Despite the feelers she had put out and her continued search through the Evening Standard, Claire had found no alternative. She had ducked into a few down-and-out B & Bs but they looked as bad as, and cost more than, Mrs Watson’s. She kept hoping that something would happen.
But what happened was simple: nothing. Claire telephoned a few ads and rarely got an answer. When she did get an answer she sometimes couldn’t understand the accent or the diction of the people at the other end of the phone. And then sometimes, as Toby had implied, the places were so far away that she would have had to go to a train station rather than the underground to get there. The names were quaint: Headstone Lane, Barking, Isle of Dogs. But very few of them were a manageable price or an accessible location.
Despite Mrs Patel’s warnings about strangers, she did go to one flat in Maida Vale but the young woman who answered the door seemed filthy, her hair matted and old make-up spread in layers on her face and neck. The place was as unclean as she, and Claire made up some excuse and scurried away. Another place in a desirable part of Putney was too good to be true. She would share the flat with a husband and wife, but unless she was reading the signs incorrectly, they expected to share not only a flat but a bed. Whatever, they gave her the creeps. One very nice room in Balham was already taken by the time she got there, and the last one she tried, in Crouch End, was a big rambling place shared among five students, male and female. They interviewed her, but it was clear they were all politically opposed to the US, and though Claire tried to explain that she neither approved of nor had voted for the President, she wasn’t called back.
Meanwhile, the little sign she put up in Mrs Patel’s window had produced nothing. Claire would just have to decide whether she would bathe in the morning and feel fresh or save her bath for the evening to get clean and warm. She husbanded her dwindling cash and spent the days walking, seeing sights, looking in windows for rental signs and enjoying her freedom.
Claire had also accepted the dinner invitation to the Patels’. It had been nice to help Mrs Patel out without being compensated. She was a difficult woman to understand, but underneath her hard exterior she had a soft spot for her children. When Claire herself was alone and occasionally feeling lonely, the thought of going back to her job at Crayden Smithers and her mother’s house filled her with such dread that it overcame her anxiety about money.
What she realized on her walks was that while she had rarely been alone back in Staten Island she had almost always been lonely. So nothing had changed. She was simply noticing it. She told herself she was all right, but as she walked past a phone box one morning she was weak enough to call Adam Tucker because she simply needed some social contact. He seemed happy to hear from her again and his accent, though strange, was strange in a comforting way. ‘Come on. Dinner,’ he said.
‘I can’t. I work late.’
‘So, your visa came through! Let’s celebrate.’ Claire flushed. She was a poor stupid liar. But she agreed to meet Adam at half-past ten the next evening.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be hard for me to find someone who wanted to share their apartment,’ Adam told her over the first course of their dinner. She had suggested an Indian restaurant in Soho, not far from Covent Garden, and Adam had somewhat hesitantly agreed.
‘Flat,’ Claire said now. ‘Not apartment. They call them flats.’
‘Yeah. And they say “gay-rodge” instead of garage and “leftenant” instead of lieutenant but that doesn’t mean we should.’
Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘When in Rome,’ she said.
‘So,’ Adam went on, ‘where have you been?’
Just then the waiter brought their main course – chicken tikka, vegetable korma and dhal. Adam looked down at it suspiciously. ‘Is there curry in any of this?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mind chili but that curry taste makes me sick.’
Claire shook her head. ‘You told me that,’ she reminded him. ‘The chicken is plain, just baked slowly and the korma vegetables are in a yogurt sauce.’
‘Yogurt?’ he asked. He made a face. Even with his nose wrinkled he was very attractive – at least as far as looks went. ‘Are you one of those health nuts? No offense meant.’
Claire shook her head over more than the question. She spooned out rice, chicken and a little of the korma on his plate. Though he looked at it for a moment he did pick up his fork. ‘So, have you traveled while you were here?’ Claire said.
‘I went down to Spain with a friend. I just did it because he was going. He said Barcelona was a real cool city. And I speak a little Spanish but it was like they didn’t understand what I said and they don’t eat dinner there until about midnight.’
‘Was it a pretty city?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t like cities much. I’m from a small town near Corpus Christi. I like the Gulf, and shrimp, and Tex-Mex. Not that this isn’t good,’ he added. ‘I like the chicken just fine.’ He looked across the table at her and smiled. His teeth were the whitest she had ever seen. ‘You ought to come down to Texas sometime,’ he said. ‘You’d like it.’
Claire wasn’t sure that was true. The more she saw of handsome Corporal Tucker the less she liked him. Well, she couldn’t say that she didn’t like him. He was pleasant and amenable. It was just she didn’t like him for her. And, unfortunately, it was clear that he liked her for himself.
‘Where you been in London?’ he asked as he helped himself to more chicken.
‘Oh, as many places as I’ve been able to fit in. The National Gallery, St Paul’s, Claridge’s. I’ve walked through most of Mayfair and I’m getting to know Camden and Kensington pretty well.’
‘Is all of that in London?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’m going to try Hampton Court. That is outside of the city limits. You have to take a boat or a train there.’
‘Maybe you’ll show me sometime.’
Claire was touched by his eagerness, but not interested. She thought of herself being led around by Michael Wainwright. Had he thought she was so dull and ignorant? But she had had a lot of curiosity and excitement. Adam seemed to have none. Sadly, Claire realized she couldn’t see him again. There was simply no point. More sadly, she wondered if that was what Mr Wonderful had felt about her when he left her for the rendezvous with Katherine Rensselaer. Claire couldn’t suppress a sigh and changed the subject.
After dinner, when Adam asked if she had a phone yet, she wrote down a false number and gave it to him. She felt guilty doing it, but she didn’t know how to tell him that she simply didn’t want to see a person with so few interests and so little desire to explore the opportunities that came his way. When she left him at the tube stop she felt twenty pounds lighter.
On impulse she bought another postcard at a late-night store – a very unflattering picture of the late Queen Mum – and addressed it to Abigail.
Thank you so much for your note. I’m taking your advice and leave of absence if you can arrange it. Don’t know where I’ll be living or how but I’m very glad I’m here.
She paused, smiled and continued to write.
So sorry to hear about Mr Wainwright’s problems. Give my love to Joan but be sure to keep some for yourself.
She bought a stamp and dropped the card in the red ‘pillar box’ – the mailboxes so attractively dotting the city.
Her card was mailed. Her die was cast. The next day Claire would make one last attempt to find accommodation and then she’d have to go to Mrs Watson and apologize for her hastiness.