Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  There was a mad logic to it all that fascinated Claire. ‘What goods?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps a ring, for a start. Or a place to live.’

  ‘Are you crazy? I should ask him for a place to live?’

  ‘Don’t you need one?’

  Mrs Patel had gone too far. ‘But we only spent four days together,’ Claire reminded her.

  ‘Four hours, four days, four years, four decades. You gave yourself to him. Does this count for nothing? I don’t know that he will be able to keep his word. Choices like this are always a gamble. So, to help make your decision you must know what assurances he can provide. They cannot be easy ones. If he is rich, and you say he is, then he must give you very rich gifts. And if his family is substantial he must certainly take you to them.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t. Ours is a different culture,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, don’t pretend we are discussing yogurt,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘With men and women it is always the same. All stories are the same story. Love and honor or betrayal and disgrace. What else is there to consider?’

  There was a knocking on the door. One of the regular customers stood outside pointing to his wrist.

  ‘Ah. It’s Mr Jepson. He must have his eggs.’ Mrs Patel sighed. She got up to open the door and patted Claire on the shoulder. ‘You think about this, missy.’

  They got busy then, and there was dinner with Devi, Safta and Fala. Claire helped close up, but she did think about it all the way home.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  On Monday afternoon, Claire made sure she was at the hospital long before Mrs Venables was to be discharged. In fact, she was there before Nigel was. Mrs Venables was already up and dressed but her things still had to be packed up. Claire busied herself with that while the physiotherapist came to make a brief report. ‘We’ve made a great deal of progress,’ she said. Claire winced at the ‘we’ but was grateful for the news. ‘Here’s the report and her prescriptive advice. The address of the clinic is right here, but if it’s difficult for her to get there …’

  ‘It won’t be,’ Mrs Venables said clearly, though with some effort – too much talking still exhausted her.

  Not recognizing a put-down when she heard it, the woman turned and smiled. ‘See how well we’re doing,’ she exclaimed. Claire couldn’t tell if Mrs Venables shook her head in a gesture of disapproval or if she had a tremor. Either way, Claire was relieved when the therapist left, trailing ‘we-we’s behind her.

  ‘You’re all packed,’ Claire told her friend. ‘Shall we sit by the window until Nigel arrives?’

  Mrs Venables looked at her. ‘Do you like him better now?’ she asked. This time Claire was surprised by the question as well as the enunciation. Before she could answer Nigel walked in. He kissed his mother who, Claire noticed, raised her cheek to receive his greeting. She really had improved very quickly and for that Claire was deeply grateful. Even though she would, most likely, have to leave London, she didn’t want to have to think of Mrs Venables alone and unwell. Then she realized that, of course, Mrs Venables wouldn’t be alone – she had Nigel. He was tucking his mother’s throw around her, ready to push the wheelchair. Suddenly, Claire felt unnecessary. After all, they’d been friends for only a couple of months. It was her son, her own flesh and blood that she depended on. When the doctor arrived with release forms he spoke only to Nigel. Claire, to look busy, did a once-over, checking the drawers and under the bed. Then they were ready.

  ‘I have a car waiting,’ Nigel assured them.

  Claire walked beside Nigel, holding the two small bags she had packed. She helped him get Mrs Venables into the passenger side of the back seat, and watched as he stowed things in the boot. ‘Shall I sit beside my mother?’ he asked.

  Claire thought of his long legs and the discomfort of sitting in the middle where there was so little room but perhaps it would be pushy of her to suggest that she sit beside Mrs Venables, so she let him in first and got in beside him.

  ‘This must be very tiring for you,’ Claire said to the older woman. ‘You’ll be back to your flat in no time.’

  Mrs Venables simply nodded and leaned deeper into the seat. Nigel took her hand. ‘You’ve both been a great comfort to me,’ Mrs Venables murmured and closed her eyes.

  Then, to Claire’s complete surprise, Nigel moved his other hand and put it on her own. Claire froze; it was such an unlikely gesture that she did not know how to respond. So she sat there, her face still turned to the window, her hand limply in his. When the car swerved at a roundabout the movement gave her a diplomatic opportunity to pull away. She snuck a sidelong look at Nigel and thought that he looked as relieved as she felt.

  When they arrived at the shop it wasn’t terribly difficult to get Mrs Venables out of the car but once she was on her feet she objected to going in through the separate door to the flat and instead insisted on entering through the shop. She walked through the shop, lurching a little, Nigel at her elbow. She touched a skein of wool here and patted the table there. It was clear that she was delighted to be back. But the stairs weren’t easy. In the end, Nigel simply scooped his mother up and, despite her weak protests, carried her up to her flat above. Claire, surprised yet again, followed close behind them, holding tight to the banister in case he should falter. But he didn’t.

  Once upstairs, Nigel introduced them to Mrs Britten, the home nurse that he had engaged. She quickly took over, settled Mrs Venables into bed and then joined them. ‘She’ll need a bit of a sleep now. She’s quite exhausted,’ Mrs Britten told them. Claire was exhausted herself. ‘I’ll sit beside her in case she needs anything,’ Mrs Britten continued. Then, to Claire’s delight, she took a knitting bag from her things beside the door. Claire felt it was a sign that all would be well.

  Nigel, in the meantime, had disappeared into the kitchen, emerging with a pot of tea. Were there no limits to the surprises today? Claire wondered. ‘Would you like a cup?’ he asked. Claire nodded and the two sat awkwardly side by side on the sofa.

  ‘She has good color,’ Claire said.

  ‘Yes, I thought so too.’

  ‘And she spoke to me very fluently this morning.’

  Nigel put down his cup. ‘Oh, really? What did she say?’

  Claire thought of Mrs Venables’s odd question and colored. She couldn’t repeat it. ‘That she was feeling perfectly well. And she put the smarmy therapist in her place.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news. Her spirit hasn’t been impaired.’ He turned to face Claire. ‘I know we have already taken up a great deal of your time, but I wonder if you’d be free for dinner this evening?’

  Claire stared, then caught herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have a dinner engagement.’ She was invited to Toby’s loft.

  ‘Of course you do.’ Nigel rose, though they had hardly sipped the tea. She felt dismissed, but remembered her theory that he was, perhaps, as extremely bad at social niceties as she was. And he did, indeed, recover himself. ‘Well, how about tomorrow?’

  Claire didn’t have the courage to say no again, though it meant missing the Patels. ‘Yes. I’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon to see your mother,’ she said. ‘And afterwards, well, that would be fine.’ She looked at the clock and realized she’d be late for Toby if she didn’t leave immediately. ‘I do have to go,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He reached into his pocket. For one horrible moment she thought he might offer her money as Michael Wainwright once had. But he took out a set of keys and handed it to her. ‘Here. To the flat. For whenever you need them.’

  Dinner at Toby’s was very interesting. She had avoided him more than a little since it had become clear that his interest in her was platonic at best. But she had never been to the flat before, and she was curious. Once there, she was taken aback by how very different it was from the bookstore below. Toby had renovated the two upper floors and turned them into an airy loft-like space with a sleeping gallery on top and a kitchen tucked away below it. The rest w
as open and two stories high, modern and white and neat as a pin. When she arrived Thomas was helping Toby prepare the salad. Six places had been set and champagne was chilling. ‘I haven’t really celebrated Imogen’s upcoming nuptials,’ Toby explained. ‘This ought to do it.’

  Claire nodded but looked with apprehension at the sixth place setting. As she feared, Edward arrived. Lord, for a young woman with so few social options, she seemed to be awash with unwanted men. Edward, Michael, Nigel. It almost made her feel nostalgic for her solitary bread and cheese in Mrs Watson’s dingy digs.

  After Edward greeted them all Claire turned to Toby and, behind Edward’s back, rolled her eyes. Toby shrugged, while Thomas gave her a wicked grin. She couldn’t blame this on him, though. It was clearly Imogen’s and Toby’s handiwork.

  Malcolm and Im joined the group. ‘Ah! Harry Champers,’ Imogen said, eyeing the iced champagne. Toby poured some out and after general conversation everyone inquired about Mrs Venables’s health. After a quick report from Claire they went on to the business of drinking, chatting and eating.

  Claire kept a covert eye on Toby. She couldn’t get over the fact that she had completely missed the indicators that he was gay. This was the first time she had seen him since she found out, apart from when he came to the hospital, and she had been too exhausted and anxious then to give much thought to the subject. Of course, to her all English men with the possible exception of lorry drivers and soccer hooligans seemed a bit … sensitive compared to Americans. But here, in his own setting – and perhaps with the influence of Thomas beside him – Toby’s sexual preference was unmistakable. Looking down at her plate, Claire blushed.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, Edward’s awkward attentions brought up unwanted memories of Michael Wainwright’s grace and charm. Mrs Patel’s words came back to her. ‘Tokens of good faith in behavior and goods.’ Claire looked around the table and wondered at the reactions of each of the diners should she tell them about Michael, and Mrs Patel’s suggested strategy. Thomas, no doubt, would hoot. Imogen would tell her to ignore the louche American and focus on Edward – the good catch. Edward would be downcast, but probably no more than he would be if his old school rugby team lost to Harrow. Malcolm would grin and elbow her. Only Toby might come up with something useful, perhaps from some novel. She would talk to him alone, she decided, if Thomas gave her the opportunity.

  But the opportunity didn’t present itself and, to her dismay, Claire found herself, despite her best efforts, once again seated beside Edward in his car. ‘Shall I drop you in South Ken, or shall we go for a bit of a ride?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I can’t drive,’ Im said. ‘I’ve had one over the eight, I think. Another and I’ll shoot the cat.’

  Shoot the cat? She supposed it meant throw up. Though it was a funny phrase, the thought of vomiting made Claire a little queasy. She’d drunk her share of champagne but the prospect of yet more time with Edward was enough to sober her. ‘Oh, I can’t,’ she said. ‘I have to be up early to visit Mrs Venables.’

  ‘Ah, of course. You are an angel. Well, I’ll just drop you home.’

  That night as she tried to sleep, Edward’s comment came back to her again and again. It echoed Michael’s calling her that, his voice so full of tenderness it was still hard to disbelieve its sincerity. She could almost hear him. After an hour of tossing she got up, went to the phone and dialed the Berkeley.

  SIXTY-SIX

  When Claire came out of her room on Tuesday morning Imogen was up and lounging in her pajamas. ‘No work?’ Claire asked.

  ‘All work and no shopping makes Imogen a hostile girl,’ Im announced. ‘Anyway, I have to put together something roughly like a trousseau before Mother takes me shopping next weekend – you know what a fiasco that will be.’ Claire had to nod. Shopping with her own mother created fiasco after fiasco, though she was sure that, unlike her own mother, Mrs Faulkner would never try to press a Wonderbra on Imogen. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea,’ Imogen told her. ‘Oh, do sit down. Tell me what Edward said to you? He’s quite besotted. Do you really not like him? Malcolm tells me he’s got absolutely tons of cash stashed away in Jersey and the Caymans.’

  Claire laughed and shook her head. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down beside her friend. ‘Immy,’ she said, using the diminutive that Malcolm and her family used but Claire had never yet dared. ‘I’m going to have to go back to New York. I’m afraid I won’t be able to take the flat.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Is everything all right at home?’

  For a moment Claire longed to tell her that everything at home was all wrong. But what was the point? ‘Nobody’s ill. It isn’t like that. I just … well, I don’t have a real job anymore and I really can’t get one without papers. I won’t be able to get those, which means I can’t afford the flat, even though I love it.’ Claire felt her lips tremble, but she’d cover it. ‘I’ll just have to go back,’ she said.

  Her effort was wasted. Imogen, of course, didn’t notice how upset she was and instead thought of the impact the news had on her. ‘But I wanted you to come to my wedding,’ she said. ‘And are you sure there isn’t, well, someone back home you miss? Some man.’

  Claire shook her head. Recovered her composure and smiled. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘the man I rather fancy is here in London. I’m having dinner with him tonight.’

  ‘Oh! Aren’t you sly? I knew there had to be someone. So? When do I get to meet him? Are you going back to the States with him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she told Imogen and then, because she simply couldn’t help it, her whole history with Michael Wainwright poured out. By the time she finished telling about the meeting in the wine bar, Imogen was completely entranced.

  ‘I’d be cheesed off, I can tell you. But it does sound so romantic,’ she said. ‘I could sell it as a novel in a minute. So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Claire admitted. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Well,’ Imogen said, ‘I certainly do. You’re obviously mad about him and he’s come all this way because he’s mad about you.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘He might just be here on business and have decided to look me up. He plays well with others but he’s no good on his own. And he’s just dumped his fiancée – or she dumped him. He might only be rebounding.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’ Imogen launched into the story of how she ‘pulled’ Malcolm, and a few of the blokes she had gone out with before. ‘It’s rather a game, Claire,’ she summed up. ‘It’s too bad, but you have to play it. Once you make them think that you have better things to do, they come back and just want to sit on your lap and purr. Look at Edward. A dozen women have tried for him. You show no interest and you could reel him in.’

  Claire shook her head again but Im continued. ‘If you want this Michael it’s your best chance. You know how it is with a cat: they only come to you when you’re reading the paper and then they lie all over it, begging for your attention. It seems you’ve read the paper long enough and now he’s begging for your attention.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want anyone on those terms,’ Claire protested. ‘Anyway, once I do pay attention he’s likely to …’ she thought of the English term. ‘He’s likely to just piss off and, well, I’ll be …’

  ‘You’re not going to let that happen. Not if you want him. All you have to do is play hard to get. For god’s sake, meet him in the bar but be there with another man. Tell you what, I’ll let you borrow Malcolm. That’ll fox him good and proper. And then you introduce them and excuse yourself.’

  So that’s exactly what she did.

  ‘The lady would like the sole and I’ll have the prawns,’ Michael told the waiter. He looked across the table at Claire. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a starter?’ Claire shook her head and smoothed the lap of her dress. She and Imogen had gone to Harvey Nichols and spent the entire morning shopping for something for Claire to wear to dinner. They had decided, at las
t, on a simple Anna Sui, in a shocking cerise with a pattern of leaves. Then she bought heels – very high ones – in the same insane color. And Imogen had bought her a pair of earrings that were far too sparkly but, Claire had to admit, were perfect for Vong’s.

  She had visited Mrs Venables after she got back from her shopping with Im and then raced home to put on her new finery.

  The restaurant was just around the corner from the hotel and very busy. Claire, surprised to find she was now a perfect size ten, almost felt at home in her new clothes but wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the menu or the food. She simply wanted to look at Michael and to watch him drink her in.

  When they had met in the Berkeley’s bar she had watched him react, both to her looks and to Malcolm, who seemed to enjoy playing his role. After Claire had kissed Malcolm goodbye and sent him off to have dinner with Imogen, Michael had taken her arm almost possessively. And she knew she must look good because when they got to Vong’s she had been fussed over by the maître d’ as if she was somebody. Clothes might not make the man, but they certainly help a woman, she thought. The unfairness of life had never been lost on her but today, with a new lipstick, a lot of mascara and the perfect outfit, she felt as if the score might be evened up a bit.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ Michael asked. ‘I won’t be an ass and assume that I know. It seems that there are a lot of things I assumed about you, all of them wrong.’ His eyes flicked over her.

  Claire merely smiled. ‘Would you mind a Chardonnay?’ she asked. ‘We’re both having fish.’ It was the only white wine she knew but it sounded knowledgeable and Michael seemed only too happy to comply.

  There was an awkward pause while they waited for service. Claire, thinking of the advice from both Mrs Patel and Imogen, tried hard not to break the silence or make it easy for Michael. After all, why should she? He certainly hadn’t made it easy for her.