Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  By the time dinner was finished, Claire felt relaxed and happy. She managed to leave the table without banging her head, made her way unsteadily past the other tables and let Michael help her into her coat.

  On the way back to the hotel she giggled a lot and at the corner, by a store called the Scotch House, he pulled her into a doorway and gave her a kiss that she melted into. ‘There’s something about you,’ he said. ‘You’re adorable. You’re not like anyone else I know.’

  Claire was sure that was true. How many Bilsops from Tottenville had Michael Wainwright ever met? But she put her arms around his neck, held her face up to him and waited for him to kiss her again.

  SIXTEEN

  As Claire walked beside Michael along the hallway that led to suite 617, she felt almost overwhelmed by the possibilities of what would come next. The flight, her day in London, their dinner, all seemed to run together like a glorious dream. She actually felt dizzy. Maybe it’s the jet-lag, she thought.

  For Michael, she reminded herself, this was no big deal. He had done it before. He would no doubt do it again. Just then, Michael gently enclosed her hand with his own. ‘I had a wonderful time,’ he said.

  ‘So did I,’ she responded. And she had. But Claire couldn’t help but think of Katherine Rensselaer and Blaire – Whatever-Her-Name. Had he sounded so sincere with them? Katherine had called him a toad, but he seemed – in so many ways – like a Prince Charming. She also knew that whatever happened between them during this trip probably wouldn’t be remembered – at least by him – when they got back to the States, but … but she didn’t care. She was charmed.

  Michael released her hand so that he could fish in his pocket for the key and unlock the suite door. He held it open and ushered her in before him. As she entered the foyer, he put his arm around her waist. Claire melted, though she tried not to let it show. Should she stop him? Should she let it continue? She knew not to have sex on a first date but … this certainly wasn’t that. He nuzzled her neck and then walked them through into the living room. Perhaps he wasn’t going to do any more than this? Why did Claire feel so disturbed by that idea?

  Instead Michael tightened his grip, cradled Claire in his arms and – at last – he kissed her again gently. ‘You’re very lovely,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not sure I noticed that before tonight.’

  Claire didn’t know what to say. She was momentarily shocked, not by his words, but his honesty. And how should she respond? She certainly didn’t want to thank him. That would be ridiculous. She wasn’t accustomed to anyone complimenting her, never mind taking hold of her and kissing her the way Michael just did. Luckily he kissed her again and she didn’t have to think.

  This kiss was deeper, and delicious, but Claire pulled away enough to look him in the face. Then, totally surprising herself, she said nothing, just pulled him back to her. She kissed him, hungry for his mouth. It was just as she had imagined it would be. He teased her with the tip of his tongue along the inner edge of her upper lip. It was … wonderful. She began to shiver. Michael left her mouth and kissed her cheek. ‘Maybe we could get more comfortable. We don’t have to stand here in the middle of the room.’

  Of course not. But where to go? Claire felt a moment of real awkwardness. If she moved to the sofa was it coy? If she moved to the bed was she being forward or premature? The truth was that Claire was wild about Michael; she knew that she would do anything he asked. But she didn’t have enough experience to know how cool or how eager she should be. And who does? Making love with anyone for the first time is almost always awkward. Even the most experienced man, the most confident woman, feels a little unsure. But Claire didn’t know that and so she felt very unsure.

  She also felt Michael’s hands leave her hips and go up her stomach, her rib cage and then lightly rub her breasts as he negotiated the buttons on the front of her blouse. Claire heard herself groan. She shivered again. He was pressed against her and, through their clothing, she could feel the intense heat of his body. She was paralysed against the wall; the only sense that seemed to be working was the sense of touch. And this felt so natural, and at the same time so unbelievable, so unexpected. She couldn’t think. She shivered again. ‘You’re cold,’ he said and he cupped her face in his hands. ‘Let me warm you up.’

  He pulled her to the sofa, and her awkwardness disappeared. Thank god she had not walked toward the bedroom! She’d try to relax and let him lead. Every motion he made was like a dancer, graceful and flowing. Now he helped Claire onto the cushion and as he did, his hands slid under the shoulders of her shirt and he pushed it gently down her arms revealing her new white lace bra. Michael bent down and his tongue glided from her neck down to the small cleavage that was created by the uncomfortable underwire. Claire wondered what he would think if he took it off and the cleavage went away. Then she told herself to relax. His tongue flicked against her skin and the sensation was so delicious that she couldn’t contain the moan that escaped her lips. ‘Oh, do you like that?’ Mr Wonderful asked.

  She couldn’t speak. She only nodded. Michael maneuvered himself next to her and pulled her closer. She nestled her head against his chest. He took her hand and placed it on his shirt, indicating to her that she should help unbutton it. Claire, in her dreamlike state, still managed it without difficulty. His chest was flat and slightly furred, just in the middle, with soft straight down. The scent that came from his skin was dizzying. She closed her eyes as she breathed, then laid her cheek on his exposed skin. She took her index finger and slowly dragged it down to his stomach. She felt the smoothness and heat of his skin. ‘Are you ticklish?’ she asked.

  ‘Tickling isn’t what I’ve got in mind,’ he replied. ‘Unless that’s a euphemism for making love to you.’ He looked down at her. ‘But I won’t rush you. You tell me when.’ He placed his hand behind her head and ever so slowly laid her on her back on the sofa, kissing her as she reclined. My god, Claire thought. This is so … magical.

  She was surprised but grateful when he got off her and scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom. He placed her on the duvet and meticulously removed her shoes and then unzipped the back of her skirt. Claire was shaking from the chill and thrill. He then took the coverlet from the bottom of the bed and slid it over her body.

  He took off the rest of his clothes, right down to his shorts, then sat on the edge of the bed and discreetly took off his underwear before he climbed in next to her. He wrapped his arms around her and for a silent moment they lay under the coverlet. Her heart was beating hard and she could feel each thump between her legs, an ancient drum beat. The bed felt so smooth, the sheets so cool and fine, the quilt so light. Claire held her breath. She felt Michael’s hip press her thigh. His breathing slowed; then she realized he had adapted his to match her own. Without a word they rolled into one another and pressed hard against each other, kissing passionately.

  ‘Are you still cold?’ he asked, in between kisses.

  She shook her head while still maintaining the connection of their lips.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he whispered.

  Claire felt her muscles tighten. She had always wanted to hear these words but knew she shouldn’t dare believe them. Yet the temptation was enormous. Michael pulled away from her to look in her eyes. She smiled and tried to put all thoughts out of her head. Michael caressed her cheek and she breathed a sigh of contentment. Here she was in the arms of Mr Wonderful. Better still in bed with Michael Wainwright.

  He nudged her onto her back and then laid himself directly over her. She wasn’t surprised by his skill but was by his strength and gentleness. Could it be because she was willing? His tenderness was genuine. He cradled her head with his hands and held her face to his and kissed her deeply. He stroked her hair. ‘You’re an angel,’ he murmured again. He buried his face in the nape of her neck. ‘Mmmm, you smell delicious.’

  Claire kissed him passionately. She couldn’t decide which use of his mouth she preferred: him speaking or him kissing. He was also very
crafty with his hands. They moved effortlessly from her breasts to her thighs and up again to her mouth, each time becoming more probing, more intimate, more responsive.

  Claire had only made love with Bob and that had been awkward and unsatisfying. But with Michael it was different. He registered the slightest shifting of her body, every change in her breath. He knew what she wanted without Claire having to say a word. Since she didn’t like to ask for things, this was the best of all worlds. He was patient, precise and playful, but she also felt such an exchange of emotion that she lost herself. As they made love, Michael kept his lips on hers, and Claire thought he had a hundred variations of kissing, all of them in sync with all his movements as well as her own. He removed his lips only long enough to look at her or when he lowered himself to her nipples and down the length of her torso.

  Michael brought her to climax first with his tongue and then his fingers. Claire couldn’t breathe. This was a wonderful experience. She had never had any of this with Bob. Claire had no idea how much time had passed when he finally slipped inside her for the first time. He was such a powerhouse that she was entranced just watching his body moving over hers. His concentration, control and coordination were astounding.

  At last, they both collapsed in sweaty exhaustion and he fell asleep with Claire still engulfed in his embrace. After a few moments of reveling in it all, she drifted off into a slumber deeper than Sleeping Beauty’s.

  In the morning, without an awakening kiss, Claire startled herself out of sleep. In the semi-darkness she had one of those moments of dislocation. Where was she? It wasn’t her ceiling. Then she turned her head and saw Michael, still sleeping. The events of the night before flooded back. Claire smiled and felt herself blush.

  While Michael slept, she simply looked at him; at his long arm lying on the sheet, his chest moving under the covers and how the light from the street was shining on his face. She felt safe, comfortable, happy. It was a feeling she wasn’t accustomed to.

  Claire sighed deeply soaking in the satisfaction of the feeling. Happiness this deep was something you could not hold onto, especially with Michael, and at least she was wise enough to realize it. She wasn’t thinking about the sex, though it had been exquisite. It was simply looking at Michael, feeling the warmth, comfort and protectiveness that staring at him brought her. It was pure joy.

  Slowly, so as not to wake him, she lifted her head to gaze at his sleeping face. Even without animation, his features had a beauty and liveliness that made Claire wonder. From their conversation the previous night she felt Michael Wainwright was not just another pretty face. After all, in his own way, Bob had been very handsome. But unlike Bob, to Claire’s complete surprise, Michael seemed to have a depth of feeling, a sense of compassion and understanding that had been blocked in Bob.

  As if feeling himself observed, Michael opened his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said, his voice dipping somehow in the middle of the word, making it sound like a self-assured greeting. Claire felt herself blush again and this time it did embarrass her. She fell back on her pillow. Michael raised himself on one elbow, bent over her and kissed her. He lifted his head. ‘Go back to sleep, angel,’ he told Claire and tucked the sheet in on either side of her.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Claire opened her eyes again Michael was already dressed, his back to her as he loaded his pockets from the top of the bureau. He picked up the last two objects: the comb he tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket and the watch he strapped onto his left wrist. He was ready to leave!

  She sat up suddenly and he must have seen her reflection in the mirror before him. She couldn’t see herself but she could see his face, and the way it changed from concentration on his task to an open smile. ‘Good morning,’ he said. Surely he likes me, Claire thought. His smile was so warm. He didn’t have to smile, she told herself.

  Michael turned away from the mirror. As he came toward the bed he reached out for her hand, then kissed it quickly. ‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said. ‘I thought if I couldn’t sleep until noon, at least one of us could.’ He pushed some stray hair off his forehead. ‘As they say over here, “I’m knackered.”’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tired. Exhausted.’ He grinned.

  Claire glanced at the clock beside the bed. ‘Oh, I won’t sleep very long,’ she told him.

  He turned to go, giving her advice over his shoulder. ‘Well, change your plan. Sleep in. Then call down for breakfast, eat it in bed and then get your hair done.’ Claire was about to ask him if he thought she needed ‘doing’ when he turned back, but just to grab his raincoat and walk back to the door. ‘Gotta go or I’ll be late,’ he said. ‘I should be back before seven.’

  She jumped out of bed, ran to the door and managed to get there before he was out. ‘Bye-bye,’ she said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smiled at her but she saw that he was already distracted, thinking of work.

  ‘Bye,’ he said and closed the door behind him.

  She stood against the door and caught sight of herself in the mirror. From this distance she looked like a woman in a movie, or on TV. For a moment she wondered why the prepositions were different: you’re in one and on the other. She smiled at the irrelevance. Michael had been both on and in her. That was obvious. Her hair was disheveled but in a sensual, luxurious way. And behind her the set was equally sensual and luxurious. The beautiful woodwork, the fabric on the wall, the soft carpet, the chair in the corner; it all looked like a scene from someone else’s life, the kind of life she had not even imagined. But it is happening, Claire thought. It is happening to me. Because of him. Then, with a start she ran to the French doors and peeked out. If she opened them and stood just slightly outside, on the balcony but hidden by the curtain, she would be able to see Michael leave the hotel.

  Below her a line of soberly-dressed business people stood beside the doorman. Cabs pulled up and devoured them in an orderly way. Claire counted three women in the line. No doubt each was as accomplished as Katherine Rensselaer but Claire felt a flash of pride and victory because those women were waiting for a car and a day of office work while she was waiting for Michael.

  Of course Michael wasn’t thinking of her. If he turns to look for me, it means he really likes me, she told herself. Then she was taken by a chill of fear. What if he didn’t look up? She felt for a moment as if she was threatened. Just one look, she thought, and clutched the curtain. She wished the idea hadn’t come to her but once it had she was forced to wait and watch. It seemed like hours, days, before she saw him striding out of the hotel. She watched as he ignored the line and made for Knightsbridge. He had told her that, despite the reduction in traffic brought about by the Mayor’s new congestion charge, the underground was the only way to travel in London and she was proud of him, for some obscure reason, as he ignored the line waiting for the luxury of a taxi.

  But she needed him to turn around, just for a second, and look up to where she stood. He was already across the street when, for a moment, his steps slowed and her heart felt as if it was actually about to move in her chest. She raised her hand, but saw that he had only paused to tap his back pocket, obviously checking for his wallet.

  He kept walking and didn’t turn around. Claire dropped her hand and after she saw him disappear around the corner, she came back into the bedroom. She told herself not to be stupid. There were no tests, there were no omens. She was foolish. She had been happy three minutes before – gloriously happy – and now she had made herself unhappy. It was ridiculous. She would not spoil one more moment of this precious time.

  She went to the bed and, reflexively, began to make it. Then she realized the idiocy of what she was doing. The hotel must have a staff of ten to change the bed.

  ‘I will take a bath,’ she said aloud. She never began her day with a bath – she ended it that way. But the bathroom was so inviting and it was such a change and treat that she decided to do it. And while she was treating herself, she had the courage to pick
up the phone and dial room service. ‘May I have a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘A cup or a pot, madam?’ the room service voice asked.

  Claire had never been called ‘madam’ before and she almost giggled. ‘A pot,’ she said. ‘And some toast,’ she added, amazed at her daring.

  ‘Brown or white?’ he asked.

  The question made her smile. ‘Brown bread,’ she said, not that she preferred whole wheat, but because she wanted a chance to say ‘brown bread’. It sounded so charming.

  ‘Would you like a basket of breakfast rolls and croissants as well?’ he asked.

  She refused the offer but accepted one of a glass of fresh orange juice. Then she hung up and ran a bath, answered the knock on the door and directed the waiter to put the tray on the bed. Once he had done this and left, she carried her cup of tea into the bathroom. There she put it beside the marble tub, got into the bath and luxuriated in her surroundings. The warm tea inside her and the warm water surrounding her restored her sense of well-being. She was, she decided, the luckiest woman in London.

  Lying in the bath she planned her day. She would try the underground, especially after Michael had recommended it, but she wasn’t sure where she wanted to go. She had already glanced at Abigail’s guidebook but didn’t want to spend the day in museums. She wanted to be among people and watching the way they lived here.

  When she was out of the bath and wrapped in the thick white hotel robe she picked at some breakfast, got back onto the bed, spread out her underground map, poured herself a second cup of tea and decided to just pick a stop. She was closest to the Knightsbridge stop on the Piccadilly Line. She let her eyes roam over the map. Clapham, Earls Court, South Kensington, then a word jumped out at her. ‘Angel’. There was a stop on the underground called ‘Angel’. How odd. She thought of Michael and his face when he had called her an angel. It gave her a shiver and she knew that whatever was there, at that stop on the subway, she was going to see it.