Wish Upon a Star

Without moving, Tina snorted then shook her head. ‘Hey, it’s not like ya movin’ away or dyin’,’ she said. ‘It’s just four days.’

Claire nodded. Her bag was almost full. She just reached down beside her bed and picked up her knitting and two extra skeins of wool.

‘What are ya doin’? You’re not takin’ your knittin’?’

‘Why not?’ Claire asked.

‘Are ya crazy? Men don’t like to sleep with their grandmas.’

‘Tina, I’m not planning to sit in bed and knit. But he’s working on Thursday and Friday and if I have nothing to do …’

‘… you’ll shop. Or have a facial. There’s a spa on the top floor of the Berkeley. There’s a pool on the roof.’

‘A pool?’ Claire asked amazed. Somehow a rooftop pool in rainy London wasn’t part of her mental landscape.

‘Yes, a pool. Ya know, the kind ya swim in. Bring your suit.’

‘Really?’ Claire didn’t want to bring a swimsuit. She didn’t have a nice one and she didn’t want to go swimming with Michael – she needed to show him her thighs like she needed a spinal tap. But she felt Tina’s eye on her. She walked to the dresser, took out her old blue maillot, put it in the suitcase and closed the lid. She reminded herself to take it out once Tina had gone. ‘Well,’ she said, turning back to her friend, ‘I think that’s about it.’ She looked at Tina.

Tina shrugged. ‘Well, I better be gettin’ home.’ Claire nodded and the two of them silently walked down the stairs. Behind her Claire heard the sitcom, Jerry’s snore and her mother’s chuckle over some television joke. ‘Bye, Mrs Bilsop,’ Tina called.

‘Bye-bye,’ Claire’s mother called back.

‘Okay, see ya tomorrow,’ Tina said, raising her voice as if it was important for Mrs Bilsop to hear. Claire stood, holding the screen door open, while Tina walked down the back steps. When she reached the walkway, she turned back to look at Claire. ‘Ya know, I love Anthony.’

Claire nodded. ‘Of course you do,’ she said.

‘No. I mean it. I really love him. More than I could ever love someone like Michael Wainwright.’ Claire nodded again. It occurred to Claire that she might not be the only one with an unrealistic crush on Mr Wonderful. She looked at Tina for a moment, then looked away for fear of embarrassing her. We all have our secrets, Claire thought. And our blind spots. ‘Well, have a good night,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

Tina shrugged, walked off and Claire stood there alone, listening to the tippy taps of Tina’s heels against the Tottenville sidewalk. She realized that something in their friendship, such as it was, had ended. Something was very amiss when Claire’s life was more interesting than Tina’s.

Claire went back to the door and stuck her head inside. ‘Mom, I’m going for a little walk,’ she announced.

‘Better take a sweater or something. You don’t want another cold, do you?’ her mother called back.

Claire reached in and took a sweatshirt off the chair by the entrance, quietly closed the door and shrugged into the garment.

Tina was out of sight now so Claire went off in the same direction and made her way down Ottavio Promenade, where a lot of the big new – and in Claire’s opinion – ugly houses were located. They were mostly huge fake Colonials with lots of brick, columns and concrete balustrades. Her father would have hated them, but now they cost a million dollars to buy. The same thing had happened on Hyland Boulevard. There used to be nothing but a woods with little cottages there but since Claire was in kindergarten all that had changed. The area below it, once a dump, was now filled with mansions along the waterfront, each one larger and gaudier than the one next to it.

Claire preferred her neighborhood. On Amboy Road she turned onto Main Street. Egger’s Ice Cream Parlor was closed and so was the Tottenville Bakery. But as she passed it, a heavenly smell of baking cookies enveloped her. No bakery anywhere was better than Tottenville’s, Claire was sure of that. Hungry, she quickened her steps and walked past the bank building and the beautiful public library.

She was home with perfect timing – her mother and Jerry were still distracted by the television. Claire looked around. The house was a big one, and had probably once been elegant. But that would have been a long time ago. For as long as Claire could remember it had been in disrepair, and though her father had been proud of it, he had never been proud enough to accomplish any renovation. But he did, with Claire’s help, take great care of the front yard and side gardens. Now, it was the only house on the street that hadn’t been bought by rich young couples and spruced up. Claire, like her father, had always loved the house and the old apple orchard behind it. But her mother and Fred had only complained about its run-down nature, though it would be too complicated to move.

Claire turned, closed the door behind her and walked up the stairs to her room. Once in her room, she went to look out the window at the overgrown front yard – since her father’s death, Claire had lost her enthusiasm for gardening, perhaps because it made her miss him. The fence around the house had long ago peeled its paint the way a snake shed its skin. The house was still called ‘The Old Bilsop Place’ and Claire had wondered what it had looked like when it was ‘The New Bilsop Place’. But that would probably have been before they had cameras, and if they did, they didn’t waste photographs on houses. Her father had always talked about his family as if they were important, but aside from the house, another grander one called ‘The Bilsop Homestead’ and an old sea chest that had once belonged to the family and was now in the town museum, there didn’t seem to be much evidence of that. Her father had talked about a fight with his own dad, and his sister Gertrude who had weaseled the family fortune away from him, but Gertrude had left Tottenville years before Claire was born – if, indeed, she ever existed, and wasn’t just one of her dad’s fairy tales. She looked up at the night sky and took a gamble and made a wish upon a star.

She turned back to her bed, opened the suitcase, took out the bathing suit and threw it into the wastepaper basket under her desk. Then she picked up the discarded knitting and placed it where the bathing suit had been. She added a third skein of wool, a lovely yellow. She, like the girl in the fairy tale, would knit straw into gold.

ELEVEN

It was Wednesday, the day she was going to London. Claire left home later than usual, just after her mother went to the hospital where she worked as a nurse’s aide, and before Jerry woke up, so neither of them saw her negotiating the heavy luggage. She rolled the black suitcase onto the ferry, off it and up to the office. She had a feeling as she made her way to her work station that all eyes were on her but she told herself it couldn’t possibly be true. She stored the case in the closet behind Joan’s desk, sat down at her own and tried not to think about how this was the most exciting day of her life. She told herself there was still a chance that Michael would cancel, but at ten-fifteen Tina called her and told her he was running late because he had to pack.

Claire hung up the phone and wasn’t quite sure if she was feeling relief or dread at the news. Maybe some of both. Where had she read that reality was the leading cause of stress – for those who are in touch with it? She doubted she was in touch with hers. Wild imaginings – way more unrealistic than her daydreams – kept running through her mind. She tried to keep her eyes on the screen and her hands on the keyboard. She actually felt the sweat in the palms of her hands running to the ends of her fingers. Twice she stopped typing to be sure that she had her passport in her purse, along with the ticket. She did. She also had her money. She wondered whether she should change it into English money now. She decided that at lunchtime she would go out and see if she could find a bank that could help her.

She looked back at the ticket. She was seated in 2B. She wondered if it were an aisle or a window and if there would be someone else in their row. If Michael sat next to her would there be someone between them or at the end? And what would they serve? The flight took off at nine. Should she have a sandwich beforehand? Would they show a movie? They were flying British Airways, so would it be a British movie?

At a quarter to twelve, Claire having done very little work, Tina called again. ‘I’ve just confirmed with the limo service. They’re picking you up here at a quarter to seven. Mike has a six o’clock meeting so he’ll probably be late. But it looks like you’re ready to join the Mile High Club,’ Tina chuckled. ‘We’re all going to meet for lunch a little bit early,’ she added.

‘Oh, I thought I’d just run out and do some errands,’ Claire told her.

‘Fagetaboutit,’ Tina told her. ‘We’ve got something special in mind; you can’t miss lunch today. And if you have to run out to Duane Reade for some condoms or something, Joan will let you or Marie Two will tell her to fuck herself. Which, by the way, would be something I’d like to see her try.’

Claire didn’t react, thinking instead about the teasing and innuendo that would probably go on over lunch. ‘Rubbers’ would be mentioned at least as often as in a B.F. Goodrich tires board meeting. She sighed. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See you in ten minutes.’

When she entered the lounge, everyone was already there. Claire had brought a bologna sandwich but knew she couldn’t manage to choke it down. When she got closer to the table, she saw that a chair in the middle had been reserved for her and – to her complete astonishment – there was a cake in the center of the table. On it, in blue and yellow icing, Bon Voyage Claire was written in melting script. ‘Oh. Oh my. Thank you,’ she said and took her place.

There were more than the usual lunchers. Even Marie Four, Marie LaPierre, was there. After some joking people opened their sandwiches and Marie Three brought out a bottle of champagne. Tina and Michelle passed out plastic cups and everyone had a sip.

‘Look, we got a little something for you,’ Marie Two said. All the women at the table looked at each other and then Marie Two handed Claire an envelope.

‘Oh, no,’ Claire said. ‘I hope you didn’t …’

‘Hey, no bullshit,’ Tina said.

‘Yeah. Ya gave us all gifts for baby showers, bridal showers and … well, this is for you, from all of us.’

‘Except Joan,’ Tina added.

‘She didn’t have no dentist appointment today. She just didn’t want to see anyone happy. Screw Joan,’ Michelle said.

‘Yeah. Screw her,’ Marie Four agreed.

‘Shut up,’ Marie Two told her. ‘Whadda you know about Joan?’

‘Thank you,’ Claire said. She was really touched. She began to put the envelope in her purse. She felt as if all of them were rooting for her; the representative of their underclass.

‘Whaddaya, crazy?’ Marie One asked. ‘Don’t you wanna see the map we got ya?’ Everyone around the table laughed. And Claire opened the envelope. It was a card, and a paper champagne bottle with sparkle confetti popped up when it was opened. All the women had signed it, and they’d also added cash. Three crisp hundred-dollar bills and three twenties.

‘Mad money,’ Michelle said.

‘I’ll say. I’m mad I ain’t goin’,’ said Marie One.

‘Be sure to do everythin’ Joan wouldn’t do,’ Marie Two said and snickered.

They cut the cake and all of them had a couple of pieces except for Claire who could barely take a bite. She returned to her desk and it was difficult – almost impossible – to believe that in only six hours she’d be on her way to the airport with Mr Wonderful. She told herself sternly that she’d have to stop thinking of him in that way but couldn’t quite manage it yet. ‘Michael,’ she whispered. ‘Michael.’ She thought that Joan glanced at her but she ignored it.

At a little after three, she got a call. To her complete surprise it was Abigail Samuels. ‘I wonder if you could come to my office for a moment?’ Abigail asked. Claire agreed, hung up the phone and her heart sank. Of course, there would be some policy or other that this was breaking and she wouldn’t be allowed to make the trip. She should have known.

She told Joan that she’d been called to Miss Samuels’s office, got up and walked down the hall. Joan’s face, never pleasant, now had a pinched look around the mouth and there was a vertical line on her forehead, slightly off-center, that humped her left brow. Claire could see Joan hadn’t been born ugly, but by fifty she’d have the face she deserved. She supposed she would, too.

As she crossed the reception area Michael Wainwright was walking in from what Claire figured was a long lunch. ‘Hey,’ he said, a big smile crossing his face and his voice bright and cheery. ‘I meant to call you, but I’ve had the morning from hell and the lunch that matched.’

Claire felt the eyes of the receptionist, Maggie, on her back and had no idea what to say. She just smiled.

‘You all ready?’

Claire nodded.

‘Great. I figured we leave at about seven. Why don’t you wait in my office?’

‘Sure,’ Claire said. ‘I have to go now,’ she added. ‘I was called to Mr Crayden, Senior’s office.’

Michael Wainwright raised his eyebrows. ‘Movin’ up in the world,’ he said and smiled before he turned in the opposite direction.

On her walk down the corridor, Claire wondered at his completely casual greeting. She was flustered, embarrassed, tongue-tied and her heart was racing. To him, it seemed, this was business as usual. And it is, she told herself. He goes off on trips with different women all the time. Remember that. She calmed herself down and got to the corner office. Abigail Samuels’s door was open. But Claire knocked on it before she put her head in.

‘Oh, come in,’ Abigail said and stood. Her office was small but, being next to Mr Crayden, Senior’s, it had a windowed wall and even a small sofa. ‘You’re leaving tonight, I think,’ Abigail said.

Claire nodded. She felt as if every single person in the office was spending their day thinking about her night.

‘Well, I just wanted to wish you well and give you this.’ Abigail took a small wrapped parcel out of her top drawer and handed it to Claire. ‘It’s a guidebook to London,’ Abigail explained. ‘It’s one of my favorite cities. I took the liberty of marking and underlining the places you should be sure to see; some of them are a bit off the beaten track but they’re well worth while.’

Claire looked at the older woman. She couldn’t imagine why Abigail was doing this, but she was touched and deeply grateful.

‘I used to go to London very often with Mr Crayden.’ Abigail’s face softened, and Claire, for a moment, saw the much younger woman hidden behind the soft jowls and the crow’s feet. ‘We had some lovely times there.’

Claire realized the import of what she had just heard and tried not to show surprise. Abigail Samuels and Mr Crayden, Senior had … ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘I’ll really treasure this.’

Abigail smiled. ‘I thought you might also want this,’ she said. ‘It’s just a few pounds that I had left on my last visit but it might come in handy.’ She held up a little mesh bag, pretty in itself, and put it down on the desk. ‘Do you know pounds sterling?’ she asked. ‘Of course, the English haven’t changed over to Euros yet.’ Claire nodded.

Abigail opened the change purse and took out some bills and coins. ‘They’re well organized,’ Abigail said. ‘The smaller amounts are printed on smaller paper. And they’re different colors so you can’t confuse a single with a twenty.’ She looked up and smiled at Claire. ‘Of course, they don’t have singles anymore. All of their one-pound notes are gone. They’ve been replaced by these.’

She placed a small but chunky coin in Claire’s palm. ‘When you give a cab driver a twenty and get seven of these back in change they really weigh your pockets down,’ Abigail smiled. She emptied the purse and pointed out the other, lower denomination coins. Then she folded the bills back into the bag and poured the coins in too. She handed it all to Claire. ‘Enjoy,’ she said.

Claire looked at her in surprise and shock. ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

‘Of course you can,’ Abigail said.

‘Well, you must at least let me pay you.’

Abigail shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear. It was my per diem money.’

‘Well, thank you,’ Claire told her. ‘Thank you for everything.’

Abigail just nodded and Claire turned to go. But when she got to the door Abigail cleared her throat and Claire, of course, turned around.

‘Be sure to keep your dignity when you come back,’ Abigail said. ‘Don’t have any illusions about the future, even if Wainwright isn’t married.’ And, as Claire looked at the much older woman, she saw something in the fine face, the large eyes that showed her what Abigail Samuels must have looked like thirty years ago. She had been very beautiful, Claire could see and, just as clearly, Claire could also see that she had loved Mr Crayden, Senior back then. She probably still did. Claire wondered at the strangeness of time passing. Abigail had been a girl, just like her. And she must have had many adventures. Claire wondered if Abigail had ever had any illusions, but she thought not. Still, it didn’t mean that she hadn’t had her heart broken though she seemed so even and calm.

As if Abigail could read her thoughts, she looked directly into Claire’s face. ‘Things were different then,’ Abigail said. ‘In a way I think they were easier. People knew exactly where they stood. Men didn’t leave their wives. Women had lower expectations.’ She looked away from Claire, turning to gaze at the view. ‘Sometimes, even when it isn’t appropriate, people find one another and simply can’t be sensible. That hasn’t changed.’ She looked back at Claire. ‘But don’t become confused,’ she told her. ‘All of them have a different set of standards for their wives than they do for …’

Claire looked at her with compassion. But Abigail, a mystery who had revealed a great deal of herself, didn’t want compassion. ‘I didn’t lose my dignity and I have no regrets,’ she said.

‘I won’t either,’ Claire promised.

TWELVE

Tina finally left Michael Wainwright’s office a little after five-thirty, albeit reluctantly. Once she was there alone, Claire called her mother and told her she was off for a few days to Atlantic City. ‘Wish it could be me,’ her mom said. ‘Tell Christine not to throw all her wedding money away.’ Claire promised she would and felt a little guilty.

‘I love you, Mom,’ she said.

‘Love you, too.’ Then there was some background noise from Jerry. ‘Oh, I gotta go,’ said her mother, and hung up.

Now with nothing to do – Claire didn’t want to be caught knitting by Mr Wonderful – she was tempted to snoop. Who was this man she was about to go overseas with? She was far too polite – and timid – to open the drawers of his desk or look in the credenza behind it, but she did start to examine the framed photos and the diplomas on the wall.

He had gone to Yale, and Claire wondered if he had been in Skull and Bones, the elite club that all of the insiders of the insiders were members of. He had also graduated from Wharton Business School, probably the best in the country. There was a silver-framed picture of a young boy with a good-looking older man’s arm around his shoulder. They both held golf clubs.

Beside that was a photograph of Michael with three beautifully groomed women. The oldest must be his mother, because she looked just like Michael (although Claire reflected that, while Michael’s looks were splendid in a man, they were not as appropriate on a woman). She assumed that the other two women, both of whom looked slightly older than Michael, were his sisters. All four were sitting on a damask sofa, two on the seat and one perched on each arm. Claire, despite her unschooled eye, could tell that this was not a snapshot. She wondered what it would be like to have professional photographers come into your home, instead of just setting the time on the Minolta and running into focus.

There was a photo that did look like a snapshot with a much younger Michael, kneeling on long grass, his arm around a Labrador retriever. Claire stared at the picture. She had always wanted a dog, but her mother had not allowed it. In the photo Michael was looking at the camera, but the dog was giving him a look of complete devotion. Claire reminded herself not to look like that when she and Michael were face to face.

Next to the dog picture there were a few awards for his charity work – Tina had told Claire about the boards he sat on – and tucked under a crystal one which had his name engraved on it there was a folded piece of blue paper. Claire picked it up. Then she saw it was a note, handwritten on heavy vellum paper, clearly with a fountain pen.

Michael,

After yesterday I have no idea what to feel about you. I believed, obviously incorrectly, that I was important to you and we each considered the other as central to our life. In case you don’t know this, let me tell you that I value myself enough not just to be hurt by your continued involvement with another woman, but also to be both angry and strong enough to drop you as I would a toad that had somehow slipped into my hand.

I am dreadfully sorry that I lost my temper with you. It was merely the shock of what I consider extremely bad behavior on your part. I won’t bother you with my recriminations again. In fact, I and my circle will be sure to ignore you in the future.

You may forget, Michael, that I was not just a tennis champion but was also known for my good sportsmanship. A gentleman should also play by the rules and you are guilty of a double-fault. I think you should, as on the court, reconsider boundaries and your serve. I’m too good at my game to bother to volley anymore.

I just regret I kissed a toad.

Katherine

Claire looked up guiltily, folded the letter and put it back under the crystal. It was quite a letter, and it must have had some impact on Michael or else he surely would have tossed it away. To stop herself from further predations on Michael’s personal life, Claire forced herself to sit down. The letter, though, had sobered her. She reminded herself she was only getting this opportunity because someone else more entitled had dropped out. She wondered if life was like that – you only got a slice of the cake when someone else went without.

From her vantage point on the sofa she looked out at the hallway and wondered how many more letters like that Michael Wainwright had stored in the lateral files. Did Tina read them all, the way she seemed to read his e-mail? Did she keep them in a single folder? Did she label it, and how? She couldn’t imagine that Tina was good at filing anything except her nails. But Tina had that easy-going personality that could schedule meetings, briskly dismiss the unwanted and pacify those that required it, make up plausible excuses when necessary and juggle a raft of social engagements and girlfriends.

All of the objects, photos and, most importantly, the note, had made her even more nervous. She was out of her depth and she knew she wasn’t a good swimmer. One slip of the tongue, one cramp in her style and she’d go under. But, she reminded herself, she had no illusions about her relationship with Michael Wainwright. She was a convenience, a diversion, a temp. She had started her job there at Crayden Smithers as a temp and, if she found herself humiliated when she returned, she could easily leave. At her level in the business hierarchy it wasn’t hard to find another poorly-paying job and perhaps she would go back to Staten Island, losing the commute and gaining a little self-confidence.

The longer she waited the more doubtful she felt about the whole plan. It wasn’t too late, she told herself, to simply roll her little black suitcase out the door. She could put her ticket and a note on his desk but the thought of him, his smile, his jaunty walk, the ingratiating smile he used when he wanted to get his way, the memory of the feel of his hand on hers stopped her. And, she thought, she would never get to use her passport if she left now. She also wouldn’t be able to face any of the women, not even Abigail Samuels.