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 lifted the lid of that one, and read the bit of paper. ‘Jermyne’s Boiled Sweets’, it said, and though that didn’t sound very inviting she popped one into her mouth and it tasted exactly like an orange slice.
In the mirror she could see the glassed shower behind her. It was as large as the bathroom she shared with her mother and Jerry in their house in Staten Island. Next to it was the longest bathtub Claire had ever seen, with another host of little bottles of soaps and unguents. Lastly, there was the most adorable little kidney-shaped vanity table with a blue and white skirt and a bench that matched the bedroom fabric. A silver lamp, like a candlestick shaded by a pink silk shade, stood on either side, and across the back a three-way mirror reflected her mid section. Claire actually laughed out loud in delight.
She ran back to the bedroom, fumbled through her suitcase and found her cosmetics bag. It was only a Ziploc, but she took it back to the bathroom, laid out her brush and comb, her lipstick and blusher, her Oil of Olay, and her tubeless toothpaste. Then she sat at the vanity, looked in the mirror and brushed some color onto her face. She smiled at the three faces before her. ‘Aren’t we having fun?’ she asked aloud. ‘You’re not in Kansas anymore.’
Claire walked purposefully toward the corner. In her bag was the guide to London that Abigail had given her as well as the pounds. She also had her dollars and needed to find a bank to go to change them. She looked around her. Every single thing was different. It wasn’t like the hotel or the flight: – it wasn’t just rich people’s air – but the air did smell better, at least to her. Of course there were crowds – almost as many as in the usual walk she made up Water Street – but there wasn’t the elbowing and rudeness. People seemed to make their way out of the small streets and the subway in a more orderly and polite fashion. She had asked at the hotel front desk where she might get on a bus: she didn’t want to do the obvious tourist thing and be one of those dumb groups she saw on Wall Street all the time, gaping from a bus or running after some impossible woman waving a red umbrella.
It was a little warmer here than in New York but the sky was gray and the air had a promise of rain so she buttoned her new coat and was grateful for it. She looked around her and felt as if she looked close enough like everyone else. Now she was aiming for Knightsbridge and Sloane Street. The man at the desk had told her, ‘Walk out of the door, turn right then left. You’ll be on Knightsbridge. Look for Sloane Street on the left and the bus stops are just there.’ But there didn’t seem to be a bridge anywhere. She kept walking but soon her attention was caught by a window display. She’d never seen anything quite like it. A swimsuit without a body was suspended in the
