Wish Upon a Star (56 page)

‘They’re getting something to eat and they’re behaving well and they’re waiting for their new little sister or brother,’ Claire assured her. ‘By the way, Devi says he was your first baby.’

Mrs. Patel smiled, and despite the sweat, the circles under her eyes, and the rat’s nest her hair had become, she did look lovely. ‘He would. No fear. Safta will set him straight.’ The smile left her face and her eyes softened. ‘Thank you, Claire,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Doing this without family, without anyone to help…it’s very hard.’ To Claire’s complete surprise tears welled in Mrs. Patel’s eyes. Claire knew it had been hard for her to break from her family and to put her husband out, but she didn’t know, she couldn’t know, how very frightening it must be, even for a woman as strong as Mrs. Patel. She paused and licked her lips. ‘Believe me, you must make sure of this man before you go further. You don’t want to be in a room here as I am unless you trust him and love him very much.’ Claire put one hand on Mrs. Patel’s shoulder and squeezed it. Her other was in her pocket, where the little box with the big ring waited. She thought of taking it out and showing it to Mrs. Patel, then thought better of it. ‘Promise me you’ll do that,’ Mrs. Patel asked.

‘I promise,’ Claire told her.

‘Good. Now go to the children. Tell them not to eat too many sweets or I shall be very cross with them. And remind Devi not to be naughty. And ask them to think of a name for their new brother or sister.’

Claire nodded. ‘Fala suggested “Beckham”.’

‘I think not,’ Mrs. Patel said and laughed—until another contraction hit. Claire took back her hand.

‘I’ll stay with them for a little and then I’ll come right back,’ she promised.

Mrs. Patel, gripped with pain, managed to nod. Claire didn’t like to leave her, but she certainly didn’t like to witness it either. Another nurse came in, moved to the side of the bed and Claire took her leave.

The better part of the next three hours had Claire shuttling back and forth between Mrs. Patel and the kids. Devi fell asleep on her lap, while Fala drew and colored pictures with the crayons and paper a nurse’s aide supplied. Only Safta stayed focused on her mother and the baby. ‘It will be all right?’ she asked Claire several times. Claire assured her it would be.

And in the end it was.

Claire was allowed into the delivery room though she stood back and was more than a little frightened. But though she had seen births on television, the birth of Mrs. Patel’s third daughter seemed so miraculous that Claire found herself crying.

When the baby, cleaned and wrapped in toweling, was given to Mrs. Patel her face was transformed. All the pain and fatigue seemed to disappear. The baby, though small, was beautifully formed and already had eyelashes long enough to touch her cheeks. ‘She’s a beautiful little girl,’ the doctor said and smiled. ‘Have you named her?’

Mrs. Patel nodded. ‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Her name will be Claire.’

After the children saw their mother and new sister, Claire took them home and settled them in with the help of Maudie—who she had Safta call from the hospital.

On the way back to Camden, through the cab window, Claire had watched the morning sun as it changed the colors of the horizon and the clouds. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have Michael’s baby and was repelled by the thought. He was, even now, essentially a selfish person. Though he wanted her, it was once again because he had decided on it. Would she be a different acquisition from the ones he made at Crayden Smithers? Would she be more important to him than the BMW convertible he traded in every year or so? Even if she was, how could she live the life he did?

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.

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.