Wish Upon a Star

by Olivia Goldsmith

  What she had witnessed – the reality of a woman birthing a child fathered by a man who wasn’t there – was the essence of a question between men and women. Michael Wainwright might have been what she once wished for, but he wasn’t what she wished for now. Then with equal certainty she knew she couldn’t return to New York. Somehow, she had been lucky enough to find her place and she couldn’t give it up. London was where she felt real, most alive and truly at home. It was if she was born to live here, amidst the low buildings, the clean tube, the books and the people she had met. Perhaps the gamble she had made by wishing upon a star had paid off in the end!

  It was late afternoon before Claire had a chance to call Michael. She knew he was leaving that night and though she was exhausted and bedraggled, when he begged her to meet him she agreed. She took a taxi to Harvey Nichols and tried to use the cab time to comb her hair, put on some lipstick and brush enough mascara on her lashes to at least look as if she had made an effort. Then, walking past the makeup counters on the ground floor she let a cosmetician apply some blush and eye shadow to her face. She took the elevator up to the roof and moved through the aisles of specialty foods, espresso cups and glossy cookbooks to the restaurant. It was big and noisy, but Michael – of course – had secured a table beside the large windows that looked out onto a small terrace, roofs and chimney pots. Claire made her way to the table and took the seat opposite him.

  He stood up, kissed her, and took her hand. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked. ‘Or an early dinner?’ He took the seat beside her, facing away from the window.

  ‘I’m not hungry. Maybe some coffee.’ She actually felt light-headed. Going from the focused intensity of the delivery room to the frivolous bustle of the restaurant seemed too wide a gap to breach. Though she hadn’t had a cup of coffee in weeks, somehow it seemed not just good but necessary right now.

  They ordered – staff always hovered ready to serve Michael with alacrity – and he took her other hand, this time her left. ‘Do I get to put a ring on that finger?’ he asked.

  Claire looked down, bit her lip then tried to look Michael in the face. The light was behind him and it was difficult to see his features. That was just as well, Claire decided. She put her hand into her pocket, took out the box, and placed it on the table between them. He reached for it. ‘Let me put it on you,’ he said, his voice assured. Claire realized he was certain of her answer. He probably always had been.

  But she shook her head. ‘I can’t say yes, Michael,’ she told him.

  She heard him actually take in a breath as if he’d been punched. ‘But why not?’

  ‘We aren’t right for one another,’ she told him, though it was such a cliché.

  ‘Of course we are,’ he said. He gently squeezed the hand that Mrs Patel had bruised just hours before.

  ‘Claire, I love you,’ he said. ‘And I think you love me. If you want to move, for us to get a new place together, I’ll do it. If you want to elope, that’s fine. If you want a big wedding, I can pay for it. We can have a wonderful life. I’ve learned things about myself. That success at any price is too expensive, that you need someone truly loyal at your back. Claire, won’t you become Mrs Michael Wainwright? I know my parents will love you.’

  Claire doubted it, but it didn’t seem to warrant a response. She knew she couldn’t possibly marry him. ‘Michael,’ she began, ‘I just can’t. You … you lead a big life. You deal with big business. You like big restaurants and big hotels. You want the most expensive car and the best clothes.’

  ‘But you can have those things,’ he said, interrupting. ‘Let me give them to you.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Michael, I don’t want them.’

  ‘What?’ he said, and for the first time Claire saw Michael Wainwright truly confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Michael, I like small businesses. Little shops and small groceries. I like the local pub, not a posh hotel bar. I don’t like to go out at night. I like to read. And knit. Michael, I like to knit.’

  He blinked. ‘Well, knitting is okay, Claire.’

  ‘But I like to knit my own clothes. And I don’t like to have too many. And I don’t feel good when I’m all dressed up. I didn’t like that cerise dress I wore, the one that you loved. I bought it for you, but it wasn’t me. And the clothes I had on yesterday, the blouse with the low neck, that was borrowed. They weren’t even my clothes, Michael.’

  ‘That’s okay, Claire. I mean, I don’t care how you dress. We can buy you a little shop. It will all work out if you love me.’

  Claire shook her head. There was no pay-back here, no pleasure in hurting him. ‘I don’t think I do,’ she said. Though she steeled herself to say it, it was still hard to get the words out of her mouth. She felt sick. It wasn’t easy to be rejected, but she didn’t find it any easier to reject. ‘I’m very sorry, Michael,’ she told him.

  He picked up the ring box and without a word pocketed it. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who’s sorry.’ He moved and the light from the window fell on his profile. She could see his face and it did have a look of pain. She turned her eyes away. This was not what she had wanted, but she didn’t have another choice.

  ‘I guess there’s nothing else to say.’ He stood and threw some notes on the table. ‘Goodbye, Claire.’

  But she didn’t have time to say goodbye to him. Before she could utter the word he was halfway across the restaurant and on his way to the elevator.

  SEVENTY

  Claire was putting the last of her possessions in a cardboard carton while Imogen fluttered around from the living room to the bedroom to the doorway of Claire’s box room moaning about the difficulty of packing. ‘There is just too much to put together,’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky, Claire, to not have to worry about lots of stuff.’ Claire tried to smile and nod. She wasn’t sure that Imogen would feel lucky if she had as little as Claire did, but she had no need to point that out. Claire looked at the boxes surrounding her. She was going to Mrs Patel’s for the short-term. She’d help with the shop and, to a lesser extent, help with the baby. It would be a good temporary arrangement for both of them, but only temporary, because Claire knew she could not and would not permanently move in. She needed her own place, and though the idea of going back to Mrs Watson’s or some place like that made her blood run cold, she would do it if she had to.

  As Claire reached down to pick up a box, she noticed an envelope addressed to her resting on the corner of another carton. It was from her mother. Claire lowered herself onto her bed, slowly opened the letter and began to read.

  Dear Claire,

  I miss you very much. The empty house is lonely. I go up to your room and it’s very weird to be there without you. Remember all the fun we used to have? I hope you’re thinking about coming home. Anyway, I got this letter for you. I hope you don’t think I opened it. It came in the mail like that, with the flap torn. I certainly hope it’s good news, and that you’ll share it (the news) with me.

  Your loving mother.

  P.S.

  I’m paying off the Saks bill myself. Think of it as a birthday present. You know, you didn’t have to send me the money. I’ve always been generous with you. So your payment won’t go to waste, I redecorated your room so it’s all ready for you to come back to.

  There was another letter enclosed with her mother’s, and it was clear her mother had opened it. This used to happen on the rare occasions when letters came to Claire from Fred and her mother couldn’t wait to read them.

  But this wasn’t a letter from Fred. The return address was Alcott and Stevens, LLP – a firm of lawyers – with a New York address. Claire reopened the envelope.

  Dear Miss Bilsop,

  I’m sorry to have to inform you of the death of your aunt, Gertrude Bilsop Polanski. As you may know, she was your father’s only sister and had been the sole recipient of the Bilsop estate when your paternal grandfather died.

  Mrs Polanski had no children and has left her
entire estate to you. I enclose a copy of her will, but to summarize you have inherited approximately four hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars in cash and securities as well as the Bilsop homestead at 713 Hyland Avenue, Tottenville. Apparently, your aunt had rented it out for the last two decades, but it was on a year-by-year basis and the tenants can be removed at the end of this calendar year.

  In addition, there are some paintings, furniture and jewelry that may be valuable. We could certainly have them appraised for you by a reputable expert.

  Your aunt was a long-term client. Our firm assisted her after the death of her husband and I hope that you might entertain thoughts of our doing the same for you at this time. As the executor of the estate, I wait for your response. Probate should last only a few more months.

  Very truly yours,

  John Alcott

  P.S.

  I am also forwarding a book Mrs Polanski wanted you to have. It was published in 1888 and outlines quite a bit about the Bilsop holdings and their place in the community.

  Claire put down the letter and, for a moment, had no reaction at all. Then, irrelevantly, she thought that she could neither tell Imogen – who already thought she was from an ‘old family’ – nor would she want to show Nigel Venables that she did, indeed, ‘have people’. She read the letter again, this time more carefully. All the stuff her father had told her, the stuff her mother called garbage, must have been true. He had talked about his sister and she knew that he had fought with his father long ago, back when he had dropped out of college. She had never met her grandfather or her Aunt Gertrude. Then she thought of the houses – not the horrible modern ones but the beautiful old ones the yuppies had restored – back in Tottenville. Was one of those back on Staten Island waiting for her? And the money! It was more than she could imagine. It wasn’t the lottery, but to her it was as good as one.

  She looked down at the letter. So much was possible. She could, perhaps, buy a flat or at least rent one. She could stay on here at Imogen’s but have the place to herself. She could apply for a working visa. It was amazing how a single piece of paper could change your life. But did she want to change her life? She certainly didn’t want a house in Tottenville, even if it was on the water. Did it matter that a great, great, great grand uncle had been a gentleman farmer and a member of colonial society? Not to her.

  ‘I’m just about done here,’ Claire told Imogen. ‘I’m going around the corner to say goodbye to Mrs Venables, but I wanted to give you your wedding present now.’ She handed Imogen the gift she had carefully wrapped. ‘I don’t know if it’s a polite thing to do, or if I have to wait until you’re married, but …’ she paused, ‘anyway, I’d like you to have it.’

  ‘Oh, Claire, how very kind of you. Shall we sit down right now and open it? I should, by rights, wait for Malcolm but you know how men are.’ Claire wasn’t entirely sure she did but she agreed and joined Imogen on the sofa. It took only a minute for Imogen to pull off the careful wrapping. ‘But Claire!’ she said, when she saw the little Battersea box, ‘I … no, I really couldn’t. It’s so beautiful. And valuable. Do you really want to part with it?’

  ‘I want you to have it,’ Claire said. ‘It would make you happy. Living here has been very, very special to me. And I’d like you to always remember me.’

  Imogen impulsively hugged Claire. ‘Well, it’s a lovely surprise. And I have one for you. Can you just nip back here after your visit to Mrs Venables?’

  Claire nodded. ‘I have to anyway,’ she said. ‘To pick up my things.’

  ‘Good,’ Imogen told her, and went back to her somewhat ineffectual wandering around the half-packed rooms.

  As Claire walked down the street that would no longer be ‘hers’ she thought with regret about leaving the neighborhood. There was nothing wrong with Camden but everything here was so pretty. For two hundred years, and for some buildings considerably longer, people had been looking for and finding ways to improve and beautify these houses. The boxes full of flowers were in full May bloom. Each front yard was groomed to perfection with a variety of landscaping tricks. Every balcony was covered with ivy or sported matching pairs of topiary trees in immaculate urns. Each door seemed freshly painted, all the brass shone in the spring sunshine. Even the curtains and chandeliers visible from the street seemed perfectly in keeping with the rest of the buildings and the neighborhood. Claire thought of the screen doors and jalousie windows, the cinder block walls of Tottenville and winced. But she didn’t have to go back. Perhaps, if the house – the Homestead – was sold she could find something here.

  What a relief to not have to return to Staten Island or Manhattan Island either. Though as different as chalk from cheese, both were wrong for her. Her decision not to marry Michael hadn’t been easy, but once it was made, she hadn’t had a moment of regret. She had slept well last night. She was sorry if she had hurt him but she had a feeling, after his rude leave-taking, that he would get over her soon enough. Perhaps someday a Katherine Rensselaer would be able to thank Claire for the home and family that Michael gave her.

  Claire turned and saw the knitting shop from the corner. Oddly, there were people in it. Even from this distance she recognized Mrs Willis, Mrs Lyons-Hatchington, Charlotte and another woman who looked familiar from at least one class. Claire quickened her steps. She thought of the Monty Python line seemingly used by all fictional British policemen: ‘What’s all this, then?’ When she got to the doorway she could see Mrs Venables behind the counter. She was shocked but delighted.

  ‘Hello, Claire,’ Mrs Venables said as she lifted her head from the knitting she was examining for the Countess, who huddled beside her. ‘I’m having some trouble changing the wool color on this bobbin,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps you could help.’

  ‘Of course,’ Claire agreed. She wanted to ask whether Mrs Venables should be there at all, and whether this was good for her but wouldn’t do so in the presence of others. She smiled at the Countess. ‘Here we go,’ she said and deftly moved the thread around the bobbin.

  ‘Ah, Claire, my daughter told me you would call today or tomorrow about another knitting party. But if the shop stays open, perhaps we needn’t fuss about it.’

  ‘Oh, but the shop isn’t …’

  Claire was interrupted smoothly by Mrs Venables. ‘… going anywhere,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Although I’m sure Claire would be delighted to run another party if you would like to entertain at home.’

  Mrs Cruikshank approached the three women. ‘My daughter-in-law has begun to crochet,’ she said.

  Claire struggled to look interested. Like many knitters, she had deep contempt for crocheting. There was no challenge to it and it was limited to three basic stitches. ‘I’m not a crocheter,’ Claire said.

  ‘Nor I,’ Mrs Cruikshank agreed. ‘Anyway, I’ve never liked it.’

  But, ‘Now, now,’ said Mrs Venables. ‘I’m sure she’s very good and careful. We mustn’t allow our passions to rule us.’ She looked up and smiled at Claire. ‘Well, not all of the time,’ she said and gave Claire a wicked little smile.

  Claire wasn’t sure what the message in the smile was. She forced herself to refrain from speaking. There was too much to ask about. The shop? It would stay open? And Mrs Venables could work? Mrs Cruikshank, perhaps out of respect for Mrs Venables’s recent illness or perhaps because of the difficulty she was having with her pattern and daughter-in-law simply shrugged.

  ‘As you get older, you have to choose your battles. You can’t fight them all.’

  Mrs Venables nodded her agreement. ‘You’re absolutely right. It’s like the shop,’ she said. ‘Keeping it open is necessary, but I had a pitched battle with my son.’

  ‘Sons,’ Mrs Cruikshank sighed. ‘They always make a fatal decision in the women they marry.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the Countess said. ‘Daughters make fatal decisions by not marrying at all.’ Claire thought of Ann Fenwick, busy, busy, busy.

  Mrs Venables nodded again. ‘Oh, sons do
the same,’ she said. ‘Nigel’s going to be thirty-six and he still isn’t married. Perhaps it’s a way to keep me from ever meeting my own grandchild.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Mrs Cruikshank said, ‘just because you have them doesn’t mean you chance to see them. My daughter-in-law, the crocheter, makes sure that a visit once a month is sufficient, at least for her.’ Then she asked for Claire’s help to tie off another color. Claire, mad with impatience to know what had gone on between Mrs Venables and Nigel, managed to do it without destroying the cardigan. But when she was done and Mrs Cruikshank had gone to sit beside the Countess, Claire could no longer hold back.

  ‘If you’re leaving the shop open, how did you get Nigel to go along with it?’ she burst out.

  Mrs Venables shrugged and smiled airily. ‘I had my way. I just declared business as usual.’

  ‘You mean you’re keeping the shop open?’ Claire asked. All the women around the table nodded, smiling. ‘But, but … how?’

  ‘First I spoke to Mr Roberts, my physician and got his approval. But you know Nigel. It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘They’re never easy,’ Mrs Cruikshank said bitterly. ‘But at least he’s interested in your welfare.’

  ‘So he agreed?’ Claire asked, her heart beginning to beat very quickly.

  ‘Well, not right away. I told him that I may be old, but I’m in complete control of my faculties. He took exception to that, but I was firm.’ The women shook their heads in agreement.

  ‘How did you convince him?’ Claire asked.