Wish Upon a Star (16 page)

Claire didn’t know what to say. She was ashamed of her inverted snobbery about the club. All families seemed to have tragedies and pain. Money couldn’t cushion you from illness or death.

‘Do you have siblings?’ Michael asked.

‘A younger brother. Fred. He’s in the Army. He’s somewhere over here.’

‘In the UK? He’s stationed nearby?’

Claire shook her head. ‘No. He’s in Germany. Over here meant, well…’ She stopped, flustered. ‘Over here’ meant across the Atlantic and Claire realized how unsophisticated it sounded.

Luckily, just then, the waiter returned with a menu for dessert. Michael looked at it. ‘Mmmm, I think I’ll have the apple tart. The lady will have spotted dick.’ Claire looked at him and he gave her a wicked grin. She shook her head.

‘Oh, no dick for you, dear?’

Claire shook her head again and, looking into Michael’s eyes, told the waiter, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

To Claire’s joy they made love again before going to sleep that night. It was wonderful, and before she drifted off she wondered if that was why Michael had a nickname and if any of the other women in the office…

She was woken by sun flooding the room. Michael was lying on his side; his back to her, and it was his voice, obviously speaking on the phone that had awakened her. ‘Yes. Two pots of coffee, really hot please and two full English breakfasts. I’d like kippers as well.’ He turned to her, saw that she was awake and smiled. ‘Would you like kippers with breakfast?’ he asked. Claire shook her head since she had no idea what kippers were. He turned back. ‘And could you try to see that the toast is hot. No cooling racks, please. One order of brown bread and one white.’ He hung up, but before he could turn to her she began to caress his back. It was such a perfect back. So broad and flat with just a hint of the muscles outlined under the skin. She ran her fingers up and down, and felt him move under them. ‘Now, if you keep doing that, missy, I’ll never be able to show you anything in London except the other side of these sheets.’

She giggled. He turned to her, kissed her on the forehead and ran one hand along her cheek. ‘You’re a very sweet girl,’ he said. But for some reason Claire didn’t like the compliment. She thought, suddenly, of Katherine Rensselaer and the blue note. Michael would never call Katherine ‘a very sweet girl’ and Claire felt that he preferred women to girls—those who were not so sweet. But before she could think of any response he was on to planning their Saturday. ‘I thought after breakfast we might go up to Portobello for a little while. It’s such a nice day. And then maybe the London Eye? The National Portrait Gallery isn’t too far from there. We could have a late lunch. And if you’re willing to walk from Trafalgar Square to Westminster we could have tea with my friend Neville.’

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.

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 Horse Guards where the centuries 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?’