Wish Upon a Star (17 page)

‘Of course.’ Claire had never been so right in her whole life.

‘You might want to have a swim up on the roof. It’s glassed in and it’s one of the most beautiful pools in the world. And you can have a massage while you’re at it. Just charge it to the room,’ he said.

Claire, of course, hadn’t brought a bathing suit and the idea of getting naked in front of a stranger to have her skin rubbed didn’t strike her as pleasant. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him and stretched out on the bed while he bathed. She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew he was kissing her on the forehead.

‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Call down for some dinner. I’ll be back late.’

She nodded sleepily, turned over and must have dozed for another hour. It wasn’t until housekeeping knocked on the door to turn down the bed that she roused herself.

But it was only half-past six and she had no intention of wasting an evening in a hotel room—no matter how luxurious it was. She changed into her other slacks, her sweater and a pair of more comfortable shoes. Then, with Abigail’s guidebook in one pocket of her raincoat and her sterling safely in the other, she set out to explore a little bit of London at night.

She wasn’t interested in clubs or discos. Instead she roamed the streets and squares on either side of Knightsbridge. There were blocks and blocks of red brick flats, each one perfectly kept, each balcony decked out with topiary trees or flower pots. Then there were older terraces of white townhouses, each with a set of columns placed at the entrance. And each with a perfectly manicured front yard not much bigger than a picnic blanket but where every blade of grass, rose bush, or stand of iris seemed perfectly placed and perfectly groomed.

The shops along Walton Street were closed, but each window glowed with seductive goods. Small paintings, cashmere sweaters, crocodile purses were displayed in still lives that made her crave them, though she knew she had absolutely no need of anything. The light was beginning to fade and fewer people were on the streets but Claire didn’t feel the least bit nervous. Compared to New York, London felt safer than Tottenville.

After an hour or two, Claire had widened her circle of walking to Fulham Road and she realized she was hungry. She told herself there would be no starches, no salad dressing and no ‘pudding’ but she had to eat something. Just past the next corner an inviting glow of light on the sidewalk was the invitation to a little restaurant called ‘The Stockpot’. Outside, a chalked board listed featured dishes and the prices seemed almost suspiciously modest. Claire peeked in the window and the place looked simple but clean.

She lingered over a dinner of poached plaice—a white fish—and peas, then refused even a look at the tempting dessert menu, had yet another cup of tea and took off again. She must have been tired because the walk back seemed very long. She hoped that she was walking off part of her dinner, or perhaps even a bit of her tea. No one was in the streets though it was only eleven o’clock. Still, she didn’t mind, and walked through the dignified beauty of Eaton Square and Eaton Place without looking behind her even once.

She was greeted at the hotel by yet another attentive doorman. She realized she hadn’t taken her key and told him so. ‘Just get another one at the desk, madam.’ She walked through the lobby to the front desk and marveled at how easy it was to correct a mistake when you were rich. The concierge was on the phone and motioned to her that he would be with her in a moment. As she stood there she longed to take her shoes off, but instead took a few steps backwards and sat in one of the barrel chairs in the lobby. She glanced to her right, through the large opened doors to the bar. Then her heart seemed to stop beating.

Michael was standing there, his back to her but his profile visible. He had his arm around a woman who was sitting on the stool beside him. Her legs were long and perfect, so were her feet and her shoes. It’s just a business meeting, Claire told herself trying to get her heart to beat again. He told you he had a business meeting. She knew Michael was flirtatious and he certainly did business with women. But then, as if the gods despised denial, the woman put her arms around Michael and moved her hands down his back in the most suggestive way.

As if that wasn’t enough she then put her head on his shoulder and from Claire’s vantage point in the lobby she saw Katherine Rensselaer kiss Michael’s neck. But how was it possible? Claire thought of the devastating note full in equal parts of Rensselaer pride and a relentless Wainwright character appraisal. How could a woman who had written such a note even consider returning to the man she had referred to more than once as a toad?

Then, in a visceral way Claire recalled Michael’s love-making. Yes, she thought, it would be hard for a Rensselaer or any other woman to give that up forever. When he was smiling at you or kissing you or caressing your face or holding your hand Michael Wainwright was a prince. It was only when he turned his back on you that he became a toad.

His back was to her now, but Claire knew she couldn’t linger. If he saw her she would die right there. She wondered for a moment why she felt so ashamed when it was his behavior that was so reprehensible? But she probably deserved it. She was so very, very stupid.

The concierge hung up the phone. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

Of course, her universe had changed since she had stood at his counter only a moment before. How could he help her? He could commit a double murder in the bar but she thought even a man with his dedication to service wouldn’t do that. Perhaps, however, he could supply her with an overdose of sleeping pills. That might be more realistic. She sat there stunned and frozen. The concierge waited patiently. ‘I’ve forgotten my key,’ she said at last. And her voice had the old tone of shyness and defeat in it.

She imagined what Tina would say if she told her about this, and how, no matter how hard she begged, Tina would retell the story all over the office. Even if she didn’t tell, Tina would watch Michael go back to Katherine Rensselaer and Claire would be put in her place. Flushed with shame, Claire took the key the concierge handed her and went to the elevator as quickly as she could. Worse than seeing Michael with Katherine would be having Katherine and Michael seeing her.

She couldn’t get to the room fast enough. Once there she opened the closet, took out her bag and forced herself to carefully fold her clothes and her other belongings, stowing them all away. When she was done she zipped the bag up again and put it back in the closet. She took off the things she was wearing, folded them neatly over the chair and put on not only her nightgown but also her robe. She wondered if Michael would return at all, then figured that even if he and Katherine took a room at the hotel he would come back for his clothes if not for her.

She got into bed, making herself as small as possible, curling into a fetal position hugging the very edge of the mattress. The thought occurred to her that Michael might actually come back and want to make love. The idea was horrible, but as the minutes ticked away and became hours she knew she was safe. Broken in spirit, perhaps, but safe.

She cried a little but repeated over and over that she had expected nothing and had gotten something. And all the rest didn’t matter.

Of course it did. And if only he had waited until he was back in New York before he returned to his women, she thought she would have been prepared to bear it. But this…this was too unexpected, too flagrant for her to swallow. She wondered if his business meetings on Thursday and Friday had included ‘nooners’ with Katherine. The idea sickened her. Michael Wainwright was free to sleep with anyone he wanted, but he wasn’t free to go from them to her.

She was still awake when he came in but she feigned sleep. He undressed quietly and she had to use all her self-control not to cry out when he got into bed beside her. Soon, though, she heard his breathing deepen into sleep. She lay there, more humiliated and unhappy than she had ever been. For a while the misery was so heavy in her chest that she had to struggle with each breath. On the whole planet there was nobody who knew exactly where she was right now or how she was feeling, and she wasn’t sure there was anybody who would understand or care. After what seemed like a long time in the dark a thought pierced her misery. Since nobody knew or cared about her unhappiness she might as well try to be happy. The tiny thought was like a small star of light in the darkness. Then, as dawn began to turn the sky gray over the roofs of London, the idea grew.

Claire was careful to get up, bathe and dress before Michael was awake. Somehow the thought of him seeing her naked or even partially undressed was intolerable. As she brushed her teeth she observed herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes looked sadly back at her, but other than that she seemed composed. ‘You have no regrets,’ she told her reflection.

And she didn’t. Michael Wainwright had given her a precious gift. London had opened her eyes. It had made her aware that there were other worlds out there. And unlike with her reading, which had introduced her to many different locales and ways of life, this trip had inserted her into the picture in a way she never had been before. Lying beside Michael she had realized that she didn’t have to go back. There was something exciting and at the same time deeply calming about London. She liked the street life, the pubs, the little cafés and the friendly transport system. The low rise buildings, the beautiful architecture and the wonderful parks made it…she searched for the word. Comfortable? No, it was more stimulating, although it was comfortable too. But it wasn’t simply interesting, which many places might be. What it felt, when she was out in the streets or the markets or the shops, was…right. It felt right.

She heard movement outside the closed bathroom door. She put on a little lip gloss and some mascara and felt ready to face him. She packed her few cosmetics into her purse and, to her own surprise, she took a small bottle of bath gel. What could it hurt? She composed herself. There would be no confrontation, no accusation. Michael Wainwright owed her nothing, and he hadn’t even lied to her. For all she knew, his meeting with Katherine Rensselaer was partly business. And he was free to do what he wanted.

She looked at herself one more time and felt pleased with what she saw. She was wearing the self-made armor of her sweater with the pearl earrings; her face had a very slight flush, either from the bath or her nerves, and she looked as good or better than she ever had. She felt as confident as Claire could feel. She joined Michael.

He was in his robe, on the telephone, holding a cup of coffee in his hand. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled at her as he gave her the nod that meant ‘just one more minute’. She went over to her bedside table and checked the drawer again to make sure nothing was in it. She had been careful to pack everything, but might as well make sure.

‘All right. Well, I’ll take care of it,’ Michael said into the mouthpiece. There was a pause. ‘Yep, good talking to you too.’ Claire idly wondered who he could be talking business with on a Sunday morning but internally shrugged. It truly was none of her business she reminded herself.

‘I’ll order breakfast,’ Michael told her. ‘What would you like?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Claire told him.

‘Are you sure? We probably won’t eat until lunch on the plane. And we don’t have much time. We have to leave by noon. You’ll have to pack.’

‘I’m already packed,’ Claire told him.

‘Oh. Good.’ He put the coffee cup down and opened the closet door. He sighed. ‘I hate packing,’ he said. ‘The worst part of travel. But going back isn’t so bad. Everything’s dirty, and you can just throw it all into your bag and pick up clean stuff at home.’

Claire thought about the neatly folded contents of her bag and the absolute absence of anything she’d want to wear in the closet at home. Michael pulled out his suitcase and put it onto the bed.

‘So you’re all ready to go to the airport,’ he said.

‘I’m not going,’ Claire told him.

He paused then turned around and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘We have to leave by noon.’

‘No. I don’t. I’m not going,’ she repeated.

‘What are you talking about? The flight leaves at three. As it is, I’m cutting it close.’

‘I’m not going to be on the flight,’ Claire said. ‘But thank you very much.’

Michael sat down on the bed beside his open bag. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that morning. If he had an inkling of what she’d been through overnight he didn’t let it show. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. But I’m not going back.’

‘You’re not going back today?’

Claire took her coat down out of the closet. It really was a good thing that she had bought it. She shrugged into it. ‘I may not be going back ever,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to see.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Michael asked, for the first time showing irritation, but Claire steeled herself. He might be a boss back in New York but he wasn’t a boss here. She had nothing to fear from his moods she reminded herself. ‘Claire, have you gone crazy?’

Claire shook her head. ‘I’ve been crazy,’ she told him. ‘But now I’m quite sane, thank you.’

‘Claire, you have a job to get back to.’

Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m not like you, Michael. It’s not much of a job.’

He walked closer and put a hand on each of her shoulders. ‘But you have family…’

‘It isn’t much of a family,’ she told him with a shrug that described her feeling for them as well as freeing his hands.

His face changed—it was easy for her to read him—for a moment she saw the guilty little boy he might sometimes have been.

‘Is this about last night?’ he asked cautiously.

She would save what pride she could. ‘What about last night?’ she asked. And before he could go on she continued. ‘You know there isn’t anything real between us. It’s been a lovely weekend. Thank you very, very much. I just think I’d like to stay on.’

She could see the relief on his face as he determined—wrongly—that he hadn’t been busted. He crossed his arms over his chest and towered over her. ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense now,’ he said. ‘We can get something to eat at the airport.’