ she added, spinning round so fast that the expensive-looking navy fabric of her dress made a swooshing sound.
    ‘Peter and Clarissa should be back any time. Mrs Bryant has prepared chicken for supper, but I suspect all you want now is a pot of tea.’
    Mrs Bryant, the housekeeper, hovered at the door and offered to take their coats.
    ‘You’ve done the house,’ said Estella.
    Georgia took a minute to glance around the room. If Sybil looked older since the last time she had been in London, then her house looked decidedly more modish. The stiff furniture and fusty antiques that seemed to belong in a Victorian parlour had all gone, and the new splashes of colour around the place appeared more suited to Estella’s style of decor.
    ‘I have just painted the chicken coop back at the farm this exact shade of fuchsia,’ said Estella, drifting a finger across a bright pink ottoman.
    ‘Really, how lovely,’ said Sybil, her expression at odds with her words. Georgia had often felt that her aunt and her mother had nothing in common whatsoever – Sybil’s background was as establishment as Estella’s was offbeat and bohemian. In fact it was Sybil’s position as the youngest daughter of the Honourable David Castlereagh that had afforded them such a comfortable home, not Uncle Peter’s Civil Service job in the Home Office.
    ‘I found a wonderful designer, David Hicks. He’s doing all the best people in London right now. So how was the journey?’ asked Sybil as a clock