Wish Upon a Star (22 page)

Claire sat in bed and in the dim light cast by Mrs. Watson’s lamp finished casting on the sixtieth stitch for a simple scarf and set down both needles on the chair beside her bed. Some people cast on with their hand, rather than the second needle, but Claire felt nothing but contempt for that. To keep the stitches uniform in spacing and tension it was much better to cast on with a needle, though it did take a little longer.

She had gotten home, made herself a frugal dinner and then bathed. She hadn’t felt comfortable walking down the hallway to the bathroom in her nightgown and robe, but she had encountered no one since Maudie. Other guests must have been staying there however because she found their relics—soap slime in the tub and beard bristles inside the sink. She had to clean everything carefully before she was comfortable enough to get into the bathtub. As it was, it still felt odd to be bathing where a stranger had been. She and Fred had shared a bathroom at home and she had often had to clean up after him but somehow a stranger’s leavings were a lot skeevier than a brother’s. Still, the water was hot, and the little bottle of bath gel that she had taken from the hotel had filled the room with a scent of lilacs.

As most of us know, odors can be more evocative than anything, releasing memories with a sometimes-stunning strength. For Claire the smell brought back bathing in the beautiful bathroom at the Berkeley. She had felt so very pampered and so completely—and as it happened, unrealistically—happy. For a moment she could actually feel Michael’s arms around her and hear his whispered ‘angel’. Before tears could rise to her eyes she pushed the thought from her mind. Instead she thought of her encounter with Toby, then about poor little Maudie, and Mrs. Patel and her children. Claire could go on without a liar like him.

Now, lying in bed, she found herself strangely contented. She would, she decided, use ribbing stitches on the ends of the scarf but run cable along the length of it and use one of her newly purchased slightly larger needles. A scarf knit in London, on English needles, by her, for her to wear when she took the tube or rode a double-decker bus. Claire smiled. She could not have imagined this moment a week ago, yet being in it seemed completely natural.

As she knit she tried to plan the next day. She had taken her guidebook into the bathroom and had looked through it while she soaked. She thought that she might begin by taking the tube to St Paul’s, seeing the great dome and the crypt and then walking west to Leicester Square and through Mayfair. She shouldn’t go to any museum that charged admission, at least not until she had some kind of job. But Claire was making an exception just this one time. But if she could work—even as a babysitter—she might be able to eke out just enough to stay on, at least for a while. And perhaps tomorrow she could look around and see if another job presented itself. She had surprised herself with the confidence she’d shown with Mrs. Patel. Maybe she could do that again. After all, she had nothing to lose.

She put her knitting away and reached for the book Toby had given her. But since the bulb was so dim that her eyes had trouble adjusting to the light, she decided against trying to read the small, old print. Instead she took out the guidebook and continued from where she had left off after her bath. Tomorrow she thought she would have to get a plate and a knife. And she would also have to get a brighter bulb. The thought of spending the money made her a little nervous, but she had never owned her own dish and it might be fun to look through the tables and tables of them to select the one just right for her.

She looked around the room. The wardrobe door was open, and she realized that each thing, each object, each belonging was something she had selected and was perfect just for her: her shoes, the silk blouse, her few pieces of jewelry, even the raincoat. She had somehow collected these few, treasured objects and had dropped the dross behind her. She thought of her closet and drawers back home, filled with things she didn’t want, didn’t need, that didn’t fit or didn’t suit her. It felt so wonderful to know that she had just what she needed and could fit it all into the wheelie bag under the bed. I have to remember this, she thought. She thought of Tina’s constant shopping and all the bags of ‘bargains’ that the women back at Crayden Smithers ‘had to have’. Claire had never been guilty of that kind of shopping for sport, but somehow even she had gotten bogged down with more possessions than she needed—and the wrong ones.

She looked around again and pulled the thin blanket securely up around her shoulders. Hard to believe that the morning before she had woken up next to Michael Wainwright, on Egyptian cotton sheets in the most magnificent place she had ever slept in. And the thought of him wiped out the pleasure of her small adventures. How foolish of her to be so pleased about a cup of tea in a used bookstore and an opportunity to sweep up in a dirty grocery. In case she needed proof that she was humble, unimportant, all she had to do was imagine what he might be doing now and where he was. She wasn’t envious of him—not exactly—but the thought of him made her and her life seem so very, very small.

But, she reminded herself, things had changed at least a little. She had done something different—very different from what she usually did. She had turned her back and walked away. Since then it seemed she had left her old life behind, along with Michael Wainwright. She had explored a new place and may have made a friend, and possibly even found a little job.

Crayden Smithers! The realization made Claire sit straight up in bed. She’d missed work—they’d expected her today—she had to let them know she was taking more of her vacation days. But whom would she call? She didn’t want to speak to Joan, and it was inappropriate to leave the news with Tina. Claire looked around the room and at the sight of her guidebook she remembered Abigail Samuels. She could call Abigail.

Claire wrapped herself in her robe, grabbed the guidebook and walked quietly down the hall to the phone. She only hoped that Mrs. Watson was tucked in bed so that Claire wouldn’t be watched like a disobedient child. She flipped to the inside front cover to find where Abigail had written her home number, at least she hoped it was her number. She’d have to call collect, because she had no idea how to do otherwise. And the time difference—it was probably around five or six in the evening there, but she’d have to take the chance Abigail would be home from work. It took Claire a little while to find out how to do it, but at last Abigail’s phone was ringing in New York.

‘Hello?’ a voice said. It was Abigail’s.

‘Miss Samuels? It’s Claire. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but…’

‘Actually, I’m quite relieved to hear from you. I thought the worst.’

‘The worst?’

‘Well, not the absolute worst. The fact that Mr. Wainwright made it in to work, but you didn’t, made me wonder and when they call a man a lady-killer it’s for a reason. I didn’t think Wainwright had actually killed you but, well, emotionally…’

‘I’m fine,’ Claire said and, at that moment she was. ‘I just thought I’d stay on for a bit. London is wonderful.’

‘Oh, good. I’m glad you can enjoy it.’

‘Yes. I can. Tomorrow I’m going to tour and go to St Patrick’s.’

‘St Patrick’s?’

‘Oh, I mean St Paul’s. Anyway, could you please put in for my vacation days? I know I should have called yesterday but—’

‘Don’t worry about a thing. You might enjoy that you’re the talk of the office and take your time.’

‘I’ll probably be back next week. My money won’t hold out too long but I have found a little place to stay.’

‘Really? Give me the address, just in case.’ Claire did and then Abigail Samuels said something very peculiar. ‘I’m proud of you. Venture forth.’

Not knowing what else to say Claire simply said, ‘Thank you. I will.’ And they hung up. She tiptoed back to her room, carefully closed the door and got back into bed.

It was very hard to believe, but when Claire turned the light off and put her head down on the scratchy polyester pillowcase she smiled to herself in the dark. Tomorrow she looked forward to breakfast at the café, a long walk, a visit to the bookstore, and perhaps a way to earn money. She began to hum a song her father used to play on the piano that she had learned on the flute. And with that she fell asleep.

The next morning Claire woke up knowing that she had dreamed long and complicated dreams. But she couldn’t remember them. It seemed to be cold and damp out, so she began her day with another hot bath, dressed in her black slacks, her new T-shirt and the sweater she had made. She looked at her knitting, decided to take it with her and—once she was out of doors—wished she had already finished the scarf. She buttoned her raincoat up to the neck and made her way toward the café and the tube station.

A soft protective grayness had settled on and around everything. She had read, of course, about London fog, but had always imagined it as dark. Wasn’t it described as ‘pea soup’? This was far more ephemeral. It was damp and wispy; it seemed to put a sheltering scrim over everything. With the gray of the stone buildings and the gray of the bark of the trees and the gray of the sidewalk Claire felt as if she might have walked into a Whistler painting.

By the time she got to the café all of the warmth from her bath had evaporated into the mist and she was chilled to the bone. A cup of tea and a big meal was exactly what she needed. Outside the café the window was obscured by steam. Claire entered and once again was in a world populated by working men. This time she waved to the waitress and wasn’t afraid to take a seat without permission. When she ordered her breakfast she was careful to remember to ask them to hold the beans, but she ate her eggs and chips and the bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes. She sopped up whatever was left with brown bread and had three cups of tea before she was done.

‘For a tiny thing like you, you can put it away, can’t you?’ the waitress said. Claire wiped her mouth and nodded. ‘Did you find a place to stay?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Hope it’s not too bad.’

Claire shook her head. ‘My name is Claire.’ She held her hand out and the older woman shook it briefly.

‘Well, good to see you again,’ she said and turned back to her work.

Claire was a little disappointed that the waitress hadn’t offered her name, but she paid her bill and went back out into the damp, feeling warm again.

The walk along Camden High Street was completely different today. It wasn’t just the weather; most of the shops were closed and, aside from the car traffic, there was no one on the street. It seemed as if shopping days were only on the weekend. Claire tried to imagine the shops on Duane and Water Street shut down five days a week and simply couldn’t.

She bought a ticket and took the underground, getting out a stop before St Paul’s and walking the rest of the way. She was glad she did this because, although at first she found herself in a narrow street with large gray buildings closing in on each side, at the end, after a slight curve, the view of the rise of the hill with the dome of St Paul’s above it was…well, it was stunning.

The mist was just beginning to evaporate, and the watery sunshine on the gold of the dome seemed to make it emerge from smoke the way a sun might dawn in a fairy tale. The cathedral was up a long set of stairs and Claire remembered that royal wedding processions had walked up these very steps. Now she, too, put her feet there and entered the cathedral.

To her surprise, it was very busy. In the center nave a service was being conducted. Though there were very few people in the congregation, there were large groups being guided through the sides of the church. Claire did not know if you had to pay to get a guide but by stealth she managed to go from one to another and hear bits and pieces about the building.

More important than the history though was standing under the vastness of the dome which arched over the very center of the church. She had read about the whispering gallery where the strange acoustics allowed a murmur to be heard two hundred feet away. For a moment she was sad as she watched other tourists try the trick. She had no one to whisper to her, but she watched as others delighted in the experience. The building was breathtaking. She had never seen anything remotely like it. She had, of course, been to St Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York but it had none of the grandeur, none of the spectacular originality of this building.

The service ended, and Claire felt freer to walk around the center of the cathedral. The walls were dappled with memorial plaques, many with carved busts, or garlands of flowers, or what looked like Grecian ruins. Some of them were in Latin and many in an old English that was both charming and strange.

As she walked around the left side of the church she saw an inconspicuous modern sign that directed visitors To
the Crypt
. It sounded spooky but, nonetheless, she decided to descend the stairs. The crypt was only a basement, though a large and well-lit one. Here there were more memorials and she wandered around looking at names, dates and the sculpture. Then she turned a corner, past a pillar and fell in love.

A man was standing there. He was, without question, the most beautiful she had ever seen. His profile was breathtaking: a wide brow, a perfectly straight thin nose, rounded but still masculine lips and the most perfect jaw-line she had ever seen. His hair was pulled back into a small ponytail. She walked around to the front of the statue and looked him full in the face. He seemed to be staring off into some vast distance. Though he was carved of marble, the sculptor had managed to breathe life and tension into his creation, and the eighteenth-century uniform molded to his body did not conceal the muscles and sinews underneath that made him strain toward her.

Claire thought of the Pygmalion story. She had not created this statue, but she was in love with it nonetheless. He was standing on a platform, some sort of ship, and clearly about to sink and die. She looked at the name inscribed along the base—Captain Wentworth—and the date of his death. Tears filled her eyes. This beautiful man had died two hundred and sixteen years ago, in some unimaginable sea battle. What had his eyes seen before he died? His family, his wife or lover, even his dogs and horses—for he must have had them—would have been inconsolable. Claire stared at his lips and wished she could kiss them. If only that could breathe life back into him.