Wish Upon a Star. Olivia Goldsmith
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get a Hershey bar. They don’t have the same candy in London.’
Claire smiled. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘I think I have all I need.’
‘Me, too,’ Michael said, smiling back.
She turned away, embarrassed but flooded with happiness. This was the sort of adventure that Audrey Hepburn had in old movies. She could hardly believe she was here, with him. Outside, in the deep satin darkness, an enormous plane slid into a berth almost beside them. Michael spoke and she turned back to face him.
‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve ordered you a kosher meal so you should be all right,’ Michael said.
For a moment Claire looked at him trying not to show her astonishment then she realized he was joking and giggled. ‘Do I really seem Orthodox?’ she asked.
He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Au contraire. I think you’re very unorthodox. Lurking under that little librarian act is a world conqueror waiting to be set free. Don’t think I missed that.’
Claire wasn’t sure what she would have said, but it didn’t matter because the smiling aide returned. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.
And Michael took Claire’s elbow and maneuvered her through the dim hushed lounge and out into the harsh fluorescent lights and crowded clattering mass of the terminal itself. At the gate the aide brought their passports to a desk, they were returned, and she ushered them down the jetway and onto the plane.
To Claire’s surprise there was an attendant waiting. She escorted them, along with the aide, to a curtain on the right and into the very front of the plane. Claire knew it existed but she had never been in First Class. ‘You’re in the second row, Mr Wainwright. But if you’d like the bulkhead seat it’s available. You might be more comfortable,’ the flight attendant told him.
‘No, the second row is fine.’
‘Should I sit by the window?’ Claire asked.
‘Sure,’ he told her. ‘Not that there’s much to see.’
He sat down beside her, took a blanket and a small box from the seat pocket in front of her, spread the blanket over her legs and took out one for himself. He handed her the box and she unzipped it. ‘Don’t bother. It has all the usual junk,’ he said. ‘Travel toothbrush, moisturizer, cologne, sleep mask, ear plugs.’ Claire looked at the cunning little box. I’ll keep it forever she thought.
The flight attendant was back, this time holding a silver tray of tall wine glasses. ‘Champagne, water or orange juice?’ she asked.
‘One of each for me,’ Michael said. He turned again to Claire. ‘And for you?’
‘The same,’ she said, surprised and delighted.
‘Here are tonight’s menus. Please select whatever you like, and we do have the express meal. If you’re planning to sleep through the flight, we can bring it to you right after take-off.’
‘Thanks,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve got a meeting first thing tomorrow. I need all the sleep I can get.’
‘I’m going to use the …’
‘It’s right over there, luv,’ she was told.
She walked past the other passengers, trying not to stare, and opened the door to the lavatory.
That too was a surprise. There wasn’t a tub or a shower, but it was an actual bathroom, twice the size of the tiny closets in the back of the plane and filled with all sorts of goodies. There was a glass vase, filled with fresh flowers, attached to the mirror. Small bottles of hand lotion, moisturizer, and eau de toilette, all of them a brand called Molton Brown, were there for her use. There were linen hand towels spread beautifully across the vanity and, once again, as in the cabin, the air smelled good.
When she got back, their seats had become beds and Michael had settled down in his. His jacket and tie were off, his sleeves were rolled up, his shoes had disappeared and she wasn’t sure what he was wearing under the blanket that covered him from waist to toe. Did people in First Class put on pajamas? She gingerly lay down on her bed.
‘Sorry I’m passing out,’ Michael said. ‘Tomorrow will be tough, but I promise I’ll take you out for a great dinner after work.’
She smiled. ‘That would be great.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s great. You’ll have all day to sleep.’ He closed his eyes and grimaced. ‘I’ll be the one slogging through meeting after meeting while you have a massage and a pedicure,’ he mock-complained.
She giggled at the thought. ‘Highly unlikely,’ she said.
‘Well then, go shopping or see the sights.’ He yawned. ‘Good night,’ he said and turned his face to the wall. Then he turned back to Claire and gave her hand a little squeeze. ‘After this flight, I’ll be able to say that I’ve slept with you,’ he said.
At Heathrow they didn’t have to wait to get through customs – there was a speed line for VIPs. Claire was thrilled to get her passport stamped but more thrilled to breathe British Air, not the airline, the real thing. And of course there was a driver – Terry, who apparently was Michael’s regular chauffeur – who took their bags and ushered them into a Mercedes. Her first glimpses of London were through the rain on the back windows. Claire did her best to hide her excitement.
Though the day was dreary, the closer they got to London the more interesting the landscape became. First it was rows of connected houses. Then the houses got larger and they had front gardens. She was surprised to see so many flowers in bloom though it was only March. Daffodils waved their cups at her and her mood matched their sunny color. Then there was an entire block of houses with huge windows. They looked very old and the leaded glass and brickwork were complicated and beautiful. ‘What are they?’ she asked.
Michael shrugged. ‘Just houses,’ he said. ‘I think they were once artists’ studios.’ He bent over and gave her a kiss on her forehead. ‘Do you know how cute you are?’ he asked and Claire blushed.
She couldn’t help it. His eyes on her, approving, gave her a little rush. ‘I think so. But I was going for glamorous.’
‘For glamorous you need a hat,’ he said and laughed.
She leaned back into the deep leather seat and, despite the driver, was brave enough to put her hand on Michael’s. ‘I’ll remember that,’ Claire told him and thought I can do this. It’s fun. I can flirt. She turned back to the passing scene. A sign pointed to Hogarth’s House, then on a raised highway they passed a modern glass building shaped like a lozenge.
‘Ugly, huh?’ Michael asked. ‘They call it The Ark. It does look a little like a ship.’
‘Have you been to London often?’
Michael shrugged. ‘It depends on what you mean by often. A couple of dozen times?’ A couple of dozen times! That was twenty-four or more visits and he didn’t think that that was often. He shrugged again. ‘Do you like London?’
Claire had known this moment would come, and though she had thought of other strategies, she had decided there was no option but the bare-faced truth. ‘I’ve never been,’ she said.
‘Really?’ He paused. ‘How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Claire knew he was thirty-one. The difference in age between them wouldn’t account for twenty-four trips: unless he had made all his visits in the last seven years. ‘I’m twenty-four,’ she told him.
He smiled. ‘You don’t look a day over twenty three and a half.’
When the road lowered she nearly gasped at the view in front of her: this was the London she had