It was a little warmer here than in New York but the sky was gray and the air had a promise of rain so she buttoned her new coat and was grateful for it. She looked around her and felt as if she looked close enough like everyone else. Now she was aiming for Knightsbridge and Sloane Street. The man at the desk had told her, ‘Walk out of the door, turn right then left. You’ll be on Knightsbridge. Look for Sloane Street on the left and the bus stops are just there.’ But there didn’t seem to be a bridge anywhere. She kept walking but soon her attention was caught by a window display. She’d never seen anything quite like it. A swimsuit without a body was suspended in the air. At the end of it there was a huge scaly fish tail. On the other side, where the head should be, only a long blond wig, reaching to the bottom of the window and cascading across the sandy floor, stood in for the absent mermaid. Discreetly written in the sand was a message Bathing costumes on two. Claire had to stop and wonder what it meant.
She immediately realized there would be no problem in converting her money into sterling. There seemed to be little offices to change currency everywhere. The sign at the one she went into had little flags of every country with two columns beside each that were headed We Buy and We Sell. She changed a hundred dollars, feeling very sophisticated. She could do this, and all by herself.
At the next corner she found Sloane Street and a bus stop. She wasn’t sure why – perhaps it was because she was so used to her long ferry trips every morning – but she felt as if she’d be safer and more comfortable on a bus. The sign explained not only the numbers and times but also which buses ran at night. There was a vast choice – it was a busy corner – but it didn’t really matter to Claire which direction she went in. The first bus that came along was a twenty-two and, to her delight, it was a red double-decker. First, a wave of people got off the wide platform at the back then people beside her began to board and following them, she did too. Right in front of her was a small spiral staircase to the upper level. She began to climb up it then the bus lurched and she nearly fell down it. She grabbed at the railing and as the vehicle moved into the flow of traffic she climbed to the top.
She wasn’t sure why, but on top the bus was virtually empty. Later she would learn that she was traveling in the opposite direction to most commuters, out to Putney where people lived and traveled into the center to work. Unconscious of that she simply smiled at the opportunity literally before her – the front seats on both sides of the bus were available. She almost ran down the center aisle and nearly fell again when the bus pulled to an abrupt stop. But once she was in her seat she was thrilled. It seemed as if the bus had no motor: she was looking straight out at the traffic and the people who moved like powerful tides in front of her. And to each side were shop windows and above them glimpses into apartments with window boxes, terraces and a world’s variety of curtains, blinds and shades.
Sloane Street was long, but at the end of it she was settled enough to enjoy looking down on Sloane Square and finding it on her map. King’s Road seemed a bazaar of delights: clothing shops, cafés, restaurants, pubs (which looked so much more inviting than bars back home did) and a swiftly moving stream of pedestrians.
She had a few pages for notes at the back of the guidebook and began taking some. There was a stop called ‘World’s End’ which seemed, actually, to be in the middle of everything.
When the conductor got to her she apologized. ‘I don’t have a token,’ she told him. ‘Or a Travelcard.’
‘It’s all right, luv. You c’n buy a ticket right ‘ere from me. Where’d you get on, then?’
‘Sloane Street up near Knightsbridge. Is there a bridge?’
He laughed, showing a gap between his front teeth. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said but Claire had no idea what was funny. ‘Where you gettin’ off?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’d like to go to the end of the line,’ she told him.
‘Putney Bridge. You’ll see a bridge there, me girl.’
‘But I’d like to stay on and come back.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t ‘elp you with that part. You’ll ‘ave to get off and get right on again. Regulations.’
She nodded. ‘But will the bus go back?’ she asked, nervous that she might be stranded.
‘If not this one then another,’ he told her. ‘There’ll be a queue of them lined up, like as not. Fag break for the drivers.’
She blinked but asked no questions.
‘It’ll be one pound,’ he told her. She rummaged through her change purse and remembered the chunky golden coins. She handed him one and he returned a ticket that he cranked out of a machine strapped around his waist. ‘‘Old onto that, luv,’ he told her. ‘They’re makin’ us redundant, they are, and it will all be computer cards. You’ve got an antique of the future,’ he said and laughed. ‘I guess that’s what I am.’ He laughed again, turned and made his way down the aisle of the bus from handgrip to handgrip without even a lurch.
Claire looked out of the windows, fascinated. Everything, even the rare graffiti had charm, at least to her. When they turned a corner and she saw a pub with the sign outside declaring it the ‘Slug and Lettuce’ her delight was, even to her, almost unreasonable. Why it should make her so happy didn’t matter. Though if she had thought of it, Claire might have ascribed it to the general glow she had because of her pleasure in Michael. But there are places that can be found by each of us, places we may have never been or never thought of that, in themselves, hold a mysterious key to our happiness.
FIFTEEN
Early that evening Claire stared at the hotel closet in complete confusion.
She had had a wonderful day so far. After the bus reached Putney Bridge she had walked over the bridge to Putney itself and explored that pleasant, residential area and its exotic – to her – stores. Then she had bought a sandwich at an Italian deli – this time, just like the ones at home – and eaten it on a bench in a pretty park back on the north side of the river. She decided to return to the hotel on foot, and found her way via the Fulham Road, where she was delighted by the windows and windows of antiques – all set as if they were tiny rooms. A diner table and chairs illuminated by a chandelier, a royal-blue sofa with golden sphinxes for arms and legs and two chairs flanking it. Best of all was a four-poster bed with enough purple hangings to drape a church.
She had hurried back to be in good time to get ready for her dinner date with Michael, but now here she was, with no idea where they were going and, even if she had, she wouldn’t know what they wore there.
Of course, she didn’t have a wide choice. She could wear the skirt along with her expensive silk blouse but perhaps a skirt wasn’t formal enough. She decided to put off making the decision and instead did her hair, remembered Tina’s advice to her and put on a little extra mascara, struggled into a pair of navy control top pantyhose and had just got the blouse and skirt on when she heard Michael in the living room. She snatched up her earrings and walked to the door. He was going through some papers at the desk and even as he stood there a fax came rattling through. But once the noise abated he looked up.
‘Wow. You look good enough to eat,’ he said. She felt a flush start at her chest and move to the roots of her hair. Now he’d looked back down at the fax. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘I could eat,’ she said.
‘Great. Feel like Chinese? But Chinese like you’ve never had before.’
‘How about English food, I mean, we are in London?’
He laughed. ‘You must be joking,’ he said. ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? I don’t think so. Simpson’s is fine once but that trolley gets old fast.’
She didn’t like to ask what he meant. ‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ she said.
He nodded, looked at the fax again and picked up the phone. ‘Can you confirm my booking at Mr Chow’s?’ he asked. ‘Seven-thirty. We’re eating unfashionably early.’ He hung up the phone and smiled at her. ‘We might have other things to do after dinner,’ he said.
She looked away and put on her earrings. Was she as visibly nervous as she felt?
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve just gotten news that I’m going to have to go out to a business dinner on Saturday. Do you think you can amuse yourself?’ She nodded. ‘They have great room service here,’ he continued. Just then the phone rang with their booking confirmation. He took the fax, tore it into strips and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
For a moment Claire wondered why, but supposed that there might be some business she shouldn’t be privy to. He came from around the desk, took her arm and gave her a kiss on her temple. ‘Umm. You smell good.’ She realized she had forgotten to put on perfume, but her shampoo must have been good enough. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked. She nodded and the two of them walked out the door and to the elevator.
There he let go of her and then, facing her, put a hand on each of her hips and drew her to him. ‘That feels good,’ he said. He moved against her. ‘A little appetizer,’ he whispered. And just then the elevator doors opened to reveal three Japanese men in business suits. Michael was completely unruffled. ‘Hooray,’ he said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ And he led her onto the elevator.
They walked to Knightsbridge, crossed the very busy road and Claire read the instructions painted on the street that told her to look right instead of left and left instead of right. She wondered how many Americans had been knocked over by buses before the reminder had been painted. They walked up a small but charming alley – everything seemed charming – and Michael opened a door that seemed to be a glass bubble. The restaurant front was very narrow. ‘This place was the rage ten years ago,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t get a seat no matter who you were. But you know how it goes: really exclusive, desirable hot spot, impossible to book, too much publicity, taken over by tourists, abandoned by the chic, and open to everyone.’
Two hostesses rushed forward and took Claire’s raincoat. They were led up a spiral staircase to the main room. Each table had a light within that shone upward, making a circle through the tablecloth. Claire had never been to a restaurant that had gone through the cycle that Michael described. For a moment she wondered why he wasn’t taking her to the kind of place that was ‘a desirable hot spot’. Was it because he didn’t want to be seen with her? She looked down at her outfit. It wasn’t bad, but if it was a size ten instead of a size fourteen it certainly would look more stylish. Then she told herself to get a grip. She’d never been to a restaurant remotely like this. She should be grateful.
The place was mostly empty and they were given a table in the corner. As the waiter helped her into the banquette seat she knocked her head against the light fixture hanging from the low ceiling. She became flustered and horribly embarrassed but Michael laughed and shrugged. ‘Everyone’s been doing that for ten years,’ he said. ‘You’d think they’d fix the design.’ He leaned forward and took her hand. She refrained from using the other one to rub her forehead and hoped that a lump didn’t form.
Michael was talking and she tried to overcome her discomfort and focus on what he was saying. ‘Chow started the whole movement. Before him there was no pan-Asian, no fusion. Not that his is really fusion. It’s hard to define. Maybe Chinese crossed with French.’
It was only then that she realized he was talking food not politics. For a moment she thought of Katherine Rensselaer and how she would know exactly what kind of food Mr Chow’s served, when they’d started serving it, where they had other restaurants, who had invested in them – and she had probably gone to school with Mr Chow as well.
The waiter came with menus. She looked at hers briefly. ‘It all looks good,’ she said.
‘How about I order for us both?’ he asked. ‘We can share. You know, family style.’
Claire thought of eating with her family. For them it meant the food was served with resentment and eaten in silence. But she smiled. Sharing with Michael would be delightful, and thinking of what they would share later sent a little thrill from her chest to her …
‘You have to try the gambei,’ he said. ‘They say that it’s fried seaweed, but it isn’t. People played guessing games about what it was for years. Whatever it is, it’s sensational.’
The idea of fried seaweed made her not just nervous but queasy. She didn’t like sushi and didn’t want to get sick and spoil the evening. Perhaps she could just push it around on her plate. ‘Then maybe the special chicken and I love his sweet beef. It sounds like a lot of meat but it isn’t really. The portions are small. Does that sound okay?’
She nodded and knew she’d better speak soon even if she didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I do like vegetables.’
‘Oh, they come along with the rice. Not too interesting but they’ll do. And would you like wine?’ She nodded, and he consulted with the waiter and the sommelier. There was a pause and Claire desperately thought of what she should say next. But he beat her to the punch. ‘I think Tina told me you live nearby,’ he said. ‘I mean near to her.’
Claire nodded. ‘Yes, we commute together every day.’ Thinking of that long ride made her heart sink. ‘I hate taking the train but the ferry ride is wonderful. It’s different every day.’
‘They take different routes?’ he asked. ‘Is it because of the weather?’
She laughed. ‘No, it’s the weather that makes it different.’ She began to describe how the famous sight of the Battery and the New York skyline never ceased to amaze her. ‘The light comes off the water in a hundred different ways,’ she said. ‘When the sky is really blue and cloudless the city looks … well, it’s much better than Oz. And sometimes on the foggy days it disappears. That huge city with all the people just goes away and even when we pull into the slip there’s no sign of it. That’s my favorite. It’s all like a ghost city.’
Michael was smiling at her. ‘It’s not quite enough for me to jump at a condo in Staten Island,’ he said, ‘but maybe a visit would be worthwhile.’
She smiled at the thought of him on the ferry with her and Tina. But the idea of him in her house was more than she could begin to imagine. ‘Tottenville is a strange place,’ she said. ‘You know it’s one of the earliest settlements in the harbor. My father’s family lived there since before the Revolution. Or at least that’s what he used to tell us.’
‘My father’s family had to run away during the Revolution,’ Michael laughed. ‘They backed the wrong side. That doesn’t stop my mother from being a member of the DAR, though.’
Claire tried to imagine his mother, and thought just how dismayed she would be if Michael brought Claire home. Not that he would of course. He had all of those women whose mothers were also in the Daughters of the American Revolution, who weren’t size fourteen, and who had gone to boarding school and the Seven Sisters and the Ivy League colleges and the elite business schools. She tried to think of movies like Working Girl and Maid in Manhattan and Pretty Woman where the classy hero falls in love with the plucky, beautiful plebeian. The problem was that of the three she was only plebeian.
‘So what does your dad do?’ Michael asked.
‘He’s dead.’ The question had taken her by surprise and she realized the answer was too blunt.
‘I’m sorry. My dad died when I was twelve.’
‘I was nineteen,’ Claire said, surprised that they had this to share. ‘I miss him a lot. I guess I was his favorite.’
Michael smiled. ‘I would imagine so,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I was my dad’s favorite. Actually, he didn’t notice me much. He worked a lot and I wasn’t very good in school so there wasn’t much to brag about. My brother was the star.’
Claire looked at Mr Wonderful and thought perhaps things hadn’t always been wonderful for him. She tried to imagine him as a neglected twelve-year-old but it was impossible. He was so self-assured and he always seemed not only to know just what he wanted but how to get it.
The food arrived then, served with a lot of ceremony by two waiters. So family style did not mean taking it from a platter on the tabl
e but having the servants share it out, Claire thought. She looked at the tiny green curls grouped beside the fragrant rice and promised herself that no matter how bad fried seaweed tasted she would manage to swallow it down. She was offered a pair of ivory chopsticks but shook her head. Michael accepted them and for a moment she wished she had too, but what was the point? She might be able to pick up pieces of chicken but certainly not the separate grains of rice and these tiny green whorls.
‘Bon appetit,’ Michael said and gestured for the waiter to fill her wine glass.
To her surprise everything was delicious. The crispy green stuff certainly didn’t taste like seaweed, but melted in her mouth in a way that was both sweet and salty. The chicken and the beef were equally tasty and Claire realized that she was wolfing the food down. She forced herself to put down her fork and drink from her wine and water glasses instead.
Meanwhile, Michael regaled her with stories of his bad behavior in prep school, college, and grad school. It seemed as if his school life had been nothing but pranks and fun. She thought back to her dull days in Tottenville public schools and instead told him about her lunches with the Maries, Michelle, Tina and Joan. Somehow when she built up a little enthusiasm she became funny – or at least he laughed – and she began to play up the ridiculous aspects of all of the women and their lives. Michael asked questions and seemed fascinated. If he was slumming, or if she was betraying their trust, Claire didn’t care. If she could find a way to entertain and charm Mr Wonderful she was going to do it.
Wish Upon a Star Page 10
