Wish Upon a Star. Olivia Goldsmith
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– all set as if they were tiny rooms. A diner table and chairs illuminated by a chandelier, a royal-blue sofa with golden sphinxes for arms and legs and two chairs flanking it. Best of all was a four-poster bed with enough purple hangings to drape a church.
She had hurried back to be in good time to get ready for her dinner date with Michael, but now here she was, with no idea where they were going and, even if she had, she wouldn’t know what they wore there.
Of course, she didn’t have a wide choice. She could wear the skirt along with her expensive silk blouse but perhaps a skirt wasn’t formal enough. She decided to put off making the decision and instead did her hair, remembered Tina’s advice to her and put on a little extra mascara, struggled into a pair of navy control top pantyhose and had just got the blouse and skirt on when she heard Michael in the living room. She snatched up her earrings and walked to the door. He was going through some papers at the desk and even as he stood there a fax came rattling through. But once the noise abated he looked up.
‘Wow. You look good enough to eat,’ he said. She felt a flush start at her chest and move to the roots of her hair. Now he’d looked back down at the fax. ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘I could eat,’ she said.
‘Great. Feel like Chinese? But Chinese like you’ve never had before.’
‘How about English food, I mean, we are in London?’
He laughed. ‘You must be joking,’ he said. ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? I don’t think so. Simpson’s is fine once but that trolley gets old fast.’
She didn’t like to ask what he meant. ‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ she said.
He nodded, looked at the fax again and picked up the phone. ‘Can you confirm my booking at Mr Chow’s?’ he asked. ‘Seven-thirty. We’re eating unfashionably early.’ He hung up the phone and smiled at her. ‘We might have other things to do after dinner,’ he said.
She looked away and put on her earrings. Was she as visibly nervous as she felt?
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve just gotten news that I’m going to have to go out to a business dinner on Saturday. Do you think you can amuse yourself?’ She nodded. ‘They have great room service here,’ he continued. Just then the phone rang with their booking confirmation. He took the fax, tore it into strips and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
For a moment Claire wondered why, but supposed that there might be some business she shouldn’t be privy to. He came from around the desk, took her arm and gave her a kiss on her temple. ‘Umm. You smell good.’ She realized she had forgotten to put on perfume, but her shampoo must have been good enough. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked. She nodded and the two of them walked out the door and to the elevator.
There he let go of her and then, facing her, put a hand on each of her hips and drew her to him. ‘That feels good,’ he said. He moved against her. ‘A little appetizer,’ he whispered. And just then the elevator doors opened to reveal three Japanese men in business suits. Michael was completely unruffled. ‘Hooray,’ he said, ‘the gang’s all here.’ And he led her onto the elevator.
They walked to Knightsbridge, crossed the very busy road and Claire read the instructions painted on the street that told her to look right instead of left and left instead of right. She wondered how many Americans had been knocked over by buses before the reminder had been painted. They walked up a small but charming alley – everything seemed charming – and Michael opened a door that seemed to be a glass bubble. The restaurant front was very narrow. ‘This place was the rage ten years ago,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t get a seat no matter who you were. But you know how it goes: really exclusive, desirable hot spot, impossible to book, too much publicity, taken over by tourists, abandoned by the chic, and open to everyone.’
Two hostesses rushed forward and took Claire’s raincoat. They were led up a spiral staircase to the main room. Each table had a light within that shone upward, making a circle through the tablecloth. Claire had never been to a restaurant that had gone through the cycle that Michael described. For a moment she wondered why he wasn’t taking her to the kind of place that was ‘a desirable hot spot’. Was it because he didn’t want to be seen with her? She looked down at her outfit. It wasn’t bad, but if it was a size ten instead of a size fourteen it certainly would look more stylish. Then she told herself to get a grip. She’d never been to a restaurant remotely like this. She should be grateful.
The place was mostly empty and they were given a table in the corner. As the waiter helped her into the banquette seat she knocked her head against the light fixture hanging from the low ceiling. She became flustered and horribly embarrassed but Michael laughed and shrugged. ‘Everyone’s been doing that for ten years,’ he said. ‘You’d think they’d fix the design.’ He leaned forward and took her hand. She refrained from using the other one to rub her forehead and hoped that a lump didn’t form.
Michael was talking and she tried to overcome her discomfort and focus on what he was saying. ‘Chow started the whole movement. Before him there was no pan-Asian, no fusion. Not that his is really fusion. It’s hard to define. Maybe Chinese crossed with French.’
It was only then that she realized he was talking food not politics. For a moment she thought of Katherine Rensselaer and how she would know exactly what kind of food Mr Chow’s served, when they’d started serving it, where they had other restaurants, who had invested in them – and she had probably gone to school with Mr Chow as well.
The waiter came with menus. She looked at hers briefly. ‘It all looks good,’ she said.
‘How about I order for us both?’ he asked. ‘We can share. You know, family style.’
Claire thought of eating with her family. For them it meant the food was served with resentment and eaten in silence. But she smiled. Sharing with Michael would be delightful, and thinking of what they would share later sent a little thrill from her chest to her …
‘You have to try the gambei,’ he said. ‘They say that it’s fried seaweed, but it isn’t. People played guessing games about what it was for years. Whatever it is, it’s sensational.’
The idea of fried seaweed made her not just nervous but queasy. She didn’t like sushi and didn’t want to get sick and spoil the evening. Perhaps she could just push it around on her plate. ‘Then maybe the special chicken and I love his sweet beef. It sounds like a lot of meat but it isn’t really. The portions are small. Does that sound okay?’
She nodded and knew she’d better speak soon even if she didn’t know quite what to say. ‘I do like vegetables.’
‘Oh, they come along with the rice. Not too interesting but they’ll do. And would you like wine?’ She nodded, and he consulted with the waiter and the sommelier. There was a pause and Claire desperately thought of what she should say next. But he beat her to the punch. ‘I think Tina told me you live nearby,’ he said. ‘I mean near to her.’
Claire nodded. ‘Yes, we commute together every day.’ Thinking of that long ride made her heart sink. ‘I hate taking the train but the ferry ride is wonderful. It’s different every day.’
‘They take different routes?’ he asked. ‘Is it because of the weather?’
She laughed. ‘No, it’s the weather that makes it different.’ She began to describe how the famous sight of the Battery and the New York skyline never ceased to amaze her. ‘The light comes off the water in a hundred different ways,’ she said. ‘When the sky is really blue and cloudless the city looks … well, it’s much better than Oz. And sometimes on the foggy days it disappears. That huge city with all the people just goes away and even when we pull into the slip there’s no sign of it. That’s my favorite. It’s all like a ghost city.’
Michael was smiling at her. ‘It’s not quite enough for me to jump at a condo in Staten Island,’ he said, ‘but maybe a visit would be worthwhile.’
She smiled at