Wish Upon a Star. Olivia Goldsmith
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they were but was far too shy. Luckily, Michael followed her gaze.
‘That’s the Natural History Museum. Never been there. And this one’s the Victoria and Albert. Big sucker. Full of furniture and musical instruments and decorative arts.’ The traffic was heavier and so was the rain. ‘That’s Brompton Oratory,’ he said. ‘Pretty inside.’
Claire looked at the pillared building and had no idea what a Brompton or an oratory was but she didn’t feel up to asking.
‘We’ll be at the hotel in another ten minutes, sir,’ Terry said.
‘Do you mind if I just change and run out on you?’ Michael asked.
‘No.’
‘Thanks,’ Michael said. ‘My meeting today will be a ball-buster. They don’t send me over here to play Mr Nice Guy. Except, of course, to you.’
Claire stood in the center of the room slowly turning around and trying to take it all in. It was spectacular, yet very restrained. How was it possible? she asked herself. It looked as if the walls were made of cloth and when she went over to touch one she found that they were, indeed, upholstered with a striped silk in beige and green. Where the fabric met the wooden paneling a silken cord divided them, the exact color of the green fabric stripe. There was a damask-covered sofa with a plethora of fringed throw pillows, an antique sideboard with a huge gilt mirror over it, and real paintings in carved frames. At the entry there was an alcove with a huge bunch of flowers in a Chinese vase, lit by a tiny light above. But most spectacular of all were the two windows that extended almost from the carpeted floor to the ceiling. They opened onto a tiny balcony that overlooked a beautiful, green park.
The curtains were green damask, like the sofa, but that was only the top layer. Underneath there was another pair made of filmy cream lace, and behind those there was a net curtain that let the light in. Claire was about to open the window and step out onto the balcony when there was a knock on the door. She jumped and before she could react there was another knock. She wasn’t sure what to do but since Michael, in the shower, certainly couldn’t hear she went to the door. A man in a blue uniform stood there, a brass luggage carrier behind him. ‘I have your bags, miss,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you. Bring them right in.’
One by one he carried each through the living room and into the bedroom, which was decorated in blue and white. She followed him. The noise of the shower here was louder and Claire became nervous that Michael might step out of the bathroom undressed. Luckily, he didn’t.
‘Shall I hang this up for you?’ he asked holding Michael’s shoulder bag. Claire had no idea and just nodded. He opened a door that was also upholstered in the blue and white fabric of the rest of the room and revealed a large closet with fabric-covered hangers, drawers, shoe racks, and – for all Claire knew – a little man who ironed clothes as part of the service. ‘Shall I put your case on the luggage rack?’ he asked. She nodded again and he pulled out a contraption that seemed to be made of four crossed sticks and some fabric bands. In a moment it opened into a kind of stand and he placed her bag on it. Then he opened the mahogany armoire against the wall. Claire figured it was another closet but instead there was a television, a fax, a stereo, a refrigerator, and a small bar stocked with crystal glasses, a bucket full of ice, and wine already cooling in it.
He handed her a remote control. ‘Shall I show you how to operate it all, then?’ he asked. Claire shook her head. She hadn’t come to London to watch TV and she was sure Michael knew how to do it all. But she realized, with a kind of horror, that she would have to give a tip to this man. ‘Is the temperature all right?’ he asked. ‘And would you like a fire?’
There was a fireplace in the living room, but Claire had thought it was only for show. ‘Is it cool enough?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘If it isn’t, we could turn down the temperature in here,’ he said. ‘Lots of our guests keep a fire going through their whole visit.’
Claire smiled. ‘I would like one,’ she said, ‘if it’s no trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. I’ll be back in a tick.’
He left and that gave Claire enough time to rummage through her purse to find the envelope that Abigail had given her. But did she give him a pound coin? Or two? Maybe she was supposed to give him a five-pound note. The trouble was, she didn’t know what she would have tipped in dollars back in New York. She had never stayed in a Manhattan hotel room in her life. She decided on the five-pound note and when he returned with an armful of logs and some newspaper she had it ready in her hand.
He kneeled at the hearth, looked up the chimney and put in two logs and some newspaper, laying the rest in a brass pot. ‘I’ll just put these here beside the fender.’ Claire had no idea what a fender was but she nodded. When the bellman had lit the paper and flames were licking over the logs, he stood and dusted off his knees and smiled at her. ‘Anything else you need, just call Housekeeping,’ he said.
‘I will,’ she promised, though she couldn’t imagine doing so. He walked to the door and was out in a moment. Then she realized she still had the five-pound note in her hand. She ran to the door. ‘Oh! Please! Please sir.’
He heard her and turned around. Awkwardly she held out her hand with the money folded in it. ‘For you,’ she said and he smiled and didn’t even look at the amount.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Flustered, she closed the door and went back into the bedroom. She unzipped her suitcase to see whether everything had been crushed and wrinkled, but just then Michael emerged from the bathroom looking pink, shaved, refreshed and perfectly dressed. He walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, while his hazel eyes glimmered with mischief. ‘There is nothing I’d like to do more than lie down on the bed right now with you,’ he said. ‘But work won’t wait. I hope that you will.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘When do you think you’ll be finished?’
‘With work or you?’ he asked with a sly little grin. She blushed and looked away. Michael laughed. ‘I won’t be any later than seven,’ he said. ‘I’ve booked Mr Chow’s for half-seven. If that’s where we feel like going.’
Once again, Claire wasn’t sure what he was talking about but she nodded. His closeness, the smell of him, the heat from his shower or simply from his body seemed overwhelming. And when he put his hand on her chin, raised her face to his and kissed her – really kissed her – for the first time, she knew what the Victorians had meant when they wrote about ‘swooning’.
‘Ummm,’ he said. ‘Something to live for.’ He let her go. ‘See you around seven,’ he said. ‘Take a nap, have room service, order anything you want, Harvey Nicks is just a block away and Harrods is two streets beyond. That ought to keep you busy,’ he smiled, and, throwing his raincoat over one arm, he picked up his attaché case and was gone.
Alone, Claire walked over to the bed. It was higher than beds in America, and covered with a fluffy quilt in the same blue print as the walls. There was also a kind of crown above the headboard with blue fabric that draped all the way down to the floor. Claire kicked off her shoes, climbed onto the bed and jumped. Up and down, up and down, three or four times until she was breathless and allowed herself to fall in a heap in the middle of the beautiful coverlet. She felt as if she was in the Princess and the Pea, but there was no lump in the bed. It was all unbelievably perfect, and far, far nicer than anything she could have imagined. She wanted to look at every picture, every ashtray, vase, and pillow. She wanted to take photographs so she would never forget any of it. But first she had to go to the bathroom.
That was a whole suite in itself. A counter at least ten feet long with two sinks in it had a silver framed mirror over it and an orchid in a low ceramic bowl. A marble shelf that seemed to float on the wall below the mirror had glass bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hand cream, body cream and shower gelée as well as glass jars with silver tops filled with cotton, Q-tips, make-up sponges, and – the best one – wrapped hard candies. Claire