Wish Upon a Star (50 page)

Claire tried not to wince. It was, perhaps, the most difficult conversation she had ever had and that, she realized, was without her doing any of the talking. Dozens of thoughts had come to her mind and words to her lips, but she bit them back.

‘But the thing is, I didn’t really like her, and I didn’t have a good time when I was with her.’ He reached his hand across the table. ‘I had a good time with you, Claire.’

She pulled her hand back before he could touch her. Yes, she thought, and I am marrying Prince Harry. She picked her purse up with one hand and lifted his watch with the other. ‘Time’s up,’ she said.

‘Give me one more minute,’ Michael asked and extended his hand for the watch. His hand brushed hers as she allowed him to take it.

‘I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,’ she told him.

‘It’s because I can’t get you out of my mind,’ he said. ‘I never knew anyone who simply got up and walked out of their life and into a new one. I couldn’t stop thinking about that. It was an act of tremendous courage.’

‘Or sheer idiocy,’ Claire told him.

‘I think not,’ he said. ‘But even if it doesn’t work out perfectly, you did something that was completely unprogrammed. I’ve never done that in my life.’ He turned and looked out the window toward the street. Claire could hardly believe it was the same street she had spent so much time observing from its other side. She thought of the hours she’d spent with Mrs. Venables, knitting companionably and looking out at the road. It was so symbolic that she couldn’t repress an ironic smile. Yes, that was the difference between her and Michael: even when they looked at the same things they looked at them from opposite sides.

‘I went to prep school, I played the right sports, I applied to the right universities. I moved on to Wharton, I dated the right girls, I graduated and joined the right firm. I live in the right neighborhood, I go to the right restaurants and I should get engaged to the right girl and move to the right house in Connecticut. Then I’ll just procreate and my children will do it all again.’

‘Sounds all right to me,’ Claire told him.

He turned back to her and Claire was shocked to see tears in his eyes. ‘I know that a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male with a lot of entitlement doesn’t have any right to whine,’ he told her. ‘And one who’s behaved the way I have to you certainly shouldn’t be doing it to you. It’s just that, well, sleeping with you was…different. I knew it then but I ignored it. And being with you was different, too. You were, you are so…present. Do you know what I mean?’

She shook her head. If she was Maudie she would ask what rubbish he was going on about, but his unshed tears had made her pay attention. He might have been lying, but if he was, he was doing a mighty good job.

He looked as deeply into her eyes as she would permit before she turned away. ‘I have no right to ask you and I’ll understand if you say no, but I’m here for a week and I’d really like to see you again. Just see you, that’s all.’

She started to shake her head when he stretched out his hand again. ‘Just think about it,’ he said. He handed her his card, a London phone number scrawled across it. ‘I’m at the Berkeley.’ He had the good grace to blush. ‘Will you think about it?’ he asked. ‘Please think about it.’

She nodded, though she knew she shouldn’t. The waiter came over. ‘A refill?’ he asked. Claire shook her head.

‘I have to go,’ she said and managed to stand up. She turned her back on Michael and walked out.

The sunlight and passing traffic caught her unprepared. It felt as if she’d been in the wine bar for hours and it certainly should be nightfall. It was like coming out of the movie theater in the middle of the day, unsettling to leave one world abruptly and enter another.

She walked past the estate agency, paused at the corner and made sure that she was very careful to look both ways before she crossed the road. She was so rattled, she wasn’t sure she was seeing straight. What a very bad time for Michael Wainwright to show up. Now, when she had no job, almost no money, no place to live, and no future in London or New York was not a time she could be rational. If only, she thought, things hadn’t gone so badly for Mrs. Venables and the shop.

But then, as she looked up, she saw that Knitting Kitting was decked with pieces of taped-up paper. It looked as if the store had been toilet papered. But as she got to the shop window she saw that each of the papers fluttering against the glass was a note.
‘No one was here for my class.’ ‘Are you accepting new students?’ ‘Has the time of operation changed?’ ‘I need help with blocking…’

Claire carefully took each one down and folded them together. It was incredible. She and Mrs. Venables, they had been missed. More than that, some of the notes were angry. They were needed! And, she reminded herself, these were only the notes from the people who had been motivated enough to leave one. Others might have dropped by to shop, gossip or knit. Her hand trembled as she got out the key. To her stupefaction, when she opened the door there were another dozen more notes stuffed under it. She gathered them up, closed the door behind her and put the lights on. After careful consideration Claire put a large sign in the window of Knitting Kitting that said ‘CLASS TOMORROW AS SCHEDULED’.

She didn’t notice Michael Wainwright, across the street, in front of the wine bar, watching her.

The following morning Claire went to the shop for seven. She had not consulted with or asked permission of either Mrs. Venables or Nigel to do so but felt that some response to the loyal following they had created was necessary. She would explain to those who didn’t know about Mrs. Venables’s illness, teach what she could and leave her number for women who required more help. For she could help them, at least until she left. Exactly when that would be she wasn’t sure since, although she had set a date for the wedding, Imogen had not yet announced (or probably even determined) the day she would move out. So there could be one more farewell class.

Nigel had called to tell her that Mrs. Venables would be released from the hospital on Monday. It had taken a few extra days to complete her assessment, since she had begun to progress so rapidly. Apparently, though she would need assistance at first, the medical staff expected she would be able to become self-sufficient once more, or at least close enough to it so that she would require only a little bit of help—even that might not be for long. Claire was relieved not only for Mrs. Venables but also for herself. Although the doctor had reassured her that the classes had not caused Mrs. Venables’s illness, she had still felt guilty. But in the end, the damage was minimal.

Claire unlocked the doors early but was unprepared just the same. The first wave of women were in before nine. She helped several women increase the jumpers they were working on, helped Mrs. Willis set in a shoulder, taught Charlotte and her friends to cast off and pick up for button holes, turned heels on two pairs of socks for Julie Watts and was exhausted by eleven—when the second wave hit big time. Claire carried on: picking up stitches, deciphering patterns, advising on yarns, and continued with many of the morning class’s problems straight into the afternoon, when the third wave hit, and continued past three o’clock. Then what with people picking up special orders, boxes of stock needing to be unpacked, and new purchases of both wool and needles, Claire had no time for even a tea break, much less a minute to think about Michael Wainwright.

In addition to helping with the difficulties and technical questions the women brought to her, Claire had to make apologies for the missed classes, explain about Mrs. Venables’s illness, accept sympathy and break the news that the shop would close.

This was greeted in several different ways. Some women were sad and made their sadness obvious. Others seemed to maintain their English cool. But, to her surprise, more than a handful of women became angry and outraged. ‘Ridiculous,’ snapped Mrs. Lyons-Hatchington. ‘Where will I come to knit? This is an excellent location. There’s no reason for Mrs. Venables to shut down. She has you to manage things.’ And her friend, Mrs. Cruikshank, dropped not just a stitch but the entire jumper she was working on when she heard the news. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘This has been such a satisfying endeavor. I shall not allow it.’

Claire smiled. Some of these women were so imperious, either because of their husbands’ positions or their own business or social success. They were used to getting what they wanted. Their reactions were difficult to deal with but she had handled them and, in this, Claire found two kinds of satisfaction: She herself was wanted, a useful and appreciated commodity; and, in a contrary way, she enjoyed being able to give them ‘no’ for an answer. No, Mrs. Venables would not continue. No, nor would she. No, the shop would not stay open. No, she wouldn’t give lessons elsewhere—as if they would come
en masse
to Camden and take tea in Mrs. Patel’s back room! For without a place to live, it was foolish for her to even consider continuing. Then she smiled some more, assisted everyone, expressed regrets, answered questions, wrapped packages, and at the end of the day closed the shop up.

As she put the keys in her purse, Leonora Atkins hurried up. She hadn’t been to class and Claire assumed she needed some help or some merchandise. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve just closed up,’ Claire said. ‘But if you need something I can…’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Leonora told her. ‘Why don’t I just walk along with you? You live nearby don’t you?’ Claire nodded.

‘I know that when we talked about another knitting shop you weren’t interested. But I’ve done some research since, and I’ve come up with a good place to get some capital from. I just thought that with Mrs. Venables’s situation you might be reconsidering…’

Claire shook her head. It wouldn’t be fair to Mrs. Venables—it would feel like cashing in on her misfortune. And she didn’t have the emotional resources for this kind of enterprise now, anyway.

Claire must have shown some of her feelings because Leonora smiled and shook her head. ‘Of course, I didn’t really mean for you to think about it now. I know how…involved you are. But I’d hate to see someone else take advantage of a market niche. This would be so right for you. And lucrative.’ When Claire said nothing Leonora shrugged. ‘Just a thought,’ she added. ‘As a friend.’ They had come to a corner. ‘I have to go north here,’ she said as if she felt that her deal had gone south. Claire shrugged.

‘See you soon,’ Claire said and turned away.

It was only then that she had time to think about Michael Wainwright, but not much. She had to talk to Mrs. Patel. Without even stopping at home to wash or change she walked to the tube to go to Mrs. Patel’s. Only when she was seated on the Piccadilly Line for the long run, did she have a chance to consider Michael’s offer. It seemed like weeks since their encounter, but it was only yesterday. She had only four or five days before he left. While she had nothing to lose by seeing him again, she also had nothing to gain. A few dinners, a night or two at the Berkeley? His flirting and attention would be more than pleasant, but where would it leave her in the end? Claire wasn’t just concerned about her dignity. She remembered the long and painful process of recovering from his behavior and the emptiness it had left—an emptiness that still resonated. She certainly didn’t need that kind of pain again. But as she changed trains she remembered how his body had felt next to her own.

Only the thought of Mrs. Patel soothed her. She wasn’t going there to work or fulfill an obligation today, but because she felt Mrs. Patel would understand and speak to her condition in a way that no one else could. After all, she’d stood up to a man and made a life for herself.

The moment she walked into the shop she knew her instincts were right. Mrs. Patel took one look at Claire’s face, finished giving change, ushered the customer out and locked the door behind Claire. ‘What is it? Has she died? But she was doing so well.’

‘No, no. Mrs. Venables leaves hospital on Monday afternoon.’

‘Then what is it? You must sit down. You don’t look well.’

‘You’re the one who ought to sit down,’ Claire said, looking at Mrs. Patel’s swollen ankles.

‘Oh, I’ve been sitting down all day. Maudie did everything. Never you mind. What’s up?’ Claire hesitated, but Mrs. Patel was clearly going to be implacable. ‘Come on now, you’ll have to blow the gaff.’

Claire looked at her curiously.

‘Spill the peas or whatever they say,’ Mrs. Patel encouraged.

Claire sat on a box and put her head in her hands. She managed to tell Mrs. Patel the whole long story of Michael, ending with the conversation at the wine bar.

‘That takes the biscuit. So he’s the reason you came to London?’ Claire nodded. ‘And once you walked out you never saw him or heard from him?’ Claire nodded again. For some reason her throat had closed up. She felt ready to cry. But she was over him. She knew she was. ‘And now he’s back?’ Mrs. Patel narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, he’s a clever dick. Very, very sly. It took him this long to see your virtues? Thick as a plank, isn’t he?’

Claire almost laughed, despite her tight throat. ‘You don’t understand. In New York I’m nothing. I was a clerk in an office. I really…’

‘You really underestimate the effect you have on people,’ Mrs. Patel said. ‘You are not just anyone, you know.’ Claire blinked. In fact she felt that she
was
just anyone, but perhaps a little duller. Mrs. Patel sniffed. ‘Why do you think he came back to you? For the same reason Lak kept coming back to me: because we are so good, so sure of what we do, that it’s irresistible and irritating to them because they are neither. Do you know why Lak hit me? Really?’ Claire, fascinated but horrified, shook her head. ‘He was envious. Yes, it sounds mad, but it’s true. I could do so many things that he couldn’t. He tried to convince me that I was stupid.’ Mrs. Patel laughed, but it wasn’t because it was funny. ‘At first I believed him, but I came to see it was only that he was stupid. Well, not stupid perhaps, but slow. There were many things I didn’t know, but I could learn them. How could he learn when he couldn’t admit that he didn’t know everything? He had always been treated like a prince in his family. Then he came here, to London and to me. It was hard to learn that he was not so excellent, really not very important at all. I was faster, I was stronger, and I was braver. It’s a woman’s burden.’