Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Claire wondered at how simple it all seemed for him. An entire schedule, a whole day of pleasure, summarized in a moment. He was so fast, and she, well, she wasn’t slow, exactly but she definitely wasn’t knowing and confident and certain. ‘It sounds perfect,’ she said.

  Michael smiled. ‘You look beautiful right now,’ he said. ‘White suits you.’ He tucked the top sheet over her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Do you mind if I shower first?’ he asked. She shook her head though she didn’t want him to leave the bed. ‘Will you get the door if breakfast arrives?’ he asked on the way to the bathroom. ‘Just sign for it. Oh, and don’t forget I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight,’ he told her before he closed the bathroom door. ‘It’s a pain in the ass, but they don’t pay for the suite without demanding a pound of flesh.’

  Claire tried not to let herself feel any disappointment. So, he wouldn’t be having dinner with her. It wasn’t a tragedy. There was all of London out the window waiting for her. And when she came back to the hotel he would be waiting as well. And they would make love again and he would hold her and …

  There was a knock on the door. She threw on her robe but couldn’t find the sash and went to the door clutching the peignoir closed at the throat.

  It was the waiter, a man of about sixty, with what looked like an entire restaurant on a wheeled cart. There were coffee pots and creamers and a vase of flowers and flatware and plates. Everything but food. She wondered whether it was improper to greet him dressed like this, but he smiled cheerfully as if this was standard operating procedure and pushed the cart into the room.

  ‘Would you prefer to eat here or in the bedroom?’ he asked.

  ‘In here,’ Michael said from the door. He was in a hotel robe, a towel around his neck, his hair dripping.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the older man said.

  Claire wondered what it would feel like to serve breakfast to men half your age and call them ‘sir’ while you were doing it. But the waiter seemed perfectly happy.

  ‘I’ll just put it here, then, shall I?’ He moved the cart beside the window and pulled up two wings, one on each side, turning it into a round table. He brought a chair from the desk and another from the seating area.

  The mystery was where the food was, but Claire figured he’d go get it and return. Instead, he kneeled under the table. Claire couldn’t help but take a peek. There seemed to be a safe built into the bottom of the cart that he opened. He took out two hot covered plates. Michael walked up to the table, lifted the silver cover on one plate and revealed eggs, beans, tomatoes, bacon, sausage – and shoelaces for all Claire could imagine. Then a plate of toast, a dish with small fish and a basket of croissants.

  Claire loved the little pots of butter, the bowls of lump sugar, the tiny jars of jams and jellies. The food was good and though she was used to nothing more than a bagel for breakfast Claire ate an enormous amount.

  Across from her, so did Michael. She tried the kippers and they were salty and buttery. The toast was warm and even the coffee was delicious. When they were finished, Michael picked up the Financial Times (a pink newspaper Claire had seen someone reading on the plane). She went into the bathroom, got washed and dressed.

  Half an hour later, Terry returned with his Mercedes and took them through Hyde Park and somewhere northwest amidst streets of white painted houses. ‘Shall I wait, sir?’

  Michael nodded. ‘It’s a bitch getting a taxi out of here,’ he told Claire.

  She wondered how many times he’d been there to know such a detail but remembered his passport.

  They got out at a corner and she found herself in the midst of hundreds, or maybe thousands, of people wandering up and down two streets where one shop after another seemed to be selling antiques and flea market finds. Michael took her arm and began to lead her along. ‘Mostly crap,’ he said. ‘Lots of reproductions and tourist trade nonsense. But some of the arcades are good.’

  He moved her through the throng and into a wide doorway where a corridor was lined on each side with tiny shop after tiny shop. Each one had a counter and shelves stuffed with old jewelry, porcelain, knick-knacks, carvings, clocks, silver and everything Claire could think of and many things she couldn’t. They moved through one arcade after another and Claire was astonished by all the stuff. So much stuff. And so many people searching and buying it.

  ‘Oh, look,’ Michael said and pointed at a glass case sitting on the counter. ‘A Battersea box.’ He turned to the elderly dealer. ‘May we see that?’ he asked. She nodded and opened the case.

  ‘Very good condition,’ she said. ‘It’s a nice one.’ She took out a tiny object and handed it to Michael who, in turn, handed it to Claire.

  It was a little box made of tin or something like it and painted with some sort of enamel. The bottom was blue-and pink-striped and the top was pink with a blue oval surrounded by a wreath of minuscule roses and leaves. Within the oval in a perfect script was a motto: When this you see, remember me. ‘Do you like it?’ Michael asked her. ‘They were souvenirs in the late seventeen hundreds.’

  ‘This one is probably a little later,’ said the dealer. She turned and looked at Claire. ‘Some of them were snuff boxes, and others they used to keep beauty spots in. They glued them on their face to cover pockmarks. Then some like these were love tokens.’ She smiled, revealing long, yellow teeth.

  ‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’ Michael asked.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Claire answered.

  ‘Best price?’ Michael asked the dealer.

  ‘Well, I could knock off forty pounds, but I couldn’t do any better than that. These are quite desirable.’

  Michael took it from Claire’s hands. He looked it over. ‘Four hundred,’ he said.

  The woman blinked, as if she was about to protest, then thought better of it. ‘Cash?’ she asked.

  ‘Cash,’ he told her. And when she nodded he had the money out of his pocket and into her hands in a moment.

  ‘Might I just wrap it up for you, sir?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for the lady.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you a lucky girl?’ the old woman said. And Claire silently agreed.

  TWENTY

  The rest of the day was enchanted. Claire wouldn’t let Michael carry her gift although he offered to several times. Instead she held it and wondered if their time together had begun to mean more to him than a weekend diversion. She tried to keep her mind off that and to listen instead to Terry’s pleasant anecdotes about the tiny police station in the base of Marble Arch, the fact that the small green sheds scattered around town were canteens for taxi drivers and that to be an official ‘cabbie’ you had to take a three-year course and pass a test called ‘the knowledge’.

  While Claire recognized some of the sights they passed she was mostly confused, but Michael held her hand and it was enough to make her completely happy. He took her to lunch at the National Portrait Gallery, somehow getting them a table by the window. The restaurant on the top floor gave an incredible view of slate roofs, an overview of the National Gallery, the steeple of the church of St Martin-in-the-Field and the back of Admiral Nelson, standing on his column.

  Claire couldn’t help but think of Mary Poppins. She had once heard that no music lover was mature until he could hear the ‘William Tell Overture’ without thinking of the Lone Ranger and she supposed she would have to grow out of childhood clichés before she could appreciate London in a sophisticated way.

  ‘It’s not every day a person can eat their bruschetta while they look at Nelson’s ass.’ Claire laughed, and didn’t even object when Michael ordered some white wine. At home she rarely drank at dinner much less at lunch.

  After a delicious lunch, to her surprise Michael didn’t even stop to look at the portraits of the kings and queens, the writers and statesmen that lined the walls. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Life is too short. Let’s make our own history.’ And he whisked her back into the car, through Whitehall, past Ho
rse Guards where the sentries stood unnaturally still, over Westminster Bridge and to the other side of the Thames.

  ‘If you liked that view, I’ve got a better one.’ They were at an enormous Ferris wheel, but one like Claire had never seen before. Each gondola was enclosed, rather like a plastic egg and large enough for a group of people. It was right on the river and the structure seemed both fragile and far too tall. There was, of course, a long line of people waiting to get on but once again gracefully and unobtrusively, Michael managed to get them right to the front and they had a compartment of their own. She could see why it was called the Eye, it gave the most incredible view of the city she could ever imagine seeing. It reminded her of Wendy in Peter Pan flying away from the Darlings’ nursery window and out into the London sky.

  ‘I wish I had thought to bring binoculars,’ Michael said.

  ‘Isn’t it funny how people like to go to high places to use binoculars to see things back on the ground?’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘You are a funny thing,’ he said. And she didn’t mind that he said it because he gave her a kiss.

  The circle the Eye made took almost half an hour, and between the sights Michael had his hands all over her and they kissed almost enough to satisfy her. But when he stretched out on one of the seats and asked her to join him she drew the line. Even so, when they stepped out of the compartment she was flushed and tousled. He took her hand and led her back to Terry. ‘I’m sorry we can’t have dinner together,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely delicious. An angel cake.’

  Terry opened the door for them and Claire felt as if she were a precious package, a jewel set in a luxurious setting. When Michael joined her she nestled against his side. ‘Time for tea,’ he announced. ‘We’re going to have it with a business friend of mine. He’s a little bit stuffy but he’s an MP and we get terrace privileges.’

  Claire was too shy to ask what an MP was. But when they pulled up past Big Ben and parked in front of the Houses of Parliament she figured it out. Neville Chanbley-Smythe was almost as large as his name, a portly man not much older than Michael but with a big paunch, a beefy red face and a large forehead where hair seemed to be replaced by tiny beads of sweat. And though he was decidedly unattractive, he was extremely pleasant and brought them through the Gothic hallways to an outdoor terrace set right on the river.

  The sun was strong enough for Claire to take off her raincoat and while Neville and Michael talked about the Euro she devoured tiny sandwiches and equally small cakes. She surreptitiously unbuttoned the waistband of her slacks and told herself she had better stop eating. Between the huge breakfasts, the delicious lunches, the lovely teas and the dinners with pudding she would wind up a size sixteen before she got home.

  After the table had been cleared and a late afternoon dampness was setting in they left Neville Chanbley-Smythe, MP, and got back into the waiting car. ‘It’s back to the hotel,’ Michael told Terry. And though there was a lot of traffic along the way, Claire got to see Pimlico, Victoria Station, Eaton Place and Sloane Square before they pulled up to the hotel.

  When they got back to the suite Michael took her face in his hands and gave her one more kiss. ‘I wish I had time for a quickie but I don’t believe in them.’ He smiled and she smiled back. ‘I’m gonna have to shower, shave and change,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I have to abandon you. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ Claire had never been so right in her whole life.

  ‘You might want to have a swim up on the roof. It’s glassed in and it’s one of the most beautiful pools in the world. And you can have a massage while you’re at it. Just charge it to the room,’ he said.

  Claire, of course, hadn’t brought a bathing suit and the idea of getting naked in front of a stranger to have her skin rubbed didn’t strike her as pleasant. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him and stretched out on the bed while he bathed. She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew he was kissing her on the forehead.

  ‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Call down for some dinner. I’ll be back late.’

  She nodded sleepily, turned over and must have dozed for another hour. It wasn’t until housekeeping knocked on the door to turn down the bed that she roused herself.

  But it was only half-past six and she had no intention of wasting an evening in a hotel room – no matter how luxurious it was. She changed into her other slacks, her sweater and a pair of more comfortable shoes. Then, with Abigail’s guidebook in one pocket of her raincoat and her sterling safely in the other, she set out to explore a little bit of London at night.

  She wasn’t interested in clubs or discos. Instead she roamed the streets and squares on either side of Knightsbridge. There were blocks and blocks of red brick flats, each one perfectly kept, each balcony decked out with topiary trees or flower pots. Then there were older terraces of white townhouses, each with a set of columns placed at the entrance. And each with a perfectly manicured front yard not much bigger than a picnic blanket but where every blade of grass, rose bush, or stand of iris seemed perfectly placed and perfectly groomed.

  The shops along Walton Street were closed, but each window glowed with seductive goods. Small paintings, cashmere sweaters, crocodile purses were displayed in still lives that made her crave them, though she knew she had absolutely no need of anything. The light was beginning to fade and fewer people were on the streets but Claire didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Compared to New York, London felt safer than Tottenville.

  After an hour or two, Claire had widened her circle of walking to Fulham Road and she realized she was hungry. She told herself there would be no starches, no salad dressing and no ‘pudding’ but she had to eat something. Just past the next corner an inviting glow of light on the sidewalk was the invitation to a little restaurant called ‘The Stockpot’. Outside, a chalked board listed featured dishes and the prices seemed almost suspiciously modest. Claire peeked in the window and the place looked simple but clean.

  She lingered over a dinner of poached plaice – a white fish – and peas, then refused even a look at the tempting dessert menu, had yet another cup of tea and took off again. She must have been tired because the walk back seemed very long. She hoped that she was walking off part of her dinner, or perhaps even a bit of her tea. No one was in the streets though it was only eleven o’clock. Still, she didn’t mind, and walked through the dignified beauty of Eaton Square and Eaton Place without looking behind her even once.

  She was greeted at the hotel by yet another attentive doorman. She realized she hadn’t taken her key and told him so. ‘Just get another one at the desk, madam.’ She walked through the lobby to the front desk and marveled at how easy it was to correct a mistake when you were rich. The concierge was on the phone and motioned to her that he would be with her in a moment. As she stood there she longed to take her shoes off, but instead took a few steps backwards and sat in one of the barrel chairs in the lobby. She glanced to her right, through the large opened doors to the bar. Then her heart seemed to stop beating.

  Michael was standing there, his back to her but his profile visible. He had his arm around a woman who was sitting on the stool beside him. Her legs were long and perfect, so were her feet and her shoes. It’s just a business meeting, Claire told herself trying to get her heart to beat again. He told you he had a business meeting. She knew Michael was flirtatious and he certainly did business with women. But then, as if the gods despised denial, the woman put her arms around Michael and moved her hands down his back in the most suggestive way.

  As if that wasn’t enough she then put her head on his shoulder and from Claire’s vantage point in the lobby she saw Katherine Rensselaer kiss Michael’s neck. But how was it possible? Claire thought of the devastating note full in equal parts of Rensselaer pride and a relentless Wainwright character appraisal. How could a woman who had written such a note even consider returning to the man she had referred to more than once as a toad?

  Then, in a visceral way Claire
recalled Michael’s love-making. Yes, she thought, it would be hard for a Rensselaer or any other woman to give that up forever. When he was smiling at you or kissing you or caressing your face or holding your hand Michael Wainwright was a prince. It was only when he turned his back on you that he became a toad.

  His back was to her now, but Claire knew she couldn’t linger. If he saw her she would die right there. She wondered for a moment why she felt so ashamed when it was his behavior that was so reprehensible? But she probably deserved it. She was so very, very stupid.

  The concierge hung up the phone. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

  Of course, her universe had changed since she had stood at his counter only a moment before. How could he help her? He could commit a double murder in the bar but she thought even a man with his dedication to service wouldn’t do that. Perhaps, however, he could supply her with an overdose of sleeping pills. That might be more realistic. She sat there stunned and frozen. The concierge waited patiently. ‘I’ve forgotten my key,’ she said at last. And her voice had the old tone of shyness and defeat in it.

  She imagined what Tina would say if she told her about this, and how, no matter how hard she begged, Tina would retell the story all over the office. Even if she didn’t tell, Tina would watch Michael go back to Katherine Rensselaer and Claire would be put in her place. Flushed with shame, Claire took the key the concierge handed her and went to the elevator as quickly as she could. Worse than seeing Michael with Katherine would be having Katherine and Michael seeing her.