Wish Upon a Star (12 page)

He handed her a remote control. ‘Shall I show you how to operate it all, then?’ he asked. Claire shook her head. She hadn’t come to London to watch TV and she was sure Michael knew how to do it all. But she realized, with a kind of horror, that she would have to give a tip to this man. ‘Is the temperature all right?’ he asked. ‘And would you like a fire?’

There was a fireplace in the living room, but Claire had thought it was only for show. ‘Is it cool enough?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘If it isn’t, we could turn down the temperature in here,’ he said. ‘Lots of our guests keep a fire going through their whole visit.’

Claire smiled. ‘I would like one,’ she said, ‘if it’s no trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. I’ll be back in a tick.’

He left and that gave Claire enough time to rummage through her purse to find the envelope that Abigail had given her. But did she give him a pound coin? Or two? Maybe she was supposed to give him a five-pound note. The trouble was, she didn’t know what she would have tipped in dollars back in New York. She had never stayed in a Manhattan hotel room in her life. She decided on the five-pound note and when he returned with an armful of logs and some newspaper she had it ready in her hand.

He kneeled at the hearth, looked up the chimney and put in two logs and some newspaper, laying the rest in a brass pot. ‘I’ll just put these here beside the fender.’ Claire had no idea what a fender was but she nodded. When the bellman had lit the paper and flames were licking over the logs, he stood and dusted off his knees and smiled at her. ‘Anything else you need, just call Housekeeping,’ he said.

‘I will,’ she promised, though she couldn’t imagine doing so. He walked to the door and was out in a moment. Then she realized she still had the five-pound note in her hand. She ran to the door. ‘Oh! Please! Please sir.’

He heard her and turned around. Awkwardly she held out her hand with the money folded in it. ‘For you,’ she said and he smiled and didn’t even look at the amount.

‘That’s very kind of you.’

Flustered, she closed the door and went back into the bedroom. She unzipped her suitcase to see whether everything had been crushed and wrinkled, but just then Michael emerged from the bathroom looking pink, shaved, refreshed and perfectly dressed. He walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, while his hazel eyes glimmered with mischief. ‘There is nothing I’d like to do more than lie down on the bed right now with you,’ he said. ‘But work won’t wait. I hope that you will.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘When do you think you’ll be finished?’

‘With work or you?’ he asked with a sly little grin. She blushed and looked away. Michael laughed. ‘I won’t be any later than seven,’ he said. ‘I’ve booked Mr. Chow’s for half-seven. If that’s where we feel like going.’

Once again, Claire wasn’t sure what he was talking about but she nodded. His closeness, the smell of him, the heat from his shower or simply from his body seemed overwhelming. And when he put his hand on her chin, raised her face to his and kissed her—really kissed her—for the first time, she knew what the Victorians had meant when they wrote about ‘swooning’.

‘Ummm,’ he said. ‘Something to live for.’ He let her go. ‘See you around seven,’ he said. ‘Take a nap, have room service, order anything you want, Harvey Nicks is just a block away and Harrods is two streets beyond. That ought to keep you busy,’ he smiled, and, throwing his raincoat over one arm, he picked up his attaché case and was gone.

Alone, Claire walked over to the bed. It was higher than beds in America, and covered with a fluffy quilt in the same blue print as the walls. There was also a kind of crown above the headboard with blue fabric that draped all the way down to the floor. Claire kicked off her shoes, climbed onto the bed and jumped. Up and down, up and down, three or four times until she was breathless and allowed herself to fall in a heap in the middle of the beautiful coverlet. She felt as if she was in the Princess and the Pea, but there was no lump in the bed. It was all unbelievably perfect, and far, far nicer than anything she could have imagined. She wanted to look at every picture, every ashtray, vase, and pillow. She wanted to take photographs so she would never forget any of it. But first she had to go to the bathroom.

That was a whole suite in itself. A counter at least ten feet long with two sinks in it had a silver framed mirror over it and an orchid in a low ceramic bowl. A marble shelf that seemed to float on the wall below the mirror had glass bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hand cream, body cream and shower gelée as well as glass jars with silver tops filled with cotton, Q-tips, make-up sponges, and—the best one—wrapped hard candies. Claire lifted the lid of that one, and read the bit of paper. ‘
Jermyne’s Boiled Sweets
’, it said, and though that didn’t sound very inviting she popped one into her mouth and it tasted exactly like an orange slice.

In the mirror she could see the glassed shower behind her. It was as large as the bathroom she shared with her mother and Jerry in their house in Staten Island. Next to it was the longest bathtub Claire had ever seen, with another host of little bottles of soaps and unguents. Lastly, there was the most adorable little kidney-shaped vanity table with a blue and white skirt and a bench that matched the bedroom fabric. A silver lamp, like a candlestick shaded by a pink silk shade, stood on either side, and across the back a three-way mirror reflected her mid section. Claire actually laughed out loud in delight.

She ran back to the bedroom, fumbled through her suitcase and found her cosmetics bag. It was only a Ziploc, but she took it back to the bathroom, laid out her brush and comb, her lipstick and blusher, her Oil of Olay, and her tubeless toothpaste. Then she sat at the vanity, looked in the mirror and brushed some color onto her face. She smiled at the three faces before her. ‘Aren’t we having fun?’ she asked aloud. ‘You’re not in Kansas anymore.’

Claire walked purposefully toward the corner. In her bag was the guide to London that Abigail had given her as well as the pounds. She also had her dollars and needed to find a bank to go to change them. She looked around her. Every single thing was different. It wasn’t like the hotel or the flight:—it wasn’t just rich people’s air—but the air did smell better, at least to her. Of course there were crowds—almost as many as in the usual walk she made up Water Street—but there wasn’t the elbowing and rudeness. People seemed to make their way out of the small streets and the subway in a more orderly and polite fashion. She had asked at the hotel front desk where she might get on a bus: she didn’t want to do the obvious tourist thing and be one of those dumb groups she saw on Wall Street all the time, gaping from a bus or running after some impossible woman waving a red umbrella.

It was a little warmer here than in New York but the sky was gray and the air had a promise of rain so she buttoned her new coat and was grateful for it. She looked around her and felt as if she looked close enough like everyone else. Now she was aiming for Knightsbridge and Sloane Street. The man at the desk had told her, ‘Walk out of the door, turn right then left. You’ll be on Knightsbridge. Look for Sloane Street on the left and the bus stops are just there.’ But there didn’t seem to be a bridge anywhere. She kept walking but soon her attention was caught by a window display. She’d never seen anything quite like it. A swimsuit without a body was suspended in the air. At the end of it there was a huge scaly fish tail. On the other side, where the head should be, only a long blond wig, reaching to the bottom of the window and cascading across the sandy floor, stood in for the absent mermaid. Discreetly written in the sand was a message
Bathing costumes on two
. Claire had to stop and wonder what it meant.

She immediately realized there would be no problem in converting her money into sterling. There seemed to be little offices to change currency everywhere. The sign at the one she went into had little flags of every country with two columns beside each that were headed
We Buy
and
We Sell
. She changed a hundred dollars, feeling very sophisticated. She could do this, and all by herself.

At the next corner she found Sloane Street and a bus stop. She wasn’t sure why—perhaps it was because she was so used to her long ferry trips every morning—but she felt as if she’d be safer and more comfortable on a bus. The sign explained not only the numbers and times but also which buses ran at night. There was a vast choice—it was a busy corner—but it didn’t really matter to Claire which direction she went in. The first bus that came along was a twenty-two and, to her delight, it was a red double-decker. First, a wave of people got off the wide platform at the back then people beside her began to board and following them, she did too. Right in front of her was a small spiral staircase to the upper level. She began to climb up it then the bus lurched and she nearly fell down it. She grabbed at the railing and as the vehicle moved into the flow of traffic she climbed to the top.

She wasn’t sure why, but on top the bus was virtually empty. Later she would learn that she was traveling in the opposite direction to most commuters, out to Putney where people lived and traveled into the center to work. Unconscious of that she simply smiled at the opportunity literally before her—the front seats on both sides of the bus were available. She almost ran down the center aisle and nearly fell again when the bus pulled to an abrupt stop. But once she was in her seat she was thrilled. It seemed as if the bus had no motor: she was looking straight out at the traffic and the people who moved like powerful tides in front of her. And to each side were shop windows and above them glimpses into apartments with window boxes, terraces and a world’s variety of curtains, blinds and shades.

Sloane Street was long, but at the end of it she was settled enough to enjoy looking down on Sloane Square and finding it on her map. King’s Road seemed a bazaar of delights: clothing shops, cafés, restaurants, pubs (which looked so much more inviting than bars back home did) and a swiftly moving stream of pedestrians.

She had a few pages for notes at the back of the guidebook and began taking some. There was a stop called ‘World’s End’ which seemed, actually, to be in the middle of everything.

When the conductor got to her she apologized. ‘I don’t have a token,’ she told him. ‘Or a Travelcard.’

‘It’s all right, luv. You c’n buy a ticket right ’ere from me. Where’d you get on, then?’

‘Sloane Street up near Knightsbridge.
Is
there a bridge?’

He laughed, showing a gap between his front teeth. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said but Claire had no idea what was funny. ‘Where you gettin’ off?’ he asked.

‘Well, I’d like to go to the end of the line,’ she told him.

‘Putney Bridge. You’ll see a bridge there, me girl.’

‘But I’d like to stay on and come back.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t ’elp you with that part. You’ll ‘ave to get off and get right on again. Regulations.’

She nodded. ‘But will the bus go back?’ she asked, nervous that she might be stranded.

‘If not this one then another,’ he told her. ‘There’ll be a queue of them lined up, like as not. Fag break for the drivers.’

She blinked but asked no questions.

‘It’ll be one pound,’ he told her. She rummaged through her change purse and remembered the chunky golden coins. She handed him one and he returned a ticket that he cranked out of a machine strapped around his waist. ‘’Old onto that, luv,’ he told her. ‘They’re makin’ us redundant, they are, and it will all be computer cards. You’ve got an antique of the future,’ he said and laughed. ‘I guess that’s what I am.’ He laughed again, turned and made his way down the aisle of the bus from handgrip to handgrip without even a lurch.

Claire looked out of the windows, fascinated. Everything, even the rare graffiti had charm, at least to her. When they turned a corner and she saw a pub with the sign outside declaring it the ‘Slug and Lettuce’ her delight was, even to her, almost unreasonable. Why it should make her so happy didn’t matter. Though if she had thought of it, Claire might have ascribed it to the general glow she had because of her pleasure in Michael. But there are places that can be found by each of us, places we may have never been or never thought of that, in themselves, hold a mysterious key to our happiness.

Early that evening Claire stared at the hotel closet in complete confusion.

She had had a wonderful day so far. After the bus reached Putney Bridge she had walked over the bridge to Putney itself and explored that pleasant, residential area and its exotic—to her—stores. Then she had bought a sandwich at an Italian deli—this time, just like the ones at home—and eaten it on a bench in a pretty park back on the north side of the river. She decided to return to the hotel on foot, and found her way via the Fulham Road, where she was delighted by the windows and windows of antiques—all set as if they were tiny rooms. A diner table and chairs illuminated by a chandelier, a royal-blue sofa with golden sphinxes for arms and legs and two chairs flanking it. Best of all was a four-poster bed with enough purple hangings to drape a church.

She had hurried back to be in good time to get ready for her dinner date with Michael, but now here she was, with no idea where they were going and, even if she had, she wouldn’t know what they wore there.

Of course, she didn’t have a wide choice. She could wear the skirt along with her expensive silk blouse but perhaps a skirt wasn’t formal enough. She decided to put off making the decision and instead did her hair, remembered Tina’s advice to her and put on a little extra mascara, struggled into a pair of navy control top pantyhose and had just got the blouse and skirt on when she heard Michael in the living room. She snatched up her earrings and walked to the door. He was going through some papers at the desk and even as he stood there a fax came rattling through. But once the noise abated he looked up.

‘Wow. You look good enough to eat,’ he said. She felt a flush start at her chest and move to the roots of her hair. Now he’d looked back down at the fax. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘How about you?’