Wish Upon a Star (13 page)

‘I could eat,’ she said.

‘Great. Feel like Chinese? But Chinese like you’ve never had before.’

‘How about English food, I mean, we are in London?’

He laughed. ‘You must be joking,’ he said. ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? I don’t think so. Simpson’s is fine once but that trolley gets old fast.’

She didn’t like to ask what he meant. ‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ she said.

He nodded, looked at the fax again and picked up the phone. ‘Can you confirm my booking at Mr. Chow’s?’ he asked. ‘Seven-thirty. We’re eating unfashionably early.’ He hung up the phone and smiled at her. ‘We might have other things to do after dinner,’ he said.

She looked away and put on her earrings. Was she as visibly nervous as she felt?

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve just gotten news that I’m going to have to go out to a business dinner on Saturday. Do you think you can amuse yourself?’ She nodded. ‘They have great room service here,’ he continued. Just then the phone rang with their booking confirmation. He took the fax, tore it into strips and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

For a moment Claire wondered why, but supposed that there might be some business she shouldn’t be privy to. He came from around the desk, took her arm and gave her a kiss on her temple. ‘Umm. You smell good.’ She realized she had forgotten to put on perfume, but her shampoo must have been good enough. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked. She nodded and the two of them walked out the door and to the elevator.

There he let go of her and then, facing her, put a hand on each of her hips and drew her to him. ‘That feels good,’ he said. He moved against her. ‘A little appetizer,’ he whispered. And just then the elevator doors opened to reveal three Japanese men in business suits. Michael was completely unruffled. ‘Hooray,’ he said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ And he led her onto the elevator.

They walked to Knightsbridge, crossed the very busy road and Claire read the instructions painted on the street that told her to look right instead of left and left instead of right. She wondered how many Americans had been knocked over by buses before the reminder had been painted. They walked up a small but charming alley—everything seemed charming—and Michael opened a door that seemed to be a glass bubble. The restaurant front was very narrow. ‘This place was the rage ten years ago,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t get a seat no matter who you were. But you know how it goes: really exclusive, desirable hot spot, impossible to book, too much publicity, taken over by tourists, abandoned by the chic, and open to everyone.’

Two hostesses rushed forward and took Claire’s raincoat. They were led up a spiral staircase to the main room. Each table had a light within that shone upward, making a circle through the tablecloth. Claire had never been to a restaurant that had gone through the cycle that Michael described. For a moment she wondered why he wasn’t taking her to the kind of place that was ‘a desirable hot spot’. Was it because he didn’t want to be seen with her? She looked down at her outfit. It wasn’t bad, but if it was a size ten instead of a size fourteen it certainly would look more stylish. Then she told herself to get a grip. She’d never been to a restaurant remotely like this. She should be grateful.

The place was mostly empty and they were given a table in the corner. As the waiter helped her into the banquette seat she knocked her head against the light fixture hanging from the low ceiling. She became flustered and horribly embarrassed but Michael laughed and shrugged. ‘Everyone’s been doing that for ten years,’ he said. ‘You’d think they’d fix the design.’ He leaned forward and took her hand. She refrained from using the other one to rub her forehead and hoped that a lump didn’t form.

Michael was talking and she tried to overcome her discomfort and focus on what he was saying. ‘Chow started the whole movement. Before him there was no pan-Asian, no fusion. Not that his is really fusion. It’s hard to define. Maybe Chinese crossed with French.’

It was only then that she realized he was talking food not politics. For a moment she thought of Katherine Rensselaer and how she would know exactly what kind of food Mr. Chow’s served, when they’d started serving it, where they had other restaurants, who had invested in them—and she had probably gone to school with Mr. Chow as well.

The waiter came with menus. She looked at hers briefly. ‘It all looks good,’ she said.

‘How about I order for us both?’ he asked. ‘We can share. You know, family style.’

Claire thought of eating with her family. For them it meant the food was served with resentment and eaten in silence. But she smiled. Sharing with Michael would be delightful, and thinking of what they would share later sent a little thrill from her chest to her…

‘You have to try the gambei,’ he said. ‘They say that it’s fried seaweed, but it isn’t. People played guessing games about what it was for years. Whatever it is, it’s sensational.’

The idea of fried seaweed made her not just nervous but queasy. She didn’t like sushi and didn’t want to get sick and spoil the evening. Perhaps she could just push it around on her plate. ‘Then maybe the special chicken and I love his sweet beef. It sounds like a lot of meat but it isn’t really. The portions are small. Does that sound okay?’

She nodded and knew she’d better speak soon even if she didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I do like vegetables.’

‘Oh, they come along with the rice. Not too interesting but they’ll do. And would you like wine?’ She nodded, and he consulted with the waiter and the sommelier. There was a pause and Claire desperately thought of what she should say next. But he beat her to the punch. ‘I think Tina told me you live nearby,’ he said. ‘I mean near to her.’

Claire nodded. ‘Yes, we commute together every day.’ Thinking of that long ride made her heart sink. ‘I hate taking the train but the ferry ride is wonderful. It’s different every day.’

‘They take different routes?’ he asked. ‘Is it because of the weather?’

She laughed. ‘No, it’s the weather that makes it different.’ She began to describe how the famous sight of the Battery and the New York skyline never ceased to amaze her. ‘The light comes off the water in a hundred different ways,’ she said. ‘When the sky is really blue and cloudless the city looks…well, it’s much better than Oz. And sometimes on the foggy days it disappears. That huge city with all the people just goes away and even when we pull into the slip there’s no sign of it. That’s my favorite. It’s all like a ghost city.’

Michael was smiling at her. ‘It’s not quite enough for me to jump at a condo in Staten Island,’ he said, ‘but maybe a visit would be worthwhile.’

She smiled at the thought of him on the ferry with her and Tina. But the idea of him in her house was more than she could begin to imagine. ‘Tottenville is a strange place,’ she said. ‘You know it’s one of the earliest settlements in the harbor. My father’s family lived there since before the Revolution. Or at least that’s what he used to tell us.’

‘My father’s family had to run away during the Revolution,’ Michael laughed. ‘They backed the wrong side. That doesn’t stop my mother from being a member of the DAR, though.’

Claire tried to imagine his mother, and thought just how dismayed she would be if Michael brought Claire home. Not that he would of course. He had all of those women whose mothers were also in the Daughters of the American Revolution, who weren’t size fourteen, and who had gone to boarding school and the Seven Sisters and the Ivy League colleges and the elite business schools. She tried to think of movies like
Working Girl
and
Maid in Manhattan
and
Pretty Woman
where the classy hero falls in love with the plucky, beautiful plebeian. The problem was that of the three she was only plebeian.

‘So what does your dad do?’ Michael asked.

‘He’s dead.’ The question had taken her by surprise and she realized the answer was too blunt.

‘I’m sorry. My dad died when I was twelve.’

‘I was nineteen,’ Claire said, surprised that they had this to share. ‘I miss him a lot. I guess I was his favorite.’

Michael smiled. ‘I would imagine so,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I was my dad’s favorite. Actually, he didn’t notice me much. He worked a lot and I wasn’t very good in school so there wasn’t much to brag about. My brother was the star.’

Claire looked at Mr. Wonderful and thought perhaps things hadn’t always been wonderful for him. She tried to imagine him as a neglected twelve-year-old but it was impossible. He was so self-assured and he always seemed not only to know just what he wanted but how to get it.

The food arrived then, served with a lot of ceremony by two waiters. So family style did not mean taking it from a platter on the table but having the servants share it out, Claire thought. She looked at the tiny green curls grouped beside the fragrant rice and promised herself that no matter how bad fried seaweed tasted she would manage to swallow it down. She was offered a pair of ivory chopsticks but shook her head. Michael accepted them and for a moment she wished she had too, but what was the point? She might be able to pick up pieces of chicken but certainly not the separate grains of rice and these tiny green whorls.

‘
Bon appetit
,’ Michael said and gestured for the waiter to fill her wine glass.

To her surprise everything was delicious. The crispy green stuff certainly didn’t taste like seaweed, but melted in her mouth in a way that was both sweet and salty. The chicken and the beef were equally tasty and Claire realized that she was wolfing the food down. She forced herself to put down her fork and drink from her wine and water glasses instead.

Meanwhile, Michael regaled her with stories of his bad behavior in prep school, college, and grad school. It seemed as if his school life had been nothing but pranks and fun. She thought back to her dull days in Tottenville public schools and instead told him about her lunches with the Maries, Michelle, Tina and Joan. Somehow when she built up a little enthusiasm she became funny—or at least he laughed—and she began to play up the ridiculous aspects of all of the women and their lives. Michael asked questions and seemed fascinated. If he was slumming, or if she was betraying their trust, Claire didn’t care. If she could find a way to entertain and charm Mr. Wonderful she was going to do it.

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.

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.’