Wish Upon a Star (51 page)

Claire thought of Michael Wainwright. There was a certain logic to Mrs. Patel’s world-view. Hadn’t Michael found out he wasn’t so special, so excellent at everything he did? And hadn’t Michael told her he admired her courage, or something like that? Claire shook her head as if it would help her to wake up.

‘Don’t you disagree with me,’ Mrs. Patel said, misunderstanding Claire’s gesture. ‘I’ve been married to a lunatic. I know what I know.’ She raised her hand and waggled her finger at Claire the way she sometimes did at Devi. ‘Don’t you go on pretending you don’t know how special you are. It isn’t attractive.’ She paused, putting her hands on her belly. ‘So what will you do about this ridiculous man?’

‘I don’t know,’ Claire admitted. ‘I think it’s probably best if I don’t call him. But I am tempted to. Anyway, I thought I’d talk to you.’

Mrs. Patel folded her arms with satisfaction. ‘Very good idea,’ she said. ‘But why not call him?’

Claire paused. Had Mrs. Patel been listening to her whole story? ‘Because he hurt me,’ Claire admitted. ‘And because I don’t trust him.’

‘Well, in that you are wise. There is no reason to trust him. But remember, he did not really know you and everyone—especially men—makes mistakes. I don’t think it was wrong of me to give Lak another chance. But so many chances, that was dim. Of course, he was the father of my children and that is quite a different thing.’ Mrs. Patel narrowed her eyes again. ‘I think here you can take the chance to be hurt, especially if you are on your guard. And there is a great deal to benefit from, if he is telling the truth.’ She sat down. ‘Now here’s something I’ll tell you. You don’t pretend his behavior didn’t happen. After Lak begged to come home the first time we both pretended. This man has hurt you, perhaps as much as Lak hurt me. So you tell him what you suspect he is. And add that if you see him he must provide assurances. He must give you tokens of good faith in behavior and goods.’

For a moment Claire thought she might have been transported to a souk in Pakistan. Good faith in behavior and goods? She pictured Michael rolling out a silk rug with a flourish and almost laughed aloud. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean is you must ask him his intentions. Of course, it will be better if a male in the family would do it for you but you can do it yourself. You must ask him: does he mean to take care of you and protect you? If he does, how will he show it? You have a right to know before you make any decision.’

The logic and audacity of this made Claire’s eyes open wide. ‘Just ask him?’ she said.

‘Why not? That’s the first step. You know, for thousands of years marriages were arranged by families.’

‘But we’re not talking about…’

‘Of course you are. You aren’t talking about a brief affair are you? Or even a long one, wasting your time. You must find out his intentions. But then you must see if his behavior indicates they are sincere. He must make up for the wrong he has done you. Is he proposing marriage? He had better be.’

‘But he barely knows me,’ Claire protested.

‘He knows you well enough to travel all across the ocean to see you. And what good does knowing somebody do? You think you know somebody for twenty years and find out they’re not trustworthy. But if they tell you they will be trustworthy and they give you assurances in behavior and goods, then you can begin to trust.’

There was a mad logic to it all that fascinated Claire. ‘What goods?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps a ring, for a start. Or a place to live.’

‘Are you crazy? I should ask him for a place to live?’

‘Don’t you need one?’

Mrs. Patel had gone too far. ‘But we only spent four days together,’ Claire reminded her.

‘Four hours, four days, four years, four decades. You gave yourself to him. Does this count for nothing? I don’t know that he will be able to keep his word. Choices like this are always a gamble. So, to help make your decision you must know what assurances he can provide. They cannot be easy ones. If he is rich, and you say he is, then he must give you very rich gifts. And if his family is substantial he must certainly take you to them.’

Claire shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t. Ours is a different culture,’ she said.

‘Oh, don’t pretend we are discussing yogurt,’ Mrs. Patel said. ‘With men and women it is always the same. All stories are the same story. Love and honor or betrayal and disgrace. What else is there to consider?’

There was a knocking on the door. One of the regular customers stood outside pointing to his wrist.

‘Ah. It’s Mr. Jepson. He must have his eggs.’ Mrs. Patel sighed. She got up to open the door and patted Claire on the shoulder. ‘You think about this, missy.’

They got busy then, and there was dinner with Devi, Safta and Fala. Claire helped close up, but she did think about it all the way home.

On Monday afternoon, Claire made sure she was at the hospital long before Mrs. Venables was to be discharged. In fact, she was there before Nigel was. Mrs. Venables was already up and dressed but her things still had to be packed up. Claire busied herself with that while the physiotherapist came to make a brief report. ‘We’ve made a great deal of progress,’ she said. Claire winced at the ‘we’ but was grateful for the news. ‘Here’s the report and her prescriptive advice. The address of the clinic is right here, but if it’s difficult for her to get there…’

‘It won’t be,’ Mrs. Venables said clearly, though with some effort—too much talking still exhausted her.

Not recognizing a put-down when she heard it, the woman turned and smiled. ‘See how well we’re doing,’ she exclaimed. Claire couldn’t tell if Mrs. Venables shook her head in a gesture of disapproval or if she had a tremor. Either way, Claire was relieved when the therapist left, trailing ‘we-we’s behind her.

‘You’re all packed,’ Claire told her friend. ‘Shall we sit by the window until Nigel arrives?’

Mrs. Venables looked at her. ‘Do you like him better now?’ she asked. This time Claire was surprised by the question as well as the enunciation. Before she could answer Nigel walked in. He kissed his mother who, Claire noticed, raised her cheek to receive his greeting. She really had improved very quickly and for that Claire was deeply grateful. Even though she would, most likely, have to leave London, she didn’t want to have to think of Mrs. Venables alone and unwell. Then she realized that, of course, Mrs. Venables wouldn’t be alone—she had Nigel. He was tucking his mother’s throw around her, ready to push the wheelchair. Suddenly, Claire felt unnecessary. After all, they’d been friends for only a couple of months. It was her son, her own flesh and blood that she depended on. When the doctor arrived with release forms he spoke only to Nigel. Claire, to look busy, did a once-over, checking the drawers and under the bed. Then they were ready.

‘I have a car waiting,’ Nigel assured them.

Claire walked beside Nigel, holding the two small bags she had packed. She helped him get Mrs. Venables into the passenger side of the back seat, and watched as he stowed things in the boot. ‘Shall I sit beside my mother?’ he asked.

Claire thought of his long legs and the discomfort of sitting in the middle where there was so little room but perhaps it would be pushy of her to suggest that she sit beside Mrs. Venables, so she let him in first and got in beside him.

‘This must be very tiring for you,’ Claire said to the older woman. ‘You’ll be back to your flat in no time.’

Mrs. Venables simply nodded and leaned deeper into the seat. Nigel took her hand. ‘You’ve both been a great comfort to me,’ Mrs. Venables murmured and closed her eyes.

Then, to Claire’s complete surprise, Nigel moved his other hand and put it on her own. Claire froze; it was such an unlikely gesture that she did not know how to respond. So she sat there, her face still turned to the window, her hand limply in his. When the car swerved at a roundabout the movement gave her a diplomatic opportunity to pull away. She snuck a sidelong look at Nigel and thought that he looked as relieved as she felt.

When they arrived at the shop it wasn’t terribly difficult to get Mrs. Venables out of the car but once she was on her feet she objected to going in through the separate door to the flat and instead insisted on entering through the shop. She walked through the shop, lurching a little, Nigel at her elbow. She touched a skein of wool here and patted the table there. It was clear that she was delighted to be back. But the stairs weren’t easy. In the end, Nigel simply scooped his mother up and, despite her weak protests, carried her up to her flat above. Claire, surprised yet again, followed close behind them, holding tight to the banister in case he should falter. But he didn’t.

Once upstairs, Nigel introduced them to Mrs. Britten, the home nurse that he had engaged. She quickly took over, settled Mrs. Venables into bed and then joined them. ‘She’ll need a bit of a sleep now. She’s quite exhausted,’ Mrs. Britten told them. Claire was exhausted herself. ‘I’ll sit beside her in case she needs anything,’ Mrs. Britten continued. Then, to Claire’s delight, she took a knitting bag from her things beside the door. Claire felt it was a sign that all would be well.

Nigel, in the meantime, had disappeared into the kitchen, emerging with a pot of tea. Were there no limits to the surprises today? Claire wondered. ‘Would you like a cup?’ he asked. Claire nodded and the two sat awkwardly side by side on the sofa.

‘She has good color,’ Claire said.

‘Yes, I thought so too.’

‘And she spoke to me very fluently this morning.’

Nigel put down his cup. ‘Oh, really? What did she say?’

Claire thought of Mrs. Venables’s odd question and colored. She couldn’t repeat it. ‘That she was feeling perfectly well. And she put the smarmy therapist in her place.’

‘Well, that’s good news. Her spirit hasn’t been impaired.’ He turned to face Claire. ‘I know we have already taken up a great deal of your time, but I wonder if you’d be free for dinner this evening?’

Claire stared, then caught herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have a dinner engagement.’ She was invited to Toby’s loft.

‘Of course you do.’ Nigel rose, though they had hardly sipped the tea. She felt dismissed, but remembered her theory that he was, perhaps, as extremely bad at social niceties as she was. And he did, indeed, recover himself. ‘Well, how about tomorrow?’

Claire didn’t have the courage to say no again, though it meant missing the Patels. ‘Yes. I’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon to see your mother,’ she said. ‘And afterwards, well, that would be fine.’ She looked at the clock and realized she’d be late for Toby if she didn’t leave immediately. ‘I do have to go,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ he said. He reached into his pocket. For one horrible moment she thought he might offer her money as Michael Wainwright once had. But he took out a set of keys and handed it to her. ‘Here. To the flat. For whenever you need them.’

Dinner at Toby’s was very interesting. She had avoided him more than a little since it had become clear that his interest in her was platonic at best. But she had never been to the flat before, and she was curious. Once there, she was taken aback by how very different it was from the bookstore below. Toby had renovated the two upper floors and turned them into an airy loft-like space with a sleeping gallery on top and a kitchen tucked away below it. The rest was open and two stories high, modern and white and neat as a pin. When she arrived Thomas was helping Toby prepare the salad. Six places had been set and champagne was chilling. ‘I haven’t really celebrated Imogen’s upcoming nuptials,’ Toby explained. ‘This ought to do it.’

Claire nodded but looked with apprehension at the sixth place setting. As she feared, Edward arrived. Lord, for a young woman with so few social options, she seemed to be awash with unwanted men. Edward, Michael, Nigel. It almost made her feel nostalgic for her solitary bread and cheese in Mrs. Watson’s dingy digs.

After Edward greeted them all Claire turned to Toby and, behind Edward’s back, rolled her eyes. Toby shrugged, while Thomas gave her a wicked grin. She couldn’t blame this on him, though. It was clearly Imogen’s and Toby’s handiwork.

Malcolm and Im joined the group. ‘Ah! Harry Champers,’ Imogen said, eyeing the iced champagne. Toby poured some out and after general conversation everyone inquired about Mrs. Venables’s health. After a quick report from Claire they went on to the business of drinking, chatting and eating.

Claire kept a covert eye on Toby. She couldn’t get over the fact that she had completely missed the indicators that he was gay. This was the first time she had seen him since she found out, apart from when he came to the hospital, and she had been too exhausted and anxious then to give much thought to the subject. Of course, to her all English men with the possible exception of lorry drivers and soccer hooligans seemed a bit…sensitive compared to Americans. But here, in his own setting—and perhaps with the influence of Thomas beside him—Toby’s sexual preference was unmistakable. Looking down at her plate, Claire blushed.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Edward’s awkward attentions brought up unwanted memories of Michael Wainwright’s grace and charm. Mrs. Patel’s words came back to her. ‘Tokens of good faith in behavior and goods.’ Claire looked around the table and wondered at the reactions of each of the diners should she tell them about Michael, and Mrs. Patel’s suggested strategy. Thomas, no doubt, would hoot. Imogen would tell her to ignore the louche American and focus on Edward—the good catch. Edward would be downcast, but probably no more than he would be if his old school rugby team lost to Harrow. Malcolm would grin and elbow her. Only Toby might come up with something useful, perhaps from some novel. She would talk to him alone, she decided, if Thomas gave her the opportunity.

But the opportunity didn’t present itself and, to her dismay, Claire found herself, despite her best efforts, once again seated beside Edward in his car. ‘Shall I drop you in South Ken, or shall we go for a bit of a ride?’ he asked.

‘Well, I can’t drive,’ Im said. ‘I’ve had one over the eight, I think. Another and I’ll shoot the cat.’

Shoot the cat? She supposed it meant throw up. Though it was a funny phrase, the thought of vomiting made Claire a little queasy. She’d drunk her share of champagne but the prospect of yet more time with Edward was enough to sober her. ‘Oh, I can’t,’ she said. ‘I have to be up early to visit Mrs. Venables.’