She couldn’t get to the room fast enough. Once there she opened the closet, took out her bag and forced herself to carefully fold her clothes and her other belongings, stowing them all away. When she was done she zipped the bag up again and put it back in the closet. She took off the things she was wearing, folded them neatly over the chair and put on not only her nightgown but also her robe. She wondered if Michael would return at all, then figured that even if he and Katherine took a room at the hotel he would come back for his clothes if not for her.
She got into bed, making herself as small as possible, curling into a fetal position hugging the very edge of the mattress. The thought occurred to her that Michael might actually come back and want to make love. The idea was horrible, but as the minutes ticked away and became hours she knew she was safe. Broken in spirit, perhaps, but safe.
She cried a little but repeated over and over that she had expected nothing and had gotten something. And all the rest didn’t matter.
Of course it did. And if only he had waited until he was back in New York before he returned to his women, she thought she would have been prepared to bear it. But this … this was too unexpected, too flagrant for her to swallow. She wondered if his business meetings on Thursday and Friday had included ‘nooners’ with Katherine. The idea sickened her. Michael Wainwright was free to sleep with anyone he wanted, but he wasn’t free to go from them to her.
She was still awake when he came in but she feigned sleep. He undressed quietly and she had to use all her self-control not to cry out when he got into bed beside her. Soon, though, she heard his breathing deepen into sleep. She lay there, more humiliated and unhappy than she had ever been. For a while the misery was so heavy in her chest that she had to struggle with each breath. On the whole planet there was nobody who knew exactly where she was right now or how she was feeling, and she wasn’t sure there was anybody who would understand or care. After what seemed like a long time in the dark a thought pierced her misery. Since nobody knew or cared about her unhappiness she might as well try to be happy. The tiny thought was like a small star of light in the darkness. Then, as dawn began to turn the sky gray over the roofs of London, the idea grew.
TWENTY-ONE
Claire was careful to get up, bathe and dress before Michael was awake. Somehow the thought of him seeing her naked or even partially undressed was intolerable. As she brushed her teeth she observed herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes looked sadly back at her, but other than that she seemed composed. ‘You have no regrets,’ she told her reflection.
And she didn’t. Michael Wainwright had given her a precious gift. London had opened her eyes. It had made her aware that there were other worlds out there. And unlike with her reading, which had introduced her to many different locales and ways of life, this trip had inserted her into the picture in a way she never had been before. Lying beside Michael she had realized that she didn’t have to go back. There was something exciting and at the same time deeply calming about London. She liked the street life, the pubs, the little cafés and the friendly transport system. The low rise buildings, the beautiful architecture and the wonderful parks made it … she searched for the word. Comfortable? No, it was more stimulating, although it was comfortable too. But it wasn’t simply interesting, which many places might be. What it felt, when she was out in the streets or the markets or the shops, was … right. It felt right.
She heard movement outside the closed bathroom door. She put on a little lip gloss and some mascara and felt ready to face him. She packed her few cosmetics into her purse and, to her own surprise, she took a small bottle of bath gel. What could it hurt? She composed herself. There would be no confrontation, no accusation. Michael Wainwright owed her nothing, and he hadn’t even lied to her. For all she knew, his meeting with Katherine Rensselaer was partly business. And he was free to do what he wanted.
She looked at herself one more time and felt pleased with what she saw. She was wearing the self-made armor of her sweater with the pearl earrings; her face had a very slight flush, either from the bath or her nerves, and she looked as good or better than she ever had. She felt as confident as Claire could feel. She joined Michael.
He was in his robe, on the telephone, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled at her as he gave her the nod that meant ‘just one more minute’. She went over to her bedside table and checked the drawer again to make sure nothing was in it. She had been careful to pack everything, but might as well make sure.
‘All right. Well, I’ll take care of it,’ Michael said into the mouthpiece. There was a pause. ‘Yep, good talking to you too.’ Claire idly wondered who he could be talking business with on a Sunday morning but internally shrugged. It truly was none of her business she reminded herself.
‘I’ll order breakfast,’ Michael told her. ‘What would you like?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Claire told him.
‘Are you sure? We probably won’t eat until lunch on the plane. And we don’t have much time. We have to leave by noon. You’ll have to pack.’
‘I’m already packed,’ Claire told him.
‘Oh. Good.’ He put the coffee cup down and opened the closet door. He sighed. ‘I hate packing,’ he said. ‘The worst part of travel. But going back isn’t so bad. Everything’s dirty, and you can just throw it all into your bag and pick up clean stuff at home.’
Claire thought about the neatly folded contents of her bag and the absolute absence of anything she’d want to wear in the closet at home. Michael pulled out his suitcase and put it onto the bed.
‘So you’re all ready to go to the airport,’ he said.
‘I’m not going,’ Claire told him.
He paused then turned around and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘We have to leave by noon.’
‘No. I don’t. I’m not going,’ she repeated.
‘What are you talking about? The flight leaves at three. As it is, I’m cutting it close.’
‘I’m not going to be on the flight,’ Claire said. ‘But thank you very much.’
Michael sat down on the bed beside his open bag. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that morning. If he had an inkling of what she’d been through overnight he didn’t let it show. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. But I’m not going back.’
‘You’re not going back today?’
Claire took her coat down out of the closet. It really was a good thing that she had bought it. She shrugged into it. ‘I may not be going back ever,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Michael asked, for the first time showing irritation, but Claire steeled herself. He might be a boss back in New York but he wasn’t a boss here. She had nothing to fear from his moods she reminded herself. ‘Claire, have you gone crazy?’
Claire shook her head. ‘I’ve been crazy,’ she told him. ‘But now I’m quite sane, thank you.’
‘Claire, you have a job to get back to.’
Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m not like you, Michael. It’s not much of a job.’
He walked closer and put a hand on each of her shoulders. ‘But you have family …’
‘It isn’t much of a family,’ she told him with a shrug that described her feeling for them as well as freeing his hands.
His face changed – it was easy for her to read him – for a moment she saw the guilty little boy he might sometimes have been.
‘Is this about last night?’ he asked cautiously.
She would save what pride she could. ‘What about last night?’ she asked. And before he could go on she continued. ‘You know there isn’t anything real between us. It’s been a lovely weekend. Thank you very, very much. I just think I’d like to stay on.’
She could see the relief on his face as he determined – wrongly – that he hadn’t been busted. He crossed his arms over his chest and towered over her. ‘I don’t have time for this no
nsense now,’ he said. ‘We can get something to eat at the airport.’
Claire went into the living room where her wheelie bag was waiting. She’d left the handle out for a quick getaway. Michael followed her. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I’m staying on.’
A look of incredulity spread across his face. ‘You can’t stay,’ he said. ‘How much money have you got?’
‘Seven hundred and eighteen dollars,’ she told him.
‘Christ. This suite costs more than that per night.’
‘Well, I won’t be staying here then, will I?’ Claire heard the slightly nasty tone in her voice and pulled it back. She had to remember that she felt nothing but gratitude toward Michael. He had brought her here and she was grateful, and the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to who she was, was not something for her to be nasty about.
‘How will you live?’ he asked.
‘I’ll work,’ she said.
‘You don’t have a work visa. They’re very difficult to get.’
Claire shrugged. ‘Then I’ll find a job that doesn’t require one.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m a lot lower on the financial food chain than you are.’ Despite the smile, she was finding it difficult to keep a pleasant tone and his paternal arrogance did not sit well on him. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you for everything. It’s been wonderful.’ She walked back and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
He blinked and almost flinched away. She was very close to his face, but that view receded as she used all her self-control to turn and walk down the hall, her bag squeaking behind her. ‘Isn’t it odd that we figured out how to build space shuttles before thinking of putting wheels on suitcases?’ she asked, then turned the hallway corner and walked out of his life, she thought, forever.
TWENTY-TWO
Claire came out of the underground and pulled her wheelie bag down Camden High Street. In bed beside Michael she had realized that she did not have to go back with him. She could stay on and savor London. She didn’t know how long her money would last or how long she could manage to stay but in the dark, at the hotel, the idea had been balm to her wounded self-worth. Sometime between getting on the tube, though, and getting off, her courage had deserted her. She felt foolish and lost, literally and figuratively. How would she get back? And where would she go back to? Perhaps like Hansel and Gretel, she should have left a trail of breadcrumbs behind her. But like the two of them she had a family that wouldn’t welcome her back. What was ahead? Starvation in a witch’s cage?
Michael’s thoughtless discarding of her wasn’t much different from the way her mother, Fred and even her father had behaved. Her mother didn’t want her around, Fred went away and didn’t bother to keep in touch and her father, for all the love he had professed, left her without any provision for the future.
Eventually she had realized that she had to get off the tube somewhere, and she’d read that Camden had a big Sunday market. She’d liked Portobello market, so she thought she’d give this one a try and then at least she’d have some entertainment while she decided what to do.
Now, for a few moments, Claire felt panic: Her act of false bravado was actually an act of idiocy. But the March sunlight warmed her face and the incredible bustle around her was impossible to ignore. After all, she was in a new place and it certainly didn’t look like Staten Island, Manhattan, or even Portobello Road.
The street was jammed with shoppers and almost all of them were young. None of the middle-aged ‘antiquers’. This was new merchandise. Hundreds, or more likely thousands of tourists and locals walked in throngs on the sidewalk and in the road. They wore leather and piercing, cashmere and silk, denim and flannel. She had never seen such a wide variety of ages, nationalities, styles, and types.
And the shops were – well, they were also like nothing Claire had ever seen. Many of them seemed to have half of their wares out on the High Street itself. Shoes, leather wares, backpacks, purses, new cheap clothes, vintage clothes, coats and jackets spilled out almost onto the road in racks, on tables, in boxes. As if all that wasn’t a riotously confusing enough bazaar, the bizarre architecture, where each shop seemed to have some enormous representation of what they sold extending out from the upper floors and onto the street, added to the visual madness. Giant shoes, a pair of Levi’s too big for Paul Bunyan, and a biker jacket that looked like a size XXXXL.
But the energy was great. The people walked along eating, laughing, talking, selling and buying in the liveliest way. Street hawkers yelled and joked and cajoled potential customers. If the English had a souk she supposed this would be what it was like and she was glad she was here. In fact, though she didn’t have a place to stay that night, a way to earn a living, a bank account or any friends or family nearby that she could go to, she felt happier and more content than she could ever remember feeling. She would worry about all the rest of it later. For the moment, at least, it was enough for her to walk in the pale sunlight among all the colorful action and feel – for a change – as if she were a small part of the scene.
But, as usual, she was alone. She thought of Michael again, probably at the airport by now. She shouldn’t miss him and she wouldn’t miss him. He certainly wouldn’t be missing her. Aside from his flash of anger, which was probably nothing more than surprise, she knew he felt nothing for her. Why should she feel anything for him? She buttoned the top of her raincoat and shrugged her shoulders. She felt cold, and her empty stomach gave a little nudge. It was stupid to think about Michael. She simply wouldn’t allow it. She had made a choice. She was going to be glad that she did. Like Abigail Samuels, she had her dignity. And she had the opportunity for an adventure; this, she reminded herself, was a lot more than she usually had.
Claire found herself on a corner looking at a street sign. She was on Chalk Farm Road and the name alone made her smile. There was something about this city: its terminology, its quaintness mixed with its modernity that charmed her. She felt differently about being here in a crowd than she had about the crowds of New York, where she’d always felt excluded.
Well, she was hungry and decided she would walk until she found somewhere to get a breakfast or – she smiled to herself – perhaps a ploughman’s special. She had done that without Michael and she had enjoyed it. As she walked along Chalk Farm Road she crossed a small bridge. Beneath it ran a little river. Looking more closely, Claire noticed a lock. Perhaps it was a canal. At any rate it was very pretty, edged with cobblestones and weeping willow trees. That nineteenth-century touch was delightful among the twenty-first-century crowds and noise.
From her perch on the bridge she could see a huge warehouse beside it, decked out on many levels with shops, terraces and people. She walked under a railway trestle and beyond the shops where leather jackets, sneakers and the like were being sold and into a far fancier area with some galleries, boutiques and several bistros.
There, at last, the crowd thinned. Perhaps half a mile from the underground she found just what she was looking for. The café looked like a working man’s diner. Outside there was a triangular signboard on which was scrawled in chalk, the fact that breakfast was served all day. Tired and hungry but exhilarated, Claire opened the door, pulling her wheelie bag behind her.
The place was filled with men and they seemed to be very busy either just eating or eating and talking to one another. She could smell the bacon and her mouth watered. But, despite her hunger and her relief at being about to sit down, she hesitated. She looked around in some dismay. There were only four long tables, not individual ones and she would have to take her place beside one of these strangers. Too shy to do it, she turned to leave when she heard a woman’s voice call out to her, ‘Is it breakfast, then?’
She turned back to see a dumpy middle-aged blond wearing a pilled sweater and wrapped in a very dirty apron. She was gesturing to a seat and smiling. Because of the smile and Claire’s hunger (and despite the woman’s caked make-up and dirty hair) she sat where she was told. ‘Move over, Bu
rt,’ the blond said to the small man in the chair beside the empty one. He was eating his breakfast with a spoon and had his arm protectively surrounding his plate. The waitress looked down at him. ‘She won’t touch your food, you silly bloke.’ She looked up at Claire. ‘Village idiot,’ she said. ‘Harmless when he takes his teeth out.’ Half of the men in the café laughed. Burt picked his head up.
‘Better to have shop-bought teeth than to be as long in the tooth as you are,’ he said and there was more laughter.
‘Oh, you.’ The waitress looked back at Claire. ‘They’re a bad lot, all of them, but they don’t mean no harm.’
Claire was relieved. The man wasn’t impaired and it was clearly safe to sit down. She thanked the waitress, who continued to stand over her. ‘A slap-up breakfast?’ she asked. Claire wasn’t exactly sure what that was but she nodded her head. It had taken all of her courage to sit down and there didn’t seem to be any menus, just another unreadable blackboard. ‘Tea?’ the waitress asked. Claire nodded again. ‘With or without?’
Claire preferred her tea black with lemon, but didn’t think slices of fruit would be available here. ‘Without,’ she said. Moments later she was surprised when the waitress put a cup of milky tea in front of her. Before she could object the waitress was gone, returning with a plate the size of a hubcap and filled almost to overflowing with two fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, thick slices of streaky bacon, fried mushrooms, French fries – and baked beans! Claire looked at the plate with dismay. If she began right then she wouldn’t be able to finish eating until dinnertime. Then she realized that was a good thing. With her limited money she might be down to two meals a day in no time. She began to eat, avoiding the beans as best she could. Though incredibly greasy, everything was surprisingly good.
Perhaps I’m just born to be a peasant, she thought. Though the breakfasts at the Berkeley had been exquisite she actually preferred this. She wondered whether Michael had ever, or would ever, eat a meal in a place like this one. Probably not, she decided, though he might have done as a lark after some late night carousing at Wharton. She took a bite of the eggs and looked around her. The problem wasn’t the food. Being without Michael and his privileges would not really bother her but being without Michael – or anyone – as a companion was hard. She felt self-conscious as the only woman – besides the buxom waitress – and the only American. Other people were alone but they did all seem to know one another, at least casually. She sighed. Why did it seem that her lot in life was to always be alone? If Michael had been there, unlikely as that thought was, she would have had someone to joke with, someone to point out the strange little man in the corner to. She sighed again and took a tentative mouthful of beans. Well, she told herself, she would have to start accepting her state. The men who liked her made her feel lonely, even when she was with them. And the men she liked were not likely to stay with her long – or at all.
Wish Upon a Star Page 14
