Wish Upon a Star (11 page)

Claire opened her purse once again and took out her passport. It was a lovely document and made her feel important. She stared at her own picture and at the pages and pages that were so-far empty. Michael’s passport lay on his desk and, summoning up her nerve one more time, she went over and picked it up.

His face stared out at her neither smiling nor gloomy. It was a far more sophisticated expression than her goofy grin. But that wasn’t what impressed her. It was the page upon page of stamps from immigration and visas. Bermuda. Italy. Germany. Hong Kong. There were stamps from places Claire had never heard of and the booklet was nearly full. She was surprised to see how the official seals were stamped helter skelter, one from the Netherlands stamped right over another from Thailand. She would have imagined it more like a postage stamp collection where each one would be carefully placed to be savored later. Michael’s passport would expire in two more years. What happened if there was no more room in it before then? she wondered. She hurriedly put it down. She didn’t want him to walk in and catch her snooping.

At seven thirty-four, when she was sure that they would miss the plane, Michael—she hoped she had practiced calling him by his first name enough—walked in. ‘God, they talk and talk,’ he said. ‘We better get going.’

Claire stood up and grabbed her coat and the handle of her rolling case. ‘Won’t we miss the flight?’ she asked. ‘We need at least two hours for check-in.’

He smiled at her. ‘Not with Special Services,’ he said. He shouldered his own bag and took the handle of hers. His hand brushed hers and it was so warm against her cold one she nearly jumped. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘Come along,’ he said.

The driver took their bags the moment they reached the lobby. Claire was a little surprised to see that the ‘limo’ was only a regular Mercedes sedan, but the seats were comfy and the driver was so skilled that they reached the airport in less than half an hour. Michael apologized when they got into the car because he had to look at a file for the next morning’s meeting. ‘Just let me get this over with and then we can have a drink and relax on the flight,’ he said.

Claire nodded and spent the time looking out the window self-consciously, watching Queens fly by; the sad two-family houses, the ugly shaft of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, the endless cemeteries and graffiti all depressing her. But as soon as they pulled up to the British Airways departures terminal at JFK everything changed. Porters greeted them, their bags were whisked away, they were escorted to a private elevator by a smiling aide and, when the keyed door rolled open, Claire was confronted with a vast, quiet, taupe-upholstered room with a view of the runways and the sound of the slight tinkle of ice in crystal glasses and the murmur of upper-class voices in discreet conversations.

They were settled on a love seat with a waitress beside them to take their drink order. Claire asked for an orange juice. Michael ordered a Scotch she’d never heard of ‘And two glasses of water, otherwise we’ll get really dehydrated.’ Just as the drinks arrived the smiling aide returned with baggage tags, boarding passes and an apology. ‘It’s crowded right now at immigration,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back to take you through Fast Track in about ten minutes. Your gate is the very last one.’

‘It always is,’ Michael smiled.

‘Do you have any carry-on? I’d be happy to get a cart for it.’

Michael shook his head, picked up his drink and took a sip. ‘We’re just fine, aren’t we?’ he asked and looked at Claire for the first time.

She nodded. ‘Perfectly fine,’ she said and leaned back into the incredibly soft suede of the banquette. Michael leaned over and took her hand. ‘Do you need something to read? It’s your last chance to get a Hershey bar. They don’t have the same candy in London.’

Claire smiled. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘I think I have all I need.’

‘Me, too,’ Michael said, smiling back.

She turned away, embarrassed but flooded with happiness. This was the sort of adventure that Audrey Hepburn had in old movies. She could hardly believe she was here, with him. Outside, in the deep satin darkness, an enormous plane slid into a berth almost beside them. Michael spoke and she turned back to face him.

‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve ordered you a kosher meal so you should be all right,’ Michael said.

For a moment Claire looked at him trying not to show her astonishment then she realized he was joking and giggled. ‘Do I really seem Orthodox?’ she asked.

He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Au contraire. I think you’re very unorthodox. Lurking under that little librarian act is a world conqueror waiting to be set free. Don’t think I missed that.’

Claire wasn’t sure what she would have said, but it didn’t matter because the smiling aide returned. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.

And Michael took Claire’s elbow and maneuvered her through the dim hushed lounge and out into the harsh fluorescent lights and crowded clattering mass of the terminal itself. At the gate the aide brought their passports to a desk, they were returned, and she ushered them down the jetway and onto the plane.

To Claire’s surprise there was an attendant waiting. She escorted them, along with the aide, to a curtain on the right and into the very front of the plane. Claire knew it existed but she had never been in First Class. ‘You’re in the second row, Mr. Wainwright. But if you’d like the bulkhead seat it’s available. You might be more comfortable,’ the flight attendant told him.

‘No, the second row is fine.’

‘Should I sit by the window?’ Claire asked.

‘Sure,’ he told her. ‘Not that there’s much to see.’

He sat down beside her, took a blanket and a small box from the seat pocket in front of her, spread the blanket over her legs and took out one for himself. He handed her the box and she unzipped it. ‘Don’t bother. It has all the usual junk,’ he said. ‘Travel toothbrush, moisturizer, cologne, sleep mask, ear plugs.’ Claire looked at the cunning little box. I’ll keep it forever she thought.

The flight attendant was back, this time holding a silver tray of tall wine glasses. ‘Champagne, water or orange juice?’ she asked.

‘One of each for me,’ Michael said. He turned again to Claire. ‘And for you?’

‘The same,’ she said, surprised and delighted.

‘Here are tonight’s menus. Please select whatever you like, and we do have the express meal. If you’re planning to sleep through the flight, we can bring it to you right after takeoff.’

‘Thanks,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve got a meeting first thing tomorrow. I need all the sleep I can get.’

‘I’m going to use the…’

‘It’s right over there, luv,’ she was told.

She walked past the other passengers, trying not to stare, and opened the door to the lavatory.

That too was a surprise. There wasn’t a tub or a shower, but it was an actual bathroom, twice the size of the tiny closets in the back of the plane and filled with all sorts of goodies. There was a glass vase, filled with fresh flowers, attached to the mirror. Small bottles of hand lotion, moisturizer, and eau de toilette, all of them a brand called Molton Brown, were there for her use. There were linen hand towels spread beautifully across the vanity and, once again, as in the cabin, the air smelled good.

When she got back, their seats had become beds and Michael had settled down in his. His jacket and tie were off, his sleeves were rolled up, his shoes had disappeared and she wasn’t sure what he was wearing under the blanket that covered him from waist to toe. Did people in First Class put on pajamas? She gingerly lay down on her bed.

‘Sorry I’m passing out,’ Michael said. ‘Tomorrow will be tough, but I promise I’ll take you out for a great dinner after work.’

She smiled. ‘That would be great.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s great. You’ll have all day to sleep.’ He closed his eyes and grimaced. ‘I’ll be the one slogging through meeting after meeting while you have a massage and a pedicure,’ he mock-complained.

She giggled at the thought. ‘Highly unlikely,’ she said.

‘Well then, go shopping or see the sights.’ He yawned. ‘Good night,’ he said and turned his face to the wall. Then he turned back to Claire and gave her hand a little squeeze. ‘After this flight, I’ll be able to say that I’ve slept with you,’ he said.

At Heathrow they didn’t have to wait to get through customs—there was a speed line for VIPs. Claire was thrilled to get her passport stamped but more thrilled to breathe British Air, not the airline, the real thing. And of course there was a driver—Terry, who apparently was Michael’s regular chauffeur—who took their bags and ushered them into a Mercedes. Her first glimpses of London were through the rain on the back windows. Claire did her best to hide her excitement.

Though the day was dreary, the closer they got to London the more interesting the landscape became. First it was rows of connected houses. Then the houses got larger and they had front gardens. She was surprised to see so many flowers in bloom though it was only March. Daffodils waved their cups at her and her mood matched their sunny color. Then there was an entire block of houses with huge windows. They looked very old and the leaded glass and brickwork were complicated and beautiful. ‘What are they?’ she asked.

Michael shrugged. ‘Just houses,’ he said. ‘I think they were once artists’ studios.’ He bent over and gave her a kiss on her forehead. ‘Do you know how cute you are?’ he asked and Claire blushed.

She couldn’t help it. His eyes on her, approving, gave her a little rush. ‘I think so. But I was going for glamorous.’

‘For glamorous you need a hat,’ he said and laughed.

She leaned back into the deep leather seat and, despite the driver, was brave enough to put her hand on Michael’s. ‘I’ll remember that,’ Claire told him and thought I can do this. It’s fun. I can flirt. She turned back to the passing scene. A sign pointed to Hogarth’s House, then on a raised highway they passed a modern glass building shaped like a lozenge.

‘Ugly, huh?’ Michael asked. ‘They call it The Ark. It does look a little like a ship.’

‘Have you been to London often?’

Michael shrugged. ‘It depends on what you mean by often. A couple of dozen times?’ A couple of dozen times! That was twenty-four or more visits and he didn’t think that that was often. He shrugged again. ‘Do you like London?’

Claire had known this moment would come, and though she had thought of other strategies, she had decided there was no option but the bare-faced truth. ‘I’ve never been,’ she said.

‘Really?’ He paused. ‘How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.’

Claire knew he was thirty-one. The difference in age between them wouldn’t account for twenty-four trips: unless he had made all his visits in the last seven years. ‘I’m twenty-four,’ she told him.

He smiled. ‘You don’t look a day over twenty three and a half.’

When the road lowered she nearly gasped at the view in front of her: this was the London she had expected, the one she had seen in movies. On the right there were Victorian buildings, most of them with signs advertising hotel rooms. On the left there was one monumental building after the other. She was dying to ask what they were but was far too shy. Luckily, Michael followed her gaze.

‘That’s the Natural History Museum. Never been there. And this one’s the Victoria and Albert. Big sucker. Full of furniture and musical instruments and decorative arts.’ The traffic was heavier and so was the rain. ‘That’s Brompton Oratory,’ he said. ‘Pretty inside.’

Claire looked at the pillared building and had no idea what a Brompton or an oratory was but she didn’t feel up to asking.

‘We’ll be at the hotel in another ten minutes, sir,’ Terry said.

‘Do you mind if I just change and run out on you?’ Michael asked.

‘No.’

‘Thanks,’ Michael said. ‘My meeting today will be a ball-buster. They don’t send me over here to play Mr. Nice Guy. Except, of course, to you.’

Claire stood in the center of the room slowly turning around and trying to take it all in. It was spectacular, yet very restrained. How was it possible? she asked herself. It looked as if the walls were made of cloth and when she went over to touch one she found that they were, indeed, upholstered with a striped silk in beige and green. Where the fabric met the wooden paneling a silken cord divided them, the exact color of the green fabric stripe. There was a damask-covered sofa with a plethora of fringed throw pillows, an antique sideboard with a huge gilt mirror over it, and real paintings in carved frames. At the entry there was an alcove with a huge bunch of flowers in a Chinese vase, lit by a tiny light above. But most spectacular of all were the two windows that extended almost from the carpeted floor to the ceiling. They opened onto a tiny balcony that overlooked a beautiful, green park.

The curtains were green damask, like the sofa, but that was only the top layer. Underneath there was another pair made of filmy cream lace, and behind those there was a net curtain that let the light in. Claire was about to open the window and step out onto the balcony when there was a knock on the door. She jumped and before she could react there was another knock. She wasn’t sure what to do but since Michael, in the shower, certainly couldn’t hear she went to the door. A man in a blue uniform stood there, a brass luggage carrier behind him. ‘I have your bags, miss,’ he said.

‘Oh, thank you. Bring them right in.’

One by one he carried each through the living room and into the bedroom, which was decorated in blue and white. She followed him. The noise of the shower here was louder and Claire became nervous that Michael might step out of the bathroom undressed. Luckily, he didn’t.

‘Shall I hang this up for you?’ he asked holding Michael’s shoulder bag. Claire had no idea and just nodded. He opened a door that was also upholstered in the blue and white fabric of the rest of the room and revealed a large closet with fabric-covered hangers, drawers, shoe racks, and—for all Claire knew—a little man who ironed clothes as part of the service. ‘Shall I put your case on the luggage rack?’ he asked. She nodded again and he pulled out a contraption that seemed to be made of four crossed sticks and some fabric bands. In a moment it opened into a kind of stand and he placed her bag on it. Then he opened the mahogany armoire against the wall. Claire figured it was another closet but instead there was a television, a fax, a stereo, a refrigerator, and a small bar stocked with crystal glasses, a bucket full of ice, and wine already cooling in it.