Then without a beat, Tina moved on to drop a new conversational grenade about a confrontation – almost a scene – in the outer office, between two of the other traders.
‘Well, I think a “go fuck yourself” wouldn’t have been inappropriate,’ Michelle said. Just then Abigail Samuels walked in, in time to hear the vulgarity. Claire hung her head. She was in the company of these people and surely perceived as one of them by everyone but herself. Still, she wished she hadn’t been there when the remote, educated Abigail – who was probably a virgin – heard the conversation.
Abigail, however, moved serenely by them to the refrigerator, took out a yogurt and turned to go. At the door, as a kind of after-thought, she turned back to the now-silent group. ‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Would you be free to photocopy some important documents for me?’
Every eye at the table turned from Abigail Samuels to Claire. Claire looked first to Abigail, then to Joan. Joan shrugged and nodded. ‘She can do it,’ Joan said.
‘We know she can,’ Abigail Samuels said, and Claire, most probably, was the only one who realized Joan’s grammar was being corrected. ‘The question I asked was if she was available.’
‘She’s available,’ Joan said after a moment’s pause. Claire stood up and wordlessly followed Abigail out of the lunch room.
They were along the row of executive offices, almost to Michael Wainwright’s, when Abigail turned to Claire. ‘You seem like a girl who keeps herself to herself,’ she said. ‘This is a job that I want to be kept exactly where it belongs.’
Claire nodded, and Abigail seemed to feel that was enough. They reached her office outside of Mr Crayden’s. ‘You’ll use the photocopier in the executive supply room.’ She lifted a pile of documents and handed them to Claire. ‘I’d prefer you don’t read them, but I don’t insist.’
Claire was shown through a door she had never noticed. The room was small but paneled, and leather-jacketed pads of paper, engraved personal letterhead and all manner of high-end office supplies were carefully placed on shelves behind glass cabinet doors. A photocopier, a shredder and a fax were built into mahogany cabinetry as well.
‘Do you know how the machine works?’ Abigail asked. Claire nodded. ‘It doesn’t have a collator and I’ll need two copies of everything. Can you keep them in order?’
‘Yes,’ Claire managed.
‘I thought you could.’ Abigail smiled. ‘If you have any questions, just call.’
Claire began the work. It was dull, but it made a break in her usual day. Anything that kept her away from Joan was a good thing, but she had a feeling that, just like in high school, there would be a price to pay for being singled out.
Feeding the first page in, she only glanced at the contents to make sure she wasn’t going to be a participant in grand larceny or fraud. Crayden Smithers was one of the few firms that hadn’t been involved in a nineties stock scandal but you couldn’t be too careful. Once she realized that the work was only employment contracts, and sensitive because of the salaries and bonuses involved, she didn’t look any further and simply did the job.
There was a certain repetitive comfort in lifting the flap of the copier, placing each page just so and removing the two copies and separating them. It was a task that required no thinking, but after she had organized it and gotten used to the robotic rhythm she had set for herself, having time to think was not necessarily a good thing. She didn’t want to remember the conversation at lunch, nor think about Michael Wainwright’s business trips or the companions he took on them. She wanted to get her work done, look out at the skyline on her ferry ride home and then finish her cable sweater. That idea pleased her. It was going to be a lovely garment and, though the purchase of the cashmere had been extravagant, she was glad she had done it. She was also glad that she was going to keep it for herself.
The small room was getting warm. Claire tucked her hair behind her ears and bent over the machine. She felt her face flush from the heat. She wondered if there was a fan, though she doubted anyone often used the room for this volume of copying. The noise of the machine and her concentration on the task kept her from hearing the door open and close behind her.
SEVEN
‘Hi, Claire,’ Mr Wonderful said.
‘Hello.’ Claire jerked her head up, trying to keep her surprise from showing and her tone cordial but nothing more.
‘I didn’t know you were in here.’ He looked her up and down and gave her an oddly shy smile. She didn’t know how becoming the color in her face and the new haircut looked. She was glad she had worn her mother’s dress again today, and hoped it wasn’t too tight across her backside. Then she told herself sternly that it didn’t matter how she looked. If she had any pride at all she would be, if not nasty, at least abrupt with him.
‘Why would you?’ Claire asked.
Michael Wainwright paused for a moment then shrugged. ‘No reason, I guess.’ He looked down at the paper he was carrying. ‘I have to fax these to Catwallider, Wickersham, and Taft right away.’
Claire looked at him calmly and didn’t offer to help. Abigail’s work for Mr Crayden, Senior out-ranked Michael Wainwright’s work. Not offering gave Claire a tiny bit of satisfaction. He moved over to the fax and, in passing her, had to sidle around her. She steeled herself to feel nothing, but she couldn’t help listening to him as he fumbled with punching in the fax number before loading the document he wanted to send. The machine whistled, asking for the start button to be pushed but he didn’t push it. Claire, though she knew what he needed to do, didn’t offer any guidance.
‘God, I’m a complete idiot. How the hell do you do this?’ he asked her at last.
She knew that was malespeak for ‘Do this for me’. Jerry used that all the time on Claire’s mother: ‘How do you turn the washing machine on? How do you stack the dishes in the racks? How do you boil an egg? How the hell do you do this?’ Claire shrugged and was grateful for the three stacks of paper in front of her. ‘Where’s Tina?’ she asked, by way of answer.
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’
He didn’t sound really irritated, but the idea that Tina might be loafing somewhere and getting in trouble was enough to force Claire to place the two copies on the appropriate stacks and leave off her task. ‘Here,’ she said, taking the sheets of paper from his hand. She didn’t bother to show him where to place them, or explain that the paper should be face down, or that you had to hit the start button once the connection with the receiving fax was made. What was the point? The Michael Wainwrights of the world were not born to spend time in little rooms like this. And now, looking down, she fed another sheet into the fax machine and watched it slowly be devoured. She could see Mr Wonderful’s loafers and felt certain they would move away. He’d leave her in here and go back to his wall of windows. Perhaps she’d get a thank you, because he was always polite. But instead of walking away his shoes stayed in front of her own feet until she was forced to look up.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Has something changed?’ he asked. And she wanted to answer ‘Yes. I hate you now.’ But of course she didn’t. ‘You’re really very pretty. Do you know that?’ he asked her. Claire couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d hit her in the face with a dead fish. She felt herself flush again, but it was with anger, not pleasure or embarrassment. Who did he think he was? Wainwright or not, he had no right to play with people’s feelings to no purpose but to kill a little time or gratify his overblown ego.
‘Do you want strangers to comment on your looks?’ she asked. ‘I’d be willing to if you want a summary.’ Her voice was steady, and there wasn’t a bit of the hurt or anger she felt in it. He blinked, then straightened up a little and looked at her, this time with something closer to real interest.
‘I’m sorry. Was that condescending?’ he asked.
She decided to ignore the question. She’d let him work out the math. ‘Is there something else you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I’m working for Mr Crayden, Senior. It will take me a
nother twenty minutes to finish this copying.’ She handed the originals to him and turned back to her job. ‘If you need help maybe you should ask Joan.’
He smiled. ‘Joan can’t help me. But maybe you will.’
She knew it. What grunt work was he going to grace her with? What tedious job was she to receive as if it were a land grant from a monarch? She fed another page into the copier then looked back at him, silent. She’d do the work, but she’d be damned if she’d be charmed or act grateful for it.
‘I wondered if you were free next Thursday?’ he asked.
She tried to register his question but couldn’t quite see what he was asking. ‘When on Thursday?’
‘All day, actually. Starting Wednesday night.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I just … I just wondered if you’d like to go to London with me for a long weekend. I have to leave Wednesday night and work Thursday and Friday, but there are the evenings and I’m staying the weekend.’
‘What?’ she asked. There seemed to be some kind of disconnect between her ears and her brain. She thought she’d heard him say …
Just then the regular sound of the copier stopped and it began to beep. Confused by what he was saying, she was determined there would be no further misunderstandings on her part when it came to Michael Wainwright. The beep continued and she looked down, saw the light that indicated a paper jam and bent to pull out the trapped page. She couldn’t manage. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. Her brain jammed and she felt as trapped as the paper seemed to be. She pulled at it ineffectively. Disbelief, embarrassment and confusion fought for supremacy in her completely overwhelmed consciousness.
‘Here. Let me.’ He leaned down and touched a button at the side of the copier. It released the entire top of the paper feed. If he touched her, Claire thought her whole head would pop off too. ‘I’ve fought this baby more nights than I like to remember,’ he said and, pushing another switch, freed the document. He handed the page to her and smiled. ‘So, would you like to go to London with me?’ he said.
Now her mind beeped a warning more frantic than the copier had. All of the gossip she’d tried to ignore replayed in Claire’s head: The working trip Marie Two might be going on, the new business activity in the UK, Tina’s blow-by-blow about Michael Wainwright’s difficulties in lining up a woman for this latest escapade. She tried to see where the trap was, where humiliation was waiting. Perhaps he needed secretarial help. That must be it. She sighed with relief. Of course …
‘Can’t Tina help you?’ she asked.
‘Help me what?’ he asked in return.
‘With typing or …’
He laughed and Claire felt herself blush. He was laughing at her, and she had tried so hard to avoid that, to forget him, dismiss him, and yet …
‘Claire, I’d like you to spend a long weekend with me in London. Not for work. For fun. As my … guest.’
And then he put his left arm around her. She felt his hand warm – almost hot – through the clothes on her back and then he was pulling her toward him and he lifted her chin with his other hand and put his mouth on hers.
Claire was so surprised she didn’t have time to stiffen or think. It all had a dream-like quality, as if she was in some story she had read long ago – Snow White or Sleeping Beauty – one of those passive young women who waited for years for a kiss to awaken them. She could feel every tiny place of contact she had with him – each finger between her shoulder blades, his palm against her cheek, and his lips against her lips – as if her skin there had never been touched before. Her surprise fought with a surge of feeling both sensual and emotional.
When he moved away from her Claire was struck speechless. In a hundred fantasies she’d imagined – well, nothing as good as this. She literally held her breath and couldn’t – wouldn’t – say a word.
But after a brief pause, he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. She remained silent because she couldn’t make a sound. He took a step back and she could see that for a moment doubt rearranged his face. ‘I’d certainly understand if you thought that was inappropriate of me …’ He seemed to stumble for a moment, ‘… or if you feel it’s politically incorrect. Or even harassment. Please don’t. I mean we don’t actually work together. Just in the same place.’
Claire still couldn’t speak. By chance, her silence had allowed her to see a moment of Michael Wainwright’s uncertainty, a rare bit of, well, insecurity, or something that looked like it. Somehow it made him more alive, more accessible. Her eyes actually clouded. She had to blink.
‘Okay. Sorry. It just occurred to me that we might enjoy it. But whatever.’
Claire held onto the photocopy machine and tried to remember how to make her tongue capable of speech and her eyes capable of focusing. She was looking at Mr Wonderful, but she was having trouble seeing him. Still, what she was most afraid of was that she wasn’t hearing him properly.
He had turned and was going to leave. Do something, she told herself. But where had this invitation come from? Why her? She remembered the conversation at lunch, the one she had tried not to listen to, and realized he had most likely run out of women available at short notice. ‘Wait,’ Claire heard herself say. He turned. ‘I’d really like to go,’ she told him.
EIGHT
‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’ Tina asked Claire the next morning, her voice shrill enough to be heard above the engine of the ferry and not only by Claire but by another dozen people sitting nearby.
Claire moved the yarn from the back of the needle to the front so that she could knit the next three stitches, then slipped them off her cable holder and onto the main needle. She knit those stitches to finish the back twist of the cable while calmly shaking her head at Tina. She would wear this lovely sweater in London.
‘For god’s sake, Claire. You don’t even know him.’ Tina crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘And it’s not as if you don’t know what he’s like with women. If Katherine Rensselaer couldn’t handle him, how do you expect …’
Claire carefully put the knitting into her bag. Even Katherine Rensselaer couldn’t have a cashmere sweater this lovely, this fine. ‘I don’t expect anything,’ she admitted calmly.
‘Well he will! You think he’ll just take you across the Atlantic because he wants a roommate?’ Tina shook her head and it occurred to Claire that she was more angry than concerned. ‘You think this is the start of some love affair? Sometimes you’re like a kid.’
‘No, I’m not!’ Claire protested. ‘I’m planning to sleep with him. I want to. But I don’t expect anything else.’
Tina laughed but it was one of her sarcastic ones. ‘Yeah, right. I know you. Claire, I’m warning you. You think you’ll come back and start going around New York with Michael Wainwright and you can fagetaboutit.’
‘I don’t have to forget about it because I’m not even thinking of it,’ Claire told Tina. Then, to her relief, the ferry gently bumped against the pilings and the motor reversed. Soon they’d be off.
But there was no respite. ‘So what are you thinkin’ of?’ Tina asked, putting her hand on the damp rail of the ferry and tossing her hair back. ‘You thinkin’ about how to make yourself more miserable? You thinkin’ about how you can become the laughin’ stock of the office?’
And all at once Claire realized she didn’t like Tina’s attitude or tone. And that she didn’t have to listen to it. She stood up. ‘I’m thinking that I’ve never been further away from Staten Island than to Boston. That I’ve read about London since Mary Poppins and I’ve never been there. That no man ever invited me anywhere.’ She paused and reined in her temper. She looked Tina directly in the eye. ‘I’m also thinking that I don’t need any more advice.’
Tina’s face tightened. Then she shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said and they didn’t speak on the walk to the office.
‘Do you have a good suitcase?’ Marie Two asked. ‘You can’t travel with a backpack, you know.’ Claire hadn’t thought abou
t it. The news of her trip had, via Tina, moved through the human circuits faster than e-mail on electronic ones. She’d already received everything from a high-five from Marie One to a congratulatory note from Michelle, passed surreptitiously to her folded up like a note passed in study hall. It seemed to Claire as if the working class had risen up and were proud; as if their team had scored some kind of touchdown. The irony was that while Claire knew she wasn’t patrician, she had never felt at one with the ‘girls’. Perhaps that was why she didn’t react to Joan’s fish-eye response. In fact the odd thing was that Claire realized that she didn’t care about what the others might think. A sea-change had taken place in her own emotional landscape since Michael Wainwright’s invitation. She simultaneously felt more a part of the business harem while more detached. Now, over the lunch table, where even Marie Three had joined them, her trip was the major topic of discussion yet Claire didn’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious.
‘And you aren’t goin’ to use one of those little wheelie things? Dufus bags,’ Marie Two continued. ‘These guys fly First Class. The hotel porters will sneer if you don’t have decent luggage.’
‘Oh, fuck the porters,’ Marie One said. ‘It isn’t about the luggage. I mean, what’s going to happen at the hotel?’
‘I think we all know the answer to that,’ Joan said.
No one responded to her judgmental tone. ‘What hotel?’ Michelle asked.
‘He’s booked a suite at the Berkeley,’ Tina announced. She’d been angry all morning and still didn’t look at Claire. ‘Ya know. It’s not like he isn’t a gentleman. He is. And the suite’s got three rooms. The sofa in the living room is right there, waiting for her, if Claire doesn’t like what’s goin’ down in the bedroom.’
Wish Upon a Star Page 5
